[center][b]Marmon, North, City of Thieves [/b][/center]

 The royal castle of Mallkim has been falling into disrepair for some time now. Its once beautiful architecture had been reduced to chips and crumbles, a standing mass of weathered rock. It looks over the darkest city as a once great sentinel who now weeps for what it once knew to be a golden city of just and fair men, now run rampant with gangs, criminals, and thugs. The interior of the old symbol of authority was equally aged and forgotten, once striking banners now fading away along with old dusty carpets and greening copper braziers that lit up the depressing, cold hallways. The old archer and guard stations stood empty save for a poorly armed and useless guard here and there, the results of failed levies. 

 In the throne room hung a great tapestry, surprisingly unstolen, that within its finely woven threads told the story of Marmon. The great first king Frederik the two and his Shield brother Gregory the Arm stood center mass of the fine textile. Frederik the two bore only one arm, as his second was never born with him, and old patriots would claim it was so divine that stayed in heaven waiting for him to finish his heroics in the world, as he had one hand in Marmon, and one in paradise. grasped by his single hand on his one arm he bore a great and striking sword, and beside him stood Gregory, Frederiks oldest friend, and his true second arm, wielding a massive shield in with two hands. The duo was depicted as they were known, fending off a horde of barbaric tribesman, the Gorga, who once threatened all the other tribes of old with extermination. The heroic pair were unique as one was dedicated to total offense, not worrying about his defense, for it was in control by the other, who did not worry about his offense for the first had that taken care of. This style of fighting created one massive warrior out of two dedicated men, a true scourge and bane of the Gorga, and became so praised by the end of the terrible Gorga and the unification of the land, that the united tribes all agreed to name the country Marmon, or Arm brother, placing Frederick as their king, and Gregory at his right side as his arm. 

Of course this was many years ago, and well buried in the tides of time, but is recalled whenever the Marmonites need that urge to fight back, that reason to prove resilient, as their ancient pair of heros were, despite all odds. Many kings used these stories to provoke a sense of honor and privilege in his soldiers and civilians, and for many years Marmon grew powerful, until it could afford its own standing army, and became a hub for trade and merchants on the west continent. King Ladius Decimus was the man who organized the Legions, and with the mighty fighting force, he expanded the coastline, conquering rogue tribes, or letting them surrender without a fight. itI was many decades after that the country began it’s slow degrade, with a failed expansion west due to lack of funds and a weakening monarchy, the country and legions eventually fell into civil war. The result of this war was the Curlow dynasty, the beginning of the doomed throne, the destruction of most of the legions, and finally the rise in criminal activity and fall of the government. 

The fourth legion, the last standing legion of Marmon, under the command of Herphus Derangem retreated from the capital without warning along with the regal archers, and decided to restore civility in the south before it was destroyed such as the north. The legion was met by Curlow wrath, motivated by the point of the Criminal lords daggers, all but the silent King of Thieves. Eventually over a span of time the Legion was whittled down to one final cohort, one cohort that had proved resilient and powerful, despite a smaller number, the final hope of the old glory. Some claim however, that the fourth legion is still alive and well, and that despite the terrible assassination of Herphus, the legionnaires still live in the southern villages, waiting for a call to arms to retake their once glorious land. Some further claim that this reserve of troops is why the lost cohort never seems to be short on men to volunteer under Mikus Dominum. 

Either way, the lost cohort slowly faded from Curlow attention, which was redirected to how to save their own hides from the terrible criminal rulers. Today was such a day the King himself was frantic with radical ideas to keep The Bull, Sister Death, and The King of Thieves from growing weary of him, as well as keeping what loyalty he could still conjure happy. 

King Jeffsoff stared at the tapestry in the throne room, his crown was tossed off his black tangled hair and onto the damned throne that haunted his every thought. He scratched his overgrown beard in quick, irritated motions as his eyes scanned the great masterpiece. One other man accompanied the anxious ruler, this man was slightly taller than the king, and a lot more built than his scrawny comparison. The man wore shined mail and a sharpened sword, and upon his scabbard was the mark of the royal cavalry, this man was Commander Edwin, leader of Curlow’s riders, the last standing army loyal to the Curlow crown; If you could call a squad of fifty or so men an army that is.

“Drastic times call for even more drastic measures,” Edwin repeated himself from a conversation prior to the Kings sudden search in the tapestry. Edwin's voice sounded lazy but loud, much like a drawn out bark of an old hunting hound dog. 

“I’ve been thinking,” The raspy stressed voice of the king echoed in the empty throne room. 

“Perhaps an expansion to the West,” The man offered, clearly looking for approval.

“That is indeed drastic, perhaps I was wrong to advise you that way,” The Commander withdrew his ambitious speech he had given earlier, and allowed his skepticism to be prevalent. 

“We have neither the funds or the troops, my king. Also, what of the Frisstreek or Hanartha?” Edwin shook his balding head, “Surely they would object.”

“Doubtful,” said the king, now facing the commander, “I will not take their borders, just the land due west up to them, for funds I’m sure The Bull would be happy to do it for me, should I make the right offer.”

“Dealing with [i] him [/i],” A disgusted snarl bunched up the officers face, “After all the things they have put us through.
Jeffsoff shot the man a glance of cynicism, “Get off your horse Edwin, you look pretty polished up for someone who never deals with criminals in the city of Mallkim.”

“I-I” Edwin stuttered clearly frustrated.

“You? You?” The king mocked him loudly, “Let’s face it, at this point in the game, it is our best bet. The idea of a conquest like the old glory days will be sure to rip the civilians out of their hiding places and take up arms for Marmon, and The Bull will be happy, and more importantly, far far away from me.”
 
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Edwin muttered defeated, “But if we are going to do this we are going to do it right, perhaps like old King Decimus, and ask the rogue tribes of the west to join, and then send a force upon the refusals, and if this is coming out of The Bull’s pocket, perhaps we can afford a sizable levy among his thugs as well as the civilians.”

Suddenly a greedy image emerged in Edwins mind, “And perhaps,” He continued, hushed and leaning in close to Jeffsoff, “We will be able to afford a recreation of the legions with the new tax revenue of the expansion.” 

Jeffsoffs eyes lit up, taxes had been an enigma in this day and age in Marmon, all the tax collectors have been either killed, scared off, or corrupted thieves. The sudden income would definitely help turn things around, after all, if he can’t get money out of the people of Marmon, perhaps he can get it out of new conquered regions, and perhaps with it, the praise of the civilians. 

“Yes,” Jeffsoff said, his eyes distant and picturing having the support of his own country, “Such a fanciful idea must come true.”