[color=black][center][h1][b]M[/b]arches of [b]M[/b]an[/h1][/center][/color]

[center][color=black]“Those with [b]blue blood[/b] survive the ages, and those that ensure that they do, [b]die in the mud[/b].”[/color][/center]

[center][img]http://orig07.deviantart.net/53f8/f/2014/149/a/1/the_lake_by_donmalo-d7k8z1d.png[/img][/center]

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For a while the kingdom of Broacien had been calm - the king, Gregar Balin Grochain had bartered a temporary peace treaty with Cherwin, in name of the lord of the Witches Crest. As such the west was calm, as was the east. In the south, redsand and it's mighty castle Coedwin stood strong against the Sultan's forces, who hadn't been seen in a few years. Never the less the threat remained. As for the north, the answer was simple; the tribes were always at war and there was always coin to be made out of that. The arms trade with the north continued as it always has, despite lady Aren's, otherwise known as the Winters Wife, calls to stop feeding the bloodshed. More recently, there has been talk of a tribal sympathist amongst the Broacienian royals. Not something that would interrupt the calmth, but something that was to be kept in mind by the nobles and other high ups who wished to further their influence.

However, in Broacien there is never much time for calmth and peace - almost as soon as the temporary peace had been signed, Cherwinian brigands crossed the border into Murkran territories and started attacking boats sailing down the Pentol river. Normally they'd be dealt with by Broacienian forces adequately, meaning the brigands would be hunted down and executed on the spot, save the leaders who would be brought to the Hoffburgt to face judgement from the king himself. However an untimely Cherwinian intervention on behalf of their king, Rechwan. Two companies of the Cherwinian army crossed the many many Murkran rivers and met with the brigands, whilst simultaneously the two companies sent by king Gregar did the same. Ultimately the two armies clashed with the brigands joining the ranks of the Cherwinian army. 

The battle of Priscen Cross, named after the crossing in two small rivers where the battle took place, was a bloody and long battle. Cherwinian forces seemed to dwindle but at the last moment a detachement of knights arrived and charged the ranks of the Broacienian soldiers, shattering the ranks and forcing them on the retreat. The results of this amounted to a slaughter on the Broacienian sides, with barely any men surviving. The few that did were either taken captive or managed to escape to the Hoffburgt. An unofficial record from the Cherwinian forces say that there were atleast 400 men captured, and over 3000 dead. An offer to buy back the prisoners, a welcome offer at this point in time with a decrease in manpower, has yet to be extended by king Rechwan. It seems that the peace lasted barely 30 days before the Cherwinians broke it. 

[b]“My king, you summoned me?”[/b] a harsh, old sounding voice said. It was clearly the voice of a man that wasn't [i]too[/i] old, but had seen his share of life and was most definetely experienced and well versed in how to live it. In the throne, king Gregar was seated, looking down on his hall from the raised plateau where the throne with the stags antlers was placed. The hall was filled with people, easily in the ranges of a hundred people if not more. They were from all breeds and profesions, from old noble men to young knights looking to prove their worth, to young noblewomen to the lowly servants. They all looked attentively to the front, where an old bald man was kneeling with his head bowed down low. [b]“Yes, Terryn Hoffmann, I summoned you.”[/b]

In response the bald headed man, named Terryn, looked up at the king with a questioning expression. The king raised his voice again, which bounced off the walls of the hall effortlessly. The hall consisted of stone walls and similar flooring, with six large pillars lining the hall. There were three on each side, supporting the balconies on the second level. On the second level there were also people, looking down on the ordeal. It had been a long time since the king had held an open audience. They intended to profit from the occasion. 

[b]“What would you wish of me, my king?”[/b] the old man asked his king, who bowed his head in thought. A silence befell the hall before the king spoke up. [b]“You were at the battle of Priscen Cross, correct?”[/b] The old man remained silent but nodded his head at the king. Aye, he had been there. A sad day for Broacien, but they would recover. [b]“Tell me what happened there, that day, Terryn.”[/b] The old man bowed his head and answered with a silent [b]“Yes, milord.”[/b] Slowly he began raising from his knees, his bones cracking ever so slightly as he raised himself from the uncomfortable position. The greatsword on his back swayed slightly as he finally stood straight again. [b]“It was a massacre, my king.”[/b] Terryn started, a simple, short answer that anyone in the room would understand. But no doubt they already knew this fact. They were looking for [i]details.[/i] Heroic stories of last stands, of knights taking down a famous knight before their deaths. Sadly, there would be no such tales. The Cherwinian death toll had barely broken 500, before the ranks broke.

[b]“The day started early. We marched from the Witches' Crest towards the brigands hiding spot, near the Priscen Cross. It was around noon when our commander, lord Hamel, warned us of incoming foreign troops. He didn't anticipate an attack however. I'm sure the Cherwinians didn't either. As far as they knew they were clearing out a brigand infestation.”[/b] The tale was the truth, which could be heard in Terryn's tale. There was no tremble, no holding back in his voice. It all spilled from his lips in a solid gush of truths. It was either that, or Terryn was a trained liar. The scars on his face led many to believe the former, however. 

[b]“When we engaged the brigands, they had joined ranks with the Cherwinians. It seemed there had been some under the table dealing between our first meeting and the moment of our attack. We held the line, barely, and inflicted damage. That's when the enemy lord Peryl appeared on the horizon with a count of 50 knights, give or take. They ran down and ran into our center, shattering it with a single charge opening the way for their infantry. We were cut down like dogs. Before our lord could sound the horn of retreat, he was cut down. Those that had survived that long either surrendered or held their breath and hid in the swamps for the time being, pretending to be dead.”[/b] A gasp, a whince of terror, it was all that went through the hall in that moment of silence. A glass falling, shattering on the stone floor. In that moment all eyes were pointed at Terryn, even the king's. And for a moment, it felt like the king was a comrade, and not a king. But Terryn knew that feeling to be false, as he had felt it before. 

[b]“I am sorry my king. Did you wish me to deliver news of deeds heroic and mighty? I am afraid I cannot tell you tales that are untrue. The men that fought there died fighting. That is about all I can say.”[/b] The king nodded slowly, understandingly, and waved the comment away with his right hand. After doing so he would grip his chin and stroke his beard slowly, deep in thought. 

[b]“No harm done, Terryn. I have an order for you. I'll place you under the command of lord Maryn Tyerin. You will be second-in-command of the Black Shields. You shall begin recruitment within the week.”[/b] Terryn almost looked like he hadn't understood, as he stood there gawking at the king like a lowly peasant who had just heard he'd be receiving a year worth of beer for free. Slowly his mouth opened. [b]“M-my king..”[/b] Terryn dropped to his knees again and bowed his head, deep and low. [b]“My thanks, your grace!”[/b]

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[color=black][center][h3][b]A[/b] [b]W[/b]eek [b]L[/b]ater[/h3][/center][/color]

It was raining, and had been raining almost all day. The ground was muddy, making the encampment of Rot Donar almost unwalkable. The camp was relatively small, barely fitting 65 tents, with a large circular tent at the center of it. [i]The Commanders Tent[/i] as the noblemen called it, [i]the Executioners Home[/i] as the peasants called it. There was some disdain amongst the militias and would-be soldiers that arrived in the camp against the commanders. It was only natural, they would be dying or living at the hands of these men. Their trust had to be earned. 

In front of the Commanders Tent, under the small covered area near the tent's approach, was a table with a chair behind it. On the table was an oil lamp, a book and a quill and some inkpots. Inside the books there were numerous names scribbled, or sometimes a simple [b]X[/b]. Many of the lower born people could not write, and as such an [b]X[/b] had to suffice. A wooden walkway led from the camp's entrance, through the palisade, towards the tent. It would be the primary signing up point, and as such Terryn was sitting behind the table with his greatsword resting against it on his left. He looked bored or intrigued, which were in his case mostly the same expressions. He enjoyed watching the crowd come and go, however, as each person was interesting. He liked to play a game where he estimated how long people would survive in battle - something he'd become quite good at. For some cases he'd tell them during their sign up and offer them a bet that if they lasted longer than the days he told them, he'd give them a small prize in the form of a bag of coins. Money was worthless when you were on the move moving from battle to battle anyway, so he might as well have fun with it.

Besides recruits, he was also busy dealing with the various camp followers, whores, cooks, salesmen and women, hunters and others that followed a warband around hoping to make a sale or two. Furthermore he was also dealing with shady slave traders, that had been looking to sell slaves for a bargain in order to lose their last few slaves. The slaves were always happy to be sold to a warband as they'd probably be busy cooking or moving boxes around. An easy life when compared to those that got sold to fishermen, who had to row boats all day. Or even those sold to lords. You'd never know what you had to do when sold to a lord or lady. There were even some tales of a lady that bought slaves to use as sex objects - only to be discarded a week later. [i]An expensive hobby[/i], Terryn thought to himself. He wouldn't mind having that hobby if he could afford it however. A new slave girl every week? Pleasure. Except Terryn probably couldn't discard them. He was much too kind to women to do that. They'd probably end up taking most of his money just to afford their upkeep.. perhaps it was better Terryn wasn't rich. 

[b]“NEXT.”[/b] he yelled at the line in front of him. He just hoped the line would move along more swiftly than this, or else he'd have to halt his little game and place a man at arms on the chair to do the signups. 

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[color=black][center][h3][b]A[/b]t [b]T[/b]he [b]H[/b]offburgt[/h3][/center][/color]

[b]“Father, mother.”[/b] a young male voice said. Anyone familiar with the royal family would be able to discern that it was Dorran, the King's Heir. There were rumours of him being in the east, visiting a castle near the mountain to look for a suitable bride. A feminine voice answered the boy, [b]“Dorran, how good to see you. How was your travel? Did the rain bother you much?”[/b] No reply, only a shake of the head. The king's voice now spoke up. [b]“Enough about the rain. Did you like lady Elysa?”[/b] 

Dorran hesitated to answer, and through doing so, made his father and mother realize the answer before hand. [b]“She has an interesting personality. She.. begged me to show me her collection of male servants. I have a hard time believing you didn't know of this before hand, [i]father.[/i]”[/b] His father grinned and put his head in his hands, leaning on them with his forehead. [b]“I had hoped she wasn't as bad as she was years ago when I first met her. I suppose she got worse. Perhaps I should stop sending you around.”[/b]

Doran let loose a relieved sigh. No more travelling.. wonderful. [b]“I will hold a feast and invite many lords and their daughters and sons. Perhaps you will find someone you like, then. She will be the future queen after all.”[/b] his father continued, indicating that his sigh had come too early. Never the less it was better than travelling through the rain, Dorran supposed. And feasts were.. fun? [b]“Very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I wish to go visit Catarina.”[/b]