[center][b][u]The Flight of the Torrikans[/u][/b][/center]

Columns of defending troops, depleted and dejected, quickly buried their dead on land now held by the enemy and moved on towards the coast. Off the rocky beaches of northern Torrik, Aontan frigates and lineships flew the royal colours that now laid tattered on every battlefield of the region and swallowed up load after load of soldiers and townsmen till they were full to the gunwales with men wearing the long face of defeat, stern women, and crying babes. The people of Torrik, long friends and considered a familial race to their northern neighbors, sat looking at their Letters of Transit in stunned disbelief. The choice remained to them whether they would stay in their native land under the Ubren jackboot or whether they would depart for friendlier shores where, no doubt, much hardship was to be had. In the end, many chose to remain. 

[center][img]https://www.napoleon-series.org/images/military/battles/finnish/4wounded.gif[/img][/center]

Captain Soren Invernius looked on from the uncomfortable height of his saddled warhorse as he trotted alongside a column of fusiliers making their way to the gravel beach of Emlas south of Hjorth. The men, some without boots, bandaged and bloodied, uniforms tattered from the fray, marched bent forward with their bodies pointed towards the beach as if the whole of their being yearned for the rescue of the waiting ships, like plants to sunlight. The Captain, being much faster on his mount than his crawling battalion, reached the beach first and exchanged salutes with a naval lieutenant who was commanding the shoreboats. 

"We have passage for half the battalion, sir," was the curt reply. Invernius nodded, putting his ungloved left hand into his coat to protect it from an unseasonably chill ocean breeze. "How many trips have you made so far?"

"Two this past half week," said the lieutenant. Soren turned and looked back down the road where his soldiers were approaching slowly but surely. He resigned himself to the fact that he might never see his verdant country town in Southern Torrik again, or if he did it would be draped in enemy banners. He blotted the thought from his mind and thought instead of the task at hand. The healthiest soldiers would have to camp the night on the beach. He turned his horse and approached his sergeants, "Organize the men by respect to their accoutrements and general fitness for duty. The wounded, sick, and those without proper footwear or clothing shall embark tonight. The rest will remain till morning." 

"Yes, Captain," snapped the sergeants who immediately sprang to their tasks. Following his troops was a large column of civilians, who had been instructed to bring only what could comfortably be carried but to his chagrin he could see several wagons behind the main column. He turned his thoughts from that for the moment, and turned his eyes across to the empty space on the horizon where the shores of Kienne were just over the curve of the globe, and therein a monarch with a letter. 

[center][b][u]The Missive[/u][/b][/center]

"When did this come in?"

"Just arrived, marked for the king's eyes."

King Kristian rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand and pondered what it could mean. Seizing a letter opener from his desk, he parted the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Then, glancing up at the butler who had delivered the message, he made motion for the door of his study to be closed. The servant left, dutifully shutting the large wooden door behind him. Sunlight, filtering in through the paned windows of the palace study, served as light enough to illuminate Lothair's missive. 

Kristian found the tone of the letter incredibly off-putting. Never enjoying being preached to, he nevertheless read between the lines and realized how desperate the situation in southeastern Europe was indeed. The Hijeen were, much like they had been doing for centuries, raping and pillaging across large swaths of the continent. He felt sympathy, if only for humanitarian reasons and not particularly reasons of piety, but more immediate concerns kept him always thinking of the very threatening neighbors which Aontas seemed to have on all sides and launching an expedition in southern Europe would consume time, resources, and men that the young king felt simply could not be afforded. 

[center][img]https://www.lookandlearn.com/history-images/preview/M/M137/M137520_Frederick-the-Great-1712-1786-in-his-study.jpg[/img][/center]

Immediately, he began penning his reply:

[i]Most valiant Emperor, Defender of the Faith, and philosopher-king,

I fear to inform you that the situation in Aontas is, as you might have noticed, rapidly deteriorating. Our loss of mainland Torrik to the aspiring Ubrens has left us severely hamstrung in terms of military assistance. Additionally, we are increasingly wary of our neighbors both to the east and the west who might seek to take advantage of our weakened position. Our lords and retinues are, although fiercely faithful to the One Religion, more concerned with enemies of a nearer and more immediate kind, albeit less bloodthirsty. Furthermore, my father's death has put a great strain on the family here such that I cannot leave to participate, which should befit my rank as king of the god-fearing Aontan people in such a holy endeavor. 

Therefore I must decline your request for aid, given the political situation here in the north, until such provisions can be made that our brave crusaders will not be needed to defend the farms and towns of our own people. The concerns I am sure you fully understand and can appreciate the gravity of my situation. I remain dutifully at your call, as my father was, in the bonds of noble friendship between two powerful kingdoms and fellow believers.

Signed simply: "K"[/i]

After placing the quill back into the ink, Kristian summoned the butler back into the study to hand the letter off, and by the normal course of exchanging diplomatic communiques it would fall into the Attolian emperor's hands eventually.