[center][h1]Realm of Kolodiva[/h1] [h2]1 Interregnum[/h2] [color=gray]”All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger, but calculating risk and acting decisively.”[/color][/center][hr] [center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/681136649417392207/786137318833651742/Battle_of_Gorody_Bridge.png[/img][/center] The sun sat languidly on the horizon, a dull orange glow casting long shadows across the inn. In the dusty dawn, banners and flags fluttered in the breeze. Two opposing camps, with two opposing pickets, watching each other over the bridge. Upon the northern end of the river, three banners stood proudly; the banner of Anatol tep Constant, a dull bronze gear heavy set against a blood red background. Secondly, the banner of Bogdan met Bogdan, a brutish bear of top-heavy proportions dancing upon a field of yellow grain, triangles of red burning upon a blue sky. Finally, the banner of Marin met Valesti, the golden crown, flanked by the traditional sceptre and sword of duty, upon the royal purple of majesty. Bogdan met Bogdan was a brute of a man; born disfigured at birth, he spurned intellectual pursuits to take up the mace. It was said that he could bash in plate as easily as one could snap a twig. Twice the size of a rightful man, he lumbered as would a beast, in hunt for its next kill. With him rode five-hundred hounds in human form; the exiles from good and just society. They were torturers and sinners all, Bogdan’s band of a nature too disgusting for any man with the slightest inkling of morality to bear. Anatol tep Constant was a man of an entirely different calibre. An exile from the City-Republic of Domred, he openly embraced the shunned customs of the Constant Cults. The realm spurned him, and were the art of killing not so highly desired, it was no doubt he would have long since been run from the plains and the Anchor entirely. His welcome stood entirely on the basis of his ability; he was the sole living master of the Sword-Art of Natural Law. It was said that he could cut open a hundred men without a thought or a mercy. The sword-arts were a rare thing now, the dangers of its reputation having seen its practitioners all but wiped out in the unification wars Valesti had fought twenty years prior. With Anatol walked three-hundred and fifty dead men, their eyes cold and hollow. In the unification wars, it was said that Anatol’s band swelled with every burned village, the children ripped from their hearth and homes, painted in the blood of their family, and led to war. Anatol broke them, and trained them. Each was a machine of death and destruction, its eyes indifferent to the suffering meted out by its hands. Across the river stood two banners and two mobs. One banner was laden with spears of red, emerging from the start of the field, the edges advancing to the top as the middle spears terminated early, forming a canton upon the middle of the blue field. The second banner depicted a prancing horse of gold, a sword of jet-black puncturing its chest, set upon an azure field. Two mobs, bannerless, milled about; peasants and levymen, not formally organized into bands, carrying whatever they could find; pitchforks, hoes, hand-axes, and all manner of tools. A few lucky ones carried daggers. The speared banner belonged to the new Royal Castellan of Orleka, a stern man, famed for his loyalty to the rightful King Witalis. Miroslaw tep Witalis was a blue-blooded man, whip-smart and royalty to the core. He had been a natural stand-in for Witalis met Valesti, groomed nearly from birth for the task. Though a tender age of sixteen, he had been instrumental in driving the southern raiders from the realm, and securing the Guard-Upon-River. With him marched two-hundred pikemen, clad in royal-marked bronze armor; the cream of the crop of the capital. With him was Michal met Wilhelm, a veteran soldier of noble stature that had served with Valesti in the unification wars. Michal was a staunch traditionalist, and had won favour with Witalis. It was this favour that saw him entrusted with the task of Gorody Bridge, to cut off the call of mercenary bands to Marin and to protect the vulnerable northern hinterlands of Orleka, while Witalis focused his efforts on Gornibon and its traitorous Imperious Bishop tep Caeden. With him marched another two-hundred stand of pikemen, clad in uniform bronze armor and drilled to exhaustion. Two unbannered mobs of a thousand men each were forced into position by the two bands of pikemen, led by obscure captains of little note and little pedigree. They stood guard on the bridge, staring across at the mercenary bands of Marin. Thus was the field of battle, two armies staring each other down, tension building. [hr] The inn had been sequestered by Marin, his household guard of two-hundred pikemen keeping watch outside. Only three men had been allowed inside with Marin; Anatol, Bogdan, and the innkeeper. The innkeeper kept to the background, keeping the men’s mugs full as they discussed their strategy. The discussion was hours-old at this point, as they touched upon how to best destroy the enemy arrayed before them. “Gentlemen,” Marin spoke as he stabbed at the map with a finger, “we have explored every alternative and found them wanting. We must clear this bridge and open a path to the south, or my bid for royalty will be ended before it has even begun. The southern raiders, should they choose to ride for me at all, will arrive here and be defeated in detail by Witalis’ men long before we can expect reinforcements from the Anchor mercenary bands.” Bogdan snorted, “These odds no good! Two of them for every one of us!” He slammed his mug down, anger in his voice as he considered the possibility. Marin replied, cooly, “Two thousand of them are but peasants. They are not prepared for the frenzy of battle. Of the entire army, only four-hundred will stand and fight.” Anatol spoke, matter-of-factly, his voice even, “They will stand and fight if it is between our swords and the pikewalls of Witalis’ professionals. If we are to break them, it will have to be before the bannered bands can form.” Marin looked up, nodding, “Indeed, and therein lies the plan. If we can sweep aside the mob before the pikes can form, then it will be a battle in our favor.” Bogdan responded, with sudden glee, “Terrify some peasants? When we go?” The other two waved in dismissal, receiving a derisive snort from the beast-man. Marin looked at the flag representing Anatol’s band on the map, saying next, “My household guard can force one of their bands to a stand-still near indefinitely. You, sword-master, can your men defeat a professional band?” Anatol responded, as even-voiced as ever, “I have done so many times in the past, and I shall do so again. Then I will wheel into the final band, that you will have locked into battle?” Marin answered, “You and Bogdan, together. Bogdan should have chased off the peasantry by then.” Bogdan’s smile grew wider as he imagined the slaughter of a professional band, and the loot to follow. Marin continued, “Bogdan will go in quickly, while my guard and your swordsmen get equipped. We will follow in behind as Bogdan clears us a path to engage the enemy’s pikemen in battle. We will break them here, or I will never see the throne.” The other two made their assent clear. Over the course of an hour, they finalized the details of the plan, and moved to put it into action. [hr] Bogdan’s men were ready quickly, with their leather cuirasses and their maces. Bloodlust drove them, the fury of battle driving them to a frenzy. The other two bands were of a higher sort, and took a longer period to prepare -- though they could do so autonomously, and thus Anatol and Marin were granted time to watch the opening blows of the battle unfold. “So,” Marin spoke as he walked up to the hill Anatol had taken up to watch over the bridge, “what drove you to such madness?” Anatol didn’t look away from the bridge as he responded, cooly as ever, “Madness? You insult me and my work.” Marin said back, “You deny Caeden and Gebei; in any other realm, you would have been quartered for it. We’ve been remarkably merciful. You’re a bright man, skillful with the sword. Why would you throw that kind of respect away to chase some cult?” Anatol’s eyes twinkled as he spoke with an edge, “Separate thou the earth from the fire; the subtle from the gross; sweetly, with great industry. It ascends from the earth to the heaven, and again it descends to the earth; and receives the force of things superior. By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world, and obscurity shall fly from you,” he paused, turning his head to look in Marin’s eyes, “Do you know what it means?” Marin narrowed his eyes, responding coldly, “It means you seek power by throwing away your reverence for the godly.” Amusement writ across Anatol’s face as he continued, “Its force is above all force, for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing; so was the world created. Hence I am called Regent, having witness of the creation of the world.” Marin’s face crumpled in disgust, “If you seek the throne, then why did you answer the call of my contract?” Anatol responded, slowly, “Not a throne of man, Marin,” then, his tone lightened, “Bogdan’s men have engaged the enemy, now. Our men are doubtlessly ready. We should begin our march.” Marin murmured his assent as they went their separate ways, taking their positions at the head of their respective bands. As Bogdan’s macemen terrified the mob of peasants and whipped them into a frenzy of activity, Anatol and Marin’s men marched uniformly across the bridge. Behind the peasants, the enemy’s pikemen had only just begun to form, unprepared for the assault. The peasants, as expected, did not last long; once they realized there were no pikes to herd them into line, they fled as quickly as they could. Masses of men dropped their arms and pushed against one another to flee into the plains, as the professional bands meant to keep them in line shouted in disgust. Marin’s guard took up their position, locking pikes with an enemy band; doing little damage, but threatening to decimate them should they not respond in kind. Anatol’s men, meanwhile, flooded between the gaps of the enemy’s pikes with terrifyingly little regard for their own life, their dead eyes striking fear into Michal’s band of pikemen. Pikes clattered against bronze plate, a kill here or there from opportunity their only comfort. Then the swords reached the front row. They dropped their pikes, taking up the dagger, only to be cut down with efficiency. Courage faltered as the front row fell. Men broke rank, running for the plains. Seeing their brothers abandon them only further cratered morale; the desertions became more severe. By the time the second row had fallen, the entire band, Michal included, fled the field. Then, the dead swordsmen turned their haunted gazes upon Miroslaw’s band, locked in place by Miran’s guard. Morale crumbled as sword met neck, the swordsmen charging into the vulnerable side and back of the ranks. Miroslaw’s men fought valiantly regardless, but as the bannerman fell, all hope of victory fled their minds. One man grabbed the banner, and with him fled a hundred men. Seeing their imminent defeat, the rest followed not long after. Thus Witalis’ army had been set to rout. Bogdan, too, had disappeared; his men going on a long chase to brutalize fleeing peasants, entirely forgetting their part of the plan. It was no matter; the battle had been won, and mercenary bands could now flow freely to Cajnicea. [hider=Battle of Gorody Bridge] Witalis has sent two bands of professional pikemen and two bands of levies to blockade the Gorody Bridge, thereby blocking off Miran from mercenary reinforcements from the southern realms Miran, in response, has arrived with his household guard and two mercenary bands; one an open member of the cult of the constant, shunned from the entire realm, and one a disfigured beast of a man known for his hideous strength and cruelty. They make a plan, and put it into action; Miran has a conversation with Anatol, the cultist of the constant, and shows his open disgust for the constant. Then, they go into battle They win the battle as planned, and open up the route; Bogdan’s force is disorganized as his entire band runs off to torture fleeing peasants [/hider]