Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn
Current Leader/Government: King Marhorn Dryadson I (Elven)
Settlements Owned: 1
Provinces Owned: 2
Population: 61,400 humans/44,000 Elves/11,000 Half-Elves
Population Happiness: 25%
Imports: Cattle (Erimir), Iron (Elslen)
Exports: Lumber (Erimir)
Wealth: Poor
Alliances:
Trade Pacts:Erimir
Cease Fires:
Army Status Cards
The Sorrowsong Host Current General: King Dryadson I & The Council of the Nine
Location: Hadelmere
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Elven Phalanx Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Elven Longbow Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Glade Watchers>/<1,000>/< Superior archers, well trained, will not break >
- <Elven Sword Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
Current Action: Waiting
The Monk of Tel’Gardas Part 2The refugee columns were endless. Old men and women pulling feeble carts of their worldly possessions, young children clinging tightly to their mothers and a spatter of younger men walking with wounded limbs and wearing torn leather. It seemed to Teor that there were many thousands of them, as far as the eye could see, all packed tightly on the paved and narrow bridleway leading from Fengarde.
The pillars of smoke were starting to dissipate, over in the distance, but it still hung heavily in the air overheard. Teor reasoned that the Lizards must have burnt down every structure, to create that kind of stain in the otherwise blue summer sky, but felt indifferent to it.
War is war, men kill men, for reasons often lost to them, but always in the service of a higher power. The innocent suffer, or else are forced to ply the very machines that plough the fields of the dead.“We lost the battle of the Northern Wheat Fields. Prince Constance IV met the Jourians on open ground with his militia; it was a stupid idea, they were cut down in droves by the Jourian army,” said Rob glumly.
Teor looked at his old friend, and smiled faintly. “It was a stupid idea to wage a battle, at all, Rob.”
Rob shot an angry glance at Teor, and then spat distastefully on the floor before his mud-caked feet. “What would you have done? Laid down whilst your people were raped and massacred?”
Teor shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t hold the facts; news travels slowly to the Seer’s Lake. What I do know, however, is that violence often solves nothing; it must be the last resort, when all else has failed.
“Balls. Your sister was the stuff of kindness – she tried to resolve things with the Jourians, but they ignored her. They sent their army into our lands, to kill and to maim, whilst she sat around doting on their delegations,” replied Rob. “The sword should have been the right answer to go by. If she was wise, she’d of amassed our forces at Fengarde, and awaited the arrival of Hadelmere’s army. Instead, she sent her piss-brained Cousin to fight a battle he could not win.”
“And if she had not sent Constance, how many more would have died attempting to flee the borderlands?”
“Hundreds, maybe thousands – not eighteen thousand, that’s for sure.”
Teor sighed. Rob had a good mind for military matters; he had trained Teor as a youth in the use of sword and shield. There would be no real hope in attempting to enlighten his friend to the true manner of the world, and to the clarities denied to him by the realm’s blinded indoctrination.
“Perhaps you are right, Rob, perhaps the sword should have been the right response,” lied Teor, smiling as he always did. Rob did not smile back.
***No one took much notice as Teor and Rob joined the refugees, partly because one looked like either a hermit, or a badly done by former-resident of Fengarde, and the other a militiaman from the defence effort. They camouflaged immaculately into their downtrodden surroundings of a beaten peoples, and none knew that a Prince walked in their midst.
“Someone, please,” sobbed the desperate plea of a tired woman.
Teor turned his head to the right, and saw a young woman, caked in dirt and blood, cradling a limp infant in her arms. Immediately, he broke away from Rob and approached her. She looked up at him hopefully, and presented her child to him. He pulled back the child’s blanket, and winced slightly.
“Give the child to me, my lady,” said Teor, soothingly. His usually dull eyes shone with a certain kindness.
The woman hesitated, but then handed the child over.
A blow to the head; a cracked skull. Still breathing. Two or more ribs broken. Possibly four years of age. Malnourished; therefore weak and with little chance. Dead; another soul denied a chance to break from the cycle.“No,” muttered Teor.
“Excuse me?” asked the woman. Tears streaked across her face, clearing away the dirt that had accumulated there and leaving behind a spider webbed pattern of pale trails.
“Your child has suffered severely, my lady. His skull is crack-“
The woman started sobbing uncontrollably.
Teor carried on, indifferent. “His skull is cracked, and his ribs are broken. A lifetime of a poor diet has left his body weak, and even with the best medicine available to us, his chances are slim.”
“Oh…” the woman’s voice broke into whispered croaks.
Teor stepped aside some passing refugees, and knelt down. “Still, I will do what I can,” he said, smiling up at her.
***Teor finished tying the bandage. He had pierced the child’s skull, via the use of a cork screw. It was clumsy work, but it had succeeded in relieving the pressure on the child’s brain. It had given the small one a fighting chance at life, no matter how slim. He dreaded to accept the reality that he had only caused the child more needless pain, but he was bound to himself to help anyone and everyone.
“How did you know to do that?” asked Rob, half disgusted, and half amazed by what he had seen Teor do.
“The Lay of Tel’Gardas is rich with medical techniques; such things have been forgotten for a long time by our peoples – though the Elves still harbour some of it,” replied Teor. He handed the child back to the mother, who had exhausted her tear ducts and vocal cords to the point that both ceased to function.
“I have given him a chance, but understand it is a slim one, he may will perish all the same,” said Teor, with a smile. “Love him, care for him, but do not dwell on him. Life is temporary in this world, my lady, and all must perish at some point – focus not on what may come, or what has happened, but on what is happening. Care for him, love him.”
Teor walked away. Dozens of refugees followed him. All were injured in some way, whether it was a broken limb, a damaged eye or an infected wound. He turned to face them, and smiled. He did not want to delay his journey to Hadelmere a minute more, but there were no evident healers in sight, and he was not about to become part of the world’s problems.
“Fetch me clean blankets, water and fire.”
“We haven’t time for this, Teor, our people need you,” interrupted Rob.
“Yes, I can see,” Teor said with finality, as he opened a small cloth pouch of dried leaves.
***It was dark by the time Teor has expended the last of his herbal remedies. Scores of people lay on makeshift beds all around him, positioned in rows with plenty of space between. The refugees on the bridleway nearby were still walking on towards Hadelemere, but Teor could see them thinning out. He could also see some of them breaking away from the rest to seek aid.
“Saved enough?” Asked Rob, yawning.
“Not nearly enough, old friend,” replied Teor bitterly. “So much pain, and anguish, and for what?”
“Don’t get me started on that again,” said Rob.
Teor sighed, and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his wrist. He look across the silhouetted rock piles of a hastily established graveyard; he had saved many, but many more had succumbed to their ailments. Somewhere in those mounds lay a four year old boy with a cracked skull, and close by, there was the exhausted wails of a broken mother.
“I’m going to sleep, we set off at first light – with or without your consent,” said Rob grimly. It was clear that the man had no patience left.
“Then sleep well, my friend,” replied Teor, “I will see you in Hadelemere.”
Rob raised a scarred eyebrow, “you plan to walk now? You must be exhausted!”
“There is much energy left in my bones, yet, old friend. I discovered long ago how our minds tire themselves on useless wants and worries; freeing oneself of these things, gives a surprising amount of vigour,” said Teor, smiling.
“That makes piss all sense to me, my Lord,” said Rob.
“Nor did it make sense to me, those many years ago,” Teor replied.
Not waiting for Rob to speak further, Teor headed towards a small cluster of people gathered in the midst of the beds. These were able bodied mothers and fathers, old in years but still active, who had sworn their allegiance to Teor in return for the “miracles” he performed on their loved ones. He replied that he did not want allegiance, only assistance. He had then spent an hour training them in the arts of basic healthcare, including the changing of bandages and some resuscitation techniques.
“I will return on the morrow, and we will get these people to a House of Healing, you have my word,” Teor said to the group.
A woman of middle-years looked at him and smiled. “Go with the Gods, and come back to us swiftly- fear not, we will stay here until all are well, or all have passed on.”
Teor nodded, and then turned for the bridleway. His pace was brisk, and energetic, despite him having not slept in almost two days. Exhaustion was not much of a problem for him these days, not since he learnt how to unchain himself of the baggage most people carry around with them their entire lives.
A good deed, Prince, and the world is a little brighter. Revel in your accomplishment.“Wait up,” yelled Rob from behind. He had found himself a half-staved horse that seemed more bone than meat to Teor.
Poor beast, you work yourself into the ground at the whim of masters you do not understand, and who do not understand youThe Return of the KingKing Dryadson I made a sullen entrance to his ancestral city. Thousands of Elves, all equipped for war, stood at rigid attention in neat squares to create a central channel for him and his returning army to pass through. There were cheers, and Elven flutes played merrily as he passed by; flowered wreathes were thrown over the shoulders of his followers. At last, their King, their triumphant King had returned from victory in Elslen, to guide them in their time of dire need.
All were joyous on this occasion, despite recent events, and even the human refugees seemed to pick themselves up, if only slighty, at the news of his arrival. King Dryadson I had overcome far worse than this in past, and he was bound to repeat his brilliance this time; albeit a tad too late. The last time the Jourians came over the border in force, he and King Alfran turned them away as if they were children.
Yes, all were joyous, save for one. Countness Anya, of Meria’s Rest, had become gravely concerned with her King. He had changed somehow, and though she was unsure exactly what it was, he seemed unbalanced. A twitch had developed in his right eye, and it came on involuntarily when he spoke. The peace that often occupied his facial features, and to be fair, those of most of the Belmornian Elves, was no longer present. It was not that he looked angry, but rather, that he looked vacant, as if he was feeling nothing at all.
The King passed by his assembled army, and only gave them a few glances. It seemed he had business to attend, and this was not surpising in a time of war. He marched through The Arch of the Elderborn, where he was further greeted by tens of thousands of his countrymen. Men, women, children. Elfkind in it is entirety. They all cheered his name, and threw delicate petals at him in heavy showers. Again, he rewarded his adoring fans with a few glances, and fewer smiles. For the most part, he walked on.
His host halted outside of Hadelmere Palace, where the Elf Kings of old and new rescided. It was a beautiful structure, of tall spires and twisting parapets. A rare feat of engineering, not often see in this world anymore, even in Elven nations. At the foot of the Palace waited the Council of the 9. All of them a great Lord or Lady, all of them a hero in their own right – the best of the best. They instantly recognised what had caused Lady Anya’s concern.
“My Lord,” said Count Ferawl, “are you well?”
The King smiled, and bowed his head. “Of course, my dear Count Ferawl, but I am exhausted. We forced marched all across Elslen to Fengarde, and from Fengarde to here… it has been a long journey.”
“Of course, your grace. Come, your quarters are ready. We will speak of Jouria’s invasion tomorrow,” said Count Ferawl.
“No,” King Dryadson I said at once, “We will talk about Jouria’s demise within the hour. Ready the Council in the war room, I will not delay in the slaying of those monsters.”
Count Ferawl recoiled, as if bitten by an unseen seperant. “My Lord?”
King Dryadson’s right eye started to flutter slightly. “They have butchered far too many of our people, and we have allowed them time and time again to regroup and come at us. No more, my Count. I will take it upon myself to rid the world of them, and their likes.”
“I’m not sure, that I understand, oh great King,” said the Count; his fellow counts and countesses looked on with bemused faces.
“War, we’re going to war. There will be no peace, there will be no compromise – no ceasefire, no pact. There will be only death, and I will not stop until that,” King Dryadson quickly caught hold of himself, suddenly aware that he was in an obvious rage. “I… I… perhaps I do need some rest.”
At these words, the Council released a collective sigh.
“Erimir has dispatched her forces, my King. They are prepared to fight for us,” said Countess Mayine of Wormwood Watch.
The King nodded. “They are a brave people, those little ones. Should the Lizards be crus- … subdued, Belmorn and Erimir will be bound in blood for as long as my reign holds. Let it be known.”
The Countess nodded. “Of course, your grace. I will go at once to meet with their commander, and convey your feelings.”
