Flooby Badoop — Roleplayer Guild

Town of Falkwreath, Falkwreath Township, First Day of the Waiting Season's Third Month

“Fill those sacks up with dirt, and get them outside the Mansion! We need this gate blocked, rows of the Crossbowmen behind every block, go, get it!” barked Uthred from atop the Mansion's palisade. “Hurry, you bastards, the Host's on their way! We won't relive the last battle if you hurry, damnit!”

Tired, dirty, bloody men scurried around like rats. Each of them had the look many soldiers had: of a weary sack of flesh kept moving only by adrenaline and a base survival instinct, eyes glazed over in a dirth of original thought, and a surplus of attention to detail.

Townspeople huddled together in their homes, shivering with fear. Braver souls were rushing to pack their possessions onto carts, or corral women and children into the safety of a cellar.

Constantine was talking to one of his soldiers near the Mansion's fountain in front of its doorstep, in a voice not audible amongst the chaos in Falkwreath, when the Mayor and several guardsmen approached.

“What in the left hell is going on here?!” he yelled. His brow was furrowed, and his wrinkled face contorted into a deep frown.

Constantine acknowledged the Mayor with a glance. He nodded to the soldier he was talking to. The man did not speak another word before walking away. Constantine turned back to the Mayor.

“Yes?” he said in his slow, whistling speech.

“I said, what in our good God's name do you think you're doing?! I didn't give you permission to come in here! My gates were shut for a reason, damn you!”

“We're here to protect the town. The Host approaches.”

“Approaches for you! For all you know, they might just leave my town alone! But there's no hope of that if your army decides to make itself all cozy here!”

“The Host comes for this town. We're here to protect you.”

“You've said that already! I'm telling you your protection is not welcome. Now, please, get the hell out of here!”

Constantine shrugged. “It is not my decision. Uthred is our commander.” He lifted a limp left arm to point toward Uthred, barking orders on the palisade.

“I- He-” the mayor started to say, before stomping his foot and marching toward Uthred.

Constantine did not move his eyes from where the Mayor had stood. He simply went to the fountain, clogged with dirty snow, and sat down over its ledge, one leg crossed over the other.

~*~

Fort Bolgaz, Trischland

The dining hall of Bolgaz was silent, save for the fireplace. The flame was immodest, only crackling intermittently. Overlord Rone Tristch leaned forward in the high-back chair at the table's end, like a hunchback.

The hall could seat dozens of guests, and not long ago it once did. The lords who stabbed and poisoned one another put aside their grievances for awhile during the waiting season, to escape the cold and spend time among comrades in arms. He could see the last feast: boiled eggs, quail roasted in honey, bread baked with butter, baby radishes, lettuce dressed in olive vinegar sauce, and everything else Murdoch had prepared. A troupe of players all the way from Baccus had arrived at court to play wild music that none could resist dancing to. And those Baccan girls, swaying their hips to the sound, their skin almost visible behind their silken clothes and finery. Everyone was laughing, smiling, enjoying themselves as they cajoled and spilled flagons of drink across the table and floor.

Murdoch was dead. He had his throat slit by some thief while buying whatever bread was still on sale in Pentiloch's market. It was a few months ago, but it still felt recent to Rone. Murdoch had been the castle chef since he was born, since before he was born. He'd known him almost all his life. Aengus was the chef now. Aengus was everything nowadays, and good at everything except cooking.

For a moment, Rone thought his mind had conjured the image of the old, haggard bastard and his terrible excuse for a meal to judge his unspoken insult. But Aengus, and the bowl of gruel on the table, did not disappear with his vision of the feast.

“Oat porridge,” he said.

Rone looked at the small bowl of biege mush without blinking. “Get the sugar,” he said.

“We used that last dollop a week ago.”

Rone paused another moment, then swept the bowl onto the floor with the back of his hand. It fell upside down onto the ground. He did not look at Aengus.

“You need food. You haven't been eating. Just drinking. And only water'll quench thirst, not wine.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Aengus placed a hand on his shoulder. “Rone.”

He shrugged the hand off. “Any word of Helen?”

Aengus shook his head. “The war is occupying our attention.”

“I told you to raise a patrol and find her.”

Aengus slapped him across the face. Rone rubbed the mark. He attempted to glare and growl at Aengus: it was insulting to be treated as a child by his old caretaker now that he was not only a fully-grown adult, but the Overlord himself.

But looking into the old bastard's eyes, he could see no anger, coldness, or smug pride, only wetness. Rone turned back to the dining table, keeping silent for a moment.

“Do you remember the last feast?” he continued.

“Aye.”

Rone got up from his seat, and sauntered over to one of the chairs at the far end. “Was this where Lord Antony sat?”

It had been too long since he'd seen Aengus smile, and smile the fat old fart did. “Oh, oh aye,” he said over a chuckle. “Couldn't forget that. Gods, you'd swear the man had no soul if you hadn't seen him in that feast. That girl probably still has nightmares. The donkey too, if'n they dream like we.”

Rone didn't smile. He couldn't. But it stirred something in him to see Aengus amused. He went a few seats forward. “Lord. . . Qyptos?”

“He weren't there. Think he was the only one who didn't come at all.”

“Right. No, I'm mixing them up, Lord Alexander Montague sat here. He's a souless bastard too, but that night. . . how much did he drink?”

“I lost count after the third goblet.” Another chuckle.

Rone continued in this fashion, pointing out the notable members of feast and their hilarious antics, until he reached his sister's spot. Aengus had been laughing the whole time, but his died when he saw Rone leaning over the chair, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Aengus approached him slowly. Rone began to sob. Aengus leaned in close, and opened his arms.

Rone thought he would give him a hug, but Aengus gave him another hard smack to the face. As usual, he said nothing after doing this. The old man only glared with wet eyes.

Time Passes. . .

- The army and mercenaries of House Trisch, and the Bogan Host met in combat outside Country Castle in Falkwreath Country. When the armies of House Trisch arrived, an assault against the castle's garrison was already well under way. Despite being attacked on two sides, the Host managed to take the Castle, and from there cause huge casualties to the forces of House Trisch. Aethling Theodore, the official legal heir to the throne, was reported to have fell from the castle ramparts into the moat, where he drowned to his death. Aethling Constantine, the next in line of succession, fortunately survived the battle. Aethling Ambrose was reported to have been found in a ditch with his throat cut, and his horse stabbed to death.

Of the Bogan Host's 8,000 men, 2,124 were killed or seriously wounded, while 2,201 were wounded. Of House Trisch's 7,000 men, 4,308 men were killed or seriously wounded, while 1,403 were wounded. Of the 263 mercenaries left after the battle, all of them fled southward. This leaves 3,675 men for the Bogan Host, and 1,053 men for House Trisch.

After the battle, the Bogan Host laid waste to Country Castle, and the rest of Falkwreath Country. 700 people died in the looting, while 1,000 more were captured as slaves. The trade route from the town of Falkwreath and the town of Bernwick was also raided. After celebrating their victory in a long festival of carnage, the Host now marches for Falkwreath Township, where it will likely arrive in 64 hours.

For now, the army of House Trisch is stationed in the town of Falkwreath, preparing additional fortifications in The Mayor's Mansion.

- The Ordained's Waiting season assault has backfired. The Baccans were not nearly as disorganized as originally perceived. Their entire force seemed to marshal itself overnight, and the Ordained's strategy of numerous quick raids by small groups was put down, with heavy casualties. A full retreat back to the fortress was issued, but this only caused even greater casualties.

In what is now already being called 'The Waiting Assault,” the Baccans attacked the fortress with over 50,000 men, including a host of war elephants, to the Ordained's approximate 29,000. Casualties are hazy at best, but the result was a bloody and crushing victory for the Baccans. The fort was mostly destroyed in the battle, significantly reducing its strategic significance. This battle has perhaps been, if not the bloodiest, than the most important battle to date in the conflict for Mishfarden.

- Due to a lack of patrols, a Band of Bogans were able to land in the Kingdom of Aidhne, specifically in the fief of Dyfed, without resistance. As many men as possible were marshalled to the defence of the Slaine, but to no avail. Every one of the 1,000 men that were able to be raised were killed, while the Bogan Band, numbering 3,200, suffered 450 deaths or major injuries, and 459 wounded. This left the Bogan Band with 2,291 men.

After defeating the levies, the Band sacked Slaine, raided Dyfed, and looted the fief's Manor. 120 people died in the sacking of Slaine, while 400 were captured as slaves. In the raiding of Dyfed, 400 were killed, and 200 were captured as slaves. The whereabouts of House Cétchathach are unknown, but they are presumed dead.

What levies that were raised, but could not participate in time, fled to the other two Lords of Aidhne; Cynbel au Floinn and Aedan Ceridwen, both of whom are marshalling levies to defend their and meet the Bogan Band.

- 3,500 Giants have arrived in Cardyff. House Argall was unprepared for the invasion, but mustered their levies in Elfael, and started fortifying their position there. The Giants are now headed there, but along the way, they have raided Gwynedd, Gwyr, Arwystli, and Erging, killing 100, 300, 200, and 900 people respectively. They are now laying siege to the Manor in Elfael, in an unusual display of common sense for them. Erstwhile, House Godswine has marshalled their levies, leaving behind a garrison of 100 in their home Manor, and are currently travelling to meet the Giant warband alongside their liege.

It is now the Late Waiting Season. . .

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