Sini
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11 yrs ago
Off to visit the little sister. Shall be back by Sun/Monday.
11 yrs ago
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Bio
Née 1991. I feel old already.
Been roleplaying from the age of 15, write on solo projects in my spare time. I heartily encourage interaction when it comes to writing and creative efforts. Like to think I'm an understanding but stern and solid GM when I host games, and a collaborative and creative individual. Used to draw. Write in advanced section.
While I might not be as omni-present a some of you are on RP:G, I have been a part of it since 2009-2010 (if my memory serves me right). However, I must admit that post Guildfall, my activity also dropped. Slowly getting back into things.
I attended university to acquire my master's degree in history. I already had an educational degree for history and English, and am teaching both in secondary school. Any questions? Ask.
Been roleplaying from the age of 15, write on solo projects in my spare time. I heartily encourage interaction when it comes to writing and creative efforts. Like to think I'm an understanding but stern and solid GM when I host games, and a collaborative and creative individual. Used to draw. Write in advanced section.
While I might not be as omni-present a some of you are on RP:G, I have been a part of it since 2009-2010 (if my memory serves me right). However, I must admit that post Guildfall, my activity also dropped. Slowly getting back into things.
I attended university to acquire my master's degree in history. I already had an educational degree for history and English, and am teaching both in secondary school. Any questions? Ask.
Most Recent Posts
It is done!
Divisions of faith in the worship of Solarion had caused burnings, tortures and war almost from the beginning. The doctrine and liturgy of the sun god, emerging from the ancient pagan pantheon of the Caermelorite tribes and Namarese cities during the early years of expansion and the road to Empire, had not evolved without their share of schisms and heresies… and the frequently savage responses to these.
The god was in the sun or behind the sun, or was the sun. The world had been born from darkness, or light, or fallen from holy light. At one point in Namarese history, it was believed Solarion died in winter and was reborn in spring. However, this particular heresy had been quickly eliminated by quartering the cleric who had expounded such sacrilegious ideas. For a brief time the moon had been included as a related deity in the worship of Solarion the Radiant. This fallacy, unfortunately, had also required some painful deaths to extirpate.
The varying forms of belief in Acahirus the Charioteer –as mortal son, as half-mortal child, as god or demi-god– were only the most obdurate and enduring of these conflicts waged in the holy, bright name of Solarion. Kings, Emperors, clerics and priests wavered and grew firm and then reversed their positions and tolerance. Thereby moving Acahirus the Charioteer in and out of acceptance and fashion, much as the sun moved in and out of clouds on a windy day.
In a similar way, amongst all these religious wars, fought with words and iron and flame, the rendered image of Solarion himself had become a line of demarcation over the years. It had become a battlefield of art and belief, of ways of imagining the sun god who sent life-bringing light to the mortal world and battled darkness and ice beneath the world with nightfall.
When Cahir took the throne, the Solarion’s son was brought back into the fashion of the faith. There were many reasons to promote and support the worship of the Charioteer, though firstly he had the Council of Caermelor organised – a conference for the clergy and academics to ascertain the nature of Acahirus and forever remove all possibilities of conflict concerning the son of the sun. Naturally, as head of the Church, Cahir’s influence over the meetings had been crushing and it was largely his own vision that had defined Acahirus’ state and position within the faith.
The first reason why he had brought the Charioteer back, was the fact they shared the same name. The King-Emperor already enjoyed divine status, but this would add considerably to that. Secondly, Acahirus was a figure of courage, much like his godly father, who had brought light to the world, stealing fire from the sun. It was from this particular hero that the King-Emperors of Namare claimed descent. For Acahirus had been cast out by Solarion and forced to walk the earth, where he had many sons. These in turn were the seed of the Caermelorites. Thirdly, the people loved watching the chariot races, and re-introducing this demi-god into the realm of acceptance would assuage some of the more radical populace.
And so it was that the dome of the Grand Temple in Caermelor was being renovated. The mosaics that had been there for centuries were –meticulously- scraped off to move them to a trio of smaller temples throughout the city. The old masters, the old craftsmen and their art were not being removed and cast into oblivion; a fact which pleased both the general public and the clergy alike. Instead of the ancient tesserae, a huge fresco would be painted by the best artists brought to Caermelor from the corners of the Empire, and sometimes beyond. The centre would be dominated by a rendering of holy Solarion, his eyes blue gemstones and his hair painted with gold. A crown of silver laurels would be fixed around his head. However, Cahir had moved away from the antiquated, gentle rendering of the God, instead emphasising the battle-worn aspects of the deity.
Solarion’s skin would be white, pale scars clearly visible wherever his regal purple robe would not obstruct vision. His eyes would look down on his worshippers with sadness and determination, instilling in them the realisation the god was sacrificing himself for their safety when he travelled through the underworld each night. His hands would be reaching out, one clenched in a fist, the other with open palm where a broken finger would be visible –crooked and swollen.
Then to one side there would be a splendid image of the sun, illuminating the whole with divine light. To the other there would be Acahirus, standing tall in his chariot, holding a torch proudly with red flame. His face… would be that of Cahir ap Valerian ap Dunaver, King-Emperor of Namare.
The latter was just posing for a sketch by the distinguished painter Arvagio, standing on a dais in the centre of the dome so he could scrutinise the work being done by the labourers and artisans while dictating missives to governors, officials and dignitaries. Cahir was not a man to allow time to be wasted.
The messenger found him thus: standing on a podium, face turned to the heavens, scribes and scriveners at his feet, with gnomes and dwarves suspended from ropes and wooden constructions around them, beavering away on the dome and walls. Indeed, it was not hard to see the divinity of Solarion’s representative on earth, the messenger thought.
“Speak,” the voice echoed through the vast space.
“Most divine lord, your Majesty,” the messenger stammered, regaining his voice and recalling his message. It was not one that would cause joy. To the right he saw Cahir’s aging chancellor nodding reassuringly. “I have travelled as quickly as I could, my horse dropped dead halfway so I had to procure a new one.”
Cahir’s blazing gaze alighted on the messenger. “Yes, of course you have. Losing your mount in the pursuit of duty is not a capital offence. Wasting Our time, however, is.” The tone was bland, but with an undercurrent of power.
Randuin, the Chancellor, fiddled with the silver cufflinks on his black uniform and tugged at the white lace collar to allow for better breathing. Something was not right and he willed the messenger to spit it out already. Cahir was not a man to be kept waiting.
“There has been an accident in Jonalun, your Splendidness,” the man said, prostrating himself on the floor. “The school there experienced a major accident due to a boiler-failure. A new steam-engine was being presented to the students there when a cataclysm happened. The machine caused an explosion. Then, a fire broke out and chaos ensued. Not long after the people decided to lynch not only the teacher responsible for the accident, who had been brought to the hospice for treatment, but the staff of the entire school.”
Cahir remained silent, but descended from the dais thereby dismissing Arvagio to tend to other matters that would profit of his artistic genius. The White Flame nodded to continue. Randuin swallowed and tried not to sweat.
“The class was lynched as well.”
“The local militia?” Cahir asked, one brow raised slightly as an indication of annoyed curiosity.
“Provided the rope for the hangings, your Radiance.”
Cahir was quiet again, consumed by his thoughts on the matter. Randuin relaxed slightly, the situation might still be salvageable. If only that dumb messenger had kept his mouth shut…
“Yes?” The King-Emperor asked when the bringer of bad news cleared his throat.
“On my way over here from the stables, I ran into one of your Majesty’s grooms. He was carrying a letter from the people of Jonalun.” Fortunately the messenger had found courage enough, or his wits, to simply say what the contents were. “They sent your Grace a letter, stating they were in the right and will not accept any efforts to rebuild the school.” He handed over the letter with a bow that brought his nose to his knees.
“It says they will kill anyone trying to rebuild the school, or anyone who even touches a brick of the ruin.” Cahir was entirely calm, yet the fear was clearly written on Randuin’s face. Then the lieutenant of holy Solarion on earth smiled, ever so faintly but it was terrifying.
Oh lord, Randuin thought, desperately fighting back the lump he felt coming up in his throat, this is terrible. Heads will fall. By the Great Sun, heads will fall. He almost didn’t realise the King-Emperor addressing him, but years of service to the Sun Throne had made him develop keen hearing and social reflexes. Meanwhile the scribes were already recording what Cahir was saying.
“Randuin, you will send them a reply with Our seal and that of the Secretary of War. Make sure both Erathain and Daifridi sign the correspondence as well. Perhaps they will realise with what kind of fire they are playing.” Cahir took a breath and ran a finger along his jaw. “Pay attention, I will not repeat myself. Beloved subjects, inhabitants of Jonalun. It grieves Us deeply to hear what transpired within your town walls, but it is eclipsed by far to hear what happened to Our appointed servants who were working to further the goals of the Empire. Sorrow grips Our heart to hear about their deaths at the hands of their fellow townsfolk. Their deaths were unnecessary, without justice and shameful on those responsible for them. Innocents died without fairness and their blood is on all your hands. What if the baker’s oven catches fire and burns an entire street? Would you put his head, and that of his family, on spikes to decorate your proud walls saying ‘We will not suffer the baker to live’?” Cahir paused there for a moment, allowing the scribes to catch up.
When he continued his tone had changed, taken on a more severe and ominous flavour. “Yet grieve struck, it is not too late to make amends to Us, your magnanimous Sovereign. We trust that in your wisdom, people of Jonalun, you will know what course to take. Respectfully but with determination, We urge you to hand over those responsible for the death of innocents –starting with the captain of the local militia and the burgomaster-, reimburse the grieving families and –as an act of goodwill- finance the construction of a new school with better equipment and a larger focus on safety. Eagerly and with confidence in your loyalty, We await your reply.”
For a moment the scratching of quills on paper was the only thing audible in the side chapel where they had moved to. “Sign it with the customary titles. That is all,” with a swift gesture Cahir dismissed the scribes and servants from the chapel, as well as the messenger. Then he turned to the sweating chancellor.
“Marshal three regiments, one mounted. Just orders to assemble, nothing more, Randuin.”
“Yes, your Grace. We are hoping for a peaceful solution then?”
Cahir, the White Flame, nodded softly his mind already wandering off down other paths of thought. “Indeed. I would hate to set another example.”
Randuin had bowed and was halfway out of the room, leaving his monarch alone with his thoughts and prayers.
“Oh and Randuin.”
“My liege?”
“Send missives to all schools to double their efforts but with greater care. Ask Proudshaft to draft and publish safety guidelines. Accidents tend to lead to… other accidents. Go.”
Randuin hurried from the temple and to his office, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
The god was in the sun or behind the sun, or was the sun. The world had been born from darkness, or light, or fallen from holy light. At one point in Namarese history, it was believed Solarion died in winter and was reborn in spring. However, this particular heresy had been quickly eliminated by quartering the cleric who had expounded such sacrilegious ideas. For a brief time the moon had been included as a related deity in the worship of Solarion the Radiant. This fallacy, unfortunately, had also required some painful deaths to extirpate.
The varying forms of belief in Acahirus the Charioteer –as mortal son, as half-mortal child, as god or demi-god– were only the most obdurate and enduring of these conflicts waged in the holy, bright name of Solarion. Kings, Emperors, clerics and priests wavered and grew firm and then reversed their positions and tolerance. Thereby moving Acahirus the Charioteer in and out of acceptance and fashion, much as the sun moved in and out of clouds on a windy day.
In a similar way, amongst all these religious wars, fought with words and iron and flame, the rendered image of Solarion himself had become a line of demarcation over the years. It had become a battlefield of art and belief, of ways of imagining the sun god who sent life-bringing light to the mortal world and battled darkness and ice beneath the world with nightfall.
When Cahir took the throne, the Solarion’s son was brought back into the fashion of the faith. There were many reasons to promote and support the worship of the Charioteer, though firstly he had the Council of Caermelor organised – a conference for the clergy and academics to ascertain the nature of Acahirus and forever remove all possibilities of conflict concerning the son of the sun. Naturally, as head of the Church, Cahir’s influence over the meetings had been crushing and it was largely his own vision that had defined Acahirus’ state and position within the faith.
The first reason why he had brought the Charioteer back, was the fact they shared the same name. The King-Emperor already enjoyed divine status, but this would add considerably to that. Secondly, Acahirus was a figure of courage, much like his godly father, who had brought light to the world, stealing fire from the sun. It was from this particular hero that the King-Emperors of Namare claimed descent. For Acahirus had been cast out by Solarion and forced to walk the earth, where he had many sons. These in turn were the seed of the Caermelorites. Thirdly, the people loved watching the chariot races, and re-introducing this demi-god into the realm of acceptance would assuage some of the more radical populace.
And so it was that the dome of the Grand Temple in Caermelor was being renovated. The mosaics that had been there for centuries were –meticulously- scraped off to move them to a trio of smaller temples throughout the city. The old masters, the old craftsmen and their art were not being removed and cast into oblivion; a fact which pleased both the general public and the clergy alike. Instead of the ancient tesserae, a huge fresco would be painted by the best artists brought to Caermelor from the corners of the Empire, and sometimes beyond. The centre would be dominated by a rendering of holy Solarion, his eyes blue gemstones and his hair painted with gold. A crown of silver laurels would be fixed around his head. However, Cahir had moved away from the antiquated, gentle rendering of the God, instead emphasising the battle-worn aspects of the deity.
Solarion’s skin would be white, pale scars clearly visible wherever his regal purple robe would not obstruct vision. His eyes would look down on his worshippers with sadness and determination, instilling in them the realisation the god was sacrificing himself for their safety when he travelled through the underworld each night. His hands would be reaching out, one clenched in a fist, the other with open palm where a broken finger would be visible –crooked and swollen.
Then to one side there would be a splendid image of the sun, illuminating the whole with divine light. To the other there would be Acahirus, standing tall in his chariot, holding a torch proudly with red flame. His face… would be that of Cahir ap Valerian ap Dunaver, King-Emperor of Namare.
The latter was just posing for a sketch by the distinguished painter Arvagio, standing on a dais in the centre of the dome so he could scrutinise the work being done by the labourers and artisans while dictating missives to governors, officials and dignitaries. Cahir was not a man to allow time to be wasted.
The messenger found him thus: standing on a podium, face turned to the heavens, scribes and scriveners at his feet, with gnomes and dwarves suspended from ropes and wooden constructions around them, beavering away on the dome and walls. Indeed, it was not hard to see the divinity of Solarion’s representative on earth, the messenger thought.
“Speak,” the voice echoed through the vast space.
“Most divine lord, your Majesty,” the messenger stammered, regaining his voice and recalling his message. It was not one that would cause joy. To the right he saw Cahir’s aging chancellor nodding reassuringly. “I have travelled as quickly as I could, my horse dropped dead halfway so I had to procure a new one.”
Cahir’s blazing gaze alighted on the messenger. “Yes, of course you have. Losing your mount in the pursuit of duty is not a capital offence. Wasting Our time, however, is.” The tone was bland, but with an undercurrent of power.
Randuin, the Chancellor, fiddled with the silver cufflinks on his black uniform and tugged at the white lace collar to allow for better breathing. Something was not right and he willed the messenger to spit it out already. Cahir was not a man to be kept waiting.
“There has been an accident in Jonalun, your Splendidness,” the man said, prostrating himself on the floor. “The school there experienced a major accident due to a boiler-failure. A new steam-engine was being presented to the students there when a cataclysm happened. The machine caused an explosion. Then, a fire broke out and chaos ensued. Not long after the people decided to lynch not only the teacher responsible for the accident, who had been brought to the hospice for treatment, but the staff of the entire school.”
Cahir remained silent, but descended from the dais thereby dismissing Arvagio to tend to other matters that would profit of his artistic genius. The White Flame nodded to continue. Randuin swallowed and tried not to sweat.
“The class was lynched as well.”
“The local militia?” Cahir asked, one brow raised slightly as an indication of annoyed curiosity.
“Provided the rope for the hangings, your Radiance.”
Cahir was quiet again, consumed by his thoughts on the matter. Randuin relaxed slightly, the situation might still be salvageable. If only that dumb messenger had kept his mouth shut…
“Yes?” The King-Emperor asked when the bringer of bad news cleared his throat.
“On my way over here from the stables, I ran into one of your Majesty’s grooms. He was carrying a letter from the people of Jonalun.” Fortunately the messenger had found courage enough, or his wits, to simply say what the contents were. “They sent your Grace a letter, stating they were in the right and will not accept any efforts to rebuild the school.” He handed over the letter with a bow that brought his nose to his knees.
“It says they will kill anyone trying to rebuild the school, or anyone who even touches a brick of the ruin.” Cahir was entirely calm, yet the fear was clearly written on Randuin’s face. Then the lieutenant of holy Solarion on earth smiled, ever so faintly but it was terrifying.
Oh lord, Randuin thought, desperately fighting back the lump he felt coming up in his throat, this is terrible. Heads will fall. By the Great Sun, heads will fall. He almost didn’t realise the King-Emperor addressing him, but years of service to the Sun Throne had made him develop keen hearing and social reflexes. Meanwhile the scribes were already recording what Cahir was saying.
“Randuin, you will send them a reply with Our seal and that of the Secretary of War. Make sure both Erathain and Daifridi sign the correspondence as well. Perhaps they will realise with what kind of fire they are playing.” Cahir took a breath and ran a finger along his jaw. “Pay attention, I will not repeat myself. Beloved subjects, inhabitants of Jonalun. It grieves Us deeply to hear what transpired within your town walls, but it is eclipsed by far to hear what happened to Our appointed servants who were working to further the goals of the Empire. Sorrow grips Our heart to hear about their deaths at the hands of their fellow townsfolk. Their deaths were unnecessary, without justice and shameful on those responsible for them. Innocents died without fairness and their blood is on all your hands. What if the baker’s oven catches fire and burns an entire street? Would you put his head, and that of his family, on spikes to decorate your proud walls saying ‘We will not suffer the baker to live’?” Cahir paused there for a moment, allowing the scribes to catch up.
When he continued his tone had changed, taken on a more severe and ominous flavour. “Yet grieve struck, it is not too late to make amends to Us, your magnanimous Sovereign. We trust that in your wisdom, people of Jonalun, you will know what course to take. Respectfully but with determination, We urge you to hand over those responsible for the death of innocents –starting with the captain of the local militia and the burgomaster-, reimburse the grieving families and –as an act of goodwill- finance the construction of a new school with better equipment and a larger focus on safety. Eagerly and with confidence in your loyalty, We await your reply.”
For a moment the scratching of quills on paper was the only thing audible in the side chapel where they had moved to. “Sign it with the customary titles. That is all,” with a swift gesture Cahir dismissed the scribes and servants from the chapel, as well as the messenger. Then he turned to the sweating chancellor.
“Marshal three regiments, one mounted. Just orders to assemble, nothing more, Randuin.”
“Yes, your Grace. We are hoping for a peaceful solution then?”
Cahir, the White Flame, nodded softly his mind already wandering off down other paths of thought. “Indeed. I would hate to set another example.”
Randuin had bowed and was halfway out of the room, leaving his monarch alone with his thoughts and prayers.
“Oh and Randuin.”
“My liege?”
“Send missives to all schools to double their efforts but with greater care. Ask Proudshaft to draft and publish safety guidelines. Accidents tend to lead to… other accidents. Go.”
Randuin hurried from the temple and to his office, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
HeySeuss said
My posting might be delayed two days, since I actually work those two days. Back after that.
I don't think we've got a reason to complain :p. I pray for a lack of vegan customers.
Red Orthaug was one of those orcs with a sense of piety, offering words to the elder gods and ancestral spirits. However, that is not to say he was as devout as a shaman or sage. He did not proffer litanies or prayers, nor did he attend altars to curry divine favour. No, he did things his own way and in his own time. His offerings of choice were of the violent sort: an enemy’s spilled blood poured over an altar erected of bones and gore, a severed head on a spike facing the moon, things like that. Things he had learned from his kin.
Dawn was yet to come when orders were given for the company to mobilise and prepare for combat. Orthaug had been awake for quite a while, attending a meeting with the officers and then collecting his gear for the coming fight. The past few days had been tedious, mostly filled with marching –the monotony was finally about to rupture like a boil.
Not that he had any reason to complain about Nar Mat Kord-Ishi or the way it was run. Radush Eyedrinker, the company’s commander, had changed the rules. Through iron discipline, blood and not a small amount of knocking heads together, old Radush had forged a fighting unit from outcasts, exiles and downright scum.
As he passed the orderly rows of tents, now being pulled down by the orc soldiery, Orthaug ran his thick tongue along his tusks whilst nodding to some of the grunts. For several of them this would be their first taste of real combat. He had prepared them as best he could, trying to slap the green of the raw recruits by teaching them how to stab and strike at small openings in the enemy’s defence. There would be deaths today. Among the pikes the most he feared and so he growled a few last words of advice, encouragement and a few threats. With some luck they’d make it through the day.
Orthaug mounted the warg without much ceremony; the cunning beast was bred and trained for warfare. The dagger-like fangs –coated with dribble- flashed in a maw large enough for a human arm to fit. The orc padded the coarse fur of the wolfish fiend. They were old acquaintances, the warg and he, and after a snarl the former became rather docile. As docile as a warg could be, in any case.
The Achnals –an enemy he had little experience with as of yet- were camped outside the town they were sent to. A siege was taking place and their employers needed unscrupulous muscle to break it. Instead, they had received a solid dosage of guile to complement the brunt force that was the orcish pikemen.
A familiar thrill came over him as the command came to ride out. Orthaug was part of the elite cadre of Nar Mat Kord-Ishi, filled with likewise skilled individuals taken from the runts in the pike after having shown their prowess. He glanced right and left as the trot of his feral mount turned into a running gait. The human prince, Belahr –or whatever his name was-, was hanging on for dear life, clutching the saddle and fur of his beast with determination that could only have been born from fear. Good, Orthaug figured, let the human realise what he is dealing with. A bit to the front he recognised Ygdri, the company’s physician. He hoped he wouldn’t need her assistance today, for he was rather attached to his limbs –figuratively as well as literally.
After some time with the wind in his face and the rumbling of his warg beneath him, they crested a hilltop which offered them the vista of a city under siege. It seemed the Achnals had grown complacent, their patrols easily picked off by warg scouts, and had made themselves comfortable. Orthaug recognised the disorderly collection of tents and provisory dwellings as a lack of discipline. A thing –he knew- that could get you killed.
Spurring on the wargs with their knees and heels digging into the creatures heaving flanks, the pack of orcs descended onto the camp. Some shouting came from a surprised Achnal probably out for a morning’s piss. An arrow ended his scream but soon others had realised the fast approaching wave of fanged death.
The orcs let out a short battlecry when their wargs leapt over the fences and obstacles in their way. Gutting screams followed wherever the beasts and their riders went. Steel flashed out and was coloured crimson. After the initial charge screams of horse and men mixed into a crescendo of agony where one was no longer distinguishable from the other. The same problem occurred with the spilled blood and bowels littering the muddy ground.
Perhaps not a pretty tactic, but an effective one: Orthaug swung at the mouths of the horses to make them wild. Most likely they would gallop free and keep running due to the pain and turn mad. Achnals would be occupied with restraining the crazed horses, bones would be broken and some would find death under the hooves of an enraged steed.
Then, Orthaug was passed the first line of tents, having ridden down an Achnal merely dressed in a nightshirt. He made sure to stay close to the wedge-formation they were using to penetrate the Achnal lines. The human princeling had to reach the walls in one peace, and preferable enter them unharmed.
His axe flashed, the leather strap clutched in his calloused fist and wrapped around his wrist. An Achnal was so unlucky to find himself at the receiving end of an upward swing, the impact practically splitting his skull in two. Orthaug felt it reverberate in his bones and muscles, relishing the sensation.
If the Achnals would not regain their footing quickly, this would be over far too quickly and easy, he thought whilst setting his warg-mount on a young enemy warrior. It seemed the real soldiers were busy elsewhere, for his beast quickly overcame the lad and lunged for the throat.
Dawn was yet to come when orders were given for the company to mobilise and prepare for combat. Orthaug had been awake for quite a while, attending a meeting with the officers and then collecting his gear for the coming fight. The past few days had been tedious, mostly filled with marching –the monotony was finally about to rupture like a boil.
Not that he had any reason to complain about Nar Mat Kord-Ishi or the way it was run. Radush Eyedrinker, the company’s commander, had changed the rules. Through iron discipline, blood and not a small amount of knocking heads together, old Radush had forged a fighting unit from outcasts, exiles and downright scum.
As he passed the orderly rows of tents, now being pulled down by the orc soldiery, Orthaug ran his thick tongue along his tusks whilst nodding to some of the grunts. For several of them this would be their first taste of real combat. He had prepared them as best he could, trying to slap the green of the raw recruits by teaching them how to stab and strike at small openings in the enemy’s defence. There would be deaths today. Among the pikes the most he feared and so he growled a few last words of advice, encouragement and a few threats. With some luck they’d make it through the day.
Orthaug mounted the warg without much ceremony; the cunning beast was bred and trained for warfare. The dagger-like fangs –coated with dribble- flashed in a maw large enough for a human arm to fit. The orc padded the coarse fur of the wolfish fiend. They were old acquaintances, the warg and he, and after a snarl the former became rather docile. As docile as a warg could be, in any case.
The Achnals –an enemy he had little experience with as of yet- were camped outside the town they were sent to. A siege was taking place and their employers needed unscrupulous muscle to break it. Instead, they had received a solid dosage of guile to complement the brunt force that was the orcish pikemen.
A familiar thrill came over him as the command came to ride out. Orthaug was part of the elite cadre of Nar Mat Kord-Ishi, filled with likewise skilled individuals taken from the runts in the pike after having shown their prowess. He glanced right and left as the trot of his feral mount turned into a running gait. The human prince, Belahr –or whatever his name was-, was hanging on for dear life, clutching the saddle and fur of his beast with determination that could only have been born from fear. Good, Orthaug figured, let the human realise what he is dealing with. A bit to the front he recognised Ygdri, the company’s physician. He hoped he wouldn’t need her assistance today, for he was rather attached to his limbs –figuratively as well as literally.
After some time with the wind in his face and the rumbling of his warg beneath him, they crested a hilltop which offered them the vista of a city under siege. It seemed the Achnals had grown complacent, their patrols easily picked off by warg scouts, and had made themselves comfortable. Orthaug recognised the disorderly collection of tents and provisory dwellings as a lack of discipline. A thing –he knew- that could get you killed.
Spurring on the wargs with their knees and heels digging into the creatures heaving flanks, the pack of orcs descended onto the camp. Some shouting came from a surprised Achnal probably out for a morning’s piss. An arrow ended his scream but soon others had realised the fast approaching wave of fanged death.
The orcs let out a short battlecry when their wargs leapt over the fences and obstacles in their way. Gutting screams followed wherever the beasts and their riders went. Steel flashed out and was coloured crimson. After the initial charge screams of horse and men mixed into a crescendo of agony where one was no longer distinguishable from the other. The same problem occurred with the spilled blood and bowels littering the muddy ground.
Perhaps not a pretty tactic, but an effective one: Orthaug swung at the mouths of the horses to make them wild. Most likely they would gallop free and keep running due to the pain and turn mad. Achnals would be occupied with restraining the crazed horses, bones would be broken and some would find death under the hooves of an enraged steed.
Then, Orthaug was passed the first line of tents, having ridden down an Achnal merely dressed in a nightshirt. He made sure to stay close to the wedge-formation they were using to penetrate the Achnal lines. The human princeling had to reach the walls in one peace, and preferable enter them unharmed.
His axe flashed, the leather strap clutched in his calloused fist and wrapped around his wrist. An Achnal was so unlucky to find himself at the receiving end of an upward swing, the impact practically splitting his skull in two. Orthaug felt it reverberate in his bones and muscles, relishing the sensation.
If the Achnals would not regain their footing quickly, this would be over far too quickly and easy, he thought whilst setting his warg-mount on a young enemy warrior. It seemed the real soldiers were busy elsewhere, for his beast quickly overcame the lad and lunged for the throat.
Dedonus said
Is this supposed to be what the military supposed to look like for a Retulian faction?
It looks good enough, were it not that I have to assign you a troop total :p.
Warmonger: Attalia would be up for grabs.
I'm back home and will work on a post tonight. It should be up by Wednesday.
Dedonus said
Another question: Before Severus died in 310, who were the other two junior emperors other than Green and Blue? I know that Gray is Purple's Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces and Gold is the heir of Severus, but I was not sure if those titles meant they were the other two junior emperors. I did not see anything else mentioned about them in the history or faction descriptions (although I could have missed something). I think this is kind of important for Claimant 5 (purple) because Purple needs to know if he can trust the other junior emperor due to the rebellious nature of Blue (and Gray for the matter of fact).
I left that open so players who wanted could include them in their backstory. If not, then I would think up some 'canon' ones who are either dead now, or being puppeted. The political map would still stay the same, so those individuals would only nominally be junior-emperors. In short, they'd have the rank but lack the real means. Posts can be left vacant or filled in by multiple people at the same time, adding even more conflict.
I'll be somewhat out of reach this weekend, but I'll be back by Sunday/Monday :).
Dedonus said
Is there a river separating Adria / Mosia from Niconia? What's the straight blue line?
A very narrow strait, but we can easily turn it into a canal that some emperor had dug for his "immortalisation" or legacy.
Dedonus said
Some quick questions.
1) Posts should come naturally, if you don't have anything to post that's a pity. I expect you to take the initiative yourself to get things rolling. Optimally, one post per week would be sufficient, but I understand the unpredictability of real life. So ultimately one post per two weeks should keep you in the game. If you leave someone hanging though, except some pestering from my part. I like to be updated on why you cannot post or when you eventually will (you don't have to give me details on the reasons).
2) I'll be taking Claimant 3 and will draft an army for this. In short, I'd appoint a troop total to all factions once I've done some more research. From that number (split in Imperial forces and Auxiliaries) you work out how many you have of this troop type or that and how they are armed and armoured. Add some fluff to it for story purposes :). It's your choice how you set up your military, be it with an emphasis on heavy infantry, light infantry, ambushes, cavalry,... You can make it fit your needs as long as it does not turn out overpowered.
Everblight said
I could be a Bossonid ambassador? or perhaps an adviser on the Bossonids, similar to Demaratus for Xerxes I. But I suppose unless a war breaks out an adviser wouldn't get much action.
He can play factions against one another? And I'm not against having Bossonia invade at some point :P.
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