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
Fengarde MilitiaCurrent General: King Dryadson I & Countess Anya Meadowsong
Location: Elslen-Belmorn Borders
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Elslen Berserkers>/<1,000>/<Frenzied>
- <Glade Watchers>/<600>/<Superior archers, well trained, will not break>
- <Archer Militia>/<1,000>/<No bonuses>
Fleeing along Belmorn’s northern borders.
The Second Battle of FengardeLong Live The Queen!The Second Battle of Fengarde started much like the first; with the rumble of Jourian Stone Throwers. It was the middle of the night, and the moon had duel retreated to seek refuge behind some invisible cloud, and so it was easy, even for an elderly militiaman with poor sight, to watch the flaming balls of fire come crashing down into the city.
Houses burned to the ground, as the fires swept through the streets and alleys. The Fengarde garrison immediately set about quelling the flames, lest they lose not just the city, but also their only real credible defences. And so as man and woman ran back and forth, with bucket in hand, did Fek’Nassa’s son, Prince Sar’Nassa the Winged, commit his forces enmasse.
Though many of the Lizards had been poisoned by an unseen adversary, and were therefore weak and ill prepared for the fight, this did not matter. The Yellowfang Sword Dancers, with their graceful speed and immense agility, snaked their way through the flaming streets and pounced upon the distracted defenders. The Second Battle of Fengarde was no more a battle than it was a slaughter.
The Queen led the counter attack, at the head of her Guard and the Rangers. They crashed into the amassing ranks of Lizards, and a brutal melee erupted in Fengarde’s city square. However, with the militia in a mass rout, and the town watch not far behind, the Queen found herself outnumbered and cut off.
Alistine, being a woman, had never received any formal military training, and so was defenceless as a Jourian Grim Guard smashed their way to her, and delivered a spear-thrust to her neck. The pointed blade of the Grim Guard’s weapon penetrated her throat, and the spear’s consequential withdrawal tore a large chunk of flesh with it. She fell to the ground in a clatter of metal, unable to speak, as those sworn to protect her unleashed a short-lived blood lust.
Dismayed by the loss of their Queen, but all the same disheartened by their inevitable doom, Fengarde’s remaining defenders surrendered. The city had fallen, at the cost of some 12,000 Human Belmorian lives.
Battle SummaryOutcome: Jourian Crushing Victory
Belmorn Losses: Fengarde Garrison Destroyed/Queen Alistine III killed.
Jourian Losses: 1,200
The Host of Fek’Nassa Current General: Prince Snar’Nassa the Winged
Location: Belmorn
Morale: 75%%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
- <Yellowfang Sword Dancers>/<1000>/<Blood Drunk>
- <Yellowfang Crossbowmen>/<2000>/<No bonuses>
- <Yellowfang Grimguard>/<1800>/<Elite, Disciplined, Unbreakable Shieldwall>
- <Yellowfang Spear Band>/<6000>/<No Bonuses >
- <Yellowfang Stone Throwers>/<12>/<Siege Engines >
Current Action: Camped Outside of Fengarde.
The Third Battle of FengardeKing Dryadson I, of Hadelmere Hold, King of the Elves and the Unchainer arrived too late to save Fengarde from its fate. The moment he lead his men through the treelines, into what he had planned to be the Jourian unsuspecting flank, he realised that his efforts had been futile. Despite maintaining total silence along his hurried journey to relieve the city, so that none knew of his approach, Jouria had won. It had torn the beating heart out of Belmorn’s eastern lands.
Even several miles off, he could tell that no resistance remained. Music was playing, and there was a thunder of hisses rolling over the wheat fields. The Jourians were celebrating their victory; jubilant that they had finally overcome a long standing enemy, and were now on the door step of Belmorn’s final bastion; Hadelmere Hold.
Recently, however, the King had discovered a long-lost emotion. An emotion the Elves of Belmorn had long attempted to restrain and eliminate: anger.
Leading his host towards the mighty camp of the Jourian prince, King Dryadson paid no heed to his chief advisor, Count Anya, of the perils his force faced against a host over five times its size. He did not care for her words however, and signalled the attack.
Seeing them coming from miles off, even in their forest-green cloaks, the Jourian Crossbowmen had taken up positions. A brief skirmish ensued, in which the Elves, despite their superior weaponry, inflicted only light casualties on their much larger opponents.
Realising that the Sword Dancers and Grim Guard were mustering for an attack, King Dryadson I finally came to his senses, and ordered the retreat. The Orcs of Elslen, driven by honour and a hatred for weakness, volunteered to act as rear guard. They paid dearly for their bravery, but it was an act that did not lose itself on the minds of the Elves they died for.
Battle SummaryOutcome: Jourian Minor Victory
Belmorn Losses: 520 Elslen Orcs
Jourian Losses: 0
The Monk of Tel’GardasBreath in. Breath out. Realise that you are but a being, of flesh and blood. Focus on this thought; understand it, live to be its embodiment. From the highest King to the Lowest commoner, we are all brothers and sisters equally tied to one truth: we are transient. We live, and we die. Everything is an illusion. Realise the truth of being; break the wicked cycle that binds you to this world, so full of suffering as it is, so that you may escape, and become one with the very life forces that propel the wonders of all.Footsteps broke Teor’s meditation like a stone shattering glass. He momentarily forgot the deep calm he had allowed himself to be embraced by, a muttered a curse not unlike those you would find in the local tavern. He looked up, but did not attempt to rise; he had been sitting with his legs crossed upon the cold stone of his ‘sanctum’ for too long, and he was unsure whether they’d carry him or throw him back.
A man, clad in heavy mails, entered the domed cave. His heavily bearded and scarred face showed discontent – no, sadness. His right hand rested on the pommel of his sheathed sword, and Teor could see it rattle ever so slightly. Sadness, and anxiety.
“Milord Teor,” said the man in a gruff voice. “I bring grave news.”
Teor closed his eyes, and breathed in, holding it in his lungs for several seconds, before releasing with a carrying sigh. “Grave news is news I’d rather not hear, if it pleases you, my oldest of friends,”
“The Queen is dead!” Cried the man, with tears visible streaking his face. “Her army is destroyed, Fengarde is burning – and the Elves haven’t even left Hadelmere yet.”
“So many dead,” said Teor, sullenly. “How many joined our Queen at the end?”
“We’ve lost over eighteen thousands of our peoples, Milord. It is the greatest loss of our nation’s brief history,” replied the man; his face suddenly showed anger. “The world crumbles around us, and you spend your days sitting in this fucking cave? Breathing deeply and wanking? Your father will be shamed into suicide, when he hears!”
Teor carefully stood to his feet, and released another slow stream of air from his lungs. He was an unimpressive figure. He was forty years of age, tall but scrawny, with a shaven head and dull brown eyes. His skin was filthy and tanned from a decade of living as a wild man.
“How is father?” he asked, softly.
“Did you hear a fucking word I said, you little piece of piss?” the man roared. His hand gripped his sword.
“I heard you, old friend. But that is neither here nor there; run me down if you will, you are forgiven, but before you do, tell me why it is you have sought me out,” replied Teor, his tone placid and almost soothing.
The man, his face a picture of rage, started to draw his sword. “I sought you out, because you’ve abandoned your people – and your father. Your sister is dead because of it, along with eighteen thousand people!”
“And how, Rob, has my decision to seek Enlightenment on the forgotten Path of Tel’Gardas caused so much sorrow, and so much pain?” said Teor, smiling.
“You are a man! The only son House Ferren could truly call a King; nothing like that dimwit Constance, who is also to blame for all of this. Your sister was weak, she had a soft heart and it killed her. Those fucking Lizards should’ve been put to the sword a long time ago, and our failure – your failure, and her failure, to do anything about them as caused this tragedy.”
“If that is your opinion, then it is special to you, and must be guarded at all costs; Tel’Gardas forbid anyone changes your mind, and in doing so warps your very person,” said Teor, “but with that being said, why have you not run me through with your iron?”
The man’s eyes shot to his sword as it stood half out of its sheath. He suddenly relaxed himself and pushed the blade back into its leather. He sighed, knelt and started to cry. Teor approached him, and placed a gentle palm upon his metal-clad shoulder.
“You wish for me to lead our peoples, old friend?”
The man did not speak back, but nodded slightly.
“Will my father accept me back into the fold?”
“I expect not, Milord. He still refuses the mention of your name in his presence.”
Teor frowned at this. A tear worked its way from one of his eyes. A sister and cousin slain, a hateful father and the loss of over eighteen thousand people, and for what? Old feuds? A twenty year old suspicion? It seemed a high price for aims so vague.
Yes, the world is full of grief, and blood and terror – but it is all insignificant. It is illusionary. The sooner you can let go of fear, of sorrow and of pain, the sooner you can reach that of which you seek. The sooner you can see the world with love and clarity.“Then I make for Hadelmere Hold; I will take the bloodied crown of our peoples, or my father will kill me. It matters not,” said Teor, smiling despite his eyes swelling with restrained emotion.
