SyrianHamster Member
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- SyrianHamster 12 yrs ago
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11 yrs ago
The fishes aint biting like they used to.
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Interested. Let me know when it's receiving.
Eternal_Flame said
are you working on it now?
There will be one tomorrow, following my coming battle with the Blackfang Empire. The day after, there will also be one. I've paused other NPC nation events to make room for the coming storm.
Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn
Army Status Cards
The Last of the Great, Finally Laid to Rest
Hadelmere Square
The city square of Hadelmere was a beautiful place to behold. Giant marble slabs, crafted by ancient hands many thousands of years ago, lined the floor in criss-crossing patterns. Dozens of tall obsidian pillars lined the square, and between each one stood a structure of pure architectural beauty dedicated to one purpose or another.
At the northern end of the square, was the three tiered Hadelmere Palace. Its mighty spires of crimson rock twirled towards the blackening skies. The flags of Belmorn that so often fluttered proudly from its ramparts now hung glumly at half-mast. The Royal Guards, dedicated to its defence, knelt before the main gate in two perfectly spaced rows of twenty. Their decorated helms of burnished steel rested carefully under their shoulders, and they hung their heads low so that the starting wind tossed and turned their golden hair.
Carefully tended gardens broke up the monotony of marble slabs, roughly forming several rectangles that gradually grew smaller the closer they came to the city square’s centre. Through the middle of them, passed a roadway of obsidian blocks, that met with the palace’s gate and the square’s southern entrance. This road was often the scene of parades, and thousands of Elves would gather here to greet their victorious King, time and time again, since Belmorn’s founding those many, many years ago.
Today, thousands of Elves gathered at the edge of this road to accept the passing of their King.
The procession was a depressing sight. The Council of Nine, led by Anya Meadowsong, passed through the palace’s gate. Behind them were an honour guard of Glade Watchers; their bows unstrung, and their eyes gazing towards the setting sun. Their march thundered with each choreographed step. The King’s golden coffin, draped in the flags of his peoples, and a varying adornment of flower displays, came soon after.
As if on cue, the Elves, thousands of them, put their angelic voices together to sing a final farewell to their beloved king.
Marhorn! Marhorn!
Emperor’s Count, Belmorn’s King
The last of his line, the last of his name,
The Jourian beasts were his hideous bane,
Though he tended them with love,
Into his chest did a spear they shove,
No more of Talia’s sacred blood,
For it has drained into the mud,
Of this cursed world he fought to save,
Marhorn! Marhorn!
It was a bitterly short song, and lacking the expertise of the Elves’ greatest word smiths. Not many were in the mood for song writing, and even fewer were in the mood to sing with any real enthusiasm. To many this was a formality, and one that did not demand merriment as was usually expressed when celebrating the life of one so terribly lost.
Emperor Sar’Nassa had taken the Belmorn King, using black arts that even the Elves, ancient in their wisdom, did not understand. He had slaughtered him, as he stood in the safest place in all of Belmorn. He had mocked him. Though none present could verify that the mysterious assassin was indeed the Lizard whose name they cursed, it was definitely on his order that such a cowardly act was carried out.
Dryadson’s coffin was lowered into a hole. It had been specially prepared during the night, and it took several hundreds of Elves with levers and pulleys to hoist the large marble slabs out of the ground. They had then done what they could to craft the soil underfoot into a hospitable crypt. Dryadson had always requested he be interred in the city, so that he could watch over his peoples from whatever life waiting for him beyond the mortal world.
As the first of the slabs was lowered over the coffin, concealing it from view, both men and womenfolk broke down in uncontrollable sobbing. Each one of them owed that man a debt they would now never repay. He had saved them, when the Empire fractured, and the Lizards came baying for Elven blood. He had led the 7th Legion to war to defend Belmorn, and he had broken the Jourians there and then. After, he had disassembled his force and renounced his allegiance to the Empire, in order to safeguard his peoples. From then on he worked to bring peace to the region, and always he was thwarted. Now he had paid for his mercy, and for his weakness.
The Countess
Anya Meadowsong stood looking into the pane of polished iron. Her naked reflection looked back at her, eyes welling with tears. She saw her breasts jolting forcibly with each heavy beat of her heart, and her throat worked its way up and down as she fought against the sickening dread building up inside of her. She knew that now was not the time for emotions. War could ill afford a clouded mind, especially if one sought to achieve aims so grand.
Her jittering right hand snaked its way across the flat of her stomach, and trembling pale fingers traced the scar that lined it from north to south. She had supressed things for so long, as was the way of her kindred, but now with the death of her King, and a deadly adversary on the horizon, she let her mind wander.
She saw Thendel, with his youthful smile full of lusting want – a trait so seldom amongst a race of refrainers. He was a young princeling when she first met him properly, and though two centuries separated them, she allowed herself to bathe in the energy of his almost-human excitement at matters. He was charming, and warm, but more than that, he was full of a passion so lacking in other Elven men when it came to life’s finer things. He doted after her, though his father forbid it, and eventually one night after too much fruit wine, she gave him what he desired.
Her pregnancy was not an easy one. Being over two hundred and fifty years old at the time, she had left her fertility window long behind – or so she had thought. The Elves of Belmorn, though blessed with long life, were given a very limited time to populate. No one knew why exactly, as other Elven peoples seemed to be able to match the human rate of procreation and indeed surpass it. However, it had always been so for the Elves of Belmorn, for as long as any old historic scroll could remember.
To get with child beyond fifty years of age was a dangerous affair, and Anya was not spared. She became terribly ill into her fifth month, and unable to name the child’s father in fear of King Dryadson’s scorn, she was denied the compassion of her peers. Thinking her a whore, who had lost control of herself one stupid night, even her father thought ill of her. He expelled her from his estate, and sent her to live with the Sisterhood.
The Sisterhood was a place for all of Elfkind’s unwanted women. Though Thendel had tried to work the strings behind the scenes to secure her release, he was unsuccessful, and she became stuck there. Every day she toiled with needle and thread or with quill and paper for the benefit of others. It was not a happy life, but it had it was not without care. Into her seven month, Anya collapsed one night as she washed the clothes of her fellow ‘inmates’. Mother Tender Geliane found her, and promptly whisked her away to the resident physician.
To cut an awful and heart breaking story short, the child had to be ended before it came to full term. It had grown abnormally, and the physician had told Anya that the birthing process would take her life. She consented, if only so she could leave the Sisterhood, and be with her beloved Thendel.
It was many weeks before she could leave the delicate comfort of a bed, following the operation. The child had been dead the moment it was cut from her womb; a blessing she was glad to have received. Imagining herself cradling a badly deformed and dying infant in her bloodied arms was a picture she had trouble scrubbing from her mind.
Thendel had changed in the short period of her incarceration, however. Whether because Dryadson expected that Thendel was the son of Anya’s child, or perhaps because it was simply his time to up and take duties, the young Elven prince was no longer accessible to her. Whether he was in Erimir, Elslen, Jouria or Surgo, Thendel was always far beyond her reach. Even when she wrote him letters, and paying a heavy price for them to be delivered, she never received a reply.
It was some years until she finally realised that she and Thendel had been nothing. It was a fling, and nothing more – a foolish merging of flesh, to create an ill-fated abomination. She cursed herself a thousand times for her stupidity. Denied the love of a father who saw her as a whore, and the love of a mother who had died giving her life, the future Countess sought a future in the Glade Watchers. She would live on the fringes of her peoples.
The Glade Watchers were in many ways similar to the Sisterhood. They were all undesirables. Some were Elves with a strong adherence to violence, and could only sate their blood lust by serving with the world’s greatest forest fighters. Some were just simply unwanted, like Anya, and had joined as a way of stifling their grief.
From ambushing Jourian bandits to slaughtering Elslen slaving parties, Anya developed her skills in war and was found to be naturally adept to them. This allowed her to quickly climb the ranks of the Glade Watchers, and when the Empire crumbled, she cemented herself in the tomes of her peoples during the Battle of Meria’s Rest. King Dryadson I, seeming to forget Anya’s forbidden past love with his son, had named her the ninth Count of his new kingdom as a reward.
From her forest stronghold, buried deep in that ancient wood, she had served the Kingdom with tenacity. Her enemies, especially the Jourians, came to fear her brutality and they actively sent warbands and assassins to track her down. For that reason, she always wore a scarf to conceal her face on the battlefield, to prevent the enemy from diverting their entire attention against her and claiming a head as a trophy.
“Countess, it is time,” said Watcher Halan. He was cold and indifferent to her nudity.
Broken from her reverie, she nodded and held up her arms to be level with her shoulders. Four more Watchers descended upon her with leather and mail. They wrapped and fastened; tapped and pulled. Piece by piece, the armour of her father, dead since the early days of Belmorn’s independence, covered her. It was a beautiful blend of reddened leather, and burnished steel chains. The helmet crested into a hawk, and though it was heavy on her slender neck, she would wear it with pride and strength.
“I forgive you, father,” she sighed. “And you Thendel.”
She was to march at the head of the greatest Elven host Orysson had seen in over a century, and she would not be waiting for the morrow. They were to leave tonight, under the cover of the darkness and the rain. The Jourians, no doubt, had grown fat on their plunder and were busy biding their time. If the Elves force marched, they would clear half the distance by sunrise and any Jourian scouts would be hard pressed to report their findings in time for the Sorrowsong Host’s arrival.
Army Status Cards
The city square of Hadelmere was a beautiful place to behold. Giant marble slabs, crafted by ancient hands many thousands of years ago, lined the floor in criss-crossing patterns. Dozens of tall obsidian pillars lined the square, and between each one stood a structure of pure architectural beauty dedicated to one purpose or another.
At the northern end of the square, was the three tiered Hadelmere Palace. Its mighty spires of crimson rock twirled towards the blackening skies. The flags of Belmorn that so often fluttered proudly from its ramparts now hung glumly at half-mast. The Royal Guards, dedicated to its defence, knelt before the main gate in two perfectly spaced rows of twenty. Their decorated helms of burnished steel rested carefully under their shoulders, and they hung their heads low so that the starting wind tossed and turned their golden hair.
Carefully tended gardens broke up the monotony of marble slabs, roughly forming several rectangles that gradually grew smaller the closer they came to the city square’s centre. Through the middle of them, passed a roadway of obsidian blocks, that met with the palace’s gate and the square’s southern entrance. This road was often the scene of parades, and thousands of Elves would gather here to greet their victorious King, time and time again, since Belmorn’s founding those many, many years ago.
Today, thousands of Elves gathered at the edge of this road to accept the passing of their King.
The procession was a depressing sight. The Council of Nine, led by Anya Meadowsong, passed through the palace’s gate. Behind them were an honour guard of Glade Watchers; their bows unstrung, and their eyes gazing towards the setting sun. Their march thundered with each choreographed step. The King’s golden coffin, draped in the flags of his peoples, and a varying adornment of flower displays, came soon after.
As if on cue, the Elves, thousands of them, put their angelic voices together to sing a final farewell to their beloved king.
Emperor’s Count, Belmorn’s King
The last of his line, the last of his name,
The Jourian beasts were his hideous bane,
Though he tended them with love,
Into his chest did a spear they shove,
No more of Talia’s sacred blood,
For it has drained into the mud,
Of this cursed world he fought to save,
Marhorn! Marhorn!
It was a bitterly short song, and lacking the expertise of the Elves’ greatest word smiths. Not many were in the mood for song writing, and even fewer were in the mood to sing with any real enthusiasm. To many this was a formality, and one that did not demand merriment as was usually expressed when celebrating the life of one so terribly lost.
Emperor Sar’Nassa had taken the Belmorn King, using black arts that even the Elves, ancient in their wisdom, did not understand. He had slaughtered him, as he stood in the safest place in all of Belmorn. He had mocked him. Though none present could verify that the mysterious assassin was indeed the Lizard whose name they cursed, it was definitely on his order that such a cowardly act was carried out.
Dryadson’s coffin was lowered into a hole. It had been specially prepared during the night, and it took several hundreds of Elves with levers and pulleys to hoist the large marble slabs out of the ground. They had then done what they could to craft the soil underfoot into a hospitable crypt. Dryadson had always requested he be interred in the city, so that he could watch over his peoples from whatever life waiting for him beyond the mortal world.
As the first of the slabs was lowered over the coffin, concealing it from view, both men and womenfolk broke down in uncontrollable sobbing. Each one of them owed that man a debt they would now never repay. He had saved them, when the Empire fractured, and the Lizards came baying for Elven blood. He had led the 7th Legion to war to defend Belmorn, and he had broken the Jourians there and then. After, he had disassembled his force and renounced his allegiance to the Empire, in order to safeguard his peoples. From then on he worked to bring peace to the region, and always he was thwarted. Now he had paid for his mercy, and for his weakness.
Anya Meadowsong stood looking into the pane of polished iron. Her naked reflection looked back at her, eyes welling with tears. She saw her breasts jolting forcibly with each heavy beat of her heart, and her throat worked its way up and down as she fought against the sickening dread building up inside of her. She knew that now was not the time for emotions. War could ill afford a clouded mind, especially if one sought to achieve aims so grand.
Her jittering right hand snaked its way across the flat of her stomach, and trembling pale fingers traced the scar that lined it from north to south. She had supressed things for so long, as was the way of her kindred, but now with the death of her King, and a deadly adversary on the horizon, she let her mind wander.
She saw Thendel, with his youthful smile full of lusting want – a trait so seldom amongst a race of refrainers. He was a young princeling when she first met him properly, and though two centuries separated them, she allowed herself to bathe in the energy of his almost-human excitement at matters. He was charming, and warm, but more than that, he was full of a passion so lacking in other Elven men when it came to life’s finer things. He doted after her, though his father forbid it, and eventually one night after too much fruit wine, she gave him what he desired.
Her pregnancy was not an easy one. Being over two hundred and fifty years old at the time, she had left her fertility window long behind – or so she had thought. The Elves of Belmorn, though blessed with long life, were given a very limited time to populate. No one knew why exactly, as other Elven peoples seemed to be able to match the human rate of procreation and indeed surpass it. However, it had always been so for the Elves of Belmorn, for as long as any old historic scroll could remember.
To get with child beyond fifty years of age was a dangerous affair, and Anya was not spared. She became terribly ill into her fifth month, and unable to name the child’s father in fear of King Dryadson’s scorn, she was denied the compassion of her peers. Thinking her a whore, who had lost control of herself one stupid night, even her father thought ill of her. He expelled her from his estate, and sent her to live with the Sisterhood.
The Sisterhood was a place for all of Elfkind’s unwanted women. Though Thendel had tried to work the strings behind the scenes to secure her release, he was unsuccessful, and she became stuck there. Every day she toiled with needle and thread or with quill and paper for the benefit of others. It was not a happy life, but it had it was not without care. Into her seven month, Anya collapsed one night as she washed the clothes of her fellow ‘inmates’. Mother Tender Geliane found her, and promptly whisked her away to the resident physician.
To cut an awful and heart breaking story short, the child had to be ended before it came to full term. It had grown abnormally, and the physician had told Anya that the birthing process would take her life. She consented, if only so she could leave the Sisterhood, and be with her beloved Thendel.
It was many weeks before she could leave the delicate comfort of a bed, following the operation. The child had been dead the moment it was cut from her womb; a blessing she was glad to have received. Imagining herself cradling a badly deformed and dying infant in her bloodied arms was a picture she had trouble scrubbing from her mind.
Thendel had changed in the short period of her incarceration, however. Whether because Dryadson expected that Thendel was the son of Anya’s child, or perhaps because it was simply his time to up and take duties, the young Elven prince was no longer accessible to her. Whether he was in Erimir, Elslen, Jouria or Surgo, Thendel was always far beyond her reach. Even when she wrote him letters, and paying a heavy price for them to be delivered, she never received a reply.
It was some years until she finally realised that she and Thendel had been nothing. It was a fling, and nothing more – a foolish merging of flesh, to create an ill-fated abomination. She cursed herself a thousand times for her stupidity. Denied the love of a father who saw her as a whore, and the love of a mother who had died giving her life, the future Countess sought a future in the Glade Watchers. She would live on the fringes of her peoples.
The Glade Watchers were in many ways similar to the Sisterhood. They were all undesirables. Some were Elves with a strong adherence to violence, and could only sate their blood lust by serving with the world’s greatest forest fighters. Some were just simply unwanted, like Anya, and had joined as a way of stifling their grief.
From ambushing Jourian bandits to slaughtering Elslen slaving parties, Anya developed her skills in war and was found to be naturally adept to them. This allowed her to quickly climb the ranks of the Glade Watchers, and when the Empire crumbled, she cemented herself in the tomes of her peoples during the Battle of Meria’s Rest. King Dryadson I, seeming to forget Anya’s forbidden past love with his son, had named her the ninth Count of his new kingdom as a reward.
From her forest stronghold, buried deep in that ancient wood, she had served the Kingdom with tenacity. Her enemies, especially the Jourians, came to fear her brutality and they actively sent warbands and assassins to track her down. For that reason, she always wore a scarf to conceal her face on the battlefield, to prevent the enemy from diverting their entire attention against her and claiming a head as a trophy.
“Countess, it is time,” said Watcher Halan. He was cold and indifferent to her nudity.
Broken from her reverie, she nodded and held up her arms to be level with her shoulders. Four more Watchers descended upon her with leather and mail. They wrapped and fastened; tapped and pulled. Piece by piece, the armour of her father, dead since the early days of Belmorn’s independence, covered her. It was a beautiful blend of reddened leather, and burnished steel chains. The helmet crested into a hawk, and though it was heavy on her slender neck, she would wear it with pride and strength.
“I forgive you, father,” she sighed. “And you Thendel.”
She was to march at the head of the greatest Elven host Orysson had seen in over a century, and she would not be waiting for the morrow. They were to leave tonight, under the cover of the darkness and the rain. The Jourians, no doubt, had grown fat on their plunder and were busy biding their time. If the Elves force marched, they would clear half the distance by sunrise and any Jourian scouts would be hard pressed to report their findings in time for the Sorrowsong Host’s arrival.
Eternal_Flame said
Any upcoming event syrian?
Soon, my friend, soon.
BlackBishop said
Long awaited IC up! Tremble before the glory of Orc-Kind, soft-skins!
Finally, I look forward to reading.
On a side note, just checked out your RP. Seems pretty cool. One of the things that frustrates me the most about this guild is post flow - one day you have more than you can handle, and then the next two weeks it's just drips and drabs because everyone suddenly gets "busy" IRL. So with that said, I might drop by later and consider participating.
TheRpgGamer said
i'm still interested and I think I am gonna return but I think I can only post sometimes and show me the basics of the new updates so i cannot godmod bu accident
I don't think anyone has gone near you really, so there's not much you can god mod over. Still, you might want to prepare your nation, rumour has it that there's some Dark Elves across the sea that have got beef with everyone for reasons not entirely clear. By rumours I mean, we're literally talking 2 days now, if my count is right.
I've been unable to post because Jymson's been left waiting for another character's verdict on his guilty/innocent scenario. I'm more than happy to plough ahead regardless, and assume NPC control of the character in question in order to resolve the situation and proceed.
Titanic said
I actually am going to china
What do I win for guessing?
Titanic said
Warning ahead of time, I will be gone for a month starting July 2nd
A whole month? You being shipped off to China? No problem either way, I guess.
Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn
Army Status Cards
King Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn
Hadelmere Palace
“The Lizads have grown in strength,” said King Dryadson bitterly.
“Yes your grace. All Jouria is emptied,” replied Count Ferawl.
“They would leave themselves so vulnerable?” butted in Countess Anya.
“They mean to destroy us,” said Dryadson with a heavy sigh. “They know that Elfkind is weak, we are mere shadows of our former glory.”
“Since when did King Marhorn Dryadson I, son of Meria Dryadson of House Talia and Lord of Belmorn, care for glory?” asked Anya. Her face was placid; her words were not.
Dryadson’s burning eyes narrowed, and he glared at her for several seconds. “The moment the ways of our peoples faltered, casting darkness all around us. I urge all council members with an aversion to saving this land, to leave now, and never to return.”
To this, none of the nine Elven Counts and Countesses stirred. They looked on passively at their King, but their concern for him was evident in their eyes. He paid them no heed.
“Twenty Stone Throwers, you say Countness Anya?” asked Dryadson, leaving the drama far behind him.
“Yes your grace,” she said with a nod, “and with the rubble of Fengarde to arm them with, they will be a deadly force.”
“Agreed, your grace. Our archers will not stand long under a rain of flame and rock,” said Countness Mayine. “We will have to rely on skirmishing formations to minimise our casualties, but this will diminish the advantage of having so many longbows firing at once.”
King Dryadson I nodded. His right eye twitched slightly. “How easy would it be for Belmorn’s best to slip in behind the Lizards, and put to rest their Stone Throwers, Countness Anya?”
“Easier than draining a bottle of Hadelmere’s finest wine, your grace,” said the Countess with a weak smile.
“Good. Take the Halflings with you, if they are up for the challenge. I will not risk them on the killing fields. This is Belmorn’s battle, this is our war. Enough of their kind have died at my behest,” came Dryadson’s sullen reply.
“As you will, your grace. I will brief Marshal Tommen Taleteller, and return with his reply,” said Anya, bowing and moving with customary Elven grace towards the large oaken doors of the War Room.
“Wait,” shouted Dryadson, momentarily unnerved for reasons not apparent, “take this.” He held out his palm; a plain talisman of dark metal hung from his hand.
Anya bowed her head slightly, and took it from him. She gave it a once over and frowned. It was a perfect circle, embossed with the sigil of a crescent moon. It was the emblem of the Royal Elven House Talia. The Council members all gasped at the realisation.
“Excuse me your grace, but I do not understand,” said Anya, her words trembling with confusion. “This is for the blood of your line.”
“My line has ended, Anya, as you are well aware. I doubt I will father another heir too – I am far beyond my fertile years,” said Dryadson smiling. “Give it to the Halfling Marshal. Tell him that whatever becomes of our peoples, we will not forget the courage of his country. Tell him… that if we are victorious, lands will be his.”
“Forgive me your grace, but though I do not doubt their courage, they haven’t exactly provided us with an army worthy of such praise,” interrupted Count Ferawl.
Dyadson shot him an off-hand glance. “You was not there, at the Battle of Witch Green Pass, my Count. If you were, you would know that I am alive today because of their courage.”
Count Ferawl bowed his head for several seconds. “Forgive my ignorance, your grace.”
The oaken doors of the War Room suddenly burst open. The half dozen Elven Royal Guard stationed around the pillared room leapt into action. In a flash of ancient steel armour and ancestral blades they whirled towards the intruders. One was a man, clad in chain mail and a sword drawn in defence, and the other was too a man, but dressed in foul smelling rags caked in blood.
“State your business, human,” growled the foremost of the Royal Guard. “How did you get in here?”
“Get back, you fucking pointy eared bastard, this is the human heir of Belmorn you’re waving that curved chicken knife at,” roared the mailed man.
King Dryadson I looked hard at the ragged man, who had said nothing. The man returned the look, and smiled as if the two had a fond history.
“Lord Teor,” sneered Dryadson. “Come to piss on your father one last time, I trust?”
The Elf King’s words startled the council members, all of whom were finding it increasingly difficult not to point out his deteriorating demeanour.
Teor bowed his head. “Hail, King Marhon Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn.”
“Answer the question, knave, or I’ll have you gutted. I have ill time for ill guests,” hissed the Elf King. He started marching over to the two humans; a hidden hand gripping his obsidian short sword beneath his fine silken robes.
“Forgive me your grace, but you lack the warmth of former days,” said Teor, still smiling despite his peril.
“You have a conscience of stone, to come back here. Do you have any idea what your leaving did to your father? What it has done to your peoples?” roared Dryadson, pulling his sword free. Anya started edging forwards, unsure of how to act. The rest of the council stood motionless.
Teor nodded. “Much has been put upon me, for my absence. It pains me, that even in the enlightened halls of the Elderborn, I find no respite.”
“I will kill you, Teor, I will kill you for everything you have done to my Kingdom. I taught you my wisdom, I taught you how to think, how to fight and how to kill. More importantly however, I taught you how to live your short mortal life for the better of the world. You repaid me by running off, leaving your poor sis-“ Dryadson paused, caught in sad memory. “Alistine was not ready for the throne. Such a delicate, sweet human, who could have achieved much in her time. She’s dead Teor, she died filling a position moulded for you.”
Teor’s smile vanished finally. “I understand your emotions, my King, but though you taught me much, you left me with more questions than answers. But I found them, all of the answers to the questions, and I return to you now with council an-“
Dryadson swung his sword for Teor’s neck. The monk of Tel’Gardas moved with unexpected speed however, and stepped back out of the blade’s reach. The Elf King stood stunned into inaction, unable to believe that a man had moved so fast. The Royal Guard moved in to subdue both the men.
“Stop,” thundered Dryadson’s unusually harsh voice. “You have been studying things best left unstudied, Teor.”
Teor’s smile returned. “That’s the very same advice you gave me when I first inquired, those years ago.”
“And with good reason. Nothing good will come from it. Leave now, and never return, and I will let you live,” commanded Dryadson. His right eye twitching, and his sword shaking erratically.
“Such anger, your grace?” asked Teor, looking genuinely worried. “I remember you once told me that rage was a wine best left unsavoured. I also remember Thendon, your son, taking to that lesson very keenly.”
King Dryadson swung his blade at Teor. This time the monk was unprepared for the stroke, and the metal caught him from shoulder to shoulder. He fell back, blood pouring down his already soiled clothes. Rob stepped over him, sword ready, and dared the Elf King to try and finish the job. The Royal Guard made to attack. An arrow glided through the air and knocked Rob square in the chest, but was broken by his mail. He stumbled backwards.
“Stop this madness!” Cried Anya, rushing forwards. Dryadson spun to face her.
“Be quiet, Countess.”
“Have you lost yourself, your grace? So much so that you murder our Kingdom’s only salvation on the very floor of your palace?” She said, holding a sword towards the Royal Guard, who stood confused and unsure of how to procede.
“Salvation?” asked Dryadson. “Human kind has been our downfall. Letting them settle here was to bring the-“
“Your grace!” Yelled Count Ferawl.
King Dryadson turned in time to see a shadow drop in front of him. It hissed like a snake of the far west, and lunged with a pointed spear. The Elf King’s reaction was slow – too slow to parry the strike, and the weapon’s head delved deep into his chest. He gasped, half in disbelief, half in pain, as his attacker released the spear and stood back.
“Sar’Nassa, the Emperor of the Blackfang Empire, sends his regards,” the figure hissed.
The Royal Guard, horrified, descended upon the assassin with rage, but he vanished as quickly as he appeared – as if into thin air. Anya rushed towards her King, and caught him before he hit the floor. His breath came in bloodied wheezes, and lines of red were soon flowing from his mouth.
“Fetch a physician,” she screamed. Count Ferawl answered the call and hurried from the War Room.
“What devilry was that?” said Rob, his face aghast.
“Shadow transcendence,” said Teor flatly. All heads in the room, save Dryadson’s, slowly turned to him. “An art long buried, but still practiced by very few left alive to remember.”
“This cannot be,” coughed Dryadson. “This evil was driven from the world thousands of years ago.”
“It has returned, your grace,” said Teor. He approached the dying King, and was not stopped from doing so. Kneeling down, he examined the spear as it stuck from the Elf’s chest. “Poison, your grace. There is not-“
“Quiet,” seethed Dryadson. His face was a picture of unbearable pain. “My last wish, my dying wish. I have no heirs, I have no on left to rule in my stead. My dying wish…”
“Be still your grace, help is coming,” whispered Anya soothingly, even as his blood pooled in her lap.
“… burn the Lizards. Kill them all. Save my people. There is no room left for Elven niceties. War is upon you all, and you will all die unless you grow strong and cruel…” with that the the Elf King went limp. Anya screamed, and buried her head into him.
Teor’s eyes were wide. He had not foreseen this; had never believed such things could happen. The scriptures were true. He turned and made for his exit, followed by a trembling Rob. The scores of Elven soldiers scouring the palace were indifferent to them, and before long, they were walking into the human refugee camp. War was coming, and it would be the last war to end all wars, if he did not prepare the world.
Army Status Cards
“The Lizads have grown in strength,” said King Dryadson bitterly.
“Yes your grace. All Jouria is emptied,” replied Count Ferawl.
“They would leave themselves so vulnerable?” butted in Countess Anya.
“They mean to destroy us,” said Dryadson with a heavy sigh. “They know that Elfkind is weak, we are mere shadows of our former glory.”
“Since when did King Marhorn Dryadson I, son of Meria Dryadson of House Talia and Lord of Belmorn, care for glory?” asked Anya. Her face was placid; her words were not.
Dryadson’s burning eyes narrowed, and he glared at her for several seconds. “The moment the ways of our peoples faltered, casting darkness all around us. I urge all council members with an aversion to saving this land, to leave now, and never to return.”
To this, none of the nine Elven Counts and Countesses stirred. They looked on passively at their King, but their concern for him was evident in their eyes. He paid them no heed.
“Twenty Stone Throwers, you say Countness Anya?” asked Dryadson, leaving the drama far behind him.
“Yes your grace,” she said with a nod, “and with the rubble of Fengarde to arm them with, they will be a deadly force.”
“Agreed, your grace. Our archers will not stand long under a rain of flame and rock,” said Countness Mayine. “We will have to rely on skirmishing formations to minimise our casualties, but this will diminish the advantage of having so many longbows firing at once.”
King Dryadson I nodded. His right eye twitched slightly. “How easy would it be for Belmorn’s best to slip in behind the Lizards, and put to rest their Stone Throwers, Countness Anya?”
“Easier than draining a bottle of Hadelmere’s finest wine, your grace,” said the Countess with a weak smile.
“Good. Take the Halflings with you, if they are up for the challenge. I will not risk them on the killing fields. This is Belmorn’s battle, this is our war. Enough of their kind have died at my behest,” came Dryadson’s sullen reply.
“As you will, your grace. I will brief Marshal Tommen Taleteller, and return with his reply,” said Anya, bowing and moving with customary Elven grace towards the large oaken doors of the War Room.
“Wait,” shouted Dryadson, momentarily unnerved for reasons not apparent, “take this.” He held out his palm; a plain talisman of dark metal hung from his hand.
Anya bowed her head slightly, and took it from him. She gave it a once over and frowned. It was a perfect circle, embossed with the sigil of a crescent moon. It was the emblem of the Royal Elven House Talia. The Council members all gasped at the realisation.
“Excuse me your grace, but I do not understand,” said Anya, her words trembling with confusion. “This is for the blood of your line.”
“My line has ended, Anya, as you are well aware. I doubt I will father another heir too – I am far beyond my fertile years,” said Dryadson smiling. “Give it to the Halfling Marshal. Tell him that whatever becomes of our peoples, we will not forget the courage of his country. Tell him… that if we are victorious, lands will be his.”
“Forgive me your grace, but though I do not doubt their courage, they haven’t exactly provided us with an army worthy of such praise,” interrupted Count Ferawl.
Dyadson shot him an off-hand glance. “You was not there, at the Battle of Witch Green Pass, my Count. If you were, you would know that I am alive today because of their courage.”
Count Ferawl bowed his head for several seconds. “Forgive my ignorance, your grace.”
The oaken doors of the War Room suddenly burst open. The half dozen Elven Royal Guard stationed around the pillared room leapt into action. In a flash of ancient steel armour and ancestral blades they whirled towards the intruders. One was a man, clad in chain mail and a sword drawn in defence, and the other was too a man, but dressed in foul smelling rags caked in blood.
“State your business, human,” growled the foremost of the Royal Guard. “How did you get in here?”
“Get back, you fucking pointy eared bastard, this is the human heir of Belmorn you’re waving that curved chicken knife at,” roared the mailed man.
King Dryadson I looked hard at the ragged man, who had said nothing. The man returned the look, and smiled as if the two had a fond history.
“Lord Teor,” sneered Dryadson. “Come to piss on your father one last time, I trust?”
The Elf King’s words startled the council members, all of whom were finding it increasingly difficult not to point out his deteriorating demeanour.
Teor bowed his head. “Hail, King Marhon Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn.”
“Answer the question, knave, or I’ll have you gutted. I have ill time for ill guests,” hissed the Elf King. He started marching over to the two humans; a hidden hand gripping his obsidian short sword beneath his fine silken robes.
“Forgive me your grace, but you lack the warmth of former days,” said Teor, still smiling despite his peril.
“You have a conscience of stone, to come back here. Do you have any idea what your leaving did to your father? What it has done to your peoples?” roared Dryadson, pulling his sword free. Anya started edging forwards, unsure of how to act. The rest of the council stood motionless.
Teor nodded. “Much has been put upon me, for my absence. It pains me, that even in the enlightened halls of the Elderborn, I find no respite.”
“I will kill you, Teor, I will kill you for everything you have done to my Kingdom. I taught you my wisdom, I taught you how to think, how to fight and how to kill. More importantly however, I taught you how to live your short mortal life for the better of the world. You repaid me by running off, leaving your poor sis-“ Dryadson paused, caught in sad memory. “Alistine was not ready for the throne. Such a delicate, sweet human, who could have achieved much in her time. She’s dead Teor, she died filling a position moulded for you.”
Teor’s smile vanished finally. “I understand your emotions, my King, but though you taught me much, you left me with more questions than answers. But I found them, all of the answers to the questions, and I return to you now with council an-“
Dryadson swung his sword for Teor’s neck. The monk of Tel’Gardas moved with unexpected speed however, and stepped back out of the blade’s reach. The Elf King stood stunned into inaction, unable to believe that a man had moved so fast. The Royal Guard moved in to subdue both the men.
“Stop,” thundered Dryadson’s unusually harsh voice. “You have been studying things best left unstudied, Teor.”
Teor’s smile returned. “That’s the very same advice you gave me when I first inquired, those years ago.”
“And with good reason. Nothing good will come from it. Leave now, and never return, and I will let you live,” commanded Dryadson. His right eye twitching, and his sword shaking erratically.
“Such anger, your grace?” asked Teor, looking genuinely worried. “I remember you once told me that rage was a wine best left unsavoured. I also remember Thendon, your son, taking to that lesson very keenly.”
King Dryadson swung his blade at Teor. This time the monk was unprepared for the stroke, and the metal caught him from shoulder to shoulder. He fell back, blood pouring down his already soiled clothes. Rob stepped over him, sword ready, and dared the Elf King to try and finish the job. The Royal Guard made to attack. An arrow glided through the air and knocked Rob square in the chest, but was broken by his mail. He stumbled backwards.
“Stop this madness!” Cried Anya, rushing forwards. Dryadson spun to face her.
“Be quiet, Countess.”
“Have you lost yourself, your grace? So much so that you murder our Kingdom’s only salvation on the very floor of your palace?” She said, holding a sword towards the Royal Guard, who stood confused and unsure of how to procede.
“Salvation?” asked Dryadson. “Human kind has been our downfall. Letting them settle here was to bring the-“
“Your grace!” Yelled Count Ferawl.
King Dryadson turned in time to see a shadow drop in front of him. It hissed like a snake of the far west, and lunged with a pointed spear. The Elf King’s reaction was slow – too slow to parry the strike, and the weapon’s head delved deep into his chest. He gasped, half in disbelief, half in pain, as his attacker released the spear and stood back.
“Sar’Nassa, the Emperor of the Blackfang Empire, sends his regards,” the figure hissed.
The Royal Guard, horrified, descended upon the assassin with rage, but he vanished as quickly as he appeared – as if into thin air. Anya rushed towards her King, and caught him before he hit the floor. His breath came in bloodied wheezes, and lines of red were soon flowing from his mouth.
“Fetch a physician,” she screamed. Count Ferawl answered the call and hurried from the War Room.
“What devilry was that?” said Rob, his face aghast.
“Shadow transcendence,” said Teor flatly. All heads in the room, save Dryadson’s, slowly turned to him. “An art long buried, but still practiced by very few left alive to remember.”
“This cannot be,” coughed Dryadson. “This evil was driven from the world thousands of years ago.”
“It has returned, your grace,” said Teor. He approached the dying King, and was not stopped from doing so. Kneeling down, he examined the spear as it stuck from the Elf’s chest. “Poison, your grace. There is not-“
“Quiet,” seethed Dryadson. His face was a picture of unbearable pain. “My last wish, my dying wish. I have no heirs, I have no on left to rule in my stead. My dying wish…”
“Be still your grace, help is coming,” whispered Anya soothingly, even as his blood pooled in her lap.
“… burn the Lizards. Kill them all. Save my people. There is no room left for Elven niceties. War is upon you all, and you will all die unless you grow strong and cruel…” with that the the Elf King went limp. Anya screamed, and buried her head into him.
Teor’s eyes were wide. He had not foreseen this; had never believed such things could happen. The scriptures were true. He turned and made for his exit, followed by a trembling Rob. The scores of Elven soldiers scouring the palace were indifferent to them, and before long, they were walking into the human refugee camp. War was coming, and it would be the last war to end all wars, if he did not prepare the world.
Updated the background to expand upon the Pacific. I will add to this continually until the world is fleshed out enough.
World War Two – 1946
June 6th, 1944 – Allied invasion of Normandy.
June 22nd, 1944 – Russians launch Operation Bagration, with the aims of crushing Army Group Center.
July 17, 1944 – Erwin Rommel, the fabled German general, comes close to getting killed when an Allied Spitfire strafes his staff car as he travels to Army Group B's headquarters. He miraculously escapes injury, but is left with a sudden and undeniable realization of Germany’s coming fate.
July 19th, 1944 – Adolf Hitler is shot and killed by a rogue unit of Wehrmacht officers en route to the Wolf’s Lair in East Prussia. The assassins are killed in the ensuing gun battle.
July 20th, 1944 – Wehrmacht launches military coup. Civil war erupts as Waffen SS divisions attempt to reassert their authority, but are badly outnumbered.
July 21st, 1944 – Leading Nazi Party officials including Hermann Goering and Dr. Paul Josef Goebbels are arrested as they attempt to flee Berlin.
August 16th, 1944 – After an intense and bitter civil war, the SS are defeated in a string of battles and driven into Austria.
August 20th, 1944 – Erwin Rommel emerges as Germany’s defacto leader, with popular support. He goes on to form a Military Council consisting of several decorated officers, such as Erich von Manstein and Gerd von Rundstedt.
August 21st, 1944 – Rommel offers unconditional surrender to the Western Powers, on the understanding that they save Germany from the Soviets. The West declines, stating that Germany must unconditionally surrender to both.
August 22nd, 1944 – Rommel issues order 341, prompting Operation Verlorene Liebesmüh (Forlorn Hope).
June 22nd, 1944 – Russians launch Operation Bagration, with the aims of crushing Army Group Center.
July 17, 1944 – Erwin Rommel, the fabled German general, comes close to getting killed when an Allied Spitfire strafes his staff car as he travels to Army Group B's headquarters. He miraculously escapes injury, but is left with a sudden and undeniable realization of Germany’s coming fate.
July 19th, 1944 – Adolf Hitler is shot and killed by a rogue unit of Wehrmacht officers en route to the Wolf’s Lair in East Prussia. The assassins are killed in the ensuing gun battle.
July 20th, 1944 – Wehrmacht launches military coup. Civil war erupts as Waffen SS divisions attempt to reassert their authority, but are badly outnumbered.
July 21st, 1944 – Leading Nazi Party officials including Hermann Goering and Dr. Paul Josef Goebbels are arrested as they attempt to flee Berlin.
August 16th, 1944 – After an intense and bitter civil war, the SS are defeated in a string of battles and driven into Austria.
August 20th, 1944 – Erwin Rommel emerges as Germany’s defacto leader, with popular support. He goes on to form a Military Council consisting of several decorated officers, such as Erich von Manstein and Gerd von Rundstedt.
August 21st, 1944 – Rommel offers unconditional surrender to the Western Powers, on the understanding that they save Germany from the Soviets. The West declines, stating that Germany must unconditionally surrender to both.
August 22nd, 1944 – Rommel issues order 341, prompting Operation Verlorene Liebesmüh (Forlorn Hope).
Gunther said
Time is difficult for me in this story. It took more than two days for the East Germans to reach Molln and Lauenburg. If they kicked off on the 7th, it is at least the 9th. I know it is difficult to imagine, but it is not like taking a Sunday drive in the country.
Sorry if that's my fault. I wasn't aware we were following the clock, I just assumed the RP was flowing along a general time line. My bad, I'll be sure to pay attention to the time/day and keep my posts limited to realistic time constraints.
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