Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn
Current Leader/Government: Council of the 9 (Elven), Lord Teor Ferren (Human)
Settlements Owned: 1
Provinces Owned: 2
Population: 10,000 Humans/38,000 Elves/5,000 Half-Elves
Population Happiness: 20%
Imports: Cattle (Erimir), Iron (Elslen)
Exports: Lumber (Erimir)
Wealth: Poor
Alliances:
Trade Pacts:Erimir
Cease Fires:
Army Status Cards
The Sorrowsong Host Current General: The Council of the Nine
Location: Fengarde
Morale: 75%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Elven Phalanx Levy>/<4.000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Elven Longbow Levy>/<4,000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Glade Watchers>/<850>/< Superior archers, well trained, will not break >
- <Elven Sword Levy>/<1,000>/<No Bonuses>
Current Action: Regrouping
Maraver’s TrenchguardCurrent General: General Maraver, of Surgo House Stoneheart
Location: ???
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Crossbow Soldiers>/<300>/<Fast reloaders, Disciplined>
- <Belmornian Rangers>/<100>/<Superior archers, Stealthy>
Current Action: ???
Erimir’s Expeditionary ForceCurrent General: Marshal Tommen
Location: Outside of Fengarde.
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Erimir Infantry>/<360>/<Morale 90%>/<Shields; agile>
- <Republic Musketeers>/<400>/<Morale 90%>/<Gunpowder weaponry>
Current Action: Regrouping
The Breaking of the Joint-MonarchyFifteen thousand Elves. Five thousand armed with pikes, and clad in dull iron. Five thousand with longbow and quiver. Five thousand with sword and shield. It was a conventional Elven army, the first of Belmorn’s kind. Always had Dryadson, since the breaking of the Empire, relied upon guerilla warfare where his Glade Watchers would defeat numerically superior enemies from the shadows with their inhuman skill at arms. Running, firing and hiding; this was the way of the Belmornian Elves. No longer.
The Council of the Nine rode magnificent steeds at the heads of the marching columns. What remained of Hadelmere’s population, which was now mostly crippled Elves and children, threw flower petals and sung songs as the soldiers marched past. Humans too, miserable and beaten, left the safety of their sordid refugee camps to chant and cheer at the Sorrowsong Host.
Sorrowsong, a sad name for a sad army. Whenever a Mustering was enacted, in not just Belmorn but elsewhere, it was done so because the Elven population was on the verge of disaster. Therefore the resulting army was never a thing of glory, or of power, but of desperation. Elves loved nothing more than to live in peace, with their fine songs and finer foods. They frolicked, danced and slept; living for the moment, rather than an uncertain future. At least, that is how they used to live. In this war torn world, the way of the Elves was fast slipping into the sea.
As the mighty columns of the Sorrowsong Host left through the southern gate of Hadelmere’s tall walls of ivory rock, Lord Teor greeted the Council.
“Will your people help us?” asked Anya; her face obscured behind the unfeeling metal of her father’s eagle crested helm.
Lord Teor shook his head. “My people have bled enough for blades of grass and piles of rubble. I will lead all who that will follow, to the far south. Away from this bloodshed.”
“Coward, human,” sneered Count Ferawl. Unlike Anya, he was still dressed in his ceremonial robes of civil authority. He was a great statesman and administrator, but a poor soldier. “We go to die so that you all may live, and you abandon us?”
Teor’s face was pained. “I would beg that you come with me. There will be no victory for your kind, only death, it is written.”
“Written where?” hissed Countess Mayine. “In those decrepit scrolls of a dead religion?”
Teor nodded. “The world is changing. A great storm is coming. Force of Elven arms will be futile; the only victory to be had, is to flee to the south.”
“The Dark Elves of Arion are not as formidable as you may think, Human,” retorted Anya irritably. “My King fought long and hard to save you, your father and your peoples. Now he is dead, and you honour his memory like this?”
“You do not understand the true nature of things, Anya Meadowsong,” said Teor. His tone was unnervingly neutral, devoid of all emotion. The exchange between the human and the Elderborn stood in stark contrast to former times.
“Enough,” said Count Ferawl. The other Counts grunted in agreement. “Flee, run. Cower. You will never return, understand?”
“Very well,” said Teor sadly. “It is never too late to save your peoples. If you come to see reason, then journey south with what remains of your kin. Travel until you see the purple banner centred with an Eagle, then march hard west. You will find us, and your salvation.”
Marshal Tommen, mounted on his pony and accompanied by his chief advisors, galloped up alongside the confrontation. “What is happening?” He asked.
Anya looked long and hard at Teor, and then urged her horse past him. “The breaking of the Joint-Monarchy, the treachery of an entire people, and the return of an earlier era. Come, let us leave these humans to their antics. We will suffer none of it.”
March of the Sorrowsong HostThe march was long, and exhausting. Belmorn was a massive country; though sparsely populated. The great columns, thousands strong, marched along the narrow paved bridleway that connected the ancient city of Hadelmere to the former human stronghold of Fengarde. Glade Watchers, headed by Anya, had broken into small battle groups in order to scour the lands ahead, and the forests on the flanks to deter – and to warn of a Jourian ambush.
None came however, and as the moon ascended, and then descended, the Sorrowsong Host halted to rest. They had marched over two hundred miles in a day, made possible by their continual sprint. The Elves were a hardy peoples, strong from a life time of toils, and blessed with a stronger endurance than the weaker races such as humankind. However, even they had their limits, and now the Host was preparing to rest for a few hours. The Halflings, who had been piled onto Elven wagons for the journey, and towed by the best horses Belmorn’s stables could offer, were far from weary however.
Bards played their songs. Cooks laboured over fires, to produce fresh bread and seasoned meats. Morale was high, despite the circumstances, and before long the Elves were engaged in their much beloved revelry. The Glade Watchers, however, did not rest, and continued to scour the land for signs of a Jourian vanguard. It would be the end of Belmorn, if the Lizards were able to mount a surprise attack on the Host as it stopped to collect its breath. However, despite the best efforts of the Watchers, no tracks, traces or signs otherwise were found of the Lizards. It appeared that they had not ventured far from Fengarde.
Anya sat on a rock with the Halfling Marshal, sipping a century-old red wine. It was sweet to the taste, and reminded the Countess of better days when she enjoyed the hospitality of her father’s estate.
“Why have they not pressed the attack?” Asked Tommen uneasily.
“We heard reports,” replied Anya. “Reports that a Dwarf prince from the failed state of Surgo was on a diplomatic mission in Fengarde when the Yellowfangs attacked. He fled with the refugees, but then decided to keep the victorious Lizards at bay when the city fell. He dug a great trench across the bridleway, and fortified it with the bravest of the humans. Apparently, he holds it still.”
Tommen’s face twisted in disbelief. “How many men does this Dwarf have?”
“Last we heard, little under a thousand. Sar’Nassa has not made a serious attempt to remove him, however, and seems content to wait for our advance. He holds the wheat fields, and knows we face starvation if we do not march sooner or later. Still, this Dwarf, a General Maraver Stoneheart, has prevented Jourian raiding parties from penetrating further into our land. His bravery, and efforts to save lives, will be rewarded.”
“One Dwarf managed all that?” Tommen queried. He seemed unable to believe that the brutish and war mongering peoples of Surgo, the Dwarves, were so heroic and noble.
Anya smiled, her head swaying with the consumption of wine. “Yes, it seems so. An unsung hero of our chaos. It is often, when the Elves find themselves in their darkest hour, that heroes emerge from every crack and crevice,” she paused, and pointed at Tommen, “such as yourself, and your kin.”
“We are hardly heroes, my lady,” said Tommen, his face redding.
“Nonsense. My people forget, that is we who are fading into the shadow, and therefore we fail to pay due respect to the other races. Your presence on the field tomorrow will be vital,” she said smiling.
“How so, my lady?”
“The Lizrads have a score of catapults. Such weapons will devastate an amassed army, unless they are countered. You will come with me, and my Glade Watchers. This land is dotted with secret tunnel ways; some are ancient, and some are new. We will use the subterranean pass to come out on the flank of the Jourian army, and relieve them of their Stone Throwers.”
Tommen suddenly seemed to lose his courage. “What if the Jourians are waiting for us? What if their entire army rounds upon us?”
“Then I and my Watchers will die covering the retreat of your kinsmen. You have little to fear, Halfling, in that respect.”
***The following night, the Sorrowsong Host reached the outskirts of Fengarde. They halted, as they looked upon a rising pillar of flame ascending from the bridleway a mile ahead. The fire had created a solid, impassable wall, and the smell of burning pitch clogged the nostrils of the Elven and Halfling army.
An advanced guard of Glade Watchers, covered by a regiment-strength archery levy formation, inspected the scene. There was little doubt that they looked upon the briefly fabled Maraver’s trench. Bodies of lizards had been piled high in the flames, and even now, the Elves could make out the twisted and scorched bones of their enemies. Dozens of headstones sat at the trench’s flank, marked with human names.
“We have found no sign of the Dwarf, or the rest of his men – lest they were taken captive,” said Anya to Count Ferawl. “Perhaps they have fled?”
“It matters little,” replied Count Ferawl. “They have done us a great service. Dead or alive, they will be honoured.”
“Agreed,” said Countess Mayine.
“The fires will burn until sunrise, for now we are obscured by the foul smoke screen,” said Anya.
“Good. I wonder If that is why the trench burns, perhaps Maraver knew of our coming?” asked Count Ferawl.
“Maybe,” replied Anya, unsure. “Regardless. I will lead the Watchers and the Halflings into the tunnels. We will keep an eye from unseen places, and allow you to draw out the Stone Throwers.”
Count Ferawl nodded, but did not smile. Instead he stood from his chair, and planted his sword into the earth. “Let us not forget ourselves. We are a pained peoples, yes, but we must not give into an emotion that may destroy us. We must fight, on the morrow, with our customary level-headedness and with one aim in mind: victory.”
The rest of the Council nodded their heads and gave approving grunts.
The Battle of BelmornAs the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, the two largest armies in the south of North Orysson had assembled to face each other. From the decrepit bowels of a ruined Fengarde, Emperor Sar’Nassa’s lizard hordes had poured forth to form three massed lines of archers, Sword Dancers and Grim Guard. Facing them, in likewise fashion, where the neatly squared ranks of Hadelmere’s army.
Count Ferawl, who has assumed authority over the battle with the Council’s consent, ordered the archers forwards. They did as hey bayed them, and broke apart into loose skirmishing formations. The Yellowfangs, with their poisoned arrows and hissing tongues moved forwards to meet them. Behind the army, at the outskirts of Fengarde, the twenty feared Stone Throwers were being hauled into position.
For the next hour, Elven arrow met Lizard flesh, as Belmorn’s superior archers rained death upon their enemy. However, broken up as they were to negate the incoming Stone Thrower projectiles, their volleys were neither amassed nor coordinated. As a result, the death toll exceded only half of what it would have done otherwise.
The Stone Throwers, now staked into the ground, began lobbing flaming rocks towards the Elves – but not at their archers. The grim volley went over the heads of the Elven archers, and crashed down into the tightly packed ranks of Elven pikemen. Count Ferawl cursed, and ordered them to move backwards – the Council of the Nine had grossly underestimated the catapults’ ranges. Despite being mauled to death by falling rocks, the Elven pikemen retreated in orderly fashion, until they were well beyond the range of the weapons.
Sar’Nassa, visible from the Elven line by his elaborate throne, carried no less by enslaved humans, then ordered his Yellowfang Sword Dancers to press the attack against the Elven archers, who were now well beyond the immediate assistance of the pike men. Seeing this move coming, Count Ferawl dismounted his horse, and joined with the Elven Sword Levy – despite protests from the other council members. He ordered his swordsmen forwards, and left further orders for the Council to rearrange the pike men on the flanks of his advance; this they did, flawlessly.
The Elven archers, loosing volleys even as they retreated under a barrage of rocks and arrows, were un-phased by their peril as the Sword Dancers stampeded across the grassy plain. As the they started to split and meld into the fast approaching Sword Levy formations, the Sword Dancers yelled their war cry, and the two forces crashed with a gut grinding thunder.
***With battle fully joined, and Sar’Nassa’s Grim Guard advancing to reinforce the Sword Dancers, Countess Anya Meadowsong made her move. Exiting from a series of strategically placed hollow rocks – each denoting an exit or entrance of the hidden tunnels – her Glade Watchers emerged within a hundred yards of the grotesque contraptions. She watched them angrily as their great arms were pulled back by dozens of Lizards, before being loaded up with blocks of Fengarde’s masonry. She waited for them to fire, and they did so with a heart churning screech, and she watched as their projectiles crashed indiscriminately into the furious melee taking place between the Sword Dancers and Sword Levy.
“For Marhorn, our King, and all we hold dear!” She screamed, before nocking an arrow and leasing it high into the sky. It flew with legendary grace, and landed into the serpent skull of a lizard.
The Glade Watchers charged, stopping only to fire their arrows, and quickly closed with the clustered catapults. Behind them, Marshal Tommen led his force of halfings, and together the two allied hosts thundered into the unsuspecting Lizard flank.
Reaching the first Stone Thrower, Count Anya dropped her bow and sliced the stomach of a Lizard warrior with the lightning whirl of her sword. Seeing the peril of their catapults, Sar’Nassa became enraged, and ordered the Grim Guard to turn and descend upon the flankers. The Glade Watchers paid no heed to their doom however, and quickly darted from one contraption to the next, first driving off its crew, and then setting them on fire. Marshal Tommen held his musketmen in a thin skirmishing line, and ordered rotating volleys against the advancing Grim Guard. Scores fell with each depressing of the triggers, but it was not enough to stall them.
Anya, slick with the blood of her enemies, ran over to the Halflings. “Flee!” She screamed, shoving the Marshal aggressively. “We’ve done what we can, now flee!”
The Grim Guard broke upon the Halfling gunners, but were driven back by a last-minute charge by the Halfling infantry. The Glade Watchers fired arrows into their flanks, and eventually the best of Sar’Nassa’s army withdrew, if only briefly, to build up for their next attack. Not wasting the respite, the Elves and Halflings evaporated into the dozen rocks from which they had appeared, leaving destruction in their wake.
As they sprinted across the tunnels, turning only to set traps against their pursuers, the Countess fell to the ground. Two Glade Watchers immediately picked her up, and dragged her to safety at the head of the retreat.
“Countess?” asked a concerned and breathless Tommen; a bloodied line ran down one side of his face.
She did not reply however, and her skin had become a deathly pale. One of the Watchers carrying her paused, and felt around her for a wound. Alas he found one – a large hole in her side, from a Grim Guard spear.
The tunnels trembled as one trap after another was set off by the Grim Guard, whom had discovered the subterranean pass. Rock falls and hidden archers would do little to stall them however. Waking briefly, as if from a deep sleep, the Countess shrugged off those who held her up.
“Leave me. I have strength enough left to hold these beasts at bay; make good the gains,” she ordered, coughing blood into her forearm.
“I…” said one of the Glade Watchers.
“Now, leave, or you will all die,” she barked, drawing her sword. “I am carrion. I will not die in the warmth of an Elven death bed, helpless as I slowly succumb to my wound.” She looked at the wide eyed Halfling Marshal. “Take this,” she said, reaching into her armour and retrieving an obsidian amulet. “My King, before his death, wanted you to have this, as a token of his appreciation. I was sceptical, and withheld it. You have proved yourself worthy, and now I know that Dryadson was not lost in lunacy, but rather, admiration.”
Before the Halfling could reply, Anya darted back down the tunnel way. The Glade Watchers bent their heads as she passed them by. They struggled with the sight of seeing her much beloved leader going to her death alone, but they were not about to make her sacrifice in vain.
“Let’s go,” said one of the Glade Watchers, bitterly.
Count Anya met the advance party of Grim Guard in a narrow pass. They charged, and she responded. Her sword struck with lightning grace, slaughtering effortlessly one Lizard after another. One of the Grim Guard, large as he was, hissed and pounced at her; even as she withdrew a blade from the neck of his brothers. With his weight, he knocked her to the ground.
Refusing to die, the Countess spat blood into his eyes, and retrieving a hidden dagger, shoved it into his neck. Heaving him off her, she struggled to her feet and continued to beat back the advances of a dozen warriors. After slaying all of them, and the tunnel growing silent, she fell to her knees and slumped forwards… never to rise again.
***The Elves, ducked, lunged and parried against the fearsome Yellowfang sword dancers. It had been a brutal melee, and both sides had suffered terrible casualties. Count Ferawl had been struck in the face by a poisoned arrow an hour previous, not long after the battle was joined, but he had been transported safely to the Elven rear.
The remaining Counts and Countesses knew little could be done for him. He was a fool to have entered the battle at the forefront of his men, but it was a courageous and honourable act, worthy of song. Saddened by his loss, but noting that the Lizards were far from breaking, Countess Mayine ordered for the Sword Levy to retreat under the cover of the archers. The Lizards attempted to pursue them, but with their Stone Throwers under attack, the Elven archers had formed ranks and their coordinated volleys blotted out the sun. Several of the serpents, ill armed against ranged attacks, were stuck like pigs and eventually the Blackfang Emperor, irritated by the Elves’ last minute orderly withdrawal, ordered for his force to return to Fengarde.
Many had died, but no winner had yet been determined.
Battle Outcome: Draw
Losses: 6150 Elves, 190 Halflings, 9150 Jourians.
Elves
15,000
+5% casualties
+5% Morale
Lizards
20,000
-5% casulaties
+5% Morale
Elven Roll
4 - 25%
6 - General Wounded (Count Ferawl)
2 - General killed.
2 - Rout from Loss of General
2 - Persued Roll = 5%
Lizards
4 - 25%
4 - Buckled center (20%)
TOTALS
Elves = 40%
6000 Casualties
Lizards = 45%
9000 Casulaties
Draw
Stone Thrower Ambush
Elves
1,000
Halflings
950
Lizards
1,000
Elven Roll
3 - 20%
6 - Wounded General (OMFG)
2 - General killed. (FUCK SaKES)
3 - Army Routs (Blocked by Watcher's "will not break" trait, thank fuck)
-10% Army size difference
Morale = 5%
Halfling Roll
Morale = 5%
3 - 20%
2 - Loss of flank (10%)
-10% Army size difference
Lizard Roll
1 - 10%
1 - Cunning Manovuers (-10%)
Morale = 5%
10% Army size differences
Total Casualties
Elves = 15%
150 casualties.
Halflings = 20%
190 casualties.
Lizards = 15%
150 casualties.
Stone Throwers Destroyed (Out of 20)
13 (65%)
Elven/Halfling Victory
