Author Topic: Imperial Civil War  (Read 3424 times)


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Imperial Civil War
« on: December 30, 2015, 12:07:45 AM »
The sky is black, even the birds of carrion linger no more. There is nothing here, but death. Only the Demons of the Locust Court dwell here. And named them well they did. Like Locusts they emerge from the walls, to surround and tear apart the fallen and falling- their queen with a crown of Winters, points her deathly cold finger West: Fight. Defeat. Conquer.

How the civil war began is a topic of discussion best left to scholars. Rumor and legend of the fierce fighting has twisted fact into whatever motivates men to fight, and never to falter-- especially not in the face of the Cohorts of the Locust Court. But even the brightest stone walls must fall and crumble- and this is what many will agree on was what truly started the civil war of the Imperium. The Assault on Gahlen which saw the former Emperor Bann Aerinia and Duke of Fairwind, Karas Kommagene, slain. They fell to the hands of the soldiers led by Mae Van Valen, a former vassal of the Weaver of Broken Threads who returned to the Imperium to defend the Emperor without his consent, and defended Gahlen with a superior mercenary force against the forces of Fairwind.

In reality, the Imperial Civil War was by all rights a foregone conclusion. At best a footnote in the historical events of the Empire. An 'Awkward Succession', my colleagues in the Academy Spire of Gahlen would call it. This is because the forces the Emperor commanded under his banner were but from only three estates. Gahlen, where the Terra Centum Court is, Locust Court, where the Bazaar used to be, and Whisperreap, the Capital of the Imperium and the Holy Lands. With those three estates, his faction could only be called the 'House of Order', and his enemy was the Imperium, instead of the other way around. Yet, what was supposed to be a simple war, ending with a swift conquest of Whisperreap, has ended up being dragged out for 20 weeks and counting- with no end in sight.

And how this was done, is not something that should be left to scholars, but rather to generals and marshalls to examine, analyze and scrutinize, down to the last details. The question remains: How did the House of Order, with 500 soldiers at best, manage to hold back, and not only that, the hordes from all the Duchies of the Imperium, and the Eldamar avengers for so long, and so successfully?

Though, I am no general- in fact, I am not even good with weapons and I can't make use of a horse for anything other than a beast of burden-- but I was there. I recorded every event, at the side of those who fought at the Locust Court so bitterly and so ferociously. I hope to tell you how this was made possible, through the writings I saved from a burning Locust Court- reduced to but a few hundred peasants.

In fact, there are more dead than there are the living, in the streets. And I no longer know who mourns whom. The living the dead, or the dead the living...

Cindarin Endymion, Poet
« Last Edit: December 30, 2015, 12:11:49 AM by Weaver »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #1 on: December 30, 2015, 12:07:53 AM »
It was a quiet night- the sky was dark yet luminous in the east. The embers of wax candle and lantern still hovered in the cooling morning air. Dawn was nigh, yet I still feel a chill in my bones, so many hours after the fact, that did not come from the Brightlake breeze, or the frozen rays of sunlight casting above me, from atop the mountains to the far east. It was from a person that I met on that morning, right in the streets of the Locust Court.

It felt as if the ground swayed under his gait yet he glided across it like a... there really is no comparison. The brittle flames from the lanterns turned green and blue as he passed through the street- and indeed, it was as if color was more saturated around him. As if looking at a precious stone through a lens, the shine was different. Yet my attention was not commanded to the ghostflickers, it was, and unshakably so, fixed on him.

When his eyes turned upon me, I froze straight as a rod, as if standing at attention, yet contradictorily, at the same time, I wished to throw myself on my knees, and give obeisance to the form before me, as if he was divinity- yet it was as if his will forbid me from doing so. I have not seen a God, in all my years, but I could tell, this was no divine being. It was a man, like I, a First One; yet the ancient air he exuded hand in hand with the martial expertise he very obviously wielded set him apart from mere men like I and everyone else I ever met.

With his gaze, that fixed upon me for but a few moments, he unraveled me and it penetrated beneath my skin and through my very bones. I could see in the minute spark of bright in those blue orbs, that he knew everything about me. He stopped beside me and he spoke:

In a sea of flame I stand and I breathe. For You, The embers of someone else's hate burn my skin. For You, The ashes of someone else's humiliation cover my hands. The charred bones break under my step. With my sword I part the veil of smokes and I behold. In Your Name,The fields of green bleed red. In Your Name The skies of blue die black. The songs of white fall mute. With a blazing voice I crack: Is there peace here? And the burning homes reply in silent affirmation. Thus I seek you here, o Creator, to answer my voice: Have I done thy duty? And the trees reply in silent delusion. Thus I seek you there, O Creator, to answer my only fear: Have I done thee proud? And the charred bones reply in cackling deception. So I seek you within, O Creator and Forsaker, to answer my undying hatred: Are you afraid of me? Upon this broken throne I will seat you and crown you in thorns. On your sleeves I will embroider with flames the elusive answers and the smoke will whisper into your swaying mind: "In Your Name". Upon the zenith of my hatred you shall be extinguished. In a sea of flame I stand and I see, the pure white brilliance blooms.

My mind still reels from the words he spoke in a voice unlike that of a human being; it was monotone and the syllables were drawn out. It reminded me of a form of speech in the far north west- yet the clarity and ring of his voice is what made me doubt my first assessment on what kind of creature this being was. It was like crystal chimes, playing a lullaby in that morning breeze. He departed me with the following words, and his red-cloaked Templars followed behind him, and like an unstoppable force they moved.

It is a piece of Heaven, he said, and I give it to you. My redemption.

That is how I first met The Weaver of Broken Threads, and began to understand how he lived and how he fought, and why he died.
« Last Edit: December 31, 2015, 07:54:10 PM by Weaver »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #2 on: December 30, 2015, 12:08:01 AM »
We rode to Gahlen as if pursued by death-giving creations of the Destroyers. We rode so fast, the path seemed blurred. Even today I do not know why I volunteered to follow Whispers of Undying Glory, a masked woman that makes my skin crawl, and the Weaver of Broken Threads. Rumor among the men was that Whispers of Undying Glory was not her real name, but rather, it was 'For No One's Glory'.

I thought I understood how the forces of the House of Order operated- their undying loyalty to the Emperor is what made them strong, I thought. But then again, every man has to die eventually. Us First Ones do not die from age- but accidents and war are our first and only enemies.

Then I beheld a sight that would make a smarter man than I turn tail and run. Just before we reached Westhold, Whispers of Undying Glory dismounted the steed I was on (As I was riding behind her, because I am a pathetic rider, at best) and paced over to a dying man-- a victim of preliminary fighting over Westhold. She produced a mask from under her cloak, spoke the words 'Rise, Schism Through Harmony.' and lo: The man was peaceful for a moment, as if death finally took him, and then he rose. 'Ride east to Gahlen and regroup with the Herald of the Storm. Meet us at the Locust Court when we are done here.'

I will never understand what happened back there. The man was very clearly still bleeding, and he did bind his wounds, and then rode off towards the east upon an injured horse. That was not the last I saw of him, but it was the last I saw of this ritual. Often I contemplate whether the injured man was Schism of Harmony all along, or if something changed about him, when the mask was placed upon his face. But one thing is clear to me- if it was the second, and if the Weaver truly commanded a nigh invincible force, as that would imply, it would make sense how they managed to fight so hard.

For what army of post-cataclysm First One can stand up to an ancient force created for War? And that is not all, they all possessed ancient tools of the trade, that the Gods against each other and us. Heaven's Arsenal, they called it.

Finally we made it to Westhold after a day's ride, and the army behind us barely made it in time to man the walls for the final assault- the spectacle was unbelievable. I was left alone with the Harbinger of the Unwaking Dawn and the Weaver of Broken Threads, as Whispers of Undying Glory rode back to the Locust Court- those two were the first ones to ride out at the very spear tip of their army to meet the enemy in the streets after the initial arrow barrage, and the fighting on the walls.

From the highest tower I could see the battle very clearly, except for one figure. The Weaver of Broken Threads was surrounded by a dark halation, emanating from over his head- yet even so, I could clearly see the once golden blade he wielded take on the appearance of a blackness so deep it was no longer even a color; he rode forward so furiously, flanked by the Harbinger, and when he crashed upon the armies of Lannshire assaulting the walls- their bodies could not stop his charge, as he scythed his way through to the majestic leaders of the opposing armies.

To be entirely honest, I cannot put together in my mind what happened next. Even today, goose bumps appear on my arms when I think about it, and my stomach turns revoltingly. I remember the Templars cutting down those toppled by the charge of the horsemen- there were so many dead, they seemed like a barrier; an obstacle to overcome. And overcome it they did. The Templars stomped on the bodies like it was tall grass and they cut them down like they were dense jungle. For every Templar that fell, it seemed like forty enemies would fall.

The next thing I knew, the enemy was fleeing head over heels- trying to escape the carnage; the dark halation around the Emperor shrunk into a halo of frozen black fire above his head, as he held his sword, which was like a fragment of Destruction itself, pointed at Joanna Westerly and Karls Fritz, who spoke the Geas of Surrender to the Emperor.

Then every raven in Westhold suddenly took flight and the sky was black with them. They flew north- fleeing.

I overheard later from some of the soldiers, that several battles took place in the Locust Court while this was happening. The host of Eldamar crashed upon the forces from the Locust Court, from the direction of Lohtsurn; And each time they came, they were defeated and scattered. And after seeing what happened in Westhold, I am not surprised. Only sickened. They say the death toll was around two thousand.

Soon I will return to the Locust Court with the forces gathered at Westhold- and deep in my stomach, I know, those bodies will be waiting for me. The House of Order does not remove them, burn them or bury them. They leave them. So that disease and sickness may overcome future aggressors, and that the sight of them might extinguish their passion for war, and ignite the shameful embers of fear.

Their tactics of shock and awe, coupled with their appearance, is what gives them victory time and time again. A mere mortal already can barely stand the sight of a First One- yet, a First One can barely stand the sight of these monsters who claim righteousness is their ally.
« Last Edit: December 31, 2015, 08:27:55 PM by Weaver »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #3 on: December 30, 2015, 12:15:54 AM »
On my return to the Locust Court, I saw the remnants of the armies that befell Locust Court. More precisely, their remains. What kind of strategy went into this decisive victory is beyond my knowledge, but what I do know is that the Locust Court armies were divided into three groups: Red Dawn, Marching Death and Zenith.

The Zenith group consisted of the forces personally commanded by Winters of Ash- she was the hammer to the anvil with her exceptionally trained heavy cavalry. Red Dawn was the combined force of the Harbinger of the Unwaking Dawn and the Herald of the Storm, as well as Schism Through Harmony in support. The Marching Death group was an advance scouting party consisting of Whispers of Undying Glory and Fulcrum of Strife-- the latter of which I hear has 'joined' the House of Order after the battle of Westhold.

I wish to dedicate this chapter to the achievements of the Harbinger and the Herald, as they were told to me by the surviving soldiers under their command, from the Red Dawn group, which I hastily scribed as I was listening to them.

It was dawn. A red dawn. They say that portents and omens come from the caw of the black bird, and the color of the sky behind you. In the House of Order, they say, a golden dawn means triumph, a blue dawn means victory, and a red dawn means vanquishment. On that day, the sky behind was as crimson as blood upon a rose.

We rode to Mathreholan, we led two Legions, which is a Battalion, and each Legion had a Company of Templars and Mercenaries, for a total of 1000 troops. We caught them off-guard, not even the birds were awake, and before they realized, the scant 200 defenders were overrun. I was the first to jump over the battlement and into the fray. I saw Martyn Lann in the distance, and he held his own like I'd expect from a Duke of the Imperium. But the mortals before me were no match- at first they stood frozen in fear as they gazed upon me, confused by my mask. But then the Harbinger of the Unwaking Dawn lept over the battlements, wielding The Last Breath, a relic sword of the Godwars, and scythed through the mortals before me. It was then they realized that fighting or fleeing was the only option at their disposal. And the Harbinger was as swift as the rays of light warming my back.

When the Gate broke wide open, I saw the Herald charge through, from atop the battlements, and he was much the same. The Mercenaries also earned their pay- but they were nothing compared to the troops trained in Whisperreap and the Locust Court. I do not know the standards in the Locust Court, but the training in Whisperreap I received was extensive. From shock tactics to swordplay taught to me by the greatest blademasters to have ever lived. The other troops were trained with maces as well, to crush the bones of those wielding chainmail. But the few of us had the strength and power to separate a head from it's torso, and so we did. The Duke of Lannshire fled shortly after, and we were not ordered to pursue.

Instead, we stayed in Mathreholan for five weeks, and then rode out to the Locust Court. The battle was splitting between the conquest of Lannshire as well as the defense against Eldamar. We knew we were riding into the thick, and our Battalion became a Company, with a little under 250 troops. Schism Through Harmony and the Glory of Tempest spotted a heavy enemy force, numbering at least 700, led by some Eldamar and Beal's Song nobles. I thought it would be a fair fight, our Company against their Legion and a half. Three to one. But then Winters of Ash joined, with her own Company, and the numbers almost evened out. We were short two hundred. But it did not matter. We lost 100, and 500 of theirs paid the ultimate price for not staying home.

The Harbinger himself rode out like a lightning bolt and crashed into the advance medium infantry, and he struck down two of them on the spot. Later on I saw a body flying through the air, and the top part separated from the lower one before he hit the ground. In the spot left vacant by that soldier, I saw the Harbinger strike down another one. The Harbinger was not like the others from the House of Order. Of the ones I saw fight, I could only name The Harbinger, For Someone Else's Glory, The Emperor himself, and the Herald of the Storm, as true warriors. They did not join after the House of Order was created. They were there the whole time. A relic of ancient times. Rumor has it that they fought for thousands of years. Even against the Gods themselves. The Herald was the same way.

In the dead of night, three days later, we marched against another noble from Eldamar- we could hear his coarse voice across the battlefield as we prepared to charge. He was more a poet than a warrior. I hold no ill will against him- but the carrion was not hungry that night.

Next we faced the hosts of Fairwind and took our first major loss. Our force was to stall the enemy while the Emperor raced back to the Locust Courts. We were all resigned to making our final stand there. The dawn was also red, and it burned my eyes as I gazed upon it. Almost 100 stood between the Locust Court and Fairwind's finest numbering 800.

I saw the Fulcrum of Strife get shot by arrows nine times before he keeled over and disappeared in black flames, leaving only his charred robes. It did not bother me, that sight. I already know that the First One is a powerful and strange creation, but the House of Order is even more powerful and stranger still. The Harbinger himself, I saw, removed an arrow that penetrated half it's length into his mask- and he charged on into battle, cutting down the enemy. The Herald swung his scythe 'The Whispering Song' and clove a horse and it's rider in two. But even so, Fairwind's finest is the finest of Fairwind. They beat us back.

We had a small skirmish against Caran Kommagene afterwards, but managed to retreat to the Locust Court. The Emperor had arrived, and we were hailed as heroes. Things were starting to go downhill from there. That's when the storms began, and the sky was almost always perpetually black. The House of Order has no saying about a black dawn, but a black dawn it was.

The wind was as sharp as swords forged in Whisperreap, and even the horses had trouble standing upright. The ravens too were gone. I could hear the stomach rumble from the man next to me, but it was not meat he desired. In the eyes of the Templars, like myself, I could see the desire to fight. We stood, five hundred against five hundred. They took fifty of our brothers, but we took all of them. We battered them into the ground like rams battering the cage of their imprisonment. The Emperor himself stood next to us- and in all his terrifying glory, we were heartened. We charged like it was our last charge, and we chased down the enemy. I remember stepping over their bodies as they started piling up, their bloated heads caving under my mail.

I remember in Westhold, how I charged into the streets behind the Harbinger, and how he leaped into the fray, cutting a man down who was twice his size, with one slash. I fought until exhaustion, yet I could not match the terrifying glory that kept getting further and further away from me. In the distance, even more, all I saw was a black cloud, and I knew this was the Emperor, for I saw him charge upon his horse through the armies of our enemy. When the soldiers dropped their weapons, I knew it was over.

I remember the pitch black sky, on the zenith of the 3rd day, of the 16th week; when 60 of us defended Westhold from an army of 300. The sun was somewhere above us, we just could not see it. They charged us, and only thirty remained of us, with the other thirty some mounted archers. The Harbinger was like a pin cushion, with so many arrows sticking out of him, I could not comprehend how he could still fight. But fight he did. Before I knew it, I was dislodging my sword from a First One, who fell lifeless before my feet. We could not repel the enemy, but they payed the price for their victory. Only 50 of them survived.

The Harbinger of the Unwaking Dawn was a hero. He was a Demon. He is what earned us the name 'Demons of the Locust Court'. And he was not the only one, I just had the privilege of serving under him. And our enemy knew this. He volunteered to engage the enemy, with the fifteen of us, against the thousand of them. The Locust Court was falling. There were more dead peasants than alive ones. Even if we wanted to remove the corpses, we did not have the men to do it. Thousands were dead, lying scattered everywhere. And only a thousand was left alive.

And we survived that battle. Not all of us, but a few of us did. When the Harbinger gave the order to retreat, we did. Pelted by arrows- I myself was hit twice, and thought I would surely die. But I did not.

The enemy broke into the Locust Court, what little food we had was provided to us by the Herald. We were engaged by superior mercenary forces, and with only the few of us left, we beat them back. The Harbinger himself dismantled the enemy, and killed their leader in combat. I saw a flash of white light, a spray of blood, from somewhere to the right of me, and when I looked, all the soldiers from the enemy were fleeing. But there were casualties, including the Harbinger's horse. His sword, the Last Breath, broke when he struck down a heavy soldier- cleaved him right down the middle, through the chainmail. I did not think it was possible.

But if there is one thing I learned in all this- it is not the question whether we are righteous or not. It is not that we love battle or war. It is that we love our leaders. I spoke with the Harbinger several times. He has a heart, just like you and I. He has a spirit, just like you and I. He too fears death from time to time. He too has worries. He says he does not care about the color of the sky- he says if need be, he will paint it in any color, if it means we will survive the day. And he too has someone he loves. The Emperor. When the very creators of the world stood against them, it was only the Emperor that he had to rely on. They fought an evil much greater than the world thinks of us. To be honest, I think they saved us.

Tomorrow we ride against our enemy once more, to allow the rest of the House of Order to retreat from the Locust Court before they starve, and this time, I do not think we will survive. Nowadays, the Harbinger laughs a lot, he says he is ready to meet his fallen brothers and sisters.

I think I am too.

Amon Hyperitas,
1st Lieutenant, 3rd Whisperreap Heavy Legion,
Hero of the Imperium,
Fallen in battle
« Last Edit: December 31, 2015, 10:16:18 PM by Weaver »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #4 on: December 30, 2015, 12:37:36 AM »
We wash the blood off our harness. The battle of Tharsis is complete. Our only regret: Too many of them survived. How they flee before our masks, like flames from the gusts. So swift, our swords cannot catch. Upon our crest, their spears break-- our iron halo cows the better part of man.

Yet the scream that shakes the foundation of the world comes not from the enemy, but the Lord of our Flame, the crown of morning light. How furious is he, that when we come upon him, we see his tears turn to ash upon his mask, and grips his blade with such hate that turns upon him. "Why should I play the fool and die upon my own sword?" He asks, each word quieter than the one before it. "Yet while those enemies I see..." His free hand tightens into a fist, "My gashes do better upon them!" He screams out, and the chamber rumbles- the ravens become uneasy, their blackened feathers fall like snow.

"Arm. Arm and out." He commands.

"My Lord Imperator? What spurs you so to leave the safety of Tharsis to fight them? In three months time, their strikes will do better upon us, and we will fall. What is the rush?"

But he only laughs. "How sorrowful a life have I led. Never to be one with family. Never to be two with companions. Yet, when a warlike shield I threw before me- they came to lay on it. Yet so cursed am I, that I cannot cry 'Hold'. How mocking must my Creator's gaze be, to see me so? I am scorned, yet with false scorn I invited it."

We avert our eyes, and in the silence we acknowledge the truth. The 'Mad Emperor'. The 'tyrant'. He was no more mad or tyrant, as snow is hot. For the sake of the Imperium, he took upon this false path, and played the fool.

"Never shall they know: How weary I became of the sun, and how I wish the estate of this world would come undone." He turned the sword away from him, and pointed to the east, towards the rising sun. "Blow, wind. Ignite the embers. Come, wrack. Lay me upon my shield, Ruin!! Arm. And out. If Martyn will not slay and succeed me, at least we shall die with our armors on."

On a spiral of torment we were wound and twisted. In black ashflames we were consumed- and we lay upon with arms at the closest brother and watched the sun become blind. There was no fleeing here. Before us we threw our war-path, but when the day was done, the war was over. We saw away our beloved Lord with content and happiness. Whether in the Veil Beyond he will find his Creator and put him to the sword, we shall never have proof- but we know he shall.

All hail Martyn. Imperator of the Imperium. All hail the House of Order, protectors of the Estate of Righteousness. All hail Weaver of the Broken Threads, the Savior.

And hail they did.
« Last Edit: January 30, 2016, 07:28:10 PM by Andrew »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #5 on: December 30, 2015, 03:48:20 AM »
Excellent story telling Weaver, i play the Park family and would like to say i had a lot of fun RPing with this conflict and it will be remembered for a long time in game. And even longer now that you are writing a story based on it.   


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #6 on: December 30, 2015, 11:46:43 AM »
Thanks man! I figured it was about time we share what we have going over here, and all the heroics that happened before they slip from our memory.


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #7 on: January 30, 2016, 01:02:00 AM »
 Battle Report  a battle near Tharsis - year 8, week 38, day 5
Initial Troops
  • 261 archers
  • 200 heavy infantry
  • 199 medium infantry
  • 62 mounted archers
  • 114 light infantry
  • 37 heavy cavalry
  • 58 armored archer
  • 9 nobles
  • 206 armored archer
  • 130 medium infantry
  • 144 archers
  • 348 heavy infantry
  • 9 light cavalry
  • 33 light infantry
  • 9 nobles
Ranged Phase
  • 401 shots fired
  • 363 hits
  • 86 enemies wounded
  • 92 enemies killed
  • 15 enemies routed
  • 347 shots fired
  • 331 hits
  • 132 enemies killed
  • 63 enemies wounded
Melee Phase 1
  • 751 soldiers fighting
  • 102 enemies wounded
  • 73 enemies killed
  • 15 enemies routed
  • 692 soldiers fighting
  • 89 enemies wounded
  • 121 enemies killed
  • 24 enemies routed
Melee Phase 2
  • 513 soldiers fighting
  • 88 enemies killed
  • 69 enemies wounded
  • 1 enemy noble captured
  • 58 enemies routed
Melee Phase 3
  • 411 soldiers fighting
  • 52 enemies killed
  • 61 enemies wounded
  • 1 enemy noble captured
  • 66 enemies routed
Melee Phase 4
  • 148 soldiers fighting
  • 23 enemies wounded
  • 13 enemies killed
  • 3 enemies routed
  • 347 soldiers fighting
  • 21 enemies killed
  • 39 enemies wounded
  • 38 enemies routed
Melee Phase 5
  • 57 soldiers fighting
  • 6 enemies wounded
  • 7 enemies killed
  • 308 soldiers fighting
  • 17 enemies killed
  • 43 enemies wounded
  • 11 enemies routed
Melee Phase 6
  • 7 soldiers fighting
  • 4 enemies wounded
  • 295 soldiers fighting
  • 2 enemies wounded
  • 3 enemies killed
  • 3 enemies routed
  • 99 soldiers dropped their equipment to run faster.
  • 23 enemies were killed or wounded while fleeing.
  • 28 soldiers dropped their equipment to run faster.
  • 3 noble
  • 86 armoured archer
  • 32 archer
  • 154 heavy infantry
  • 15 medium infantry
  • 4 noble
Fate Of Nobles
  It is year 8, week 38, day 5 in the world of Might & Fealty


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #8 on: January 30, 2016, 05:51:47 PM »
The date was Year 8-38-5, the usual peaceful country side of Tharsis was ablaze with military encampments, thousands of wagons and tents could be seen spread out around the fields surrounding Tharsis. Within the largest tent, Garamon Kommagene, Ludvig Klaudius, Robert Yorwick, Eadhen Here, Mattais Bowker, Turan Thelassan and Creon encircled a map of the area, debating various strategies and tactics that they could employ, or be on the receiving end of. Weaver's armies were still arriving, and as the hoards filled the valley below them, they grew more and more fearful that they position would be overwhelmed by the morning. From their scouting reports Weaver's forces numbered 929 with more on the way, where the rebel's forces consisted of 870 battle hardened troops. The nobles were worried that their heavy infantry would not be able to hold the line versus their hoard of infantry, however Eadhen was hopeful. "Our archers will rain hell upon them as they approach, the lighter troops will never even make it too our line!" Eadhen roared, "Perhaps.." Mattias replied"but arrows can not kill everyone, we simply do not have enough to kill them all.. Plus, what about their archers? Will they not do the same to us?" the battle was set to happen that morning, a mere hour and a half away. Looking around the room, the nobles were all fearful, they were outnumbered, and Weaver himself was the commander of the enemy forces. They knew they had to end this here, their defeat would mean the eastern front is completely vulnerable to Weaver's order, they HAD to hold the hill. If they did not, all was lost. "I don't know about you guys, but i'm looking forward to cracking some skulls!" Garamon bellowed. "Lord Kommagene, please, we're trying to plan for a battle here.." Turan Thelassan replied, with an annoying tone. The command tent fell silent for the next hour as the commanders stared at the map, hoping for anyone to come up with an idea. Finally, the hour arrived. Everyone knew it was time, they all examined each other, said their goodbyes and headed to their forces to prepare for the melee ahead. Eadhen lined his forces up on the hill along with the rest of the shield wall, and ordered his archers to join the main contingent, he saw through the fog Weaver's forces lined up on the opposite slope, through the soup he swears to this day he saw Xia being unsheathed as is shined holy radiance among the opposing ranks. He heard them before he saw them, the rumble of hundreds of soldiers charging, the crys for blood, the occasional laugh. He turned his eyes to the armies archers, him being the closest, the order laid on his shoulders to begin the rain of arrows. "Archers! Knock arrows! Ready! Aim! FIRE!" he watched as hundreds of arrows pierced the morning fog as the order appeared out of the mist. They cared not as hundreds of arrows met their marks, killing or wounding their targets. This however, did not crush their resolve they continued pressing forwards. That is when he heard the wizzing of projectiles, he knew what that meant, "RAISE SHIELDS!" as the arrows rained down upon that ranks, the arrows were so numerous there was no where to count them all. After the rain stopped, he looked around all the First Ones survived the onslaught. "Let's really give them something to laugh at!" Yells Robert Yorwick as him and his levy charged, followed by Garamon Kommagene. As the rest of the army saw two First Ones charge they followed, the front line was made up of First Ones on horse back with heavy infantry making up most of the line. The lines clashed, the ring of steel and screams rang throughout the morning. Across the battlefield Eadhen saw him on his mount, Weaver, he narrowed his eyes and charged at him, pushing enemies out of his way with his horse. As Weaver saw him approaching he turned towards him and began charging, the two warriors were closing quickly, the encounter would never happen. As the First Ones were about to collide, a spear erupted out of the fray and speared Eadhen's horse. He turned and stabbed the spear wielding order member, he turned and saw Weaver riding down on him fast. Xia shinning as he raised his sword preparing for his charge. Eadhen braced himself, just as Weaver was about to slash Garamon Kommagene attacked him from the side, knocking him off his horse he jumped off his horse and pursued the Emperor into the crowd. That is when he lost them, Eadhen turned his attention back to the battle, he saw Mattias Bowker fighting with this levy close by, and having lost his own forces moved to join him. He was quickly being surrounded and was making troops to move backwards to the camp before it was too late. Eadhen ran over and asked the situation. "We're surrounded, i'm pulling back my forces before we're slaughtered!" Mattias exclaimed the two member's of Kyde Estates faught back to back fending off enemies and arrows alike as they moved back to try to find friendly troops. As Eadhen struck down another mortal he heard "Lord Here! Watch out!" He turned his head to see a mortal wielding a short sword charging out of the crowd, he was in duel with a mortal in heavy plate and knew if he lowered his guard he would be quickly cut down. The mortal closed quickly, too fast for any allies to intercept him. The sword pierced deep into Eadhen's side as he held his sword in parry with the heavy infantry,filled with rage he kicked the infantry back and turned, slashing the mortal's head off as Mattias as closed slicing down the heavy infantry he was in melee with. Eadhen's wounds were too grave, he could not continue fighting, both First Ones knew this. "Leave me Mattias, i'll only slow you do-" Eadhen passed out from excessive blood loss and slumped to the ground. The next morning he awoke to cheering and clinking of cups, he examined his surroundings and saw a dark tent with a shine of sunlight coming in from the entrance. The Lord arose, clutching his wound and rubbing his eyes, he looked around and saw a scroll lying next to his bed roll. He opened he scroll and read it aloud. "Congratulations on your victory Lord Here, you may return home, Weaver has been captured. This war is over.- Signed Duke Theon Park of Kyde Estates" He couldn't believe it, he exited the tent and saw Weaver bound by magical forces in the center of the camp, speaking to Garamon Kommagene. He appeared demoralized from a distance, he approached quietly and watched. "Weaver, I am sorry it had to come to this. I am sorry you lost your mind. You had the balls, You were a man who had the will and the guts. That's what I respect in a guy. And i'll be following you to the afterlife sooner or later. Sleep tight masked Emperor." Which that Garamon unsheathed his greatsword, the blade struck true, silence echoed throughout the camp. The war, was over.

The actual battle report is posted above for anyone interested!
« Last Edit: January 30, 2016, 05:58:21 PM by Jhon2221 »


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #9 on: January 30, 2016, 07:28:54 PM »
Dropped the last bit from weaver in at his request.
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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #10 on: January 30, 2016, 08:56:30 PM »
Turan's horse picked its way among the corpses, cropping at bloody grass where it stood out between bodies and broken shields. Its rider slumped in the saddle, not even bothering to control it. Blood rolled down his side from a rent in his armour to drip from the tip of his sword, and one arm hung uselessly.

'It doesn't make sense,' he muttered to himself, over and over. 'Armok's blood, it makes no sense!'

His last two light cavalry exchanged nervous looks, but wisely remained silent.

'Why? Why would he do that? He hurled us back! He didn't need to!' Turan's voice had risen to a hoarse shout, his voice as wearied as his body by days of fighting. 'Surely he must have seen Garamon's army. He must have known.'

In a fit of activity, he tried to reach for his saddlebag with his bad arm, but the pain made him bite back a scream. 'Penny! Have someone get a scribe. I need to write to Sarden.'

His brother might be able to explain why a man with such a brilliant grasp of tactics would do something like this. It was well beyond him, especially after the protracted and bloody battles against Weaver's iron defences.

The reply came soon, characteristically terse. 'Madness. Something requiring his death. Pity to see a good general go. Glad you're safe.'

He sighed and slumped forward against his horse's neck. 'Eike, tell Lord Garamon I'd like to pay my respects to Weaver's body. He was by far a worthy enemy.' He pushed his hand through his hair. 'Why am I even here?'

Just a little piece from Turan's perspective. Trying to capture the feeling of being way out of his depth, and convey a bit of his opinion of Weaver.


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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #11 on: February 09, 2016, 12:09:18 AM »
Winters was not present at the battle that saw Weaver imprisoned, and though she raced to the enemies stronghold in a vain attempt to free him, he was executed long before she could arrive. She felt the moment of his death as she rode at the head of her force, her horse, the second she had mounted in her mad dash, dying underneath her with the strain of the pace she insisted on. A shock emanating from her mask flung her backwards, off the horse to land harshly against the ground, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. A sicking crack was audible as her left collar bone broke. The pain of that injury soon shrunk to insignificance as her mask radiate heat and agony. With her good hand she scrabbled at the end of the mask, seeking to tear it off, but the rituals Weaver had put her through had fused the mask to her face.
With a calming breath she called upon methods Weaver had taught her. In her mind she constructed walls against the pain, containing them within her so that she was aware of her injuries, but not dominated by them. With space Weavers teaching bought her, she was able to delve deep into her past, to a time that the Order insisted she should forget, to the skills and techniques of her own blood, the teachings she had been honoured to receive directly from one of the Great Fathers, a recognition that her blood was strong, that her family legacy ran true in her. With the index finger of her right hand she started to trace symbols upon her mask, geometrical marks that flowed together, shapes within each other, as part of each other, each linked. As her finger traced them they started to glow a deep purple, becoming etched into the mask through as she let the magic of the Chirographers flow though her. When she had finished the area around her right eye was marked with the intricate runes of the Fathers, a language that could not be taught as it had no repeatable form, a language that flow and was specific to the time and purpose it was put to. Even among those of her heritage few could read it, fewer again write it. I was a ingrained talent, something one had to have the blessing to be born with.
She could feel the pain building against the walls she had constructed, seeking for any weakness, laying siege to her mental defence. The methods of the Order were powerful, but all things come at a cost. When the pain eventually broke though it would hit her tenfold, without a doubt overwhelming her. Conscious that time was short she once again sought purchase along the edge of her mask, this time feeling it yield to her probing. Summoning her strength, both mental and physical she tore the mask forward, feeling it sever along the edges of her Chirographic inscriptions, leaving her with put a fragment of the mask remaining, that which surrounded her right eye. She could feel now the source of the pain recede, but that pain she had blocked remained, and it demanded its dues. As she removed her mental barriers and let the pain consume her she wondered what she had become. No longer truly of the House of Order, yet not truly returned to the life she had lived before donning the mask. Who was she now?
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Re: Imperial Civil War
« Reply #12 on: February 10, 2016, 12:37:13 AM »
Banic was taking his breakfast on the Lord’s pavilion overlooking the approach to Ironhill. As a servant poured his wine, he surveyed the table. The variety and quality were diminishing rapidly. Today it was limited to overripe fruit, a selection of smoked meat, and bread. At least the bread was fresh, he thought to himself. The war had went on for too long. He had been rushing from stronghold to stronghold for nearly a year now, and he was exhausted.
Footsteps behind him, “a sealed message arrived by stone for you, my Lord.” Banic took it, waving off the Rondos servant. It was from Martyn Lann. With some apprehension, he broke the seal and began to read it. Short and to the point, his terms had been accepted. He considered it a great relief.
He called down to his sergeant, who was overseeing the training, “Morris! I ride for Westhold, first thing tomorrow.” “With the whole army, sire” he replied? “No. Personal guard only, full dress and armor polished. This is diplomacy” Banic said, less convincingly than he intended.
The ride to Westhold did not take long, even accounting for the poor condition of the woodland roads. He thought to himself that the town had seen better days, but it was still in much better condition than he’d presented it to Martyn Lann five months ago. The new Imperator had done well, at least in this regard. As the 7 riders passed through the main gate, it was immediately evident that the population still had a long way to full recovery. They made their way through the empty streets to the main castle.
He was ushered quickly into the castle. It seemed normal enough to him until he saw the masks of the House of Order. Until now, he’d only really seen them in battle. It was no secret that he did not like them, but their feats of arms had been undeniable time after time. Despite trust in his promised safe conduct, being in their masked presence made him uneasy. Soon enough, the thud of his bootsteps was the only thing in his mind. They stopped in front of a large door, the porter opened it and gestured him in to the waiting Imperator.