TEATRC tribute & universe expansion
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I meant to have this up by last Friday months ago, but i was distracted by ponies among other things. Also, you guys failed to come up with names for the Lion throne characters, so I'm not altogether sure exactly how that's supposed to pan out. I have my own, but whether they are appropriate or not i know not.
The Cross's Glare, A Mare, and a few Lost Flowers
Evander ran about the Lion Throne camp, trying to fulfill his mistress's command. Amassing a party as told would be easy enough in theory, but the fighting in Vienna drew all able bodied fighters to the bloody fighting. It was not until the sun drew low in the sky that he was able to get hold of the cross's cavalry as he was ordered, and it took him begging and beseeching on behalf of his mistress for a commander to lend the Mylesians to him. Even then, as he gave orders for the men to pack supplies, he missing a important part of the group. He had nobody whom had seen the enemy leader, and nobody to identify and vouch for the leader's death. He couldn't fail her, yet he also hadn't the means to do as she asked. And, as the sun set behind the mountains, it became impossible for them to leave... it was foolhardy for him to lead a company of horse into those dark woods of Ehlerdah, to be lost and injured by their blunderings. No, he would have to wait until next morning to set out, and this gave him time to find the men he was missing.
Eventually, it occurred to him that one of the wounded could give him direction to find a rider to accompany them. He found them quite easily, the cry of wounded leading him to the source. While no wounded would be able to accompany him, a wounded man would still be able to point out a friend or companion capable of fulfilling the task. He entered a tent for the more dire wounded from the raid rested, and began to pick his way through the men. Most hadn't seen the leader man to man, although he had been able to gather a decent description of the leader, he did find any man to accompany him. The one man that had fought to leader, a ellisian footman with a deep shoulder gash and broken bone, was curled up in a ball in pain, proving the fact of his weak mind and body. Evander shook his head; his foe was apparently enough to terrorize the lesser servants of the cross. The only useful information he managed to extract from the shattered man was the leader was of ellisian birth. The absorbed countries often spawned the most virulently inclined anti-Lion throne individuals. He continued on in search of the soldier he needed.
As he searched through the lines of wounded, a cursing and head bandaged Brigadier was carried out of the surgeon's tent. One of his eyes was covered in bloody bandages, so Evander assumed with was a blade that did the damage... a pick, lance or shot would have not left the man alive. The assistants placed him in a bed, one giving a stern admonishment to sit put and heal. "You stay put, you hear me? We don't want you moving or expending effort unnecessarily." The Brigadier cursed and slapped the man away, throwing him off his feet and onto his back, as he sat up and let loose. "I'll rest when all the enemies of our glorious Filaharn are dead! Filaharn vult! Especially the bastard leader of that little Filaharn-damned raiding band!" Evander walked up and sat down. "So the leader of that band did that to you?" The brigadier looked with a snarl, but was respectful at the brigadier plate. "Aye, that bastard and that daemon horse! Took my eye he did, without nay recompense! Name's Valerius, by the way." Evander smiled: this particular gentleman would hold the answers he needed. All the man needed was a compatriot who wasn't wounded while fighting them, and could ride them down with him. "Any of you're friends hurt in the fighting?" Valerius's face screwed up in a snarl. "The only one i had, a good old veteran Ellisian campaigner. Trampled to death under that daemon horse of their leader, same which lamned my mount, a fresh stallion from home." Evander sighed, and got up. "Damnit, i had hoped to find a guide to hunt them down. Well, thanks, and get better soon." Valerius's arm shot out and griped Evander's plate with a grasp of steel. "Take me with you! I can ride well, and show you the way easily! Please, blessed by Filaharn, let me ride my enemy down!" Evander looked nervously at wounded man, whom was struggling to his feet. "You're wounds?" Valerius's eyes glared and he gashed his teeth. "Who cares? FILAHARN VULT! Give me a horse and company and I'll give you his head! RHAWR! Filaharn vult!" The wounded brigadier was on his feet, and Evander's eyes took in this imposing, bloodied and bloodthirsty stature. "Great. Now i need to find him a horse." Evandar thought. "This day is just full of surprises, isn't it? Least it's pretty much over."
Twould be the coming days that would be more interesting, to say the least.
----------------------------------------
Morning came, and Belem rose his men for the journey. Adalhard had slept well, and was up for another's day hard riding. Not that it required much of him, merely be jostled along as another man led his horse. He was strapped in well, so when he did fall unconscious, he would be safe from falling from the saddle. The rest of the men were waking, mounted their steeds and putting out fires. Belem was moderately surprised to see himself mounted next to Manfred again.
The rest of the trip to Nibelheim was nice and uneventful. Manfred wasn't much of a talker, and Domazhir, the skilled sergeant that he was, kept men in line without much input on the part of Belem.
They entered the city without much hassle and found their way to the merchant's guild. Belem found his way to a certain rich merchant's home, named Edmundo, whose service was to the queen herself. Some of the men picketed themselves outside in the courtyard with the loot, while others, Domazhir leading, found them places at a tavern to sleep in the night, and for Adalhard to rest. Not, with the promise of their full purses, that there would be much sleeping going on, but the principal still stood. Belem had a great deal of trouble booking an appointment; apparently, the queen was to host a feast, and Edmundo was deep in the preparations, and something had gone awry. Belem explained that he had just gotten hold of a quite serious amount of valuable goods, but the clerk merely told he was allowed to wait if he wished. Belem let loose a quite heavy number of threats, and the two bodyguard rodeleros seemed slightly off put. Sure, they could probably handle the ragged man, but with his warband behind him...
This seemed to intimidate the clerk enough to excuse himself and tell the merchant that Belem had arrived. A few minutes later, Belem was allowed audience.
The portly Laurian man was busy walking around his office, yelling and waving in a madman's fashion at a caravan master. "AND SHE'LL HAVE YOU'RE HEAD, AND MY HEAD, AND YOU'RE HORSE'S HEAD, AND THE HEADS OF ALL MY SERVANTS AND EVERYONE INVOLVED! DAMN YOU FOR LOSING THAT CARAVAN! WHY did you lose that caravan! Bloody Hell!" The merchant turned away form the shaking caravan master. "Bloody hell Belem! I'm not in the mood for buying any of you're raided crap! I'm trying to find a way not to lose my head!" Belem blinked. "Umm?" The man obliged. "She, the bloody ****ing queen, is holding a feast to commemorate the forming of a new Laurian knight order in calradia. Or for some of the new lords. For something. Anyways she's gone and pulled all the stops on this thing, going so far as ordering a 'pure' mare warhorse whose untainted by a stallion's work for some goddamn symbolic political and/or religious purposes or something. Who Knows! God Knows! I know I'm going to lose MY HEAD! The feast must be perfect! My HEAD! And this idiot goes and loses all the ****ing spice to the sea rats!" The merchant sat down in his chair and held his head in his hands, babbling something about losing his head over the importation of a 'pure' mare warhorse from over the sea just to have the feast ruined by a lack of spice, while Belem stared. Oh Gods, his luck rating must be something like 9001 or something by now.
"Edmundo..." The Laurian raised a hand. "Shutup. Get out, you scum. You can't help me." Belem smiled, and sang in a singsong voice. "Ok, Edmundo. I'll just sell these twenty-two sacks of southern spices on the open market then."
Belem made it to the door before he heard the scramble of the fat merchant. "WAIT!" He had made it to the clerk's desk in his slow walk before Edmundo managed to scramble in front of him. "Do you really have that much spice?" Belem nodded. "It's in the courtyard. Bring you're clerk."
Soon the fat Laurian merchant was clapping his hands in joy and running his hands through the thick bags of valuable powder. Belem had saved his head. "How much for the lot?" Asked the Laurian excitedly. Belem sat back, his men watching eagerly. "Well, considering the circumstances, I figure that one-thousand five-hundred denarii per sack seems quite fair. Thirty-three thousand for the lot then." His men grinned. That came out to about five hundred denarii for the average lad, the way the loot was separated. Edmundo grimaced, as it was more expensive then the usual lot price, but alas for him, he didn't have much choice. It was the spice or his head. And he said so. "Thirty-three thousand denarii it is." Belem's men cheered, while the merchant's men brought out three thick oaken chests of gold and sliver.
Most of his men dragged the pair of chests to their companions, whom had returned, and the wealth was distributed fairly. Belem, however, conscripted a few men to carry his share of the gold to the one place he was fairly sure of it's security.
The merchant's guild was as secure a bank as one could feasibly get as a landless man. Even to the great peers, the security and interest provided by the guilds made it an attractive alternative to relying on one holdings. One could secure a fortune in one's fortress, only to lose a castle, and it's vaults, to the invading enemy. Towns, with their thick walls and value unburnt, where more often spared the scourge of the flame and sword. Although, as the all so recent fall of Vienna showed, nothing was completely certain in the land of Calradia.
Nonetheless, the security of the guild was far safer then dragging along such a thick chest of gold. Any number of things could happen in the field, and losing such a massive windfall would be an intolerable misfortune.
And so Belem deposited his gold to the guild, and furthermore, sent the investment to Volga by caravan. Thought he lost a decent amount of denarii, after all the expenses where paid and a decent sum withdrawn for the night's pleasures, he still had ten thousand denarii safe and on it's way to the Vaegir city.
Confident in his deposit's security, and purse filled with gold for the coming night's activities, Belem found his way to the shady part of town where his men where spending their rightful war spoils.
-----------------------------------------
Valerius, the one eyed brigadier, was not overly hard to control, which was a relief to the pressured Evander. He was patient enough to wait for dawn to break and the company to leave, while Evander secured him a steed. Evander's Mistress had been sorely disappointed that he had not managed to leave before nightfall, leaving the trail to grow cold. It became clear to Evender that he either came back with the raider's head or not at all, for the wrath of his lady was building. Fortunately, even by next morning, the path was still warm enough that the Mylesian tracker could follow that trail, and they left as the sun crested the mountains.
It was not long before the Lion Throne company found the first campsite and realized that the company had redirected north. Progress over the mountains and through the pass was slightly slowed by Valerius's wounds, but by the afternoon they had managed to crest the great mountains and begin their descent. By the time they had exited the foothills, it became clear where the raiders where headed. The Laurian city of Nibelheim.
The rest of the day was spent moving north at a rapid pace and into the night; Evander made it clear to the men that none of them would be resting until they were inside the Laurian walls.
------------------------------------------
Belem rolled over from his comfortable sleep at heavy banging from the door, away from the young whore that he had contracted for the night. The rest of his company where doubtlessly in similar positions throughout the tavern, or in other flophouses throughout the city. His head still buzzed from alcohol and he could feel the beginnings of a monstrous hangover, so he shouted at the door. "Go away! I'm busy!"
"Eeyup." Came Manfred's Swadian peasant's drawl. "But we have ah majhor problem."
Belem cursed virulently, stumbling his way to the door. Some of his men probably got in trouble with the watch over a drunken bar-fight or something. Nothing that gold wouldn't fix. He opened the door, and saw Manfred standing there calmly, only a slight fidget and his weapons betraying his nervousness. Belem leaned against the door, and asked. "So what's it?"
Manfred fidgeted nervously, apparently trying to put the problem into words. Belem stared expectantly. Manfred started. "Umm, Eric... uhh."
Belem motioned for him to continue, sensing this might actually be an issue.
"EricsnuckinandbredwithImelda'snewwarhorse." Manfred blurted out in a hurried rush.
Oh.
...
****.
The Cross's Glare, A Mare, and a few Lost Flowers
Evander ran about the Lion Throne camp, trying to fulfill his mistress's command. Amassing a party as told would be easy enough in theory, but the fighting in Vienna drew all able bodied fighters to the bloody fighting. It was not until the sun drew low in the sky that he was able to get hold of the cross's cavalry as he was ordered, and it took him begging and beseeching on behalf of his mistress for a commander to lend the Mylesians to him. Even then, as he gave orders for the men to pack supplies, he missing a important part of the group. He had nobody whom had seen the enemy leader, and nobody to identify and vouch for the leader's death. He couldn't fail her, yet he also hadn't the means to do as she asked. And, as the sun set behind the mountains, it became impossible for them to leave... it was foolhardy for him to lead a company of horse into those dark woods of Ehlerdah, to be lost and injured by their blunderings. No, he would have to wait until next morning to set out, and this gave him time to find the men he was missing.
Eventually, it occurred to him that one of the wounded could give him direction to find a rider to accompany them. He found them quite easily, the cry of wounded leading him to the source. While no wounded would be able to accompany him, a wounded man would still be able to point out a friend or companion capable of fulfilling the task. He entered a tent for the more dire wounded from the raid rested, and began to pick his way through the men. Most hadn't seen the leader man to man, although he had been able to gather a decent description of the leader, he did find any man to accompany him. The one man that had fought to leader, a ellisian footman with a deep shoulder gash and broken bone, was curled up in a ball in pain, proving the fact of his weak mind and body. Evander shook his head; his foe was apparently enough to terrorize the lesser servants of the cross. The only useful information he managed to extract from the shattered man was the leader was of ellisian birth. The absorbed countries often spawned the most virulently inclined anti-Lion throne individuals. He continued on in search of the soldier he needed.
As he searched through the lines of wounded, a cursing and head bandaged Brigadier was carried out of the surgeon's tent. One of his eyes was covered in bloody bandages, so Evander assumed with was a blade that did the damage... a pick, lance or shot would have not left the man alive. The assistants placed him in a bed, one giving a stern admonishment to sit put and heal. "You stay put, you hear me? We don't want you moving or expending effort unnecessarily." The Brigadier cursed and slapped the man away, throwing him off his feet and onto his back, as he sat up and let loose. "I'll rest when all the enemies of our glorious Filaharn are dead! Filaharn vult! Especially the bastard leader of that little Filaharn-damned raiding band!" Evander walked up and sat down. "So the leader of that band did that to you?" The brigadier looked with a snarl, but was respectful at the brigadier plate. "Aye, that bastard and that daemon horse! Took my eye he did, without nay recompense! Name's Valerius, by the way." Evander smiled: this particular gentleman would hold the answers he needed. All the man needed was a compatriot who wasn't wounded while fighting them, and could ride them down with him. "Any of you're friends hurt in the fighting?" Valerius's face screwed up in a snarl. "The only one i had, a good old veteran Ellisian campaigner. Trampled to death under that daemon horse of their leader, same which lamned my mount, a fresh stallion from home." Evander sighed, and got up. "Damnit, i had hoped to find a guide to hunt them down. Well, thanks, and get better soon." Valerius's arm shot out and griped Evander's plate with a grasp of steel. "Take me with you! I can ride well, and show you the way easily! Please, blessed by Filaharn, let me ride my enemy down!" Evander looked nervously at wounded man, whom was struggling to his feet. "You're wounds?" Valerius's eyes glared and he gashed his teeth. "Who cares? FILAHARN VULT! Give me a horse and company and I'll give you his head! RHAWR! Filaharn vult!" The wounded brigadier was on his feet, and Evander's eyes took in this imposing, bloodied and bloodthirsty stature. "Great. Now i need to find him a horse." Evandar thought. "This day is just full of surprises, isn't it? Least it's pretty much over."
Twould be the coming days that would be more interesting, to say the least.
----------------------------------------
Morning came, and Belem rose his men for the journey. Adalhard had slept well, and was up for another's day hard riding. Not that it required much of him, merely be jostled along as another man led his horse. He was strapped in well, so when he did fall unconscious, he would be safe from falling from the saddle. The rest of the men were waking, mounted their steeds and putting out fires. Belem was moderately surprised to see himself mounted next to Manfred again.
The rest of the trip to Nibelheim was nice and uneventful. Manfred wasn't much of a talker, and Domazhir, the skilled sergeant that he was, kept men in line without much input on the part of Belem.
They entered the city without much hassle and found their way to the merchant's guild. Belem found his way to a certain rich merchant's home, named Edmundo, whose service was to the queen herself. Some of the men picketed themselves outside in the courtyard with the loot, while others, Domazhir leading, found them places at a tavern to sleep in the night, and for Adalhard to rest. Not, with the promise of their full purses, that there would be much sleeping going on, but the principal still stood. Belem had a great deal of trouble booking an appointment; apparently, the queen was to host a feast, and Edmundo was deep in the preparations, and something had gone awry. Belem explained that he had just gotten hold of a quite serious amount of valuable goods, but the clerk merely told he was allowed to wait if he wished. Belem let loose a quite heavy number of threats, and the two bodyguard rodeleros seemed slightly off put. Sure, they could probably handle the ragged man, but with his warband behind him...
This seemed to intimidate the clerk enough to excuse himself and tell the merchant that Belem had arrived. A few minutes later, Belem was allowed audience.
The portly Laurian man was busy walking around his office, yelling and waving in a madman's fashion at a caravan master. "AND SHE'LL HAVE YOU'RE HEAD, AND MY HEAD, AND YOU'RE HORSE'S HEAD, AND THE HEADS OF ALL MY SERVANTS AND EVERYONE INVOLVED! DAMN YOU FOR LOSING THAT CARAVAN! WHY did you lose that caravan! Bloody Hell!" The merchant turned away form the shaking caravan master. "Bloody hell Belem! I'm not in the mood for buying any of you're raided crap! I'm trying to find a way not to lose my head!" Belem blinked. "Umm?" The man obliged. "She, the bloody ****ing queen, is holding a feast to commemorate the forming of a new Laurian knight order in calradia. Or for some of the new lords. For something. Anyways she's gone and pulled all the stops on this thing, going so far as ordering a 'pure' mare warhorse whose untainted by a stallion's work for some goddamn symbolic political and/or religious purposes or something. Who Knows! God Knows! I know I'm going to lose MY HEAD! The feast must be perfect! My HEAD! And this idiot goes and loses all the ****ing spice to the sea rats!" The merchant sat down in his chair and held his head in his hands, babbling something about losing his head over the importation of a 'pure' mare warhorse from over the sea just to have the feast ruined by a lack of spice, while Belem stared. Oh Gods, his luck rating must be something like 9001 or something by now.
"Edmundo..." The Laurian raised a hand. "Shutup. Get out, you scum. You can't help me." Belem smiled, and sang in a singsong voice. "Ok, Edmundo. I'll just sell these twenty-two sacks of southern spices on the open market then."
Belem made it to the door before he heard the scramble of the fat merchant. "WAIT!" He had made it to the clerk's desk in his slow walk before Edmundo managed to scramble in front of him. "Do you really have that much spice?" Belem nodded. "It's in the courtyard. Bring you're clerk."
Soon the fat Laurian merchant was clapping his hands in joy and running his hands through the thick bags of valuable powder. Belem had saved his head. "How much for the lot?" Asked the Laurian excitedly. Belem sat back, his men watching eagerly. "Well, considering the circumstances, I figure that one-thousand five-hundred denarii per sack seems quite fair. Thirty-three thousand for the lot then." His men grinned. That came out to about five hundred denarii for the average lad, the way the loot was separated. Edmundo grimaced, as it was more expensive then the usual lot price, but alas for him, he didn't have much choice. It was the spice or his head. And he said so. "Thirty-three thousand denarii it is." Belem's men cheered, while the merchant's men brought out three thick oaken chests of gold and sliver.
Most of his men dragged the pair of chests to their companions, whom had returned, and the wealth was distributed fairly. Belem, however, conscripted a few men to carry his share of the gold to the one place he was fairly sure of it's security.
The merchant's guild was as secure a bank as one could feasibly get as a landless man. Even to the great peers, the security and interest provided by the guilds made it an attractive alternative to relying on one holdings. One could secure a fortune in one's fortress, only to lose a castle, and it's vaults, to the invading enemy. Towns, with their thick walls and value unburnt, where more often spared the scourge of the flame and sword. Although, as the all so recent fall of Vienna showed, nothing was completely certain in the land of Calradia.
Nonetheless, the security of the guild was far safer then dragging along such a thick chest of gold. Any number of things could happen in the field, and losing such a massive windfall would be an intolerable misfortune.
And so Belem deposited his gold to the guild, and furthermore, sent the investment to Volga by caravan. Thought he lost a decent amount of denarii, after all the expenses where paid and a decent sum withdrawn for the night's pleasures, he still had ten thousand denarii safe and on it's way to the Vaegir city.
Confident in his deposit's security, and purse filled with gold for the coming night's activities, Belem found his way to the shady part of town where his men where spending their rightful war spoils.
-----------------------------------------
Valerius, the one eyed brigadier, was not overly hard to control, which was a relief to the pressured Evander. He was patient enough to wait for dawn to break and the company to leave, while Evander secured him a steed. Evander's Mistress had been sorely disappointed that he had not managed to leave before nightfall, leaving the trail to grow cold. It became clear to Evender that he either came back with the raider's head or not at all, for the wrath of his lady was building. Fortunately, even by next morning, the path was still warm enough that the Mylesian tracker could follow that trail, and they left as the sun crested the mountains.
It was not long before the Lion Throne company found the first campsite and realized that the company had redirected north. Progress over the mountains and through the pass was slightly slowed by Valerius's wounds, but by the afternoon they had managed to crest the great mountains and begin their descent. By the time they had exited the foothills, it became clear where the raiders where headed. The Laurian city of Nibelheim.
The rest of the day was spent moving north at a rapid pace and into the night; Evander made it clear to the men that none of them would be resting until they were inside the Laurian walls.
------------------------------------------
Belem rolled over from his comfortable sleep at heavy banging from the door, away from the young whore that he had contracted for the night. The rest of his company where doubtlessly in similar positions throughout the tavern, or in other flophouses throughout the city. His head still buzzed from alcohol and he could feel the beginnings of a monstrous hangover, so he shouted at the door. "Go away! I'm busy!"
"Eeyup." Came Manfred's Swadian peasant's drawl. "But we have ah majhor problem."
Belem cursed virulently, stumbling his way to the door. Some of his men probably got in trouble with the watch over a drunken bar-fight or something. Nothing that gold wouldn't fix. He opened the door, and saw Manfred standing there calmly, only a slight fidget and his weapons betraying his nervousness. Belem leaned against the door, and asked. "So what's it?"
Manfred fidgeted nervously, apparently trying to put the problem into words. Belem stared expectantly. Manfred started. "Umm, Eric... uhh."
Belem motioned for him to continue, sensing this might actually be an issue.
"EricsnuckinandbredwithImelda'snewwarhorse." Manfred blurted out in a hurried rush.
Oh.
...
****.
Dropping a lore bit. Name it what you will in the lore thread.
The sounds of booted footsteps echoed through the corridors of the Palace of Filaharn in the holy city of Galius. The high, vaulted ceilings of the palace were perfect for an intimidating atmosphere. How better to instill the fear of the god Filaharn himself in wretched peasant pilgrims? However, the ceilings also had another purpose, unplanned by the architect. These vaulted ceilings sheltered an assassin. The Hands of the Pope, lifelong guards of the leader of the Filaharnist faith, knew nothing of the danger above their heads. Why should they? Any previous assassination attempt had been easily detected and thwarted by the legions of guards of all sorts in the palace. Gunners at the battlements, spearmen at the doors and gates, even elite brigadiers all had ample experience to deal with any threat.
This threat was different. No Laurian, Kaiserlich, Swadian or Vaegir would dare send assassins. This was an internal threat. One created by the very concept that was supposed to deter it. Fanaticism. Radical religious fanatics made up the bulk of the Pope’s armies conquering their way through Calradia. They sold wares in the streets, freely begged from state-run soup kitchens, educated others at universities, and guarded the Pope himself. This one was different. He had been a scout, a sicarius, a Hand of the Pope later in his career, but first and foremost, he was part of the fanatic throngs. He took it too far.
As he crawled upside-down on the protective ceilings, he looked up- no, down, at the Hands of the Pope marching the corridors below him. Their hooded faces could show no emotion, no fear, and no smug satisfaction that nobody in the world would even get to them. They would never know. He crawled. The domed palace loomed before him. Cannon boomed. They had known.
The sounds of booted footsteps echoed through the corridors of the Palace of Filaharn in the holy city of Galius. The high, vaulted ceilings of the palace were perfect for an intimidating atmosphere. How better to instill the fear of the god Filaharn himself in wretched peasant pilgrims? However, the ceilings also had another purpose, unplanned by the architect. These vaulted ceilings sheltered an assassin. The Hands of the Pope, lifelong guards of the leader of the Filaharnist faith, knew nothing of the danger above their heads. Why should they? Any previous assassination attempt had been easily detected and thwarted by the legions of guards of all sorts in the palace. Gunners at the battlements, spearmen at the doors and gates, even elite brigadiers all had ample experience to deal with any threat.
This threat was different. No Laurian, Kaiserlich, Swadian or Vaegir would dare send assassins. This was an internal threat. One created by the very concept that was supposed to deter it. Fanaticism. Radical religious fanatics made up the bulk of the Pope’s armies conquering their way through Calradia. They sold wares in the streets, freely begged from state-run soup kitchens, educated others at universities, and guarded the Pope himself. This one was different. He had been a scout, a sicarius, a Hand of the Pope later in his career, but first and foremost, he was part of the fanatic throngs. He took it too far.
As he crawled upside-down on the protective ceilings, he looked up- no, down, at the Hands of the Pope marching the corridors below him. Their hooded faces could show no emotion, no fear, and no smug satisfaction that nobody in the world would even get to them. They would never know. He crawled. The domed palace loomed before him. Cannon boomed. They had known.
Boombaye
Regular
I March for Kaiser and State
Summary: An unusually philosophical Imperial State deserter is captured by an Ormeli party and contemplates the nature of war, headgear styles, cheese and war.
_____
My name is Uwe Cornels.
I am a Kaiserlicher Gefreiter, Infantryman and thinker.
I have fought the former statements for my entire career.
I grew up wretchedly poor, seeing patriotic marches from the homeless man's point of view. Prisoners driven like cattle past cheering crowds, absurdly helmeted soldiers on jet black horses, holding their sabres stiffly upright and blinking confetti out of their eyes. Mothers pulled children away from me, soldiers put their discipline to good use an ignored me and shopkeepers shooed me away from their stalls, fearing a drop in business. There was a march too often to count. Commemorate the dead, celebrate the seizure of territory, welcome the heroes home, see off the newest battalion. Citizens marched on the pavements of the main boulevard. Soldiers kept formation in the centre, a man on a cart blurted out slogans against the newly deemed 'Greatest threat to the State, our Kaiser and our people!' this month. Footsteps and patriotic song rang in the streets for hours.
First, it was the Laurians, "Garish, paper thin armour! Sub-standard imitations of State engineered gunnery! Look around us, citizens! See the lovely frauleins the State is blessed with! Imagine the horrors inflicted upon them if this scourge were allowed to our cities! I've been at war! I've served the Kaiser and I know exactly what happens to pretty girls when the dust settles!"
That went on for months. Just shouting. Every week, a new war veteran who seemed a little too pretty to have actually seen war would tell his story of bravery. One week, there was a cuirassier that couldn't stand up straight in the heavy armour. The next was a Guard who waved his caliver's business end at the crowds during speeches with finger held on trigger. Those imbeciles in the crowd ate it up.
Years in the street? Probably a decade. I can't remember when I last slept in a bed that wasn't cobblestone. I wasn't in the registries and dodged the draft. Everyone else my age were the proud centrepiece of a march for once in their life. Boots spit-shined for hours hammered the floor and they held their arquebuses proud. I'd like to note that these were the same arquebuses the war veteran considered, 'Sub-standard imitations of State engineered gunnery.'
Some people say being a beggar is a life of misery and toil that is extremely difficult, but survivable.
Those people are wrong; it's excruciating.
I enlisted.
Those recruiters will throw a uniform at anyone. I was starved, haggard and dejected and for once in my life, I felt proud to be better than the other people in the line.
It made me sick.
Training was a lot like the parades; shouting, marching and stiff backs. We learned to salute, to march, to shine our shoes, to march, to march (because no matter how well you marched, those bastards would always show you a dozen ways that you were doing it wrong), to wake up absurdly early and march. Between marches, I got a wooden mock-up of an arquebuse. A bearded man with the kind of muscular build that just screamed, "When I'm finished with you girls in the evening, I go and wrestle bears in the mountains!" taught us creative ways of bashing people's skulls in with our weapons.
Never use the trigger group. That can break a finger.
Never hit sideways with the barrel, that can bend it and reduce accuracy.
Never use the upper sights, which can crack them and reduce accuracy.
Someone asked if the State's weapons were of such high quality, how could they bend? The sergeant commended him for his patriotism, and then introduced the man to the finer points of kinetics, punctuating his beating with stock slogans about unquestioning loyalty.
It was 2 weeks before they let us fire real weapons. Arquebuses. We fought and won stunning victory after stunning victory against paper targets.
We marched some more.
Come graduation day, we marched to the parade ground and nearly put the statue of the Kaiser out of a job in the afternoon heat. Pride and sweat rolled off of us when Sergeant Bear Wrestler pinned a small insignia to each of our chests. A tiny lead and white trimmed Imperial eagle. He gave us a speech, gesturing to his substantially more decorated chest and showed us the Imperial Eagle that he earned after training a decade ago.
There was fanfare. Drummer boys led us out of dramatically slow opening wooden gates and into more confetti than any nation strictly needed to stockpile. We marched. Pride or discipline shone from our faces. Our weapons were an extension of our bodies. Musket balls rattled in our packs with each heavy step. Months of rehearsals had finally culminated in another generic parade out of Lorraine's gate.
We were assigned to a certain Field Marshal Mackenson. Introductions were made to his war party and we took the week-long march to Haelmarian territory. If the parade speakers were right, then these Haelmarians were imbeciles who thought their honour would protect them and wore chic coats and hats into battle, wielded glorified cattle prods and slow-loading, explosion prone muskets.
We'd conquered a city.
I saw no action. I manned a nice, quiet post at the camp with a few of my friends. We'd conned our way out of frontline duty after a few bribes and when Kessler slept with the general.
If the drop in our numbers and morale were an indicator, the propaganda was probably wrong about the Haelmarians. In fact, they were definitely a match for us man-to-man. I don't recall more than a dozen who hadn't tripped trying to evade a forest of spear points and broke something or took a scrape from flying splinters after taking cover behind a wooden fence.
The propaganda used to say, "Blood in war with the Kaiser's enemies. Yours or the enemy's." Guess it was both, sometimes.
We had the Kaiser.
They had cheese.
The real difference beyond fashion and dialect was cheese. They had an obsession with the stuff. Sure, it was good, even great enough to get some of us to march faster if promised more of the stuff, but it wasn't that amazing. The Haelmarians thought otherwise, however and judging from the borderline fanatical obsession with cheese, I'd finally decided that if you convinced a Haelmarian cheesemaker that making sweet, sweet love to the cheese would make it taste better, he probably would.
I was promoted for my imaginary service to the Kaiser. "Kaiserlicher Gefreiter Uwe Cornels, proudly in service to his majesty the Kaiser and the Imperial State under Field Marshal General Mackenson."
I loved introducing myself to those pretty Haelmarian girls. With an opening like that, I mean, those troubles just melted away. Something about a man in uniform, no matter if it smelled like blood of their brothers and fathers just worked.
We lost a city.
Yes, the same city I was in.
No, I didn't get to kill anyone.
No, I didn't have to kill anyone.
We escaped just in time, leaving a full quarter of our men behind to cover our retreat. That little group of my friends was selected and this time, no desperate offer of sexual favours could sway the Field Marshal. The battle was lost. Our reinforcements were probably 2 weeks away and still practicing for their graduation parade. The city was lost and nobody seemed willing to relieve the glorious battle against those cheese loving inbreds.
My closest friends died heroes for Kaiser and State.
The paltry few of us trudged for weeks through snow, then steppe. Razor-sharp grasses and cold nipped our feet like those street dogs would bite at my torn coat in Lorraine.
It made me sick.
Dysentery.
The doctor prescribed a potent mix of leftover cheese and steppe grass. It didn't work.
The march was gone. We fought Mother Earth tooth and nail for greener pastures a week down the road. It was too cold for vultures. Not for a lack of vultures, though. Bandits circled, chillingly comfortable in the harsh weather and wound around our party just out of weapon range, waiting for the something to fall off the supply carts. We'd learned to pick our comrades' bodies clean of possessions before leaving them behind.
I deserted.
That's it. No heroic escapes. No parting curses. No Herculean planning.
More generally, myself and 6 dissenters deserted. My friends died. I made new friends. Lion territory was 3 days away and we ducked into a forest one evening when the others were busy with a stray bandit detachment. The 7 of us liberated all the food and munitions we could carry and slept on the 3 heavy blankets in shifts.
Pity none of us thought to steal a compass.
We trudged for a day and a half in the wrong direction. Trudging, slogging, walking, struggling, whatever worked. No more marching. Back into the Ormeli territory. The wind hit us hard and our sweat froze. That knocked it home. We'd gone in the wrong direction.
We trudged for half a day in the right direction. Trudging, slogging, walking, struggling, whatever worked. No more marching. Almost into Lion territory. The spears hit us hard and our blood froze. That knocked it home. We'd lost.
Pity none of us thought to learn basic spotting techniques.
It wasn't even us who were struck by spears. I was out looking for firewood that hadn't been turned into pulp on the soggy ground and came back to camp to see corpses strewn about. Orange garb and rifles, tanned skin, slim features. Somewhere in that mess, there were 5 black uniforms worn by corpses, gripping bloody firearms and a curse still on their lips.
Then the Ormeli corpses attacked me.
So that's how this exhausted, motley crew of men we had defeated a dozen Janissaries in close combat; they didn't.
Comparing headgear was all I could do for the next 2 days. Turns out, the scouting party that we were attacked by would reach the main force in that time and then they'd work out what to do with me. I was non-standard, apparently. There wasn't anyone willing to ransom a deserter and those traveling slave drivers weren't always around when it was convenient.
The Janissaries spoke the universal language of rifle butt beatings and bayonet prodding.
They also knew what the words, "Hail," and, "Licker," meant. Though, it usually came out as, "Hei," and "Likkeh," respectively.
All I could do was compare headgear.
Of the 4 types I had known: Pickelhaube, Laurian, Fancy and Strange (Imperial, Laurian, Haelmarian and Janissary, in that order), I'd finally pieced together the connection between all of them. They each reflected on their nation's customs and personality.
Our Pickelhaube were pressed iron and steel. Mass-manufactured and adorned with just enough ornaments to make them not appear like trash. The Laurian's had years of storytelling in each man's decoration. A feather for a particular campaign or insignia carved into the side to mourn an old friend. The fancy hats worn by Haelmarians were cultural, like their cheeses, or women. Festive and carefree. The Janissary hats were just plain frightening. Some twisted amalgamation of wedding veil, helmet and rank insignia. Maybe they were so tall, because the Ormeli were slightly shorter than other peoples and they felt the need to compensate.
It made me sick.
Shouldn't elephant guns have been enough compensation?
I couldn't ask them. I didn't speak Ormeli Rifle Butt Beating.
I was blindfolded and lost track of time. I know I slept through some of it, and get kicked whenever I tried to get into a more comfortable position. These people didn't shirk on security.
They held my hand out to a rock face to guide me for some distance then took off my blindfold and gently caressed me with their rifles toward a large, painted spot on the rock face. I looked left at the row of Janissaries in full dress uniform, rifles propped against their shoulders. I looked right at that spot on the rock and dark brown stains surrounding it.
I marched.
One final effort. My bones creaked. A cut began bleeding again.
It made me sick.
I got to the spot, backing against the rock face and stared down the firing squad. The lead Janissary raised his sabre and mouthed off a command. The squad hefted their rifles at me; a dozen black muzzles that each found a spot somewhere on my torso.
I stood at attention.
One final effort.
For Kaiser and State.
_____
Author's Note: I have no clue if non-people-who-have-been-writing-****-here-for-years are even allowed to write this kind of thing, but I felt like doing it. TEatRC is a very, very good mod like that.
Story inspired after I particularly nasty stretch of fighting against the Laurians, then Swadians followed by an ugly retreat into hostile Ormeli territory. A few of my men deserted from the lack of food. Low morale and all. Half an hour later, when peace was struck up with the Ormelis, I found and Ormeli party with 2 Imperial State prisoners and thought, "In your face, losers."
More importantly, I'd gotten incredibly tired of the fact that every story was about some huge battle. Those big, scary generals duking it out, or a campaign ending in glory. Or about cheese. Maybe, even an epic duel somewhere, or a journal that introduces a character but doesn't actually give us anything new on the universe. I need grit, depression. So here's a story of a man who never fought a single battle and was killed by war, anyway.
Then the story was writ.
Venitius
Count
Yes, new people are allowed, and it's great that you choose to post in here. And it's good stuff too.
My first post was in here, iirc.
Anyway, most of the people who most/used to post are fanatical to a certain faction/certain factions, so you expect a ton of propaganda/bias anyway. There are quite a few bits that don't cover the big cheeses, scattered around and in the compo. I should have updated it about.. half a year ago, admittedly.
@Mustang: We were supposed to make up names for LT characters? wot. Speaking of Eric and his "adventures", shall we say, wtf happened to the rag-tag fail band of mercenaries that never became a rag-tag band?
My first post was in here, iirc.
Anyway, most of the people who most/used to post are fanatical to a certain faction/certain factions, so you expect a ton of propaganda/bias anyway. There are quite a few bits that don't cover the big cheeses, scattered around and in the compo. I should have updated it about.. half a year ago, admittedly.
@Mustang: We were supposed to make up names for LT characters? wot. Speaking of Eric and his "adventures", shall we say, wtf happened to the rag-tag fail band of mercenaries that never became a rag-tag band?
Lurdze
Knight
That was brilliant, Boom. Brilliant. The ending got me. Reminded me so, so much of Nathan Long's "Blackhearts". It seems he has the same opinion as yourself and enjoys crafting a marvellous story out of ordinary men with ordinary defects and faults and putting them into extraordinary situations to see how they fare.
Most of them die.
Most of them die.
Don't they all, if only the stroy doesn't end beforehand?Lurdze said:
I asked you all for some lore-appropriate names for the lion throne characters but nobody bother, so i made mine own. If that's ok.Venitius said:
ehh, for that band of mercenaries, who knows what happened to them. All that we know is that at some point Eric was stolen by our dashing raider.
Oops, you are right; I must have overlooked it. My most humble apologies.
BTW, those LT freaks have mostly Roman-sounding names, don't they?
BTW, those LT freaks have mostly Roman-sounding names, don't they?
Guys, I have some Lore questions about the Laurian Tercio (I'm intended to write something):
-A Tercio is, I think, supposed to consist for 1/4 or 1/3 out of Rodoleros (Sword&Buckler-men), but where are they intended to be placed? In the front, rear or the flanks of the Tercio? Or is it just random?
-Is every in-game Laurian Lord supposed to lead 1 Tercio with support troops?
-In 1426, the year SfB starts, the Laurian Tercio is rather a novelty in Bermian; But is 1426 the year they come into action first, or are they already used in battle?
-The Tercio is based on the Swadian Gevierthafen (German name for Landsknecht phalanx); how did Lauria observe this formation and her tactics, to use them themselves? (By travellers, spies, military observers, vistiting Lords?)
Many thanks in advance!
-A Tercio is, I think, supposed to consist for 1/4 or 1/3 out of Rodoleros (Sword&Buckler-men), but where are they intended to be placed? In the front, rear or the flanks of the Tercio? Or is it just random?
-Is every in-game Laurian Lord supposed to lead 1 Tercio with support troops?
-In 1426, the year SfB starts, the Laurian Tercio is rather a novelty in Bermian; But is 1426 the year they come into action first, or are they already used in battle?
-The Tercio is based on the Swadian Gevierthafen (German name for Landsknecht phalanx); how did Lauria observe this formation and her tactics, to use them themselves? (By travellers, spies, military observers, vistiting Lords?)
Many thanks in advance!
Venitius said:
Lol.
@Captured Joe: I can answer your first question, though there's still confusion about it. There is because it is said that the earliest tercio formations had units of rodeleros armed with sword and buckler (and sometimes with javelines) at the very centre of the pikemen square. Still, I can't find any proper source for that, apart from a couple of websites, while all the Spanish websites I visited list the three best known weapons of the tercio: pikemen, arquebusers and musketeers (along with arbalesters and handgunners in the early period). As for the rodeleros, officially they weren't part of the tercio, but were used to break the early halberd-and-pike-formations, much like the doppelsoeldners (by the time the tercios were rising, most of the European armies had squares of pikemen, halberds and sometimes arbalesters, with little firepower to keep the enemy infantry at bay). By the end of the Italian Wars, the innovation of firearms made them pointless.
So, if the Laurian tercio more or less resembles the Spanish one, you would have the main pikemen square with arquebusers at its angles, a short line of musketeers in the front, and a division of rodeleros detached from the main body, ready to flank the enemy formation.
Keep in mind that these are my own though about it, and there could be some completely different lore piece somewhere in the thread.
Thank you very much Weltschmerz!
Well, my problem is apparently there aren't any lore pieces in which the position of the Rodoleros are described (I used search function, although I think I've gone through the whole Tribute&Expansion-threat). I could just use my imagination, but I don't know wether the results would be in line with almighty D'Sparil's intentions with the Laurians or not.Weltschmerz said:
