AAR: Symphony of Calradia (C35!)

[ArnulfFloyd]

Interesting update. I wait to read book II

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 18: The Army Beyond The Lands​

Bjorn Wolfhunt the Executioner,
The deserts of Sarran,
15th year of Graveth’s reign on the Rhodoks,​

The king has issued a new order for the Executioner, to hunt down the army that dared sacked the city of Shariz. They marched into the scorching deserts, patrolling the surroundings of the former Sarranid capital. There have been reports of patrol squads gone missing while carrying out their duties at Shariz, small battalions were sent to investigate and they too suffered the same fate.
Naturally, Graveth didn’t want to lose any more men to this new threat. He ordered Bjorn and gave him an army of the best soldiers in the entire realm, the famed Immortal Guards. Their armor were specially made by the masters of the Iron Guild, made to withstand the most devastating blows in battle. They carry weapons that would bring them victory after victory with ease. It has been said that the Immortal Guards themselves are remnants of the old empire and they are indeed never tasted death.

The Immortal Guards​

But Bjorn knew better than the commoners who chose to believe in legends. These men were the best, the king’s personal guards one might say. Their discipline is unmatched by any armies upon the land and their strength can be rivaled by the Nords themselves. Two thousand stood ready, two thousand men ready to die for their king.

A few of the mounted Immortal Guards rode to him after conducting a scouting mission. “Lord Executioner!” one of them called out, his voice was deep and rough. His face obscured by the helm he wore.

Bjorn turned his horse and looked at them, “Report,” he said with a flat voice.
“There are no signs of the enemy as far as Tamnuh. We haven’t seen them at Sekhtem as well.” The Immortal Guard replied.

The Executioner remained silent and looked over at the distance. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, “We’ll scour the area for a few more days.” He said to them, “If there’s none, we’ll head back to Jelkala. Send a messenger to Graveth to report.”

The two Guards saluted in response before they left Bjorn’s side. The Executioner looked at the army, most of them seemed eager to fight this new deadly threat. Shariz has been sacked, but not conquered.

There are two things that came into his mind: the attackers didn’t have the proper siege equipment to fully take control of the city, maybe in terms of manpower they are too small to conquer it. Or it was just a warning – we could have taken it. But it won’t be necessary. Those words lingered in his mind as if the actions taken upon Shariz spoke of it.

They marched once more from the village of Ayn Assuadi to Mit Nun, the Guards never set their sights upon the army that they were supposed to face. They were like ghosts, attacking the villages and disappeared as if it was ravaged by some sort of natural disaster.

Bjorn knew that what they are facing, is a formidable force that the land of Calradia have never seen before. So, he lead the Immortal Guards away from the deserts. The Guards stepped into the green lands of the west and ventured into the forests that became the ‘barrier’ between the Rhodoks and the Sarranids for decades.

Wooden trees appeared in the distance. They were gigantic, almost as tall as the castles themselves. Some even suggested that they were once the home of giants.

As they went up the hills, they could see the trees in full view. But before they were able to descend it, they were greeted by a massive force of men clad in plate armor and wielding swords of large proportions. Bjorn sees no horsemen within their ranks and estimated that they possess an army of more than 200 men.

The "Men of Iron" as the Executioner called it.​

They carry a banner of a country that no one had ever heard of, one that came far from the lands beyond Calradia. Their crossbowmen aimed at Bjorn’s army while the infantrymen took their positions, forming a solid line that stands between them and Bjorn’s army.

Bjorn saw the tactical advantage that he possesses, he and his army were up on a hill with a force comprised of cavalry units, archers and crossbowmen, supplemented by a powerful force of infantrymen. All of them are the famed Immortal Guards of Rhodoks.

His eyes looked upon the composition of the enemy once more, they lack horsemen which puts that at a heavy loss. He began making a strategy on the field and quickly assigned his troops their positions for their battle.
It was at the middle of the day where the sun sits up high in the sky, the two armies faced one another. The Immortal Guards against an army of over 200 men, Bjorn called them the Men of Iron because of their armors.

Bjorn’s cavalry were split into two groups, each took their positions on both flanks of their army. The Iron Guards – the infantry, formed a shield wall with their spears pointed forward while the crossbowmen and archers lined up behind them.

The Executioner draws his sword, ordering his cavalry to charge. The horsemen stormed down the hill with their couched lances, attacking from both sides of the army at once. But the Men of Iron have expected this and quickly spreads out to minimize the casualties taken from the initial charge.

They are swift and agile despite wearing the heavy armor. They wield large two-handed swords to which they named the ‘Zweihander’. With their strength and agility, they dodged away the cavalry charge and swung their massive blades, striking the riders down and killing their horses with a single swing.

Supported by the crossbowmen, a second line of the Men of Iron charged towards the infantry line up the hills. Bjorn saw this and ordered the Guards to engage them. As soon as their weapons clashed, they were almost even in strength. Almost. The shields of the Guards shattered after receiving multiple blows, even if they possesses the swiftness of the wind, they are unable to deal any significant damage.

The terrifying power of the Men of Iron were displayed in front of Bjorn as they easily crushed the supposedly legendary Immortal Guards. Their armor shrugged off almost every attacks, while a few of them did die, it seems that they met their end because of their own carelessness instead of being overwhelmed.

Their Zweihanders became their extension of their physical strength. With a swing, it could sever one’s limb like a hot knife through butter. It was large, almost like a polearm and could even be used as a ‘spear’.

Bjorn dropped down from his horse and charged into the fray alongside the remainder of the Immortal Guards. He plunged his sword into one of the openings of their armor, a gush of red blood pour out like a fountain and Bjorn’s hand as he pulled its blade out. He cut the man’s throat before picking up a war hammer off the ground.

Blades are useless against their steel. He thought as he noticed how tough their armor was against bladed weapons like swords and axes. His eyes caught the sight of another one of the Men of Iron, wielding a large hammer of his own.
But before he could even react, the man struck Bjorn’s chest with the war hammer using his terrifying power and strength. With a single strike, the Executioner was thrown to the ground and air rushed out from his lungs. Bjorn opened his mouth and tried to breath in. He finds himself going in and out of consciousness as his vision becomes blurry.

The war hammer he carried before was just at the tip of his fingers, laid down next to him. Bjorn tried to reach it but a foot pressed down his hand from doing so. The Executioner looked up and saw his enemy. Blood trailed down the man’s armor and helmet, dripping at Bjorn’s face.

It was too late for him to realize. Too late for him to notice who they are fighting against. An army without cavalry, armor crafted from the toughest steels one could find, wielding swords and weapons capable of decimating armies three times the size of their own. An army that hailed from a land beyond Calradia.
Too late for Bjorn. If he noticed earlier, he could’ve ordered his army to retreat. His eyes widened in disbelief but yet again, he was too late to save himself and the Guards.

They were fighting the Knighthood Order, the Forlorn Hope of Mettenheim.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Finally chapter 18 is out. I wanted this chapter to bridge between the two different worlds of Calradia and Pendor itself through the introduction of the Forlorn Hope.

I picture the Immortal Guards similar to the old Varangian Guards of the Byzantine Empire (if I'm not mistaken). The IG of Rhodoks are also based on the Achaemenid Empire's Immortals in concept which is there will always be 10,000 men which brings to the belief that they are actually immortal.

I don't have any screenshots of Mettenheim, so I take it from the wikia page which can be found on the Mettenheim Greatswords page. Ever wondered why I made them 'agile' and 'tough'? Because they are in the mod itself and stated in the wikia page as well.

Well, that's all for today! Tell me what you think of the chapter and if you have any suggestions, feel free to comment down.

EDIT: Finally added in the screenshot for the Immortal Guards! I have downloaded a separate mod to take the screenshot which is Crusader Deus Vult. It's an unfinished mod and sadly, it's abandoned. So I'll have to download a better Crusaders mod for this purpose.

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Good chapter, keep on work

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 19: Duties To Uphold​

Deckard Winters,
The outskirts of Suno,
8th year of Harlaus’ reign on the Swadians,​

The New Emperor, the Savior of Calradia, King of the Land, Bringer of Peace and the Emperor in the East. Names that have been used to describe the role that Deckard must take. A heavy burden have been bestowed upon his shoulders.

He left the vicinity of Praven and marched with his army of two thousand knights to the village of Yaragar where the claimant was last seen. He had heard of how she rose to power, why she raised an army. Deckard had sent the man named Luther away to spread the word to the townsfolk alongside his own companions for a few weeks.

His men talked about the losses the Swadians have suffered ever since the Nords began their attacks only to be worsened by Isolla’s rise against the current king. Reports have stated the a few of the Swadian lords have defected and served the claimant while those who stayed loyal to Harlaus, would have to fight in a terrible civil war.

It was at the dawn of the day when he reached Yaragar. The smell of fruits and villages lingered in the air, the sound of children, women and men can be heard in the distance.

Surprised to see the village was intact, he rode closer towards the village center and met the elder. His eyes darted from building to building, apparently shocked to see there were no signs of conflict. Deckard rode to the elder’s house and dismounted.

“Good morning, village elder.” Deckard greeted and bowed as a sign of respect. He acknowledges them as equals. To him, the villagers played a crucial part in sustaining a kingdom’s prosperity and those who are ignorant of their well being would certainly deteriorate their nation’s overall wealth.

The village elder bowed in response, “How may I help you, Lord Deckard?”

“The village seems to be in a fine condition. I heard that Lady Isolla was last spotted here?” he asked. “I’m quite surprised to see that she didn’t raid this village for her goals.”

“Ah, that.” The village elder noted. “Come and walk with me. We’ll talk along the way,”

The old man took a stroll along the village with Deckard at his side. The Praevorian saw the farmers and villagers working hard to produce things such as cheese, butter, wool and anything that would keep their settlement alive.

The red autumn leaves were carried away by the warm winds. The scent of dirt and the sound of the children playing. All of it reminded Deckard of how peace was like. For many months since he arrived on this war torn land, he sees war as a constant companion to the nations.

It reminded him of home.

“Lady Isolla was the daughter of the previous king. His only daughter and child.” The elder spoke out. His eyes looking at the hardworking men in the fields then shifted to the farmers who have returned from trading. “She was named heir by her father.”

“Then…why isn’t she the ruler of Swadia?” Deckard asked curiously.
“Harlaus took the throne from her. Deeming that a woman is not fit to become the sole monarch of a sovereign nation. That man had garnered many titles to his name during his time as king. Harlaus the Great, Harlaus the Unstoppable. Sometimes the people would even call him Harlaus the Idiot for him ignoring the pleas of his people as he throws feasts endlessly. Drinking ale and wine with his lords.” The elder continued. He brought the Deckard to a hill where both of them can see the whole village from above.

“But one name is remembered from our hearts. Echoed silently every time his name was mentioned. We would all know him as Harlaus the Usurper.” The old man sat down on the grass.

Deckard does the same, appreciating the beauty of the village and the untouched serenity of its surroundings. At the time, the sun almost sets as the golden light of day returned behind the mountains.

The skies blazed with the color of the sun and the moon and stars began to conquer the night as they appear. The farmers, the woman and the children head inside their houses.

“It’s beautiful,” Deckard uttered under his breath.

The elder stood up, “If you’re wondering why Lady Isolla didn’t destroy our lands, the answer is simple – she’s a Swadian. She loves the people just like the rest of us. But she sees how the people lived during Harlaus’ rule and it prompted her to rise against him.” The old man walked down the hill and gestured to Deckard to come over. “Come, let us eat.”

At that moment, Deckard felt accepted. Even during his time spent as a lord, he felt like he was ‘cast’ out because of his origin as a foreigner from a land far away. He felt that the lords wouldn’t accept him because of how different he was, how he rose from a simple mercenary to a vassal of Swadia. But the village elder instead accepted him as if he were one of their own.

As he walked down the hill alongside the old man, he saw the villagers started handing out food to the soldiers that have set up camp on the outskirts of the village. Fruits, vegetables, bread, chicken, beef and others were carried out from their homes and given to the soldiers.

“The villagers shouldn’t have done that. You need this items more than we do, elder,” Deckard said to the old man, his eyes fixed upon the village folks as they lined up and gave his men their own supplies.

His wrinkled face lets out a small laugh, “We’re doing what we can to help the nation, milord. If we are incapable of defending ourselves in the field, at least we can provide aid by giving your soldiers food and supplies.” He pats the back of the Praevorian.

Deckard felt warm in his heart. He was grateful for the people of Yaragar who are willing to give them their own goods for the betterment of the nation.
Then Deckard ate with the elder’s family in their homes. He slowly gained the trust of the people as it seems. The people of Yaragar accepted him, but what of the villagers from beyond this settlement? It’s something that he must think of.

Deep inside he knew that declaring his independence and revolted against Harlaus would be sudden and tragic as the Swadians would have to involve in a terrible civil war. If he did, Harlaus, Deckard and Lady Isolla would fight each other upon the fields with their men – only one shall become the true monarch of Swadia.

They talked about the current situation of the world. The elder shared what the villagers heard during times away from their homes. Deckard heard of the rumors that a few Swadian garrisons have been swiftly defeated by Isolla’s army and she has been gaining more supporters as each day passes. They talked about the nations that are prone to succumb to a civil war of their own, each with their own claimants wanting the throne for themselves.

Deckard and his army left the vicinity of Yaragar a few days later with their supplies restocked by the people earlier. They marched upon the city of Dhirim where the Praevorian expected a large force of Isolla’s armies stationed right outside its gates.

But he was wrong.

White and red banners carrying the sigil of a golden lion flaps in the wind, hung over the walls of Dhirim as they have replaced the old ones. Swadian soldiers up on the walls bear the same standard on their armors and there were signs of conflict.

Destroyed siege towers remained outside of Dhirim, engineers repaired the towers in the bright of day and corpses were dragged out of the streets in wagons. “By the gods,” Firentis uttered as he saw the condition Dhirim was in. “Dhirim must have fallen a few days before we got here,”

They marched closer upon Dhirim. As they near the walls, the soldiers that were stationed inside the city sallied out and making formations in front of Deckard’s army.

“They think we’re about to attack them,” Jeremus noted.

In that instance, Deckard’s spearman formed a wall in front of him in response to the defenders. Shield to shield, shoulder to shoulder, they formed up a formidable line as they prepare for what comes next. The two armies faced each other, ready to kill and strike on their commander’s orders.

Deckard remained on his horse, waiting for the opposing army to strike first. His eyes caught the sight of an eagle on a black and white field – the banners of Count Haringoth. “No,” he mumbled.

The Count rode out from the walls of Dhirim and met Deckard on the field. He wears a red brigandine armor with a visor. Behind him were his own Guard, the Vanguards of the Woods he’d call them. They too carry the same banners as the rest of his own army.

Haringoth’s Vanguard donned a white armor, decorated with golden patterns and is comprised of seven different individuals that their commander deemed worthy. Their shoulder pads were in the shape of an eagle’s head and they each a weapon of their own – war hammer, a great sword, a bastard sword and among others.

“Lord Deckard of Praevor!” he called out.

“Lord Haringoth!” Deckard responded. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s Baron Haringoth now, I’m afraid. As you can see, I have renounced my oath to Harlaus the Usurper and swear fealty to the true heir of Swadia herself, Lady Isolla.” He said, gesturing to his men to put their weapons away. They did as they were told.

Deckard ordered his men to do the same, “But why?” he asked. So it is true that Isolla managed to gain the support of a few lords of Swadia, first it was Haringoth and the next? Only time will tell. “Aren’t you risking the lives of many by plunging our nation into chaos? We are at war with the Nords, don’t you remember? Another war – “

“The Nords helped Isolla.” He interrupted.

With just a few simple words, it shocked Deckard. His eyes widened at the revelation and his heart dropped. His gripped around the reins of his horse tightened as he tries to open his mouth to speak.

“Why do you think that the Nords began attacking the Swadians? The answer is simple – to weaken the Swadian army.” Haringoth responded. “Ragnar provided the Lady with everything she needed to support her campaign against Harlaus. She even bought the famed Three Thousand Sons of the Nords.”

The Three Thousand Sons. A name that has been echoed throughout Nordic history. A force of disciplined men with their spirits remained unbroken during times of crisis. They gained their legendary renown at the Assault on Wercheg against the barbaric tribes of the Men of the Mountains. Three thousand men, reinforced by only a few hundred soldiers against 20,000 barbarians united under the leadership of Arric the Ultimate.

“The Three Thousand Sons?” Deckard tilted his head at the unfamiliar name.

“It’s the name of one of the few legendary armies of the Nords, Lord Deckard. Trained since childhood to become the perfect warriors and defenders of their country, their last line of defense should the Nords were invaded.” Firentis explained.

The sound of a horn boomed behind Deckard’s army. He turned around and saw soldiers emerging over a hill. The red and white banners that hung over at Dhirim’s wall were carried by these soldiers. Deckard’s archers and crossbowmen turned their attention to the approaching army. Arrows nocked and bolts loaded.

More than three thousand footsteps can be heard in the distance as the soldiers marched in unison. As they came into full view, Deckard saw a large number of infantrymen donning a black armor and a helm with a red mane overflowing to their backs like a fiery stream of river.

To their flanks, there were the heavily armored knights – the cataphracts. Their steed and their riders were covered in steel and iron and leather from top to bottom. Forming the shape of a wedge as they await their commander’s orders.

“Infantry! Split in two and form a shield wall!” Deckard’s voice roared through the rest of his men. As ordered, his foot soldiers split in two separate groups and the first formed a shield wall facing Haringoth’s men while the other faced the army on the hills.

“That’s her,” Jeremus stated. “That’s Lady Isolla of Suno,” he pointed to a small group of horsemen standing behind their infantry lines. She wore lamellar armor coated in a dark green color while wearing a full-face helm with the face of a fearsome warrior. Her brown hair can be seen flowing from her back and swayed in the warm winds.

The Three Thousand Sons brandished their shields and lowered their spears. They stand closer to each of their brethren and supported each other by pushing forward with their shields. “Au!” they shouted in unison as they formed up.
Haringoth’s men began taking their position and resumed their previous orders. “Yield, Deckard of Praevor!” he shouted to his former friend. “You are surrounded!”

Deckard clenched his jaw and pulled Excalibur out of its sheath, letting out a metallic shriek as it slides off. Its blade shines in the sun’s rays. “Crimson Rose!” he shouted.

“Aye!” they responded with their hearts joined together in a single song. Fear was common even with the ones who spent years of fighting in endless battles. Today was no exception. They were severely outnumbered and surrounded by the enemy, there is no hope of victory.

“This could be our end,” Firentis said, patting Deckard’s shoulder and pulled out his own sword.

“No,” Deckard uttered. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, tightening his grip. “This could be our beginning,” he looked at Firentis and Jeremus before shifting his gaze to Excalibur.

Isolla raised her sword and her cavalry charged down the hill like a wave of an unstoppable giants. Their hooves shook the ground with every step. Deckard’s spearmen tightened their formation as the archers and crossbowmen fired a volley of arrows and bolts through the air.

Firentis raised his sword, “For the King!” he roared like a lion. He led the auxiliary forces into battle, comprised of mercenary cavalry and horsemen, hired blades and such. His own force echoed his words as they charged into battle. His horsemen halted the enemy cavalry in their tracks while those who managed to avoid Firentis’ attack, pushed towards the infantry line.

Jeremus was in command of the forces that faced against Haringoth’s men. Deckard knew that his forces were too little to be able to face against the massive force of the rebel army. But he had try to even if it’s a small percentage of them obtaining a decisive victory.

Deckard lead the main knights to circle around his formation. He gets a clear sight of Isolla and her own guards up on the hills. His knights pushed through, clashing against the might of the Three Thousand Sons. Their spears stabbed through their armored horses and some were killed at the moment of impact.
A javelin cuts through the air and hits Deckard’s horse at the head, killing it instantly. He was thrown off the corpse of his horse and far into the enemy’s lines. As he tried to get up, he was surrounded by a few soldiers of the Three Thousand, aiming their spears at Deckard.

“Yield,” Isolla’s voice is cold and flat, without any sign of emotion to her. Her face is obscured by her helmet as she looked down at Deckard from her steed.

One of the soldiers lunged his spear towards the Praevorian. Deckard stepped aside and swung his sword downwards, shattering the man’s shield with a single blow. He drove Excalibur into the man’s heart and a gush of blood followed by the gurgling sounds of death. Another one did the same, only to meet his end at the swift cut of his blade aimed at the man’s throat.

Isolla observed how Deckard fights. He fought with a sense of anger and vengeance in every swing of his sword, how he brutally dispatched each of her own men while sustaining injuries. Her crossbowmen landed their marks on Deckard, but it did not hinder the man’s fighting capabilities.

She went down from her steed and walked towards Deckard with her sword in her hand. Its blade were as dark as the night sky, its hilt is said to be made from the bones of a dragon. She holds the weapon known as the Dragon’s Fury, a weapon passed down from previous kings to their heirs.

Her men backed away from Deckard as they saw their commander approaches and resumed their positions. Deckard pants heavily, arrows and bolts protruded on his back and arms. Blood trickled down his armor but his grip around his sword never loosened despite the exhaustion starts to take over.

Isolla raised her sword and swings at him, the Dragon’s Fury clashed with Excalibur. The sound of its metal striking at one another is almost reminiscent of two dragons roaring at each other in the skies.

The two dueled. Isolla fought him with a deadly, beautiful grace to each of her precise and calculated strikes. Deckard retaliated with a recklessness and relentless fury to every blow. Sparks flew across the area as the two swords clash but as soon as Deckard starts to gain the upper hand, he takes the chance to end this.

He swung his sword aimed at Isolla’s head, but she was too quick. As swift as the wind and agile the cats of Sarran. Deckard’s sword hits the mask the covered her face and knocked it off her. He attacked with every bit of his strength left in his muscles, Damn it. He said to himself.

Isolla’s face was as fair as a maiden. Her eyes were just as blue as the seas beyond Praven’s ports. Brown strands of her hair falls onto her face and red liquid trickled down her chin to her neck – Deckard’s blade merely grazed her.

As soon as he begins to strike her again, Deckard felt a strong blow to his face. A cold, hard steel struck his jaw like a battering ram. Deckard was thrown aside and Excalibur slipped away from his fingers.

Deckard’s vision shifted from clear and blurry. At the time he already felt that death had gripped his soul. His arms didn’t listened to him nor did his legs. He couldn’t move. He looked back and saw a man wearing a black brigandine armor and a black salet with a visor. He carried a large sword of his back. He’s the one that punched him, no doubt.

He cursed himself. He should’ve yielded sooner. His men will be slaughtered and imprisoned because of his actions. He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out of his lips.

Darkness surrounds him as he fell unconscious.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey! Time for another update! Sorry if this took so long. I've been busy for the past few days and only got little time to write this.

I tried to make Isolla a bit more intimidating while trying to expand what the world has to offer. The M&B games have little in terms of lore which allows me to expand on stuff that hasn't been done before. I also plan to introduce a new character by the next few chapters and would focus on the Swadian Revolution and the Sarranid-Rhodoks War more in Book 2.

Also, I've been playing Sands of Faith which allows me to get more screenshots and also get better ones for the Sultanate's forces. Although the resolution isn't as good as it used to be since playing at higher resolutions would crash my game for the mod.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! Sorry for the lack of screenshots again.

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Great and interesting chapter

 

[Stormfall_03]

Thanks a lot for liking it! I am planning for an NPC to become the POV character for the next chapter.



Here's some of the stuff I've added with little bits of lore inserted.

The Order of the Immortal Sun is an ancient knighthood order that guards the massive fortification out in the deserts of Sarran (where the Sarranid Sultanate resides). They answer to no one except to their Grandmaster and only to the Emperor of Calradia.

The Deathriders is a band of knights donning black armors who wandered across Calradia while purging evil. They have many names such as the Legion of Scales or the Knights With Charred Armor. It has been stated in legends that they fought against Halag, a demon that resires far into the deserts and that it flames burnt the plates of their armor. After that, they wandered across the land slaying those who are evil and the supernatural who terrorizes the innocent. They align to no one.

The Scholars are a term used to describe the recorders of history and is responsible for writing books that contained historical information. They too compile legends and folklore that have significance to the overall history of Calradia. They have guilds located in all cities and towns, allowing them easy access for the people. Some of the kingdoms regarded them as lower than farmers as their only purpose is to "write books for the little kids"

The Exiled is widely used to describe the demonic forces that resided far into the deserts. Not much is known about the Exiled except it has been stated quite a few times in legends that they have control over the dead, there's quote about them that mentioned "Their flames is as hot as the sun, their skin were of iron and flesh, hideous beasts that hailed from the deserts of Sarran. Halag was just their sentinel, Azga'al was only their general, their armies was led by the Ashen God."

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Interesting stuff. Your AAR is well-written and has a intriguing story. I am only which read and comment this AAR from here(unpopularity of them is due as many prefer watch LPs than read AARs, also age of Warband is another reason why this thing happens) I am happy as you have choose to download Sands of Faith, I recommended to play Hispania 1200(SOF is based on that mod)

 

[Stormfall_03]

Warband is an old game but in my opinion, games that supports mods lived the longest. I'll try Hispania 1200 whenever I have the time tho.

And once again, thanks for liking the AAR so far!

On a side note: I take screenshots from Sands of Faith because I didn't find any depictions of Sultan Hakim that fits my description. So I played that and captured a few nice ones while playing as Saladin. I've gotta say, it's a fun mod so far and I'm shouting "Deus Vult!" whenever I play as a templar xD.

I'll upload them whenever I can since the internet isn't so great for me since these couple of days.

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 20: The Heart of a Lion​

Lady Isolla of Suno,
The city of Dhirim,
1st year of Isolla’s Rebellion,​

It felt like hitting a mountain made of iron, the one they call Deckard was more than troublesome to deal with. Manage to dispatch more than a dozen of the Sons while being heavily injured is no minor feat. Even the Nords would fall dead after being shot a few times by the archers but he didn’t.

“Oh Richard,” her voice was as cold as ice, contradicting her gaze that’s as warm as flames. “I had him, you know.”

He clenched his fist, looking down at Deckard’s body after he landed the blow upon his face. Richard turned to Isolla, “Really? Didn’t seemed like you’re winning.”

Isolla raised her black bladed sword and spins it around, a sign of ceasing all fights occurring at the moment at once. The horns lets out a deafening sound, signaling all forces to stop fighting – the Crimson Rose has fallen.

Deckard’s men stopped fighting. They saw his body in the distance and quickly surrendered as they saw no hope of victory even if they fought valiantly. They knelt down in shame and defeat while the victors lets out a cheerful roar as they won.

She approached Deckard’s body, “He’s still alive. Put him in the dungeons underneath Dhirim. Do the same for his men, give those who are injured medical care.” She said to Richard.

The man nodded at his liege’s orders and carried Deckard’s body away, handing him over to the others to be brought into the dungeons. The Three Thousand Sons began capturing those who surrendered, shackling them with chains and brought into Dhirim’s walls.

Isolla looked down at Deckard’s sword, astonished by its beauty and marveled at its fine craft. She grabbed the hilt of the sword and felt like a thousand mountains crushing upon her hand, her skin felt the metal burnt like fire as her fingers curled around it. She grimaced and winced in pain before letting the sword go.

“My lady?” Richard called out and walked to her side.

Isolla took off her gauntlet and looked at her fingers. There were no signs of injury, no signs of her skinned burnt by the scorching heat of the sword. As Richard called out, she quickly turned to face and clenched her fist, “Is there anything do you need?”

He shook his head, “Nothing, my lady. The prisoners have all been captured and sent to Dhirim’s dungeons.”

She nodded at his words, “Good work as always. Go ahead and bolster the city’s defenses. Send recruiters to nearby villagers to see if anyone wanted to join as volunteers. We needed more men to secure Dhirim.” She said to Richard.

Her right hand man nodded before he left to carry out her orders. She looked at the fields outside the city, ravaged by the fires of conflict and war. She swore to change Swadia with all her heart. For Swadia. She told herself. Like a mantra of sorts to keep herself moving forward.

She saw the black sheath to Deckard’s sword laid far away from her, probably fallen off during the time he fell off his horse. Isolla picked it up and observed it. This seems quite familiar. She thought, trying to recall where she had seen the sheath and the sword before.

Isolla slides the sword into its sheath without touching the hilt and carried it alongside her. With the sheath in place, it didn’t felt as heavy as it was unsheathed.

The claimant heads into Dhirim and into the castle halls, she didn’t have time to think about throwing a feast nor to sit back and relax for a few days. Time is essential to winning a war. The words that echoed in her mind, told to her by her father – the previous Swadian king. She needed plans, she needed allies, she needed more soldiers to her aid.

It wasn’t easy. King Harlaus would have the support of the majority of the Swadian lords while Isolla only had a few, Haringoth, Regas, Rochabath and a few others.

She pulled out a map of the land and marked where her outposts and garrisons were located. She planned this ever since the throne was taken by Harlaus, making preparations for her to rise up against him.

“Lady Isolla!” a voice called out as the door to the castle opens. A man wearing lamellar armor with scale gauntlets entered the halls with a parchment in his hand, his face is wrinkled and a scar is visible down his left eye. “The recruits have reported that the Swadians are signing a truce with the Nords.” The man said, handing the report to Isolla.

She took it from the man’s hands and read through its details. Swadia calls for a truce with the Nords. This could only mean one thing, Harlaus would put all his efforts in crushing her army and her forces. “Anything else, Master Grayson?”

“Nothing else. Recruiters have been sent out to surrounding villages, we can expect a few hundred volunteers will be here in the next few days.” Grayson spoke. His name is forgotten across the ages, an old warrior once renowned for his deeds during the Invasion of Marinn decades before Harlaus’ reign.

At the time, Swadia was under attack by a force from the Marinn Empire. Its fleets were more than three thousand ships and 100,000 soldiers ready for battle. Soldiers were stationed along the shores and met with the invading fleet weeks after fortifications were built.

The battle was furious and chaotic, the soldiers of Marinn fought valiantly as they came in wave after wave to fight against the might of Swadia. Bodies piled up along the coastline, the sea turned red with their blood as their bodies drifted away by the waves. The invasion lasted for weeks and Marinn drained most of its resources into this invasion.

Tevarin Castle was built at the place where the soldiers of Swadia died fighting defending their homeland. A statue has been built to honor the fallen. Master Grayson is a relic of a time long before the reign of the current king.

“How many men do we have?” she asked the Master. Knowing that after the small battle outside the walls of Dhirim ended in a total victory for them, but Deckard’s men fought until the end and managed to slay one third of their entire army.

“Around ten thousand are ready at your command. The Three Thousand Sons are more than eager to meet their enemies on the field, my lady.” Grayson responded.

“It’s not enough,” she clasped her hands and covered her face, sighing.

“Nothing is ever enough in war. The bloodshed, the sacrifices, the deaths. It won’t end until everyone dies one way or another.” The old man pats her shoulder. “You started this rebellion. Harlaus took the throne from you and you have to take it back. Your soldiers chose to depend on you because they believe in what you can do,”

She curled her lips into a smile. Her eyes said otherwise. Grief, sadness, pain encompasses her every being that she led her men into death by rebelling against Harlaus. “Thanks,”

“You should rest, let me take over and handle the troops for a while.”

“You’re right, thanks again, Uncle Grayson,” she thanked him, leaving the castle halls and went up the stairs into her own chambers.

Isolla closed the doors and pulled off the straps of her armor. It embraces her skin like a monster’s jaw on flesh. The armor thuds as it hits the floor and took off her greaves and gauntlets.

Exhaustion took over her as she jumps onto the bed like a teenager would. The words of her father, King Esterich would echo in her mind. Be their leader. He’d told her time and time again. Gain their trust. She sighed as she laid her forearm on her head as her eyes gazed upon the ceiling.

Some days later, Isolla heads over to the dungeons with Deckard’s sword carried on her back. Its behavior intrigued her, as if the sword possessed a magical property to it. She needed answers to her questions. At her side was Richard, her right hand man.

The prisoners went silent as Isolla stepped into the dungeons with full battle armor. Her face obscured once more with a mask and her armor is as dark as the night skies with shades of green. Her footsteps clank at every step and a cold, yet menacing aura surrounds her as she kept her gaze towards the end of the dungeons.

The captives curled up into a ball as they watched her moving slowly through the cells. Her gaze is as menacing as a lion. Fitting for the one they call the Lion’s Daughter. Her brown flows down her back like a stream and she moved with a beautiful yet cold and deadly grace.

Richard remained outside the dungeons, as he watched the people repairing the broken towers and walls of Dhirim as a consequence of the loyalist soldiers who defended the city with everything they had to offer – their lives.

Isolla reached the end of the hallways, Deckard was imprisoned a cell much further than the rest of the prisoners. The cell next to him was empty, so is the one in front of him and the ones beside it. He was chained to the wall but his wounds were treated by the apothecaries under her command. Deckard was stripped of his armor, his skin was littered with scars and bruises and wounds sustained from countless battles. Each had its own tale to be told.

“I was told that you were the Champion of Swadia, Lord Deckard.” Her voice sharp and soft in tone as she leaned forward at the iron bars.

Deckard scoffed, “And I was told that you were the daughter of the previous Swadian king.” He replied, leaning against the cold stone walls of his cell with his lowered down to the ground. His black raven hair falls on his face like vines on a tree. “What do you hope to attain after all this?” he said, his fiery eyes looking at her through the strands of his hair.

His gaze almost made her stumble. She never met someone who would respond to her words with such bravery and without fear aside from her closest comrades and soldiers. His eyes emanated the sense of recklessness and a hope that burns within him like a raging fire.

Isolla took a deep breath and curled her fingers to grip the iron bars with both her hands, “Peace. Peace for the Swadians.” She answered.

“That’s it?” Deckard asked once more as he wiped the side of his chin. He lets out a weak laugh. He was behind the bars for a few days, survived only with few scraps of bread given to him by the guards. He raised his head and looked at Isolla, noticing that she carried his sword. “That thing isn’t yours,”

She grabbed the weapon that she carried and held it in her hand, “This? This worthless piece of metal?” Isolla said as she grabbed the hilt, trying to pull it out. The sword didn’t move, its blade embraces its sheath tightly. Her hand trembled as she exerts all her strength into pulling it out.

Deckard scoffed at the sight, “You’re unworthy,” he said dryly as he stands up.
She released the sword and tilted her head looking at him – intrigued by his words, no doubt. “Unworthy of what?”

“Of using the sword,”

Then she heard whispers. Silent voices spoke to her like ghosts haunting a person. She lets the sword go and a loud thud was heard echoing through the dungeons. The voices went silent as if they were slain. She looked at him, with rage burning in her eyes and radiated from her like flames. Isolla grabbed the chains around Deckard’s hands pulled him closer to the bars, “Tell me. What in the heavens is that sword?”

Deckard grits his teeth, “You should do your homework princess. Answers won’t come as easily as you thought. But if you insist of knowing what it is, I’ll tell you.”

He told her.

He told her of the Sword of Kings. How the sword came into his possession and how heavy the task is to be on his shoulders – uniting all of Calradia is no easy task. Isolla knows this feeling well, yet she didn’t believe everything he spoke of.

“Lies. The Sword of Kings won’t just reappear like that. It has been lost decades before at the time of the Last Emperor’s death.” She said.

“That’s what I thought.” Deckard replied as he sat down on the cold floor with his back against the stone walls. “Then they speak of the Exiled and others of that kind. ‘Doom is coming’ they say. ‘It’s inevitable’” he remembered the words that Luther spoke to him before Deckard sent him out on a task to spread the word about him. The words sends a cold, terrifying chill down his spine. He felt like winter itself had grasp his very heart and soul.

Isolla did too. She felt a sense of dread coming from Deckard’s words. The Exiled. The long forgotten beasts of the deserts of Sarran. Demonic beings of fire and flame and ash with skin as hard as iron and heart as cold as ice. It has been centuries since they were last seen far into the deserts and faded into legends and fairy tales told to scare the children.

She then remembered of rumors that a few ships carrying ‘pointy-eared’ people had arrived a few weeks earlier on the shores near Wercheg. She was told of the ships were not of human design but of something else. It is possible that it was built by an empire far from the coasts of Calradia but other possibilities came into her mind – like a sentient race she hadn’t seen before.

Then the door to the dungeons bursts open, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Lady Isolla!” a young voice of a boy called out as he ran towards her. “Dire news my lady!”

The Lion’s Daughter turned to him, her hair swirls as she turned. “What is it young boy?”

“King Harlaus is marching upon Dhirim! Our scouts near Burglen spotted him leading an army that would wipe us out!”

“How many men do they have boy?” Her words were sharp and direct, cold without emotion. Her gaze locked at the boy’s eyes.

He gulped and took a deep breath, “Around twenty thousand men, my lady. They’ll arrive in five days, tops,”

“Let me go,” Deckard’s voice spoke out from his cell.

“No,” she kept her gaze away from him. “You’re a prisoner. You won’t fight,”

“Boy,” Deckard ignored her. He fixed his attention to the young messenger. The halls are dark and he could only make out the silhouette of his armor, leather and lamellar gauntlets. A small bag hanging on his side. “How many men do you have stationed in the garrison?”

“Only more than five thousand soldiers. A large portion of it are still injured.”
Deckard turns to Isolla, “And you hope to win against Harlaus with that little men you have? Release me and my men. I’ll fight.”

“What makes you think that I need your help?” she asked.

“Because I know a way for us to win the battle. I hailed from a land called Praevor. Our tactics are far different than those you’ve seen here. It’s a small kingdom, but our lords bicker and fight each other like children. Almost like the Swadians but we are strong. During the Praevorian Civil War, we were attacked by the Volirian Empire.” Deckard then told her of the ways of his kingdom. How the Praevorians managed to fight against a large empire while plunging themselves into a civil war. “Your nation is divided like mine. We’ve fought larger battles back home. All because we knew how to win,”

She watched him with intrigued and grinned under her mask. Isolla was interested in him. “There’s always surprises with you, Champion of Swadia,”



Days after the message was sent to the men at Dhirim. Deckard had made preparations for the upcoming battle. He had the engineers built massive siege weapons to be stationed on the walls that fired large bolts strong enough to shatter a siege tower within a single strike – a weapon that he learnt how to build during his time fighting against the Volirian Empire.

He had men waiting at the gates, all equipped with the same weapons and armor – a shield, a spear, a sword and scale armor which allowed them to move at ease.

Isolla was there watching him barked out orders for the men as he prepared the fortifications to be used against Harlaus’ men. Her mind is filled with questions once more, wondering why Deckard suddenly wanted to switch sides without her needing to persuade him to do so.

She kept her mind on the coming battle. Twenty thousand men against the might of just five thousand with the addition of Deckard’s own two thousand soldiers fit for battle. Seven thousand isn’t enough. She told herself. At this time, she doubted Deckard’s capabilities but chose to trust him. Because all of her efforts would be all for naught if they were severely defeated by Harlaus at the battle.

Dusk approaches and rain poured down from the heavens. The lightning cracks the sky and the roars of thunder can be heard in the distance. Its loud booms shook the ground with every strike. Felt by the men waiting for the battle.

Harlaus and his soldiers arrived at the gates of Dhirim. Isolla saw the sheer number of King Harlaus’ soldiers standing in formation. She saw siege towers at the back of his army and trebuchets loaded and ready to hurl massive burning boulders at the city.

Harlaus charging with his army​

Isolla had the civilians evacuated hours before the battle begin. Her heart is at ease when they managed to find safety away from the chaos of the battle.
His army marched forward and the siege towers were pushed closer towards the walls. “Shields!” she ordered.

“Nock!” Her archers and crossbowmen nocked and loaded their weapons, waiting for Isolla’s words to fire at will. “Draw!” The army draws closer, the sound of twenty thousand men marching becomes clearer and louder as the seconds went by. Isolla waited for the perfect moment to order her men to let the arrows fly and looked at Deckard who manned one of the siege weapons on top the walls, covered by a massive sheet of leather.

“Loose!” a volley of arrows rained upon the men below. Deckard pulled away at the leather sheet that covered the siege weapon and set the tip of the large spear-like bolts ablaze with flames. He’d call them the Wyverns.

He loaded the bolt onto the weapon and took aim at one of the siege towers that are close to the walls. He fired. Sending a large and flaming metallic bolt upon the wooden structure of the tower. It shattered its very foundations, collapsing onto the ground and killing those who are unlucky enough to be inside.

The Assault on Dhirim begins.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yay! 20 chapters! In this one, I wanted to use Lady Isolla of Suno as one of the main characters. I find her claim is stronger than any other claimants considering that she is the rightful heir to the throne of Swadia. Of course, with her I planned to expand on Swadian lore as well.

The Invasions of Marinn are inspired by the Mongol Invasions of Japan which leads to the establishment of Tevarin Castle at the far side of Swadia. Which in turn helped me to add more newer stuff to the overall lore. Keep in mind that this was written before the release of Bannerlord (only the Heavens know when they'll release this xD) so those who are new or read this after its release, it's all just fanmade and all.

The screenshot used was from Sands of Faith v2.3.4. Other screenshots are included in the spoilers below:

隐藏: Sands of Faith Screenies

This is how I imagined Hakim would look like

Siege of Andratum, played as Master Robert de Sable here

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Excellent chapter. Amazing screenshots

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 21: He Is The Oath-Breaker​

Deckard Winters,
The city of Dhirim,
1st year of Isolla’s Rebellion,​

He no longer served the one they call the Usurper but he himself do not serve the one they call the Lion’s Daughter. Two sides bickering over control of a small part of land on Calradia. Deckard remembered the time he fought in the Howling Griffins where the land of Praevor was plunged into chaos by the greedy.

He remembered how everything was chaos. The king of Praevor died without an heir and so the lords started to lay claims upon the empty throne. They fought. They fought over the throne with armies well in the thousands. They fought and killed each other, betraying one another. Friends turned enemies, rivals became allies.

Deckard knew the true face of war. Its horrible nature sprawls more than just the bloodshed upon the field. It seeps into the ranks of every political and military organizations, weakening their leaders in order for one person to become the supreme ruler of all.

Now he sees the lords of Calradia as the same people who’d destroy the land with their greed. There was no salvation for them even if the gods have chosen their champions to fight in this terrible war for the empty throne. He thought of the Calradic lords were mere squabbles between whiny children as they have not seen the true nature of war itself.

The Assault on Dhirim​

The Praevorian loaded a long metallic spear into the Wyvern, a siege weapon used by the people of his homeland to repel attacks from the enemy. It is much more powerful than a ballista, three times more in fact. Its sheer size allowed the weapon to possess such power that it could shatter a siege tower with a single spear.

Deckard lit the tip of the spear on fire and aimed for a siege tower. The heavy rain muffled the sounds of fighting commencing on a few parts of the wall. He kept his eyes fixed on one of the tower and took a deep breath, pulling the trigger as the spear lunges through the air as fast as lightning.

In a single strike of the Wyvern’s power, a siege tower crumbled to the ground. Some were crushed by its sheer weight and those who are unlucky enough to be caught by the spear’s tremendous strength would find themselves reduced into chunks of flesh.

However, he knew that the Wyvern isn’t enough to win this battle. There were only 3 of these weapons were managed to be constructed in time and is stationed across the top of the walls. Each would only have to carry 10 spears as ammunition. If only he had the time to construct more, it would still be not enough.

The lightning cracks open the sky and illuminated the dark surroundings of the city. Evening approaches as the battle entered its second hour and many of the soldiers have been slain on both sides. Arrows flew across the fields like a flock of birds hungry for human flesh. Its haunting whistles kept the soldiers on guard and their shields high.

It wasn’t long before the loyalist army reached the top of the walls with ladders and the remaining siege towers. The defenders fought to their end against the vicious onslaught of the Knights and Sergeants. Their war cries are hard and long, roars of glory and honor in the name of their liege.

Some fell to the ground as they fight, some met their demise at the end of a sword. While a few were horrified to fight against their brothers, their former friends and allies. What accompanies the glorious roars were the haunting wails of sorrow and grief, unleashed by those who fought their long time companions and brethren.

Deckard fired the last of the spears of his Wyvern at the enemy, obliterating a good chunk of the enemy soldiers with its terrifying power. He heard the Swadian loyalists coming for his position and unsheathes Excalibur.

Three of the Sergeants are heading for his way, four others were Knights armed with axes, spiked maces and deadly flails. They attacked, unable to recognize Deckard as he wore a segmented plate armor with his shoulder pads in the shape of a lion – given to him by Isolla as his previous armor is broken beyond repair. He wore a helmet with a mask that obscured his face from the enemy and a mane that flows down his back like a dragon’s tail.

He draws Excalibur from its scabbard and the lightning cracks open the sky once more. Its thunderous roars shook the ground as rain poured heavily from the heavens as if the gods are about to unleash their wrath. The light was reflected on Excalibur’s blade, its ripples can be clear seen by those around him.
With a swing of his sword, he broke a spear that was aiming for his heart and drove the tip of its blade into the Sergeants throat. One. He counted. The blade of his sword was wet with blood and rain, the Sergeant’s body thump onto the wet ground as Deckard moved to strike the next.

He remembered the days back in his homeland, how the Howling Griffins fought against an army far larger than the one he fought today with much lesser troops. It was the Battle for Highwater Keep, with only four thousand men stationed within its walls against thirty thousand soldiers of the Volirian Empire – all trained since birth to become the perfect soldier – the backbone of the Empire’s war machine.

Fighting at Dhirim brings those memories back in a flash. It was his first battle, his most terrifying one. He recalled how he drove his newly forged sword into one man’s chest and saw his blade sticking out from the man’s back. At the time he would vomit at the sight of carnage and brutality. But that was 6 years ago. It was indeed a miracle that he survived the battle that day.

Adrenaline surged through his body like the cracks of lightning in the sky. Deckard swung Excalibur with his might and gutted a Knight with its sharp blade, the man screamed in pain and agony as his innards fell onto the ground. The Praevorian could only watch and pushed him off the wall to end the man’s suffering. Two.

Two more coming for him but they strike like recruits gripping their first weapons despite being Sergeants. Deckard picked up one of the morningstars at his feet and wielded it with one hand while Excalibur is in the other. They let out their war cry “In the name of the king!” they shouted.

The weight of the morningstar crushed the first Sergeant’s skull as he got too close with Deckard. He could no longer scream as his lifeless body thuds to the ground. The second attempted an overhead swing with his sword but Deckard was too quick and blood gushed out from the Sergeant’s throat with a quick swing of Excalibur.

Harlaus' men as they charged towards the city​

The battle was ruthless. There were no signs of mercy, no signs of honor. Only bloodshed. Seconds felt like hours, hours felt like days. Such is the nature of time during war.

Eventually, Deckard made his way to where Isolla was. He caught the sight of her black bladed sword, slicing through flesh and cutting through steel like butter. The light glimmers at the edge of her sword, thick red blood trickled down her fingers as she had slain many Swadian lives with her rage.

He saw how she fought that day. There was no mercy. Her cold and calculated self seemed to have been thrown away. Only her rage takes over, her every strike weighs like a mountain as shields were shattered by every blow of the Dragon’s Fury.

The former Swadian noble caught the sight of a man cleaving through the enemy with his gigantic Zweihander. It was without a doubt Isolla’s right hand man, Richard Leonhardt. The weapon would feel heavy when wielded by Deckard himself, it was as tall as himself and sharp. Yet, Richard swings it around effortlessly.

The Praevorian made his way down the courtyard where the men had engaged the Swadian soldiers who managed to breach the walls by tearing down the gates. The loyalists fought together, hearts joined in a silent song in service to their king. Isolla’s men fought back with an equal strength, their shields remained unbroken and spears impaling the flesh of the Sergeants that broke through their defenses.

As he reached the large courtyard, he saw a man swinging his spiked war hammer as the man crushed the skulls of the rebel army. Deckard saw him wearing a horned helm and the sigil of a ram on his breastplate – it was none other than Grainwad himself.

The Swadian lord swings his hammer down and reduced one of the heads of Isolla’s men into a pile of flesh. Shards of his skull stuck by the spikes of the hammer as Grainwad pulled away and sets his eyes upon Deckard, not knowing that it was the Champion of Swadia himself. Grainwad makes his way towards Deckard.

Memories of his past helped him remember how he survived against a terrifying foe. He recalled his first years training as a soldier, remembering the words of his trainer. Do not fear. His trainer told him as he was a mere Neophyte at the Griffins. Fear gives them power to rise. The words continued.

Grainwad was widely known to be the most ruthless among the Swadian lords when it comes to battle. The ‘Demon of Swadia’ they’d call him. With his hammer, he had crushed foes easily with his strength. He had a height that towers over the common people and some said that he possesses the strength of a giant. The lord earned the nickname, Grainwad the Giant.

The former Champion of Swadia looked at Grainwad the Giant as he approaches. His head raised as he looked at his former friend. He was just a head taller than him but his muscular frame and the armor gave him a terrifying and intimidating look.

Deckard took a deep breath and remained calm. His lips stiff and words weren’t uttered as he meets Grainwad. There was silence between the two as Deckard’s eyes carried the color of the flames meeting Grainwad’s brown pupils as it can be seen quite clearly from the slits of his helmet. There was only the sound of rain dropping on their armor as there were no words spoken between the two.

“I know it’s you, Deckard of Praevor.” Grainwad’s voice is as coarse as the sands of the beach. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his large hammer. His anger visible through his words. “You’ve betrayed the King, you’ve betrayed Swadia,” he says.

What I did was for the nation’s greater good. Deckard wanted to say. But he couldn’t get those words out from his mouth. He knew it well, he knew that he betrayed Swadia. He broke the oath to his king. It was his decision that brought him face to face with Grainwad and the wrath of Harlaus.

“I knew I shouldn’t trusted you,” Grainwad’s eyes narrowed. He raised his war hammer and as the lightning cracks across the dark skies of the night, he swung it down.

A burst of mud followed after Grainwad’s swing as Deckard managed to dodge it in the nick of time. He may be his former friend, but he stands as an enemy. There was no time for grief nor sadness on the field. His father’s words echo in his head as he regained his composure. His fingers curled around the hilt of the Excalibur and his eyes looked sharp into Grainwad’s own. Utter these words when you face a threat too large for you to handle. The voice of his father continued to speak to him, as clear as if he was still alive by his side.

Pain is my armor. Fear is my soul. I shall not falter, I shall not fail. For vengeance is my weapon. He said it in his heart like a mantra. It’s what his father told him and what his father’s father told them. The words that echoed throughout the ages that kept them going forward.

Deckard lunged forward with the speed of a cat and his weapon hungers like a predator in the woods. Grainwad saw him coming and swings his hammer, hurling mud at the Praevorian as the Giant regained his balance.

The Giant faced off against the former Champion. Their weapons clashed as sparks flew across the courtyard. They fought for what they thought was right. All for an idea.

There were no thoughts of glory nor there were for fame. Thousands met their death and the end of a blade. The soils were wet with mud and blood. Bodies of soldiers scattered across the streets, the courtyards and the fields outside of Dhirim. The banners of the golden lion of Isolla and the black lion of Harlaus fluttered against the violent winds of the rain.

The war cries were muffled by the sound of metal clashing accompanied by the loud symphony of the weather. Thunder and rain. Isolla’s soldiers fought with their strength and with the knowledge taught to them by Deckard during these past few days. The combination have brought them to their peak of deadliness and efficiency. Yet, it’s not enough for them to win.

For a few short minutes it seemed that the two fought equally. Exchanging blow after blow, the role of the aggressor constantly switched between the two. Everything seemed like it would end in a stalemate.

But Grainwad’s strength was too much for Deckard to handle. By the swing of his hammer, Deckard was hit on his side and sent him flying to a wall. Air rushed out from his lungs as he dropped onto his knees gasping for air. He felt its blow, like a rhino charging at an unarmored man.

Deckard took deep breaths as he struggled to get up from his position. Grainwad approaches and landed a kick to his face, sending him to lean against the wall. The Giant pressed his foot on the Praevorian’s chest as he raised his hammer.

I shall not falter, I shall not fail. He whispered to himself. But as the Giant was about to swing his hammer down, Deckard’s helm was smeared with blood as a blade was driven through Grainwad’s shoulder. “What the hell?”

Grainwad turned around and grabbed the assailant by the neck with his injured arm. Deckard noticed the familiar armor that the soldier was wearing and the mask that covered the face – it was Isolla. “Fool,” Grainwad said while keeping his foot down on Deckard’s chest.

The Praevorian grabbed the Giant’s foot and pushed it away with all of his remaining strength. He used every ounce of his being and dive for his sword that was laid not far from him. Grainwad threw Isolla towards the ground and charged at Deckard with his hammer.

“Pain is my armor. Fear is my soul,” he uttered the mantra out loud as he fixed his gaze on Grainwad. “I shall not falter, I shall not fail,” Deckard took a step forward as Grainwad raised his hammer with the intention to kill. “For vengeance is my weapon,”

Excalibur cut through Grainwad’s arm and severed his limb. The hammer was thrown away from him as his arm flew across the courtyard. Grainwad fell on his knees and roared in pain. Deckard fell to the muddy ground as he exerted all his strength into the one attack of his sword, even if he was impressed by Excalibur’s sharpness as not all blades can cut through armor.

Isolla gasped for air as she pulls herself up. Grainwad soon fell into unconsciousness as he laid motionless on the ground after losing so much blood. Deckard tried to get up and stumbled to the wall as he held a hand to his side, blood flows down from where the Giant had hit him with the hammer.
“Damn it.” He cursed himself as he looked around.

The Lion’s Daughter rushed to him and inspects his wound. Her face grimaced at the sight of it, “You bastard. Never thought you’d fight against the Giant himself.” She said as she puts Deckard down.

“Where’s Firentis? The reinforcements haven’t arrived yet?” he asked her as she pulls Deckard’s hands away from his injury.

Isolla took of her helm as it obscured her view. She shrugged at Deckard’s question, “I’m not sure if they – “

Firentis' auxiliary forces as they arrived​

The sound of horns blasts were loud, louder than the sound of the thunderous booms across the skies and the war cries of soldiers. Three short blasts of horns – Firentis has arrived with reinforcements as Deckard sent him to muster his own auxiliary forces.

He wouldn’t thought that Firentis would made it in just a short amount of time. He was the key to turn the tide of the battle in their favor if he managed to raise an army large enough to aid them. But he did.

“Speak of the devil,” he grinned underneath his helm. He soon finds himself walking between the lines of life and death once again. He felt the grasp of the Reaper on his soul just like it did many times before.

The auxiliary forces charged as the horns blasted thrice​

Isolla looked at him, “Stay with me you bastard.” She said, applying pressure into Deckard’s deep wound.

He stayed still, without a word of response. His head dropped as he faded away, laying there motionless. Isolla looked at him in horror, “Damn it, Deckard!” she quickly checked for a pulse and breathes a sigh of relief to find that he is still alive – but not for long.



He opened his eyes to gaze upon a canopy of leaves and wakes himself up from the ground. There were no signs of pain nor injury. Exhaustion? There was none as well. He quickly grabbed his side and his fingers felt dry, there was no blood.

Deckard looked around and finds himself alone. Only to see an endless ocean of trees to every side of his surroundings. He heard the whispers of the woods, some uttering his name as if they were talking about him. He saw at the corner of his eye that there figures lurking around the woods but as he turned to face them, they disappeared without a trace.

Deckard…

He starts, looking around frantically to find the one who speaks his name. He reached for his Excalibur, but it wasn’t there as he grabs at nothing but air.

“Looking for this?” a woman dressed in white robes called out as she is sitting on a branch. Her hair flows like a river, her eyes were as beautiful as the sun and her skin was white like the clouds of the sky. In her hand, she held the Sword of Kings.

Deckard’s eyes widened at the sight. “W-Who are you? And… wh – “

“I am the Watcher and you are at the Whispering Forest.” She introduced herself and dropped down from the branch. “It’s where all the souls of the dead would gather and where certain people have been called by the gods to speak to me,”

The Praevorian raised an eyebrow. But as he tried to remember, his last memory was of him fading into blackness on the streets of Dhirim while his injuries are tended to by Isolla. “Bloody hell, am I dead?”

“No you are not,” she said to him as she circles around the Praevorian while carrying the sword in her hand. She runs her fingers on Deckard’s armor, she felt the intricate details crafted by the finest smiths from Uxkhal. She curled her lips into a smile as she met her gaze with Deckard’s.

She leaned closer to him, her face close to Deckard’s as she observed his fiery eyes and the texture of his skin. She grinned. “I have been waiting for you, Deckard Dragonstorm.”

“You must’ve got the wrong person here miss, I am Deckard Winters. Not Dragonstorm,”

“No,” she said, poking his breastplate with her thin finger. “You’re the one who’s wrong. It’s about time you know the truth about your mother,”

“My…mother?”



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Alright, second update in the same day (in my timezone, at least). Luckily there were more screenshots than usual and allowed me to use most of the ones that I haven't used in this chapter.

So here I wanted to explore Deckard's backstory during his time serving as a Howling Griffin back in his homeland Praevor. It wasn't much but yeah, this is a fun chapter to write about. I initially intend to kill of Grainwad but noticed he hasn't received much characterization so I instead choose to knock him out. I made him a wee bit more...different than usual.

Question of the day: Should I kill off NPC characters from the games? Except a few kings would be killed later in the story tho. No forgiveness for them. But what about the others? Like lords or the companions?

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Another good chapter and great screenshots. I playing Sword of Damocles Warlords right now, mod is good but mod lacking formations usual in all mods played by me and faces are same as in native. But my love remains Pendor. I like how you editing screens in a cinematic style

 

[Stormfall_03]

SoD didn't have as many formations like in SoF but I quite like the features. Goodness that number of factions had me giving up because of the sheer size of the mod xD.

Thanks once again for enjoying the chapter! . The screenshots I took are sometimes getting myself killed and used the death cam to take the shots. Sometimes, I press Ctrl + F9 to get them in place and Ctrl + F11 to make them all freeze in motion before I find a good angle to capture.

Sadly, not all mods allow me to do the same thing. So most of it is just me taking screenshots while in first person view before I edit it using Pixlr (on Android . Not kidding tho)

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 22: The Sultan's Plan​

Darius al-Zahar, the Prince of the Sands,
The court of Ahmerrad,
4th year of Hakim’s reign on the Sultanate,​

At times, Darius al-Zahar the heir to the Sultanate wished that his father would pay more attention to the states of the realm rather than declaring war upon their neighboring countries. He feared the worst when Sultan Hakim decided to wage war against the Rhodoks as they are more vulnerable to the attacks. Fighting on two fronts is not an easy task.

But Darius was proud of his own father. Even if Shariz was lost to the Rhodoks, the Sarranids managed to land a massive blow to their morale and strength by enlisting the help of a foreign army.

The Men of Iron. His people would call them. Knights clad in armor crafted from the smiths of their land with swords as large as themselves. They march as one like shadows, discipline is at the core of their sheer strength.

Darius was notified of their first victory in Calradian lands. They decimated the larger forces of the Rhodoks army that are considered to be their best – the Immortal Guards. Yet, they fall with ease as the terrifying swords of the Forlorn Hope struck them down with a swift swing.

Sultan Hakim is meeting with the rest of his lords, gathering in the main halls of the city of Ahmerrad. Its grand architecture is marvelous in design, some said it was larger than their former capital itself. Massive polished pillars of sandstones erected at the doors to their castle, with engravings of ancient Calradic text upon it.

Color lights hung over the ceiling, red, white, blue and green. Exported from the Khergits before their war began. Candles lit across the halls as the lords gathered around to discuss their next move in the war.

Darius walked in and the lords bowed in respect as they saw him. He wears a hardened lamellar armor with silver coating. His cape flows down his back like a river of red and gold. His sharp features and rigid jawline are the attraction of many young maidens of the realm.

“Darius,” Hakim said as he saw his son walked in with full battle armor. The Sultan wears pretty much the same with the silver switched for gold to reflect the oceans of sand that conquered the deserts.

“Father,” Darius says as he nods in response before turning to the lords. “How goes the war, father?”

Hakim sighed, “My spies in Tulga have reported that the Khergits have amassed an army to strike back at our lands. We can expect them to launch an attack on Ichamur.” He said, pointing on the map that is spread upon a large rectangular table in front of him. “The Rhodoks have been…defeated. The Immortal Guards were just a bunch of cowards wearing armor and weapons just to keep their legendary status to the people. That’s why we were able to defeat them quite easily,” the Sultan remarked.

Yet, Darius knew this quite well like his father. He knew that the Immortal Guards were just a shadow of its former self, a force that has been said to be the embodiment of the wrath of the Rhodoks themselves. Once they were the fearsome warriors of the past, their brutality unmatched by the armies of the land. As strong as iron and as strong as the bears that roamed their forests. Now it was just an army of well-trained men but not hardened by the cruelty of war like their forefathers.

The Prince of the Sands still acknowledged their strength even if it did not match the legends of old. Yet, the Guards have slain a fraction of the Mettenheim Knights as even in their current times, there have been stories that the Men of Iron with an army of 300 men are able to defeated an empire’s vast army with ease.

“Where did you send the Mettenheim Knights father?” Darius asked as he leaned forward with his hands on the table, his eyes fixed upon the map.

“Deep into Khergit lands,” the Sultan responds. “There’s a few lords accompanying them to provide support.” His eyes shifted to the city at the edge of the desert.

Darius noticed where his father’s eyes were set upon – Shariz. “We’re going to take it back, aren’t we?”

The lords of the Sultanate looked at their king. They too know of the city’s importance to the Sarranid’s survival, it was the Pearl of the East. The heart of the Sultanate. Merchants trade on a daily basis, each come from all corners of the land where the summer winds touched for eternity. Traders of the north, the west, the south all came to Shariz to seek the wealth. It’s what made the Sultanate what it is today, an empire that spanned across the deserts. Its existence came like the wind and rapidly grows into a powerful nation where it took the five other kingdoms decades to thrive in Calradia’s hostile lands.

With the Rhodoks keeping a firm grip on Shariz, the people of the Sultanate cried out for Hakim to retake what was theirs. Their pleas were heard by the Sultan. He planned to reclaim its walls since the day it fell into Graveth’s rule.

Hakim nodded at Darius’ question. “We shall reclaim what was ours.” He says dryly and turned to his son. “We begin our march to Shariz by dawn. Muster your forces, raise an army, sharpen your swords and hone your skills. We shall retake Shariz,”

“But your highness,” one of the Emirs asked. His hair was black and his eyes were the colors of the deep blue sea. “Do you want to call upon the Ascendants my king?” he asked.

The Nords have the Order of the Snow, the Rhodoks have the Immortal Guards and the Sarranids have the Ascendants. Loyal soldiers who were sworn to protect the Sultan and his lands. To father no heir, to hold no land but to uphold their duty in service of the Sultan. It is said that they have existed since the first king of the Sarranids set his foot on Calradia and established a kingdom in the deserts. That they have seen wars that would destroy nations, endured the harshest of times and yet, their loyalty is unbroken.

Hakim shook his head in response, “No Hamezan. We won’t need them. The Ascendants shall be guarding our lands while we’re away.” He responded.

Emir Hamezan nodded and left with the other lords of the Sultanate, leaving Hakim and his son Darius to themselves. As they disappeared, Hakim breathes a sigh of frustration as he covers his face with his hands. “Is something wrong father?” Darius asked.

“The war. It’s tiring to think of it. We have lost many men. Sacrificed our people just to reach our goals.” The Sultan replied as he sat down and leaned against the back of his chair.

Sacrificed our people just to reach our goals. Those words made Darius shudder. He thought he could never prepare himself to become the next Sultan whenever the time comes. The idea of sacrificing the good of others to achieve a larger goal is something that Darius is afraid of – especially in times of conflict.

Darius remained silent at his father’s words. But Hakim sensed the distraught in his mind, “One day, you’ll understand my son.” He said. “You are the prince. Never forget that. But don’t let it consume your soul and replace with pride.” He added.

The Prince nodded in approval. He looked at his father’s eyes, radiating such heavy guilt and torment just for being the Sultan. The burden of becoming one is heavy, it’s hard for a good man to be a good king. Darius heard of what the surrounding nations spoke of his father, ruthless, cunning, intelligent, having an insatiable thirst for war and conquest. One part of him wishes them all to see the truth.

Yet, it was the Khergits and the Rhodoks that pushed the Sultanate into a desperate situation. The Khan had treated the Sarranids quite badly whenever they enter their territories and the Rhodoks would do the same. It was the pleas of these suffering citizens had pushed Hakim to declare war on the two nations. The Fall of Ichamur was just a part of his larger plan in ‘teaching’ a lesson to their enemies. The Reclamation of Shariz was next.

In the next few days following the gathering in Ahmerrad, the Sultanate’s forces had mustered a force large enough to retake the heavily fortified city of Shariz. Spies have reported that the Rhodoks have bolstered their defenses with powerful siege weapons on the top of their walls, some even suggested that they acquired them from a distant empire far from Calradia. But the news of such weapons did not stopped Hakim from marching into Shariz’s territory.

Hakim marches with his army​

From Ahmerrad, Darius lead his men as he accompanies his father. He estimated that there were around 3,000 men fit for battle and more so whenever the other lords of the Sultanate arrived. It took them less than two weeks to reach Shariz with a large force of soldiers, comprised of the best Master Archers, Guards and Mamlukes.

10,000 men ready. Thousands of men eager to retake what was theirs. Hakim stood in front of his army, carrying his banner on one hand as he rode on his heavily armored warhorse alongside the lords of the Sultanate. Darius remained at his father’s side, observing him.

The Sultanate arrives at the walls of Shariz​

Their banners fluttered in the wind under the hot scorching touch of the blazing sun. But to them, it was the normality for living in the deserts. The heat gave them strength.

Hakim nodded to Darius, gesturing to him to prepare the archers to fire the first volley of arrows at the castle walls. He then turned to his lords, giving out orders for their men.

“Archers!” Darius voice boomed. “Nock!” the sound of the horns followed his words as they relayed his orders to the rest of the army. The Master Archers pulled their arrows out of their quivers in an almost perfect unison, readying their bows as they kept their gaze on the walls.

“Draw!” they pulled their strings. Their breaths steady and their hearts beats faster as adrenaline surged through their body while keeping a firm grip on their bows and arrows. “Loose!” then a hail of whistling terrors cuts through the air, forming a storm of arrows as the sheer number of it would blot out the sun.

Darius heard the trebuchets hurled boulders to the city. Large balls of flame flew threw the air as if the demons had arrived to ravage the city. The defenders retaliated with their own weapons.

Hakim with his men​

Hakim raised his sword and at once, the Sultan’s plan to retake his city began to unfold.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter 22 is out! I was thinking of adding in another new character which is Sultan Hakim's heir. It's sad to see that there are no princes or princesses in the game but the monarchs says that "he has plans for their children" whenever asked if you can marry their children.

So I thought, "why not add in an heir or something?" And so I did. At first, the chapter would still be told in Bjorn's POV but he was most likely captured and there's nothing much I can do with him. With Darius, at least there's stuff I can explore.

Initially, his name was going to be one that would reference one of the Ayyubid Sultanate's kings but I couldn't find anything that was interesting so I turned to Darius instead. The name al-Zahar? Well, it's just something I come up with at the top of my head.

There you go! Hope you enjoy this chapter! . Although it was a bit rushed

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Good chapter. Amazing screenshots. I have abandoned my AAR because I have found playing more addictive than writting about how playing. You can put references to other games played by you which will do AAR more interesting. I enjoy Total War games because large-scale battles which were ideal for screens depicting epic battles

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 23: The Heirs To The Throne​

Lady Isolla of Suno,
The city of Dhirim,
1st year of Isolla’s Rebellion,​

The assault continues. Even with Firentis’ reinforcements, Harlaus’ heavily armed knights proved to be a difficult opponent to be defeated. However, the city was heavily fortified with supervision from Deckard. He brought the ways of his homeland to Calradia and it did pay off. The Wyverns have destroyed most of the siege towers, the strategic placements of the units have proven to be quite efficient in defending Dhirim and his plan worked out almost perfectly as Firentis provided the necessary key to turn the tide of the battle.

Isolla had a few of her men to bring Deckard away into safety and his wounds treated. An unconscious is as bad as a dead man on the field. The gates have fallen and the defenders were forced to fight in the streets.

The remaining soldiers on the wall made into the maze of buildings with haste. The Lion’s Daughter retreated as well. She peered behind her back and saw the enemy soldiers rush through the gates like demons. The banners of the Red Lion of Swadia flutters in the heavy rain as Isolla regrouped with her soldiers at the heart of the city.

To her side stands an army of sellswords and soldiers. There were only a few thousand left standing against the remainder of Harlaus’ might. As they heard the thunderous march of soldiers through the streets, they lowered their shields and planted their feet onto the ground. Their spears lowered as their helmets muffled the sound of the rain. Some fight for money, some fight for glory, but these soldiers fight for the sake of retaking Isolla’s rightful throne.

The thought of having men died for her is quite terrifying. But those are the consequences of being a leader – of being a queen of her people. Soldiers perish daily at the end of a sword. Their blood is what kept the nations of the land survived for decades after the last emperor’s death.

Yet, this was her fight to begin with. She started this war, the men trusted her and believed in her. Isolla must end it.

Her eyes caught the dark silhouette of a large group of men marching towards them. Their shields brandished and they marched in perfect unison. One leg after the other. Their hearts sang a song for their king, chanting “Au!” as they advance.

The two forces soon collided. Spears and swords and axes clashed in the heavy rain, loud war cries seemed to silence the weather and the sound of the thunder as lightning struck through the heavens. Only one thousand remained in Isolla’s army within the walls, all exhausted from the initial assault. Standing against them is the remaining four thousand of Swadia.

She fought with her dark sword. The rain washed away the thick red blood that sticks on its blade. Isolla fought like a lioness ready to kill her prey. The Dragon’s Fury slices through the air and delivers a swift death to one of the Sergeants at the throat. She turned her attention to another one of them and deflected the tip of a spear lunging for her heart with a quick swing of her sword.

The battle at the streets of Dhirim​

Isolla lets out her battle roar. It was long and loud and full of anger. She stared in the eyes of death, ready to rip her soul away from her body. She could feel its cold grasp upon her as she delivers the dead to the Reaper’s realm with her blade. As the rain grew more violent, the fighting does as well.

The men who served her knew the streets well like the back of their hands. Her soldiers used it to their advantage despite facing against an overwhelming force. The streets are narrow, allowing them to slay the enemy soldiers without suffering much casualties. Divide and conquer, one might say.

Her men fought within their advantageous position as the Swadian loyalist army started to lose men quite drastically while Isolla’s own only suffered a few casualties as they fight. It was only a matter of time until Firentis’ auxiliary forces charged through the gates after they’ve defeated the army outside the walls. It was until the cavalry arrived and began slaughtering the rest of the loyalists.

Isolla’s eyes caught the sight of a knight clad in plate armor, carrying the sigil of a lion and a dragon embedded on his breast plate. The knight’s blade reflected the light of the lightning as it strikes the skies. For a moment it seemed that the blade glows like the sun.

The knight charged forward with his sword ready in hand with a tremendous speed. Isolla was surprised at his agile feet, her eyes could only catch the flash of his armor and the white blade held in the man’s hand. Dragon’s Fury was raised just in time to clash with the sword, sending sparks flying across the streets.

She grunts as her sword bit the edge of the knight’s blade, locking their weapons together as they could feel the movement of its steel. Isolla planted her left foot backwards in the ground as she pushed herself forward to repel the knight’s attack. But he was strong, their strength was equal. “Yield!”

Isolla’s eyes gazed at the knight’s sword up close, looking at the ripples deep in its blade much like Deckard’s own – of Darranic steel. A sign that is has been folded hundreds of times over before it could be reheated with the fames of the old dragons. At that instance, Isolla knew that it was the ancient sword of Scorch – an ancestral sword passed down to their heirs. Scorch was never in her family’s possession but of Harlaus’. But Isolla knew that Scorch didn’t possess any magical abilities like the Sword of Kings.

She pushed the knight away from her and kept her eyes upon the longsword. “Scorch…” she said to herself and raised her head to gaze upon the man once more. “Who are you?”

The man spun his sword and puts his left foot forward. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The knight’s eyes were as dark as the night, gazing into Isolla’s own. “Yield. You don’t have to do this,” the knight said. There is an odd way to how he spoke his words, he begs for her to stop her rebellion as if he knew her quite well.

“Who are you?” she asked again. A tone of grief and uncertainty colored her words. “Scorch was the ancestral weapon of Harlaus’ family. It held a prestigious value among the nobles for being a sword as old as the Dragon’s Fury. No mere knight may able to wield it.” She explained.

He lunged forward and struck Dragon’s Fury with his sword. The two dueled as their surroundings descended into chaos. The two dueled and as time passed by, their strikes were far more violent than before. Loud clashes of metal and steel can be heard through the heavy rain. Eighteen times the knight struck, eighteen times Isolla dodged or parried them all.

Isolla and the knight fought equally. Their movements are quite the same, one could even mistakenly acknowledged them as twins. If the knight swings his sword from above, Isolla would strike back with her own blade.

No. It can’t be him. Her mind told her. It is him. Her heart spoke. Two voices, denying one another and Isolla is having a difficult time to make a decision. His movements, the sigil on his armor and the sword in his hands, reminded of someone from her past.

The knights lets out a roar, full of grief and anger as he delivers a shallow cut to Isolla’s arm with a quick swing of Scorch. She stumbled and regained her composure. “Is that you?” she asked the knight. “Edward?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” The knight named Edward lowered his own sword wuth its tip pointed to the ground. “It’s been a while. Izzy,”

Izzy – that’s what Edward called her more than 10 years ago. That’s what she was called when Esterich was still on the throne and he was just one of the sons of Harlaus. When she reached 16, Isolla was the brightest, the smartest and the bravest of the nobles. Edward was her equal. An unbreakable bond was forged during that time, the closest of friends, one could mistake them as siblings but they do not.

Isolla’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She sees her old friend standing in front of her, standing against her. She felt glad and happy that she’s able to meet him after 7 years of planning the rebellion. One part of her is overcome with grief and sadness, devastation is apparent in the way her eyes looked upon Prince Edward.

“Why are you doing this?” Edward asked. He too was destroyed by the ambitions of his old friend. He was reluctant to be here, reluctant to fight against her. But he knew that realm comes first.

They stand together once. Now, they stand against one another. Two heirs of the Swadian throne. Two former friends turned enemies. Two Lions.
They circle each other like wary cats. Their swords hungers for blood. The second they stopped, the two heirs to the throne lunged at each other with their weapons ready for the kill.

It was nothing more than a dance – a deadly dance. Scorch and the Dragon’s Fury seemed to be an extension of their entire being as if they acted on their own. At the first launch, the swords met and sent a burst of sparks. They fought with elegance and a deadly grace, they match their strikes blow by blow.

Both were overcome by grief, pain, loss, suffering and rage. Each showing its deadly colors as the two struck each other with their swords. Their exhaustion takes over slowly as their muscles burn and fingers twitch at the desperate need of rest after spending hours fighting across the streets. Their grips upon the hilt of their swords were slippery with the thick crimson blood trickling down from the blades of their weapons.

“Why are you doing this?” Edward asked, taking a few steps away from her to catch his breath. She managed to land a few successful hits on him, his blood flowed down his arm and to the tip of his fingers.

“Because – “ the throne is mine. She wanted to say. But she knew that it won’t be enough to convince the prince that what she was doing was for the betterment of the people. “the – “

“Because my father took the throne from you?!” rage colored his words. Flames of wrath and pain had consumed his mind at the point. He was sad, yet angry. He was in pain for having to fight against Isolla, yet he was happy to see her again. “Don’t tell me that.”

She wanted to tell how the people suffered under Harlaus’ rule. She wanted to tell him how she travelled across the lands and seen how the villagers have lived since Harlaus sat on the throne. How their pleas were ignored by him. How the bandits and looters kept plundering their village to steal. But she couldn’t. The words stuck inside her throat.

“Edward, I – “

She saw Firentis’ auxiliary forces came through the streets. A loud deafening blow of the horn had signaled their arrival. Silhouettes of the horsemen clad in scale, lamellar and plate armor were clearly seen in the darkness of the night. As the lightning cracks in the sky and shines upon them, it seemed like a horde of demons had come for them.

The prince turned around and swung his sword to one of the mercenary cavalrymen. The full force of his swing had thrown him off his horse and Edward finished him off by driving his cold sword into the man’s heart. “Fall back!” he shouted to his men. As he made his way out of the streets, he turned and looked at Isolla before he disappeared along the remainder of his men in the dark corners of the streets.

Her men lets out a roar of victory, raising their clenched fists and swords and spears into the air. The roars were loud and as if it was enough to silence the weather’s rampage. Isolla remained silent at the victory. She knew that facing him was inevitable but she’d never thought that it would be this soon. Deep down that she knew…that Edward was the last obstacle she needed to overcome if she needed to take the throne.

Dhirim remained in her control after the battle. Thousands dead, a lot of them are their own. The streets were littered with bodies bearing the banners of the red and the golden lions. The walls were stained with blood and the foul stench of rotting corpse fills the air.

Dhirim stands.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter 23! So this time, I wanted to expand a bit more into the family tree. As you can see, I added Prince Edward as to one of the sons of Harlaus just like I did with Prince Darius al-Zahar with Hakim.

There's nothing much that happened in this chapter except the victory at Dhirim and fighting Edward. As for the screenshot, I took it from one of my playthroughs in Calradian Crusaders. It's a fun mod and it's just as what you'd expect, a mod that makes Calradia into a more Crusader-themed game.

On to the next chapter!

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 24: Through The Darkest Days & The Brightest Nights ​

Deckard Winters,
The city of Dhirim,
1st year of Isolla’s Rebellion,​

“What about my mother?”

The Watcher circles him, her eyes gazed upon him from head to toe. She watched how his hair is as dark as the night or like the ravens in the sky. She noticed his eyes carrying the colors of the flames and how he is muscular after years spending his life to honing his skills. “Your father never told you about her didn’t he?”

Deckard remained silent. Those words sent a cold and chilling spear through his soul. He never knew his mother but only had the time to know his father – Darwin Ironshield, Lord of the Stone Mountains. He was told that he was born up in the northern regions of Praevor, where the mountains surrounded its lands like walls and the cold touches everywhere. Bastards like him would have to wear the surname ‘Winters’ if he was conceived in the north.

The south, Summers. The west, Autumn and the East, Spring. Surnames that a bastard would take if one hailed from one part of the land. Of course there would be others as well like Steel if he or she was born in the distant Islands of Graeva.

What his father told him that he was his bastard. Raised in the massive castle erected in the northern province known as the Howling Stones. Father told him that he had 4 siblings, 2 boys and 2 girls. Yet, he never talked about Deckard’s mother.

“No,” Deckard simply answered as his head dropped.

She noticed his grief within his heart. It emanated from him like a cold mist. She knew how his life went. Deckard was raised like any other legitimized children of the noble house of Ironshield. They accepted him like their own brother but the ones from other noble families ridiculed him like he was a beast. The lords even treated him like he was an insult to the Ironshield name, a stain upon their prestigious family.

It became the reason why he joined the Howling Griffins. The reason why he picked up a sword and trained through the day and into the night in perfecting his skills – he wanted to be free. The Griffins offered him true companionship since the day he left his family. Everything went well for him until the death of his father.

“Come with me,” the white lady gestured to him.

“Where are we going?”

She remained silent as Deckard following closely. As he stepped into the woods, he began hearing the whispers of the trees. They utter things that he could not comprehend. The cold winds brushed through the leaves and the smell of a lake soon lingers in the air as the Praevorian kept following the Watcher.

He noticed how her hair is like the rivers, how it falls down her back and shoulders beautifully, emanating a sense of a graceful death. To some, death is the ugly truth. His father would say once, Some thought of it as a beautiful end to their lives.

“We’re here,” the Watcher breaks the silence between them.
Deckard moved forward and rests his eyes upon a great lake in front of him. The waters are calm and its vastness spreads over a few leagues. The blue skies were reflected upon its surface like a mirror. “What is this?” he asked.

“Gaze into the waters, Dragonstorm.”

He did what he was told. As his eyes peered into the blue waters, his reflection was replaced by a male and a female gazing into a lake. The woman had a gold coat of hair tied into a braid and her eyes were the colors of the flame. Her skin is as white as Deckard’s own and she wore a brown dress with its sleeves rolled to her elbows. To her side is a man of a hair colored in the feathers of a crow, a scar runs down from his jaw and down to his neck. An armor of steel and a dragon’s head for the shoulder pads.

The Watcher approached him and laid a hand onto one of Deckard’s shoulder. Her eyes looked down and observed what the lake has to show him.

“The man, he’s…Sir Andreus of Stallys. Father told me how he was one of the best swordsmen he’d ever met. A legion of disciplined and trained warriors were under his command – the Dragons of Tyrus.” He pointed out. Sir Andreus was a famed individual who hailed from a distant land called Ferran where the Sovereignty of Tyrus resided. He was the head of House Stallys, one that carried a fist with a gauntlet as its sigil upon a field of grey. “That woman however…seems familiar,”

He watched as the visions showed him how the pair formed a strong bond. From a mere friendship between a knight and the daughter of a noble family to something much more. It showed him the most peaceful of times, where the cities were littered with merchants and farmers trading with the people on the streets. The banners of red, gold, white, blue, black and others were hung above their heads.

Then the images shifted. Andreus was seen on top of a castle tower, surrounded by mountains as the walls of the Iron Fort watches over a small port down the hills with a mountain behind its back. “Lord Andreus!” a man clad in padded armor wearing a kettle helm called him as he emerged from a flight of stairs behind Andreus that leads to the bottom of the tower. “Urgent message for you my lord!”



33 YEARS AGO...

It was known that the Sovereignty of Tyrus was a powerful nation. Small but its strength rivalled that of the mighty Volirians or the Zhou. For centuries it stood valiantly against enemies that would crush them under their heels, the united tribes of the Kergs, the Free Men of the south and against the armies of the Kingdom of Argeon. They stood with a strong dedication to their leader – to their king – who ruled over the land with prosperity and the Nine Houses would bow at his feet, pledge-bound to serve him at all times.

But it was the time when King Uther IV died of old age. His son, Prince Urgen took the throne and crowned himself the new king. He was greedy, ruthless, idiotic and a brat. He was unpopular by the people and hated by the nobility. With power, he was corrupted in mind and soul. Some of the Noble Houses remained loyal to the throne while others have taken drastic measures to take the throne for the people. Civil war loomed on the horizon.

As Andreus remained on the tower with his armor of silver, the messenger arrived with a dire news. “The armies of House Gaeric, Kaeros and Nava’ar have assembled, my lord. They are reported marching towards the City of Crowns as we speak!”

He turned, “What of the other Houses?” he asked. His blue sapphire eyes pierced into the messenger’s gaze.

“Lord Stormfall’s army is marching upon the Keep of Scales and House Titus have fallen. Lord Gaius have been slain in battle against twenty thousand men at the gates of Andraxi, his family slain and his eldest son are nowhere to be found, milord.”

Andreus’ mouth is stiff. Titus was a powerful ally to Stallys and they have lost them early in the war. Lord James Stormfall however marched upon the Keep of Scales. “Lady Dragonstorm is at the Keep, milord. Her brothers are assembling an army to meet the Stormfalls at the Seven Stones. Lord Draxius sent word that he needed your men at the Keep,”

At the mention of the name of Dragonstorm, he quickly turned to the messenger. He knew that the Stormfalls would sent a force large enough to sack the Keep while its main force engage the armies of Dragonstorm at the Stones. The Stormfalls themselves possessed a terrifying intelligence, the ability to craft a master plan is their specialty and that’s what made them a terrifying foe to deal with.

“Send word to Lord Draxius, that the Lord of the Northern Mountains heeds his call. Assemble the Dragons!”

The Dragons of Tyrus marching at dawn.​

And so at dawn, Andreus mustered his best forces of six thousand men comprised of men trained to fight. Discipline is at the core of their lives and honor became their ideal. They armed themselves with a spear, a shield and bastard swords while wearing an armor as dark as the night and helms with a red mane flowing down their backs. These were the Dragons of Tyrus – an army that had the terrifying capability to hold against a force twice their numbers.

They marched in haste, crossing over the cold regions of the northwestern Frozen Hills and into the territory where the Dragonstorms would call home – the Ashen Hills. They marched for days before arriving at the gates of the Keep.
As they approach the city, one could saw massive pillars made out of stone with statues of dragons intricately carved. Seven pillars, each stood vigilantly around the city in a circle as their eyes looked out the walls, guarding the citizens as if they are still alive. Each dragon had their names, one that carried the names of previous rulers of the Ashen Hills. At the center, a massive castle watched the city on top of a hill.

They went straight for the castle, with its halls were decorated with marble and a banner of a silver dragon upon a black field hangs at the back of the throne. White pillars connected the ceiling and the floor, five on each side and a red carpet as dark as blood is laid from the doors to the throne made out of iron.
Andreus saw a man with silver hair and a coat of beard hung over his chin talking to a messenger. He kept a muscular frame despite his old age. “Lord Draxius!” the black haired man called out.

He wore a silver armor with a dragon engraved on his breastplate, signifying his role in the noble house – its leader. “Ah, Lord Andreus of the Iron Fort. About time you arrived,”

The two approached each other and shook their hands. Andreus’ blue eyes met the gaze of Draxius’ flaming irises. “What’s with the messenger?”

“The Stormfalls are engaging the army of my sons at the Seven Stones as expected. Scouts informed me that there have been signs of an army marching through the woods and we could expect them to arrive in four to five days at least.” The head of the Dragonstorms spoke.

Andreus nodded. “How many men do you have on these walls?”

“After my sons Garand and Aendur left, only ten thousand of us are ready for battle against thirty five thousand that would arrive in this week.” The old man said, stroking his grey beard with his fingers. “What about your men?”

“Six thousand ready, Lord Dragonstorm.” The lord of Stallys replied. Then his mind shifted to the thoughts of Lady Dragonstorm, the one who resided within the white halls of the Keep. “How is she? I’d never thought that the Stormfalls would go attack the Keep first than mine,” he asked.

“Anastasia’s fine. She’s been worrying about you since you’ve asked her to return to the Keep. Go, you’ll find her in her chambers.”

Andreus left Draxius’ side and head for the chambers. He went up the stairs and his armor rattles at every movement he makes. Its sounds gets louder and louder by the time he reached Lady Ana’s room. Andreus walked in and saw her looking out the window. “Ana,” he called out.

The golden haired woman turned around and rushed to his side. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. “Oh Reus. I’ve missed you,” she said.

He kept his arms around her, running his fingers down her golden hair and gazed into her fiery eyes. He felt warmth as he looked into her, a sense of acceptance and love jolts through his body. “I’ve missed you too.” He said, his lips curled into a smile. “How is everything?”

Anastasia sighed and pulled herself away from him. She puts a hand on her forehead as she sat on the bed. “Everything’s in chaos Reus. Brothers left to fight the Stormfalls, father barking out orders to his men…”

“No,” he spoke out. “I meant how is everything between you and him?” Andreus nodded at the cradle at the side of Ana’s bed.

She stood up and went to its side, gesturing to Andreus to come over. She looked down and smiled, “He has a bit of you. That black hair of yours – “

“And your flaming eyes.” Andreus smiled as he looked inside the cradle. His eyes looked upon the fragile frame of a young baby, not more than three months old. He bears the raven hair of his father and the flashy eyes of his mother. A trait passed down from a Dragonstorm and a Stallys.

“He missed you, you know. He hadn’t seen his father for two weeks because you asked me to return here,” she giggled, patting the side of Andreus’ cheek with her soft hands. A sad smile painted across her face. “Tell me that you’ll live,”

He turned himself away from her. Afraid to meet her eyes that gave him so much hope when there is despair for him. He remembered how he first met her, at a tournament at the City of Crowns where she disguised herself as a man and defeating Andreus at the time. She was ferocious as a dragon and strong as a man, yet kind and as soft as a lady. Her eyes is enough to tell him that.
It’s more than enough.

“I’m…not sure. War’s deadly, my love. From war came death, from death came despair.” He said to her. “Death comes to everyone. I can’t let it come to you or him,” he looked down at the baby.

She pulled him closer, letting his gaze meet her own. “Even in death, we’d still be together. Nothing in this world can take us apart.” Her hands pulled Andreus’ closer and held them. “I will be there for you. Through the darkest days and through the brightest nights. In life and in death,”



“So…that’s my mother. And my father,” he mumbled. His eyes glistened as tears started to trickle down his cheeks. Deckard dropped onto his knees, “My entire life has always been a lie is it not?”

She remained silent. Trying to find the answer to his question. “No,” she spoke out and placed her arm around his shoulder. “Even if it was…I’m sure it was done to protect you,”

“Why?” he said. “For all these years I suffered, ridiculed and insulted by the nobles for being a bastard of Ironshield. For being an illegitimate child of Darwin Ironshield who I thought was my father. No one was there for me, I was alone through all those years.”

The Watcher stands and lifted her gaze to look upon the skies. The rays of the sun touched her face like a mother’s soft touch. “It is said that sufferings made a man strong. That the most difficult fights are the ones you fought alone.” She said. “You may be alone in all those, but think of those who are at your side.”

“Why are you telling me all this? Is it because that I’m supposed to bring an end to the war on Calradia? I’m just a man against an entire continent – nations that fielded tens of thousands of men ready to kill on their orders.”

“No,” she said softly. “That you have those who are willing to stand at your side.”



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey! Me again. Well I have fun writing this particular chapter as it allows me to introduce another part of the world. This time, it's the land of Ferran and the Sovereignty of Tyrus.

I wanted to explore more deeply into Deckard's backstory. Although, I seem to make him the "the Chosen One" archetype but I'll fix that in a later chapter. I wanted to focus on the characters in Book 2 while expanding on the world with Isolla's Rebellion and the Rhodoks-Sarranid War. If you have any suggestions, you are more than welcome to tell me.

Just curious, which character is your favorite thus far?

EDIT: Just did a few changes. Just grammatical correction and all.

 

[ArnulfFloyd]

Great chapter

Deckard

 

[Stormfall_03]

Glad you liked it!

Thanks a lot for liking Deckard too!

 

[Stormfall_03]

Chapter 25: Reclaiming What Was Ours​

Darius al-Zahar, Prince of the Sands,
The city of Shariz,
4th year of Hakim’s reign on the Sultanate,​

Before their armies stood at the gates of Shariz, Darius told the soldiers to polish their shields until the sun would see itself upon it. To sharpen their blades until it could cut through steel like butter. They did what they were told.

The Reclamation begins​

Thousands of men standing at the front gates of the Pearl of the East. Hundreds of banners flutter against the hot winds of Sarran. “Shields!” one of the Emirs shouted. At the end of his command, thousands of shields were raised as the arrows cut whooshed through the air, giving out a haunting whistle.

They charged for the walls, bringing siege towers and ladders. Darius watched as the army of the Sultanate marched. He barked out orders, “Ladders!” he’d shout. “Do not let the arrows cease!” he’d ordered the archers and the auxiliary units.

The combined might of the Sultanate mainly comprised of highly trained Sarranid Guards acting as the main infantry force with the mercenary soldiers as the reserves, skilled Master Archers who supported the infantry by providing suppressive attacks and the heavily armored Mamlukes.

Darius rode to Hakim’s side, clad in a gold lamellar armor as the Sultan carried the banner of an eagle on a yellow field on his left hand – his own banner. “Father!” he called out to him as his silver scales glistened at the sun. “Are you sure that they will come?”

Hakim turned and looked at him, “Nuam is someone I can trust. You can count on him to bring the forces we need to win Shariz back. He has to,”

Darius remained silent at his father’s judgement. He was not fond of Nuam at all although he was one of the Sultanate’s most renowned vassals. But the rumors about him spread across the Sultanate like wildfire as some said that he enjoyed the sound of men and women screaming at the end of a whip. He enjoyed seeing blood trickled down his silver blade. Rumors remained rumors, without evidence it remained as an empty statement.

Hakim sent Nuam a week ago to find as many as reinforcements he could get for the reclamation. Hakim knew that facing a heavily fortified Rhodoks-occupied Shariz would be devastating even if they managed to reclaim it from Graveth’s hands. No one knew its streets better than the Sultan and his sons.

It’s like a maze made by the gods. Each road would lead to three others, buildings protruded from the ground like fingers. Hakim’s castle stood gloriously on top of a hill, surrounded by its own walls and a large courtyard decorated with a beautiful garden. The palace itself is shaped like a pyramid with the statue of an eagle sitting on top with its wings spread out and eyes looking at the streets for eternity.

A port was also built behind the city, to welcome travelers and merchants who’d come to Shariz to trade or to seek out glory on this dying land. It was one of the few largest ports on the land, alongside the likes of Rivacheg and Praven. Some said that Shariz’ was large enough to hold a small fleet of ships. Given that the Sultanate is considered to be Calradia’s richest nation, it’s possible.

Once the ladders reached the walls, the infantry swarmed to the top like ants. Siege towers brought the might of the Sarranids only to be confronted by heavy Rhodoks resistance. Their swords and hammers clashed at first sight, their shields clang and shattered by the second and long roars of glory and laughter were heard as soon as the fighting began.

The gates were soon broken down by the battering ram. The Sarranids charged through and find themselves facing against an impenetrable wall of shields. “Rhodoks!” one of the enemy commanders shouted and his men responded ‘Au!’ in unison. The Sergeants locked their shields and lowered their spears, slowly pushing back the Sarranids the came through the fallen gates. The lifted their shields from the ground and marched a few steps forward before planting themselves into a solid position.

Even if the army broke the gates and tear down Shariz’s walls, the Rhodoks resisted with an unwavering strength. Their shields are unbreakable, their hearts joined together while indulging themselves in the heat of battle. The Rhodoks never feared in the fight, as their tower shields overlapped and their spears were stained with the crimson blood of the Sarranids. One by one, the Sarranids fall and one by one, the Rhodoks were slain.

Then the walls were torn down. Its bricks fell and the soldiers were crushed under its weight. Thus the Sarranid soldiers charged through the broken walls and swarmed into the streets with their undying devotion to their nation. They met the Rhodoks once again, waiting on the other side as they clashed with the invading force.

Hakim charged forth with his cavalry and into the streets through the holes in the walls. A wave of golden armored horses thundered across the sandy plains the city, spears and lances couched and the yellow banners of the Sultan flew with the wind. Darius watched as his father charged through, his men following from behind as they unleash the wrath of the Sarranids upon the Rhodoks. Their roar is full of anger, one that could be heard from a distance.

But the silent soldiers of the Rhodoks do not waver. They planted themselves with their massive tower shields with their spear lowered, its tip pointed towards Hakim and his cavalry. Shoulder to shoulder, they supported each other and the sight of the massive horde of horses approaches with a deadly speed. The sound of their hooves rises, with each step much louder than the next.

As Darius is about to charge in, he saw at the corner of his eye a glimpse of shadows emerging from a large hill in the distance. He rubbed his eyes and looked clearly. “Mamlukes!” he shouted to the horsemen and in an instant, they turned to face him. Darius turned and faced to the western side of the city, his host of cavalry followed.

The green banners of the Rhodoks were seen fluttering in the hot winds of the desert. A silhouette of a man emerged and hundreds, perhaps thousands of men on horseback followed.

“Ready!” he shouted to them. They gripped the reins of their horses tightly, their breaths faster and their eyes looked forward at their enemy.

Darius' horsemen charging into battle​

From the hills, the enemy reinforcements charged. Darius whispered to his steed and seconds later, his banner flies in the wind – a sun pierced by a lance on a field of silver. His eyes forward and his sword remained in his hand, gripped and ready to swing. Behind him were the brave horsemen of the Sarranids. Hundreds of them charged with their commander, each letting out a roar that echoed through the desert plains. Their armor rattled and clanked as they ride through the wide deserts. The two armies clashed, knight against knight, horsemen against horsemen, lances were broken and shields were shattered. Riders fall from their saddles as they met their end, some were trampled by the horses while trying to get on their feet.

Darius slew the Rhodoks and their reinforcements, even meeting their commander – Lord Etrosq – at the end of their swords.

Still, they fought valiantly, ruthlessly and brutally. Each of the soldiers had taken at least a soul to the Reaper’s scythe or sending themselves to meet her gaze. The golden coarse sands of the deserts were stained by the red color of blood. The smell of spices no lingered in the air, replaced by the foul stench of rotting corpse of dead men and animals.

As Hakim and the rest of the Sarranid Emirs fought their way into the city, they met with heavy resistance and suffered heavy casualties. The Rhodoks never gave up, their spears and shields and hammers were constantly wet with thick Sarranid blood. At times, one would see the strands of flesh hanging from the tips of the Sergeants’ spear.

Darius and his men however managed to deal a heavy blow to the reinforcements. He dueled with Etrosq, the one who lead the forces of the Rhodoks. As the Prince of Sands looked down, his eyes could not see the sands beneath his feet. But rather, piles upon piles of dead men. He noticed how they wore an armor much different from standard Rhodok military – scale armor and hardened leather, auxiliary forces of mercenaries recruited from the taverns of their cities.

Only hundreds remained on both sides after the initial cavalry charge. Yet, they keep on fighting like it was the end of the world. Darius saw how they fought, how they died and wondered what would their families thought of this? How would they react? They’d react differently. He assumed.

As he and Etrosq dueled, the Rhodoks lord had the upper hand. He controlled the blade like it was a part of his own body. He swings it with ease, with total control of himself while dealing quick strikes that injured the young prince. But Darius wasn’t a total amateur, he fought defensively and offensively before they resumed their duel on foot.

He had heard about him. Etrosq the Gallant, the merchants would call him. The most honorable man in all of Calradia, they told him. The bards sing songs of his deeds for the people of the Rhodoks, how his golden hair attracted the young maidens of the kingdom to his side. Yet beneath all of the glory he garnered for himself, Darius sensed something within the lord.

In Etrosq’s hands, he held a sword as pale as the snow but as bright as the lonely moon of the night. Obscure patterns of ripples like water can be seen upon its blade, as if a river flows within it but it’s nothing more than the sign that it was forged from the famed Darranic Steel – an ancient metal said to be forged by only the best smiths of old, wizards and even rumored to incorporate the flames of the old dragons into its making. Nevertheless, Darius himself could not deny that the sword had its own beauty.

"It was the sword that held the House of Eitryd high among the nobles for centuries. The sword that possessed the light of the moon's melancholic nights, one that was forged by the steel of Darran from an empire long forgotten. Thus, its name was the Pale Moon." ~Lord Iyllda'ar, Etrosq's ancestor.​

Darius held a curved saber with ancient Calradic runes etched upon its hilt. A ruby was attached on both sides of the golden cross guard and the blade was as tough as iron and stone and as sharp as the teeth of a beast.

The two swords clash in a burst of sparks. The duel turned into a dance of death with a prince fighting against a mere noble of the Kingdom of Rhodoks. They kept themselves silent, no words shall be spoken as their blades shall do the talking.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey! Another chapter! Just wanted to do the Reclamation of Shariz at this point. So for this chapter, not much is happening except the Reclamation began. Sorry for the shorter length but I don't want to drag it out for as long as it used to be though. Again, sorry for the shorter length.

I've been playing a few mods just to get new screenshots for me to use. Don't worry, I'll be adding the mods used for the screenshots as edits. I'll find a link to them all and post them here and incorporate them into the original post.

Plus, should I kill lords? Usually they got knocked out in the game but should I?