These here are little things I've written for my characters from this particular mod.
I saw how dead this thread had become, and figured, if I didn't have any pictures, a story, or something along those lines would do nicely to keep people interested.
This particular tale is from the Vyag' character.
If you see this Spong, next time you lurk around the forum, and you like it, PM me, I have a few others I'm working on for each nationality, combat style, etc; if you don't mind me posting them- up to you of course, I don't want to just spam up your thread with something unwanted.
If you don't cool, this still pops the thread to the first page for a little while. Keep the support up for all those who want to see a port, or just plain like your excellent mod. 
Enjoy.
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The speech of Książę Vhementsky before his Host, on the plains out side of Tulga, many thousands arrayed before him awaiting the battle.
Marching...
always marching.
We've been on the move for months now, weeks and weeks that pass without rhyme nor reason, no purpose, no point. Mile and mile of the steppe beneath the hoof, league after league of packed sod under foot. I've gazed out across un-ending waves of golden rye. Like walking on the sun, sans the life-giving warmth. There is only the cold winds that always blow on, waving the grasses and cutting at our faces, hard and crisp. We cut a highway through the grass, we did. Mile after mile, our trail snaked out behind us until it was lost amongst the shifting, ebbing horizon.
We stopped only at rivers, and short breaks at that, quick stop-overs on a campaign that is seeming to wait us out until nothing is left of us except rusted jackets of mail and bleached bones hidden beneath the grasses. So tired. So tired of this ceaseless march.
We have been struck numerous, countless times in the dead of the night, when the watchmen catch what snatches of sleep is allowed them. Quick arrows, released without mercy upon unsuspecting men. They fight like cowards these Black Khergits. But we have endured.
Our packs grow heavier, our horses tired, our oxen dwindle down to skin and bare bones. What food we have now is taken with most brutal force. These nomads have little to offer, meager helpings of venison and wisent. Barley breads and goat milk. Food not fit for anything but the lowest of the low, but it is all we have, all there is to take. Khergä flee before us. We burn their Yurts. Unnatural bonfires. Many times I've watched as dozens burn, spread out across miles and miles, great columns of smoke and heat rising into the sky. Whatever strange gods these goat-raping nomads worship, I hope, I pray to my own God that they smell that smoke, and fear us.
That is, that fear, that is all we have left in this great campaign. The fear that we drive before us, taking shape in the form of dirty, unwashed, stinking Khergit women and children, whipping their prized horses to death in fear of us. Fear of the thousands of stakes we carry with us, with full intent to mount our trophies upon in great, rotting rings around Tulga. That, and our drive for glory, almost incomprehensible to any but the Vyag'. There is no gold in this god-forsaken steppe, the Khans have no trinkets of value to us. We fight and die, or we march eternally home; lost and without honor.
And we have our courage. The Swadian would have fled long since. Fled home to his farms, his fairy-minstrels, his choir boys and laundry-maids. Worthless pederasts, and cowards too. A single charge of the Otorki has broken them, I have seen it through my own eyes; I was leading that charge and many others like it. The Salgurid
Ghulam, what little spine he has would break upon feeling the first touch of wind, the first minute droplet of sleet. He would drive his slave-armies home, leaving a sickly-perfumed [as only the pansy, weak men of the
Al-Salguriyyun feel the need to coat themselves in the scent of peacock ****] trail littered with broken javelins, turbans, and shattered scimitars.
Only we, the men, the might of Vyag' have a will as such to preserve through what we have gone through. An endless march through a golden, wind-whipped hell, incessant attacks on our flanks, the relentless sun on our backs. We march knowing that we may well die. Miles from home, and away from our women, our children, to leave our daughters without a father, our sons without a man to raise them right. For the glory of ourselves, for our people we fight, for whom we die.
Many horses will make the journey home
riderless, but their riders will live on in the steppes. Your war will be done, your soul will be free, your memory made glorious. My brothers, my sons, my men,
my friends, now is the time to make your peace with
God; as now there is only time left for that great pursuit of
men, War!
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Many hours later, an eternity of battle condensed, Vhementsky was slain, he was struck down by no less than four arrows as he held the line against the Khergit scourge, and laid to rest amongst his fellow Boyars. His spirit fights on with the many thousands of his comrades who lay with him...
