Confrontation Act of War [AE annexation of Badazza and ES annexation of Ali]

[The Night Court]

As the hobgoblin tribes poured in from the mountains and valleys, their war cries echoed across the battlefield. With them came their champions—battle-hardened warriors meant to turn the tide—and massive trolls, their hulking forms towering over the chaos. But as the monstrous reinforcements arrived, Caiden only smirked.

This was exactly what he had been waiting for.

The hobgoblins had made a fatal mistake. They believed brute strength alone could break the Blood Bound. What they didn’t realize was that his warriors were no ordinary berserkers. They were enhanced, blessed by the very essence of Marcus, their bodies fueled by the Vampire King’s blood.

Caiden reached into his coat, retrieving a small vial of dark crimson liquid. Without hesitation, he uncorked it and downed the contents in one swift motion. Immediately, power surged through him. His muscles tensed, veins pulsing with supernatural energy. His vision sharpened, and the battlefield seemed to slow, his perception accelerating beyond mortal limits.

The first troll charged, a massive club raised high to crush him in a single blow. Caiden didn’t hesitate. In a blur of motion, he moved—unnaturally fast, almost impossible to track. Before the troll could react, his twin blades sliced through its thick hide, striking with precision at its vital points. The creature roared in agony, staggering, its massive form struggling against wounds too precise to ignore.

Caiden danced through the battlefield, a blur of death, his berserkers following his lead. The hobgoblins had brought their might. But the Blood Bound had brought something far worse—unstoppable, blood-fueled fury.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Seated upon his throne in Ali, Marcus leaned back, his crimson gaze unfocused as the voices of his red mages echoed through his mind. Their telepathic messages painted the picture of the war’s progress—the resounding victory at sea under Nepheli’s command, the Espadian navy shattering the hobgoblin blockade and forcing their retreat. Yet, on land, the battle was proving far more grueling. The Blood Bound held their own, their berserker fury clashing with the tribal warriors of the hobgoblins, but the enemy had brought forth their true champions. The arrival of trolls had turned the conflict into a brutal contest of strength, one that would cost Espada time and men to overcome.

Marcus exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. The hobgoblins were a stubborn breed, but even beasts knew when they faced inevitable ruin. If they would not see reason, he would ensure their complete and utter annihilation.

“Enough,” his voice rang out across the telepathic link, cold and absolute. “Send an envoy. I will grant their leader a meeting.”

It was not mercy—it was practicality. If the hobgoblins continued their advance, Marcus would pull out every stop to eradicate them. He would unleash horrors upon their kind that would make their demon lords seem merciful in comparison. He would raze their strongholds, break their bodies, and turn what remained into thralls for his war machine.

Still, the thought lingered—was he truly worse than the demon lord they feared? To the hobgoblins, there was likely no difference between the two. A towering figure of absolute power, relentless in conquest, unforgiving in destruction.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

If they failed to see the difference, then perhaps there was none.

With a flick of his wrist, Marcus signaled for his chosen envoy to depart. One way or another, the hobgoblins would submit. Whether it was through words or through blood was entirely up to them.

 

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

The impact of the huge troll on the soil caused dust to blast across the field, while several of the battling troops were swallowed by its demise in a final, vain, flurry of death and destruction, as the champion faded into oblivion.

The tribesmen pushed and yet, each of their waves was met with blood frenzied warriors of the Night Court, like a scythe casting them back once again. Blades were bent and broken, shields shattered and skulls cracked open, of which bodies lost beneath the trampling of hooves and claws and dust and warrior cries. The battle raged in several long lines, which both sides kept feeding with fresh troops, neither anymore caring much of the burning city in the distance, for the local defenders had pulled far too deep into the citadel, leaving the districts to the hobgoblin tide's fury and vengeful pillage.

Aa-Baan, cold and steadfast observed the battle in the distance as if his gaze could pierce through the veil of dust shrouding it, and see the carnage beneath. He could not. He knew more by the occasional runners who reported the situation in the field, as if their warlord valued any of their wreched lives to spend the reserves; The Legion troops, to attempt salvaging any of them.

The sea was lost, and yet, the ships themselves could do little beyond establishing their own blockade in hopes of halting developments on the ground. They could not. For the Alurmanat had established long supply lines all across the South, and their navy, the Imperial armada, still held sway over the straits that connected this land with Maorkisharra.
The more the Espadan horde remained in the carnage, the more Morana Cruz's fate was sealed. It was not the Hobgoblin way to face war like mere primitives. They, unlike most others of their kin, had developped enough sophisticated society to see through the violence of war, in long term plans and sorcerers' schemes that oftentimes stretched way farther than the battlefield itself.

Aa-Baan knew his mission to be a success, when the weak, despised reptillian scribe spoke. Its eyes turned, its slitted pupils turning pale, as the psychic wave reached its mind demanding and unwaivering.
"Massssssssster! Red Whissssssspherssssss yes, reachhhhhh us!"

Aa-Baan turned to his lieutenants.

"Send the word. Now."

The hobgoblin officer bowed his head. He turned towards the nearby wagon, where troops revealed a large cage in which an oragne shaded bird was trapped in.
As they unlocked the cage, the phoenix spread his wings, flying off to what could only be assumed a pre-determined course, up until he faded into the flying dust and smoke.

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The fighting was fierce. As the hobgoblin horde pushed against the Espadan ranks, the pikemen of the Black Wolf answered in kind, with crossbowmen casting bolts from through the pike formations, while brave champions armed with greatswords sneaked from under the walls of pikes and bled the enemy from the gut down, before, those few lucky enough, returned to the Espadan line.

The Chaplain pulled the reins of her stallion. His rearing high enough to be distinguished across the field, as the pike formations openned for the iron clad knights to pour into the enemy front. The melee gradually devolved on several pockets of the battle into chaotic wrestling, with occasional breaks from both sides that were eventually halted by additional troops tossed into the grinder.

"For God and Sparnia! Deus Vult!!" Adosinda roared, waiving her silver blade aloft, emboldened the nearby warriors to push onward. Her eyes glimpsing to the distant city that was now engulfed in flames by the retaliatory pillaging of its host by the Hobgoblin horde. That was the world unsaved by God. That was what would come of the wicked world if not blessed by the coming of the new, golden, age. For such a world, for such a fate, a legacy to exist, many had to bleed in the altar of salvation. Many had to fall, for others to ascend.

Adosinda's mind curled in iron resolve. If it was her's the life to be put beneath the priest's knife, she was ready for it. Ready to slay, ready to bleed and be bled, for the vision of a world beyond the Dark Age. Oh, the very thought empowered her muscles, blackened her vision in a might that drove her blade against the vile foe.

Her limbs carried her to the fight. Her stallion stomping on the dead and dying, his spiked iron gear quick to fill with gore of fallen foes. As one of the tribesmen cast a javelin to her, her free hand caught it mid air, as her body twisted to the side to avoid the edge. She turned it over and with a kick of her heels, impaled the hobgoblin with it. Her muscles drunk by bloodletting, her mind incapable or ignorant enough to conceive the unnatural strength they found to lift the javelin aloft, with the impaled, still dying hobgoblin still on it, for all the battlefield to brace the might of the Night Court.

It was then, when the roaring of the hobgoblin cannons echoed from the distance, like heralds of earthquake.

Within moments, dozens of troops flew in a massive cloud of blood and dust. Limbs rained down the lines of both sides, as the hobgoblin artillery openned fire to break the field, ignorant of the friendly casualties they would eventually sustain by such an act.

The second blast emerged just behind Adosinda, caving a troll in half before engulfing its naked flesh into the cloud of death.

The third whistled over Adosinda. Her reins broken by the sharp shrapnel flying, as the cloud of dust erected around her, flaying the stallion and breaking her grip around the javelin.

She was dizzy. Her hand reached out, as she found herself crawling on the dirt over the dead and dying. The blackness of her vision dissipated, only for pain and exhaustion to take its place. Her mind fixated on the horror caused by the view her eyes engaged.

Her stallion lied not too far from her. Half his skin flayed by the blast, his face cracked. Breathing heavily, yet to give in to death, matching his master's determination to keep on fighting.

She screamed, as both sides clashed around her...

 

[Harsul Bid-Ulza]

The Hobgoblin's armour was laid with silver and gold, with several emeralds hinting to his noble status. The crimson of his skin contrasting the blue linen and fabrics decorated by jewelry of gold. His hair grim, and his hand resting on the heavy rubies that weighted his sheathed scimitar's pommel.
As the Hobgoblin walked, proud and demanding to the very eye, a phoenix flew behind him, giving to those who watched from the front the illusion that the Hobgoblin himself had wings of flame.

Eons had passed ever since the times of savagery, for the Hobgoblins of Maorkisharra, now standing as an empire of might and sorcery, valor and honour alike, to which few could contest. They were up to now the undispured rulers of the South, now laying claim to a second conquest of Sparnia...
Alas, the latest events in Badazza had brought the two ascending powers of the region, the Alurmanat Empire and Espada, to a head on collision course...

"Mighty shairf." the hobgoblin declared with voice loud and steadfast enough to be heard from all across the chamber. "Conquerer of Ali and King of Night."

It was evident that the Hobgoblin wished to establish the knowledge of the Alurmanat mystics on the happenings in Sparnia. It was known their wisdom rivalled much of the Night Court's, and their history had brrought the two on various occasions at odds.... Alas, never before as much as now.

"I am Harsul Bid-Ulza ibn-Alurmanat." the phoenix flapped its wings to the sound of the dynastic name.
"I come to wish you joy of your victory, in Ali, and tidings from the West. The Alurmanat, blessings and prayers upon the flame one Burning, wish no strife with Espada or its King. Our peoples have long stood in opposition. Now, be not the time to determine which of the two Empires shall rule the peninsula. Now be not the time for curses, but for words of wisdom. Thus, say my masters, and the speakers of the Flame one Burning."

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus regarded Harsul Bid-Ulza ibn-Alurmanat with an unreadable expression, his crimson eyes glinting in the dim candlelight of the chamber. He allowed a moment of silence to stretch between them, letting the weight of the hobgoblin’s words settle. Victory had been his, yes—but he did not revel in it as a mere mortal king would. His war was not for glory. It was for dominion.

At last, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm upon the armrest of his throne. His voice, smooth yet edged with iron, filled the space between them.

“You wish me joy of my victory, yet your forces still bleed upon my lands. You bring tidings from the West, yet your warships have only just been scattered from my seas. Tell me, Harsul, do your masters truly wish for no strife, or is this merely an attempt to stall the inevitable?”

He studied the hobgoblin carefully, searching for the flicker of truth behind the formalities. Marcus had seen empires rise and crumble under the weight of their own arrogance. He knew when fear masqueraded as wisdom.

“You speak of opposition as if it is history, not our present,” Marcus continued, his tone measured but firm. “Yet, as we speak, my armies carve through your warriors, and yours through mine. If your masters seek wisdom, then let us speak plainly. The Alurmanat have encroached upon lands that will never be theirs. And if they do not step back, I will burn their banners from the peninsula entirely. There will be no line drawn between our empires, only the ruins of one beneath the other.”

He let his words hang in the air before reclining once more, his gaze piercing.

“Now, tell me, Harsul—do you have the authority to decide whether your people live or die, or are you merely a messenger for those too afraid to face me themselves?”

 

[The Night Court]

Caiden stood over the fallen troll, his blade dripping with the thick, blackened blood of the beast. His men roared in triumph, their bloodlust only heightened by the sight of their leader felling such a monstrous foe. But Caiden barely acknowledged their cheers—his mind was already on the next target.

Wiping the blood from his blade, he turned his gaze to the battlefield, where the hobgoblin reinforcements were pouring in from the valleys and mountains. The battle was far from over.

“Enough celebrating,” Caiden commanded, his voice cutting through the clamor. “Push forward! Cut them down before they can form ranks. Show them the might of the Blood Host!”

His cultists, empowered by Marcus’ blood, surged forward like a tide of crimson-clad zealots, eager to carve a path through the enemy. Caiden led the charge, his supernatural speed and strength making him a force of carnage as he tore through the hobgoblin lines, seeking the next worthy opponent to fall beneath his blade.

 

[Harsul Bid-Ulza]

Hasrul tilted his head. The black ink of his tattoos creating the illusion of a flickering flame as they contrasted the light of the torches. His patience seemed endless, for he offered no reaction to the otherwise heated words spat by the Night King. The King of Espada. The pretender of the North, as many called him. To Hasrul, though, he was just another ruler of another rival realm yet to be humbled by the Alurmanat.

There was a strange tranquility engulfing the hobgoblin noble, almost dictating his flawless slight movements, like a flame dancing over the embers, silent in its fury. Waiting, to bite...

"The campaign in Badazza was irrelevant to your own, in Ali, King Marcus. Whether the enemy contacted Espada seeing them as a rival to the Empire, or you, King Marcus, considered an unprovoked aggression would serve your purposes, whichever these may be." Harsul pointed out. He extended his hands to the sides, his tone remaining calm, controlled, yet fiery in its essence.
"Violence is an extension of the word, through means of flesh. As far as I am concerned, Badazza is now under the Alurmanat dynasty's domains. Should the Espadan army withdraws from the field, there needs to be no further violence. That, however, will be a choice of yours. You, after all, are the aggressor. Not the Empire."

The laws of diplomacy, as well as the code of honour embraced by the hobgoblin kin differed vastly with those of the North. A fact that both sides were well-aware of. In this particular occasion, Harsul planned to demonstrate the complexity of the hobgoblin civilization, speaking well-versed and to the point.

"The violence will stop, King Marcus, as soon as Espada withdraws from Badazza."

 

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

The battlefield was layered with dead and dying, limbs and blood pits, as the two armies distanced from one another, for this narrow moment it lasted. The losses sustained were heavy, and the fighting seemed long from over. Though initially well-rested, the Alurmanat host had been fighting the entire day, those troops facing off the Blood Host, at least. Dead wolves, slithering warriors and forests of arrows and shattered spears alike arrayed the soil. Many of either side's champions had fallen, enough for the hobgoblins to lose heart.

And yet, their mission had been a success. They had held the Blood Host enough for the main force to break into the city. Trumphets sounded from atop the towers, while Alurmanat banner were affixed, after burning down the local flags.

The hobgoblin host, though battered, presented their spears and started retreating towards the city. The wolf riders, once again, emerge,d, galloping around the Blood Host flanks, capitalizing on their high speed to shoot and withdraw before engaging, to harrass the enemy and gain some additional time for the rest of their allies to withdraw.

 

[Nepheli N. Tzunidahr]

Nepheli took a deep breath, the scent of salt and smoke thick in the air. The sea was hers, and victory lay before her like a feast waiting to be claimed. The hobgoblins had broken, their will shattered upon the hulls of the Espadian fleet, but she was not yet finished. The true mark of dominance was not just in battle, but in control.

She turned to her signal officer, her voice carrying above the wind. “Raise the black banners. No ship sails these waters without my leave.”

The command spread like wildfire through the fleet. The Sparnish Armada moved into formation, spreading their warships like an unbreakable chain across the horizon. The remaining enemy vessels, still struggling to regroup, found themselves trapped between the land they had once controlled and the relentless blockade now sealing their fate.

Nepheli’s golden gaze flicked toward the shore. The battle raged inland, distant fires flickering like dying stars against the darkened coastline. That was not her concern. The Espadian army had their own war to fight. Hers was here, upon the waves, where the enemy would find no refuge.

“Cut off their supply lines,” she continued, speaking now to her captains gathered on deck. “No reinforcements. No escape. If a single ship tries to break through, sink it. We do not chase them—we let them drown in their own desperation.”

The captains nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. They understood the order well. There was no honor in slaughtering a routed foe, but this was not about honor. This was about ensuring that Espada’s dominance would never be questioned again.

As the night deepened, the blockade solidified, the Espadian warships standing as silent sentinels against the moonlit sea. No more enemy sails would slip past them—not tonight, not ever. Nepheli stood at the helm, watching, waiting. The battle might be over, but the war was still hers to dictate.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus sat back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Harsul with an expression of detached amusement. The hobgoblin spoke with confidence, conviction even—but Marcus saw through it. A plea, wrapped in the illusion of diplomacy.

“You speak well, Harsul Bid-Ulza ibn-Alurmanat,” Marcus began, his voice calm yet laced with the weight of his authority. “But do not mistake Espada’s presence in Badazza as a whim or a mere act of aggression. The people of Badazza sought us out, not the other way around. They did so because they know what you refuse to admit—your empire is not their salvation. It is their oppressor.”

He leaned forward, letting his words settle.

“However, I am a reasonable man.” His lips curled into a faint smirk, one that did not reach his eyes. “Espada has greater aspirations than this single city, and I will not waste my armies on an unnecessary war when my sights are set on something far grander. So, for now, I will grant you your ceasefire.”

Marcus rose to his feet, exuding an aura of power, his presence overwhelming even in its restraint.

“But understand this—while Espada’s blades may still for the moment, my reach extends beyond the battlefield. You hold Badazza in name alone. As of this moment, your city is cut off. No resources will flow freely into it. No trade will pass through its gates without answering to Espada’s tariffs. No ship will enter its ports unless my navy allows it. I will not stain my hands with unnecessary blood—for now. But make no mistake, Harsul…”

His gaze darkened, his voice lowering to something almost sinister.

“I do not forget what is mine.”

He let the words linger before turning slightly, signaling the conversation was coming to an end.

“Take your ceasefire. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because when I return, it will not be to negotiate.”

 

[Harsul Bid-Ulza]

The face of the hobgoblin noble did not alter while the King spoke. It had been inevitable ever since the rise of the Night King, the two Empires were on a head-to-head collision course. To Espada, such would be a war against an arch-enemy; An ancient foe who laid claim to the peninsula for millenia, and was planning to see it fall once again, though years had passed in instability of the Alurmanat own making.

To Harsul, it mattered little. It was inevitable, he reasoned, that eventually all shall be illuminated by the Everlasting Flame, or be burned by its wrathful touch. There were many who worshipped gods across Terra Firma, and even more who believed themselves above such... Alas, to Harsul's eyes, it was only the Hobgoblins who lived around the very beating heard of one.

"Your decree pleases me, and the Sultan, King." he intoned, tilting his head high. Pride, it seemed, wasn't scarce with Harsul. "Both banners this time leave on poles. May next time, one does so, awashed with the other's ashes."

An ancient ritual, the Alurmanat preserved; Burning down the flags, or on some occasions, even the leaders of their defeated enemies, and washing their own banners with the ashes, in a symbolic act of defilement, or amalgamation of two worthy opponents, depending who's version of the story one listened.

"Memory serves you well. The Sultan never forgets. Sparnia will be his'. Soon. But until then, May you prosper in your doings, great King."

It was to many inconceivable the way the Hobgoblin minds worked. Though taunting, and perhaps insulting, to many, Harsul and the Alurmanat indeed meant their words...

The Hobgoblin bowed in the traditional way of the Sparnish, demonstrating his deep knowledge of the culture, before turning in a wide motion and walking from the chamber. As his face was shadowed by the arched exit, he smirked, knowing the tale of the two empires had barely just begun. His task, for the time being, at least, was a success...

Peace had come...


Yet, to everyone's knowledge, for a very, very narrow period....

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus watched as the hobgoblin envoys began their departure, his expression unreadable, save for the faintest glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. This ceasefire was not a surrender—only a shift in tactics. He had other lands to claim, other wars to wage. For now, Badazza would not burn, but it would choke beneath Espada’s grip.

Rising from his throne, he exhaled slowly, already reaching out with his mind, feeling the distant movements of his armies. The battlefield awaited, and his presence would cement the weight of his decree.

He moved with purpose, the grand procession forming in his wake. The banners of Espada, deep crimson and gold, snapped in the wind as his most elite knights rode beside him, their dark armor glinting beneath the waning light. The Red Mages Aamon and Bartholomew flanked him, their unnatural presence warping the very air with raw arcane power. Each step a reminder of the devastation Espada could bring.

Marcus rode at the head, his black steed a specter of war, its obsidian coat shimmering as if woven from the void itself. As they passed through the city and out onto the bloodstained fields, Espadian soldiers bowed their heads in solemn salute. Whispers followed in his wake—his arrival was not just that of a king, but of something greater.

The battlefield stretched before him, still thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. The clash of steel had not yet ceased, but as his forces took notice of his approach, the fighting staggered to a halt, as if war itself bowed to his will.

Marcus reined in his horse, his gaze sweeping over the field until it found Adosinda. Dismounting, his boots pressed into the blood-soaked earth as he strode forward. His voice, low yet commanding, carried across the battlefield with effortless power.

“Ceasefire.”

Marcus remained still for a moment, the battlefield hushed under the weight of his decree. The scent of steel and blood clung to the air, but for now, the chaos had been subdued. His command was law, and both ally and enemy knew it.

Turning to Adosinda, his gaze lingered on her, taking in the remnants of battle upon her armor and the fire that had yet to leave her eyes. She had led well, as expected, and now it was time to move forward.

“You have held the line and crushed those who stood in our way,” Marcus remarked, his voice calm yet edged with purpose. “Now, we turn to the next phase of our conquest.”

Straightening, Marcus turned his attention back to the larger campaign. “Send word to our forces. Our champions return to Ali to convene at my war table. We will discuss the next steps in our expansion.” His mind was already weaving the next phase of conquest, pieces shifting into place like a grand game of strategy.

“Nepheli will command the western front. Her fleet has already demonstrated its strength, and she will continue to carve a path forward. The west will soon know the full weight of Espada’s power.”

His voice was resolute, each word shaping the empire’s future.

Finally, he looked once more at Adosinda. “See to it that our forces hold the blockade. Let the hobgoblins feel the grip of Espada at their throats. We will squeeze them until they beg for relief.”

With that, he stepped forward, his presence casting a long shadow over the field. The night awaited, and Marcus would ensure that when the dawn rose again, it would do so over an empire greater than before.