Expansion Taking Rios | Expansion Into Rios

[Marcus Aumont]

The air was thick with the scent of conquest, a blend of blood and sweat from the recent victory at Hulva. Marcus sat tall on his midnight black steed, the beast's hooves grinding into the earth as the Espada army assembled behind him. The sun cast a harsh light over the land, reflecting off the gleaming armor of his soldiers and the crimson robes of the Red Mage, who stood by with a quiet intensity.

Commander Adosinda rode up beside Marcus, her presence as commanding as ever, her eyes scanning the horizon where the province of Rios lay, its city just beyond the hills.

“We move swiftly,” Marcus spoke, his voice carrying over the hushed anticipation of his troops. “But not without honor.” He glanced at the Red Mage, whose hands crackled with latent power. “Before we rain fire upon Rios, they will be given a choice.”

With a nod from Marcus, an envoy broke from the ranks, riding ahead with a white flag of parley. The offer of peaceful surrender was clear: open the gates and bow to Espada, or face the wrath of an army fresh from victory, its thirst for conquest not yet sated.

As the envoy disappeared over the crest of the hill, the soldiers murmured amongst themselves, their anticipation palpable. Marcus kept his gaze fixed on the distant city, his grip on the reins tightening. Soon, Rios would be theirs—whether by their own choice or by force.

 

[Dreadheart]

"The God-Machine protect Rios from the wicked! The God-Machine witness their champions of faith and fire cast the demon from Sparnia!"
​

The rugged-clothed priest walked fearlessly ahead of the troops, lifting the golden clockwork symbol with his hand while embracing the holy manuscript against his chest. In his eyes, aged and scarred by the thousand plagues that had befallen him, there was no hesitation, nor dread before the enemy's advance. There need no bullets nor arrows nor spells to pierce his skin, he reassured himself in silence, for the God-Machine protected him.

"Onwards, men of Sparnia! Onwards! And fear no darkness! Fear no evil!"
​

The long pikes blazed to the thunderous lightning that carved the skies, as the Autumn approached ever closer. In Sparnia summers were hot and with little to no rains, yet this day the skies chose to dress in grey and roar, further evidence of the foul forces gathering over the ancient soil. The trees grew dark and so did most of wildlife rout, letting those who considered themselves "civilized" solve the riddle that was the War for Rios...

His eyes jumped from unit to unit, silently evaluating the combat survivability of the pikemen formations that occasionally cheered to the spell-like chants and preaching of the priests ahead of their lines. He moved his brown gloved hand to the long-barreled pistola that was passed on his belt ahead of his breastplate. The red and yellow fabric around him reminded him of the league he served in a position, to his eyes, few if any were worthy of, less so, himself...

"Cavalry by the left flank" he declared. "Artillery behind the center. Muskets by the pikes." His voice husky, slow and clear, with the old Sparnish accent holding strong regardless the age. For decades he had served under any and all banners in Sparnia as a sellsword, having had the fortune to be cursed enough to bare the notice of the Pottaunese nobles during their time of strife. The golden chrysanthemons decorating his kettle hat helmet a statement of the wealth accumulated by the bloodletting of the Western world.

Years had passed, since he had returned to Rios a rich man, only to find Espada on the rise; A state not many among he Sparnish counted on seeing as a hegemon, and yet by the time its armies marched out, few could oppose them.
Initially, when Prince Hedrejo DeCallaja, ruler of Rios as successor to the old royals, offered to hire Capitano Zanetto DeSalara to lead the war effort against Espada, Zanetto refused.

"My time by the blade is over, your highness. I shall live the few years I got left with my grandson, and see him marry and grow a son of his own." he remembered saying. He pittied himself now, riding a stalion as head of a mighty army, no longer hoping to see his great grandkids. Hell, he did not expect to see his grandson again either; He was among the pikemen units, a bannerer. He pleaded to Zanetto to appoint him as part of the cavalry or at least the musketeers, but Zanetto refused.
Although it was perceived as a honour, to be put in the cavalry was to face almost certain death, judging by the dark turn warfare had taken the past decades. It was them, the Iron Cult, who had advanced the infantry's capability of dealing with armoured cavalry, and yet the people failed to realize it, drunk in pride.

These thoughts drove Zanetto's eyes to the cloaked rider next to him.

"Steel and blackpowder are my concern." he continued, turning to the cloaked figure. Her cloak was midnight blue, with a silver raven-styled helmet covering her face, while a priestly tabard of ochre colour dressed over her robes, decorated with the bronze and silver jewelry that demonstrated her place among House Skyrra, of the Iron Cult.
"Magics, are yours."

"The devils will show themselves in this field. And I will make sure of their blasphemous powers to be held at bay." the Iron Priestess' solemn voice sounded through the silver helmet. Her horse was pale, dressed with chainmail and fabric, carrying the Sparnish symbols of faith, which she had well-established herself within. Her eyes turned to the ranks of the pikemen, and ahead of them, to the preaching clergymen.

While most were of pure heart, blind in their faith to the divine, some carried the cryptic "gear" medallion on their necks, signifying their membership, hushed from public, to the Iron Cult. Many years had the agents of the God-Machine investigated the presence of the so called "Night Court", it was time to step up their efforts, in the face of the Espadan expansion....

Zanetto rode forth, nodding to his lieutenants. "Battle formations!" he declared, moments before the trumphets sung across the large plateau across which the road to the capital carved a path, now blockaded by the Riosian host. Zanetto gazed to the horison, anticipating the coming of the Espadan army. It was the perfect place. Large valley, providing advantage to the tactics employed by the Sparnish, while making a statement to the aspiring "King" @Marcus Aumont ...

As the opposing armies revealed themselves to one another, a group of some ten riders, including Zanetto and the Iron Priestess, rode forth under the white of the flag flown next to the many colours of the Rios nobles who had assembled this army, now under Zanetto's command. This would be but a mere formality, for the commander. He knew well enough what had happened to the last opposition who attempted to reason with Espada. Or at least, so was the rumour of the massacres in Burganna and Oveda...

"I am Zanetto DeSalara, commander of this army." he declared as soon as he approached the Espadan envoys, if they answered the offer to a parle. "This is Giermo Cavalla DeSorien, and Lady Larma DeDiossa." he continued, presenting the rather flumboyantly dressed nobles who consisted the embassy. Coincidence or not, he seemed not to offer the same formality to the Iron Priestess, who remained on her pale horse at the back of the embassy, in silence...

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The Black Wolf banners flew as the wind blew from the North. Troops assembled by the hundreds, adopting the Espadan yellow tail under the black fabric of the Blakc Wolf. After all, for now at least, they were in league. It was an occasion just like this one, where Adosinda stood in opposition to Marcus' advance in Hulva. It was an event such as this one, when she accepted a bargain she had yet to settle who was the winning side of.

The revilation at Oveda shook the Black Wolf commander to her core. It had been years she had preached by the cloth and fought by the blade to rid Sparnia of the wicked, the devil and the Vampire, and now, it was she herself who had followed one such creature of Foul magicks.... Or was it?
The holy books did speak of the angel of war that would liberate Sparnia from the corruption and the injustice. It was the holy books who spoke of angels dressed in black armour, who would stand by the mortals of faith, in the darkest times.

Lost in her thoughts, she found refuge only in the trade she knew best:
War.

"The cavalry can break to the flanks. But their pikes will be supported by artillery, farther back." she commented to the King's instructions. "We still do not know their forces composition."

As the army advanced into the plateau, the Riosian army's lines were revealled, to the shock of many among the Espadan ranks. The nobles of Rios had managed to gather several units of pikemen, musketeers and cavalry, while several cannons were deployed ahead of the contingent.

"They have artillery against our right flank" Adosinda spoke, riding closer to the King while she gestured towards the enemy's left flank. "They will hit our flank with their cavalry from there, after the cannons..."

As the enemy embassy rode across the field, Adosinda couldn't help but grin, to the view of the noble escort. With soldiers, regardless how despicable, she could reason with, or at least respect. These nobles, who funded hosts for generations and yet never truly felt the quivering of the blade after a bind, she had no way to talk to. They believed their wealth meant everything and their lineage of abuse and manipulation to their people meant they had the right to demand from all but God...

"Zanetto." she exclaimed, as the embassy approached. "It's been awhile since we met last."

 

[Euthanor Nachimar]

"Not the best sight, right?" the Plague Doctor inquired to the black horse next to him. He held the stallion by the reins, yet did not ride throughout the most of the campaign. His abnormal stamina, result of his mutations, was based on practice. He prefered to walk and train his body with hardship rather than use a beast for his comfort. Besides, that steed, he would have to eventually use during the battle. There was no reason to grind its endurance until then. Instead, he occasionally spoiled it with apples and other treats he happened to find along the way, or from the supply train of the army.

The stress over his new role was gaining on his mind. Although he initially fought against the foul Abhartach, who seemed to have grasp over Espada, the mercy shown to him was a double-edged blade that was yet to bleed the lesser part of the bargain. And who that would be, Euthanor could only guess. But the opportunity for such an insight into the world of the Night Court, the villains he was sent to Sparnia to collect intelligence on in the first place, was too much to pass on. He had no hesitation to lay his life down for the Cult, as he was but yet anther cog of the colossal machine that was the Iron Cult.
But his role, had just became far more important than a simple informant's. Captive as he was, no bondage restrainned him nor chains nor guards. The pact made between the Abhartach and the Plague Doctor was that of information exchange. And, to that end, Euthanor hoped to win in the contest of wits.

The interest of the Cult in Sparnia was known to him. Although never advertised, they had long sough an ally in the penninsula, for the grand war planned ahead. The gradual corruption of the clergy to their cause was the strongest asset yet, having no real means to call upon the peoples themselves to a second Iron Rebellion...

That was the case until Espada begun its expansion...

And now, Euthanor, was a pivotal part of this massive scheme, as the political turmoil entrenched all over the relatively small piece of land, called Sparnia. It begun, in Rios. Euthanor was certain he would encounter another of his kin. Who, he could not tell. Not even the agents of the Cult were fully aware of the extend of their overlords' operations. They didn't need to, anyway...

His keen eye was quick to recognize the hooded Iron agent among them. The disturbing aspect of it, was that he could tell the House she was hailing from... Unlike the Ravka, House Skyrra was a militaristic branch of the Cult, with their name attached to "war" as much as House Ravka's was to "Alchemy"...

This would be one of the many challenges he would have to navigate through, if he wanted to indeed accomplish the mission he had by now commited to. There was no point, nor hope in defecting back to his kin. He had to become a trusted hand of the Abhartach, a member in his own right of the Night Court if he had to, so that his efforts would be of value...

He remained silent, pacing always close to the Abhartach, with his horse following by the reins.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

The city of Rios had not been idle. Even as the Espada envoy rode forward with the offer of peace, the defenders of the province were marshalling their forces. Cannons were wheeled into position along the city’s fortifications, cavalry lined up in disciplined rows, and pikemen braced their long weapons, ready for the clash to come. Musketeers stood behind them, the barrels of their guns catching the glint of the sun, their eyes locked on the approaching threat.

Marcus, the Vampire King, observed all of this from his position atop the hill. His gaze was cool and calculating, taking in the strength of Rios’ defenses. At his side, Commander Adosinda awaited his word, her expression unwavering despite the display of power before them.

Beside them, the Plague Doctor—a figure draped in black with a long, bird-like mask—stood silently, a strange yet formidable ally who had agreed to join their cause, if only for a time.

Marcus turned his head slightly, his piercing eyes meeting Adosinda’s. “You may lead this exchange, Commander. I will observe.”

With a nod, Adosinda urged her horse forward to meet the envoy, Zanetto, who had emerged from the gates of Rios. The tension in the air was thick as she approached, her demeanor calm yet commanding, ready to negotiate—or deliver the final warning. Marcus remained behind, his presence a silent reminder of the power that lurked just beneath the surface, ready to be unleashed should Rios refuse the generous offer of peace.

Looking to Euthanor, Marcus would address him as Adosinda would negotiate terms as there was something that he wanted information on. “Who might we be engaging with from your people?” He asked rather bluntly, his curiosity now peaked from his observation of the Iron Cult woman and even furthermore Euthanors reaction to her presence.

 

[Vyona of the Wolf Clan]

Vyona was fascinated. The use of artillery pike and musket together was inspired she realised. She also appreciated the discipline it would take to march in step in formation like that. The signals and maneuvers. It was very impressive. She was sure the resources of the Night Court would prevail. Right now her biggest concern was that her and her Gladiators wouldn’t get a chance to earn their place in battle. Vyona usually preferred to be on the frontlines although usually second or third wave once the grunts and fodder had softened up a wall or entrenched position a bit.

If she and her Gladiators charged those lines however she had no doubt they’d be decimated before they ever got close with their close quarters blades. They were fierce fighters but they were used to up close combat not holding off the enemy with musket shots artillery and long reach pikes.

Vyona wasn’t entirely sure how useful she and her Gladiators would be her only hope was that somehow their ranks would be softened enough for them to be used for the final push to break the enemy formations. Then hopefully the enemy would break and she and her Gladiators could cut them down at will.

Right now she was sitting next to the Night King himself. Vyona wasn’t sure why she would be given such a position of honour, but she was cautiously honoured. She didn’t know where she sat in the political intrigue of the court but her loyalty was to Sylvia whether she was officially Warmaster or not.

All in all Vyona wasn’t sure what she was doing here either on the battlefield or in this position of precarious honour. Still she was strangely glad to be here. Learning about new tactics always fascinated her. She had learnt to appreciate the effectiveness of the undead in Sylvia’s army, this was an entirely different method. Privately a part of her thought there was little valour in shooting an enemy before they could ever get into range themselves but then some of the tribes of the steppe employed similar tactics shooting bows from horse back, and some would complain using undead was an unfair tactic. War was not the space to be quibbled about what was fair or gentlemanly. Either something worked or it didn’t.

“What’s to stop them from using their artillery to blow us to pieces?” Vyona asked frowning “Is it logistics are cannon and shot really that rare?”

Vyona had a new appreciation for logistics and supplies what an army depended on to function it was in some ways more important to a campaign then hard fighting atleast in the long term. With the right amount of logistics a general could send multiple armies across the width and breadth of an enemy land conquering at will always making sure they were never outnumbered. The Demon King must have employed a great amount of logistics to reach as far as her home on the Steppe. It was a weapon of the enemy Vyona sought to understand and wield herself.

“Our cavalry!” Vyona realised “They’d have to put their pikes directly in front of their cannon to defend us from swooping on them.”

Vyona thought it through.

“If the cannon were on a heightened fortified position perhspas with stakes and traps to prevent a cavalry charge then the only way to defeat them would be to hammer them with our own artillery until our forces could overrun them. Useful in a fortified position but impractical on a battlefield.”

Vyona nodded

“Did I miss anything?”

@Marcus Aumont

 

[Dreadheart]

"This time, Chaplain, we hold swords for the opposing sides." Zanetto admitted, to Adosinda, who he clearly had history with. "You know I will do it, if I must." he warned then.

"This is a fine day for a sport. But I do not wish to feed to your warmongering, Prince" the flumboyantly dressed Giermo Cavalla DeSorien expressed, with strong Sparnish accent, coloured with centuries-old pride that made his own voice stand out from the humble and aged Zanetto. His black words not hesitant to deny Marcus his claim to Kingship.
"The Butcher of Oveda shall have no sway in Rios. The DeSorien have ruled these lands for longer than Espada's existence. Accept this-"
Giermo grabbed a scrolled paper from the strapped red cloth around his waist and trotted his horse forth, to carry him closer to Adosinda, extending his gloved hand towards her, offering the piece.
"-And consider that a settlement of our dispute. Keep the North, where you belong, Prince. This is royal soil, not for the likes of...." he formed a grimache, looking down at Adosinda.

"You should be warned" Zanetto suggested. "This fight shall not be the end of it. The DeSorien are strong. Do not bleed the lands you do not need to." His arguement was much more grounded, not poisoned with pride, or certainty to a crown that resided dozens of miles away from his sword.

The masked Iron Priestess tilted her head to the side. In silence, she continued observing the interaction, seemingly focusing on the many diverse hypaspists Marcus had brought with him.

She studied; Calculated. Her quest yet unclear, for her voice was not heard throughout the offering of the noble.

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The Chaplain bowed her head to Zanetto's words. Both being champions of the blade, they knew to respect the soldier's code of arms. They required few words to talk terms; their terms. Those who concerned not the royals and their lustful holdings, nor the lands and the hundreds who walked beyond the field of battle. No, these were the Nobles' terms, those who would not matter when the steel shined against the blood mist.
To the soldiers, what mattered was a honourable burial; A pyra in which their bodies, not defiled or dishonoured, would be sent beyond. These were the terms arranged between the soldiers. The terms which mattered above all, for those who would do the fighting.

As the noble approached and his hand, proudly as he was, extended to her, she felt an urge to reply his gesture by the singing of her dagger, letting his fingers rain against the grass in a barbaric absolution. It was her faith, and restraint placed by her duties, that made her accept the scrolled paper. Giermo's repulsive mustache dancing by his excess grimaches made it unable for her eyes not to be entangled. She could count some seven ways she would wish to see his facial hair drop from his face through the torture of descend into a peasant's life, flogged and pushed for little gain, only to feed bellies such as his', who never truly earned their place, but simply sat on it, because their ancestors, glorified for deeds conducted or not, have done so.

"Fifty thousand pieces of silver, and acknowledgement of the Aumont rights over the country of Asterias" Adosinda reported, reading through the document. "It carries the seal of Sebastian DeSorien" she continued, trying to mask her shock in a heavy tone. "The King of Valladile and Galuria..."

The DeSorien family were a rather influencial faction, and a force to be reckonned with in Sparnia. Although having been at odds with the Hobgoblins, farther South, they still remained a major rival for Espada's kingship...

 

[Euthanor Nachimar]

Euthanor observed, remaining dismounted. The etiquette of a parle before a contest of armies was still respected, it seemed, and so did Marcus respected it in turn. There was a spike in barbarism across Erova, and the Plague Doctor knew to keep a mental note of the practice.
"House Skyrra" He replied to @Marcus Aumont when he inquired of the Iron Cult's agent within the opposing embassy. The straightforwardness of the King was something Euthanor had grown to value. The same way he was asking, he replied too. The game of wits between the two was much more difficult this way, as either wanting to refrain from an obvious, or true reply, had to be quick, to not hint his deceit, from the oily words of his mouth. In this particular case, Euthanor saw no reason to attempt any deviation from the truth. After all, his own captivity was a clear statement that the Cult had been gazing to Sparnia...

"They are warriors and generals" he continued. A stray gaze of the Plague Doctor was caught by the Iron Priestess, causing few seconds of staring between the two. "They are dangerous. And cannot be killed." A shade of hesitation, or worry, coloured his words.

The Plague Doctor stepped back, heading to the saddle pouches, where he searched. It was then, when he heard @Vyona of the Wolf Clan wondering of the seemingly alien, to her, composition of the Sparnish armies.

Mindless Savages

He thought to himself. But as the she-warrior continued her inquiries, he could see through them, for the curiosity and thinking that flooded Vyona's mind. She was not a mere savage. Something about her, differentiated her, to the point the Plague Doctor's attention was entrapped, as she studied her curious eyes, gazing the field ahead. Eventually, he gave in to that gut feeling. She, after all, was among the Abhartach's champions. This meant alot. Something was special, about that being, and he had a chance to glimpse in it.

“Our cavalry!” Vyona realised “They’d have to put their pikes directly in front of their cannon to defend us from swooping on them.”

"Indeed" he commented on her realization. "The Cavalry could swipe the artillery as soon as they made contact. This is why here, they place reserves to protect them. It works, if it happens. But if the cavalry makes it so far past the battle line, the probability of a victory for the receiving side is minimum..."

He finally picked an apple from the saddle bag, and then reached for a strange tinny glass sylindrical tool, filled with a colourful liquid. He proceeded to insert that liquid to the apple, through a tinny needle that protruded from the cylinder's top.

"Again correct" he complemented Vyona as she continued expressing her thoughts on the use of artillery. "Artillery is a siege asset. This is where it was invented, after all. But in the field, if used correctly in small numbers, it can make a difference."
He nodded towards the field artillery deployed on the flank of the enemy formations.
"These guns will bleed anything approaching their side. They will most likely be swallowed by pike formations and dragged back before the battle is joint. Limited range, not much farther than a musket... But the damage on morale and flesh pays off. A well-aimed barrage can silence any frontliners."

The Plague Doctor walked to the front of his mount, tapping his hand on its neck while feeding it the apple. He listened to the Chaplain's report on the offer of the DeSorien, for peace. A hefty sum. But what interested the Plague Doctor was not the offer itself, but the response given from the Abhartach...

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Mounted upon his black horse that symbolized death, Marcus would look over at his mostly trusted, and some not so trusted champions and advisors.Vyona, the gladiator trained under the formidable Sylvia, stood with arms crossed horse mounted, her sharp eyes looking out at the troops laid out before her. She noted the deployment of musketeers, cavalry, and cannons—tactics Marcus had seamlessly integrated into the Espada army, adapting the lessons she had learned from Sylvia to his own ends.

Marcus gave a faint nod, acknowledging her observation. “A good strategist knows when to evolve, Vyona. Adaptation is the key to victory.”

Before more could be said, the Plague Doctor, a mysterious figure from the Iron Cult Nation, stepped forward. His voice, muffled by the mask, relayed the assessment of his fellow countrymen.

Marcus’ eyes narrowed slightly as he absorbed the information. “Interesting. We will find a way to turn their strengths and weaknesses against them should we go to battle.”

At that moment, Adosinda who had received the scroll had her expression neutral but her eyes holding a flicker of disdain. She handed Marcus a scroll, the demands of the opposing forces written in bold strokes. the offer of money and rights over the Kingdom of Asterias, nothing more, nothing less.

Marcus read the demands, his lips curling into a scoff. Looking at the man before him, he would learn today that he wasn’t dealing with any one man but the King of all of Sparnia. “You dare to think you can buy our mercy with silver and empty titles?” He said directly to Desorien man. If he knew that before him was practicly a god he would end his vanity.

He turned his gaze to the man and then to Adosinda not even acknowledging the man fully. “Here are our terms: They will fully surrender and offer every last coin in their coffers to Espada. We will allow the Desorien to remain in power as a leadership under my rule. No more, no less.”

Marcus would then turn his gaze briefly to the self proclaimed King. “There will be no further terms, any disagreement to such terms will call upon the full carnage that both Burganna and Hulva experienced, but let me be clear, I don’t want war, only complete surrender and absolution as me as your King, the King of the whole of Sparnia.”

The words were final, carrying the weight of absolute authority. Marcus knew that with these counter terms, the balance of power would tilt even further in Espada’s favor, and any further resistance would only serve to strengthen his inevitable victory. The decision that would be made next if unfavorable would meet the opposing army with nothing but death and carnage.

Tag: @Euthanor Nachimar @Vyona of the Wolf Clan

 

[Dreadheart]

Giermo Cavalla DeSorien tilted his head, flabbergasted by the daring words spoken by Marcus in total disrespect of Giermo's title, or whatever etiquette was demanded to address him due to that. He gasped. His mouth openned for him to speak further in reply to Marcus' taunt, yet the shaking of Zanetto's head, indicating the pointlessness of giving in to his urge halted him. He snarled, glaring at the insolent rival before him.

The die was finally cast when the Espadan leader dictated his own terms to the Chaplain, not acknowledging Giermo's presence no more. That act alone infuriated the noble, who drew his sword, causing perhaps both of the embassies to reach for their weapons in a sudden spike of tension.

Giermo flourished the weapon, a rapier long enough to be usable by a cavalryman, with armguard adorned with golden shapes and a small velvet red tail.
"I swear by this sword" he announced then, bringing the hilt of the weapon ahead of his face, held vertically with its point to the sky. "Before this day's end, the field will have tasted of your blood, for this insult. Be on your guard!"

Without waiting for a responce, the noble turned his horse and gallopped to the battle line, brandishing his weapon.

While Zanetto kept his eyes shut, inhaling in dissappointment to the noble's decision of condamning the negotiations to a bloody end, the Iron Priestess demonstrated no emotion through the hardly existent body language. Even when the noble drew his blade, the Priestess did not seem to turn her gaze away from the opposing embassy. She patiently awaited, judging that no words spoken would go anywhere farther than the grassy soil, thus none was wasted by her.

"Fight well, Chaplain" Zanetto nodded to Adosinda, in a gesture of self-contempt and self-reflection. He then turned his own mount by the reins and trotted back towards the battle line. along with the female noble who throughout the interaction chose to remain silent.

It was then, when the Iron Priestess, when all others of her embassy left to take positions, she reined her white stalion onwards, approaching the self-proclaimed King of Espada, and his champions. Her gaze finally journeyed from him, to @Vyona of the Wolf Clan as she inspected them for the last time. Finally, her gaze lowered to @Euthanor Nachimar who bowed his head to her gaze, causing the priestess to tilt her head to the side in a moment of confusion.

She then turned to @Vyona of the Wolf Clan , who's kin seemed to have attracted her interest. "It is either coin or gain that brought your kind so far South" she finally broke her silence. The woman spoke in strong Ostronnian accent, with voice solemn and contained, offering no aggression or taste of character in the tranquil manner in which she cast her speech through the silver mask.

"But you are not infected by it, yet. The God-Machine has set a gaze on you."

Elaborating no further, she turned to Marcus, as she reined her horse around.

"You will have this field today"

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The outcome of this was known to her. Although she knew to delve and manuveur in the circles of nobility, when it came to negotiations in the field, she always trusted her gut better than she did the exchange of empty threats and vague promises. As soon as Zanetto gestured, and furthermore, when that pig-skinned Giermo offered his "terms", Adosinda could rest assured, there would be bloodshed that day.

Her defection, in a situation rather similar to this, was not the spawn of a well-orchestrated ploy, nor a failure of her pride. No, she joined the invading Espadan host in hopes to provide a better future to those she had vowed to protect. And by her count, she had achieved it. Espada was on the rise, and having a place next to the soon to be king meant she could influence, and perhaps, keep in check the nobles and the laws that would return to the common folk.
Marcus needed the unity she could provide, and she needed the influence Marcus could grant her.

As the two leaders drove each other to blows, Adosinda glared at Giermo in hate. If it wasn't for her strict honour code that bound her limbs, she would have had his head then and there. But no. For that, she would have to wait for the battle to commence... With a little luck, her sword would have a taste of yet another oppressing noble, in his hour of dishonour.

As the nobles rode off, Adosinda reined her horse to turn around.

"I can lead the Black Wolf to their flank and deal with the artillery" she suggested to Marcus, being certain that he would retain overall command of the Espadan forces, who had gradually swallowed the Black Wolf to a mere fraction of the entire host. "I will need support on my flank, if they send their reserves."

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus' counter terms was sent back to the enemy, and the reaction was swift and furious. Through the distant horizon, the banners of the opposing forces were visible, their soldiers assembling with a renewed fervor for battle. The air crackled with the anticipation of the impending clash.

Marcus stood tall, his gaze cold as he surveyed the enemy’s preparations. He turned to Adosinda, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “They’ve chosen death over surrender. So be it. We will show them no mercy.”

He pointed toward the trebuchets, massive war machines looming in the distance. “Prepare the trebuchets and load them with flaming projectiles. I want their flanks annihilated. Disrupt their formations—leave them in disarray.”

As the orders were relayed, Adosinda rode forward, her expression resolute. Marcus met her gaze, knowing she was ready to lead. “Adosinda, take the Black Wolf Squadron to the flank. Be patient. Wait until our trebuchets and cannons disrupt their lines, then strike. When they’re scattered, you’ll have your opening.”

He allowed a brief pause, his eyes narrowing as the strategy took shape. “The rest of the army will back you up. Once their artillery is silenced and their ranks are broken, they will be at our mercy—though we shall offer them none.”

Just as he finished speaking, the Iron Priestess, a formidable figure with a reputation for ruthlessness, reined her horse around to face Marcus. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation, and she spoke with a hint of challenge.

Marcus regarded her with a regal nod, his own voice laced with iron. “Indeed. This field will be ours. And by day’s end, they will know the true strength of Espada.”

With that, the command was given. The trebuchets were set in motion, their mighty arms releasing flaming projectiles that arced through the sky like falling stars, aimed to shatter the enemy’s flanks and shatter their resolve. The battlefield erupted in chaos as Marcus’ plan unfolded, his forces moving with deadly precision, a symphony of war orchestrated by a king who would accept nothing less than total victory. As this was the true nature and way of the Vampire King born from chaos and madness itself.

 

[Vyona of the Wolf Clan]

Vyona nodded as the Plague Doctor confirmed her analyses and expanded upon them. She frowned as she considered how she would improve a cannons effectiveness. Perhaps if they could be put on a cart of some sort but then they would probably frighten horses. Maybe if some of those bats Sylvia had used could be trained to carry them it would save time and increase mobility for rapid deployment. It was an intrigueing thought but then cannon took awhile to prepare and load so they could be over exposed and suffer the same risk of being overrun by cavalry. Might only be useful tactic if they had cannon to spare and needed the mobility. Vyona could well imagine the damage cannon could inflict over an exposed flank at a crucial point in battle. Perhaps. They would have to run training exercises to determine the viability and usefulness of such an option.

Vyona nodded as the Night King acknowledged her thoughts. She wanted to proposition and ask the viability of using bats for increased mobility for cannon but now was not the time. They were being approached by the enemy for parlay.

Vyona had first found the notion of a parlay before battle ridiculous. Talking with your enemy before slaying them. Then she realised several things it was no different then bragging before a fight in a tavern brawl. Two. If the enemy even rarely chose surrender then that saved time and resources even if there was no honour in it and three it allowed one to look their enemy in the eye and judge them before a fight. A useful tactic.

Vyona dismissed the fluffed up nobleman easily the priestess however caught her attention. She reminded Vyona of the Red Priests in the Night Court albeit serving a different god and a different master.

“A little of both” Vyona admitted easily at being asked whether it was gold or grain. Vyona frowned it was true she was no devoted convert of the Night Court but she stood by her word and she had given it. She didn’t like her loyalty or her word being questioned evn especially by the enemy.

“I gave my word.” Vyona responded ending the matter.

The time for talking was done it would seem. The Priestess rode away across the field to her death. Vyona wanted to ask what the differences between that priestess and the Red Priestesses religions were. Religion held no interest for Vyona. She acknowledged there were forces beyond her control so why worry about them? Understanding an enemy however interested her greatly. She needed to understand them in order to learn how best to defeat them. Even the most obscure piece of information could prove useful she had learned. Or was trying to in any case.

Later Vyona told herself. The Battle was beginning. Vyona wanted to ride with the Black Wolves and set her Gladiators against the enemy artillery. She tussled with the decision for a moment. Her Gladiators were reltively few in number and if they were decimated by cannon fire they wouldn’t be put to good use it could take her months to recruit the pool she would need from the remaining gladiator circuits. Vyona shrugged that was the risk of battle.

“Let me ride with the Black Wolves.” Vyona insisted to the Night King.

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The chaplain nodded to the orders received by the King. The plan was soon to be set in motion. It was indeed the Black Wolf, armoured detachments of the Espadan army, the fraction most experienced to deal with such an obstacle.

She openned her mouth to speak further, yet @Vyona of the Wolf Clan spoke up, expressing her will to fight alongside the Black Wolf. A most welcomed turn of events. Adosinda looked over to the she-warrior and then to the King. Her approval of the request expressed by a simple nod of the head.

"Her warriors will work well with our pikes." she then reasoned, before reining her horse forth, trotting down the lines. As she crossed the Black Wolf line, she lifted her hand and gestured, as her captains approached. Receiving their orders, they disbursted to their individual units, and so the whole detachment mobilized, like a black iron serpent slithering towards the Espadan flank. Banners were raised, while the warrior monks preached words of bravery and promises of absolution, to raise the morale of their troops.

"Our pikes will fight theirs" she explained to Vyona, as she halted her path, observing the redeployment of her troops from inbetween the Espadan centre. "Pikemen cannot charge. That makes us slow. And I have no more muskets left to support them, until we reach their line. If your warriors can charge against their artillery, they won't have a choice but to call their cavalry, or lose their guns. You hear gallops, pull back. Hold them off, and I shall bring our cavaliers and break them. If these cannons fire while we advance, our pikes will break."

Adosinda had long experience in Sparnish warfare. If anything, she had learned the rules of war through practice, rather than a book's pages. With Vyona, however, there was a paradox. Although she could roughly estimate the gladiators' potential capacity in the battlefield, she had to admit that there was no similar units to base her assumptions in Sparnia. For all that she knew, they were the wild card Espada had for this engagement.

"Use my pikes to get your men close to them. As soon as the cannons fire, you make your move."

The Black Wolf banners rose over the pike formations, while the armoured cavalry remained farther back. Final prayers were chanted and last moment bets and oaths were made, before the trumphets signalled the openning of the engagement.

 

[Euthanor Nachimar]

A certain sense of unease grew in Euthanor, while the Iron Priestess rode off. He patted his steed, seeing the apple fed was eaten, before he jumped up the saddle mounting. After adjusting the reins, he pulled, moving the horse around, as the embasy returned to the Espadan host.
Always by the King's side, Euthanor fell silent. His mind processed a dozen different things that wrestled with it, allthewhile focused on the one, true, task at hand.

"Was that a statement, or wishful thinking?" he dared inquire, addressing the brave words in reply to the Priestess' statement.

To the Plague Doctor, a battle was nothing more than a contest of wits, and resources, all brought together in manner to negate each other's advantages of terrain, or assets, for a victory or defeat, depending on the grand strategy in which the particular engagement was entangled in. For the likes of the Iron Cult, a battle was little more than that. A piece of the puzzle, which could be found, or lost, and yet could rarely determine the final outcome of the long equation that was the war.

It was the Cult's own groundbreaking innovation; Mobile warfare. The ability to open enough smaller engagements that could force an otherwise undefeatable force to break into small fragments to counter the advance, only to be defeated in detail in the process. A campaign's outcome, according to the Cult, should not be determined by a single luck-driven engagement, but by the bleeding caused from a thousand different cuts. A tactic that, until then, had worked wonders in Ostronnia. Part of Euthanor wanted to see, if such a tactic could work in Sparnia too... And he knew for a fact...
The Styrra Priestess wanted to learn too...!

As the Espadan host begun taking positions and its commanders conducting final changes of the plans before the battle was joined, Euthanor observed from the King's side. Each action, each order given, a well-registered information in his mind. A daring endeavor, and yet, he felt proud of having this otherwise unique opportunity of studying the foe in ways no other of his kind was able to.

His work, would be made volumes when he returned to Oldenn...

 

[Dreadheart]

Zanetto rode his horse behind the Rionese formations, pointing to his lieutenants and gesturing to the enemy across the field, while his subordinates barked orders to the troops and brought their men about according to the instructions given. As the Espadan host made ready, and the Black Wolf moved behind the yellow banners of Espada, slithering to the right flank, opposite to the Rionese artillery, Zanetto pulled his cavalry to the rear, forming three different contingents, meant to reinforce any wounds dealt to the frontline.

The aged commander himself rode to one of them himself. Unlike the other two, the cavaliers behind the Rionese left flank, where the artillery made ready to bombard the opposing army's troops, they were professionals, clad in black scaled armour and flying banners of the Free Companies. Mercenaries. Some of the best Sparnia had to offer, well-paid in silver to stand for a corrupt noble's cause without question...

"Why are we stalling!?" Giermo grinned, his anticipation for the coming fight visible even to the twitching of his long delicately shaven mustache. "Order the artillery captain to commence firing!" he barked to one of his lieutenants, who quickly rode to the flank, reporting the order to Zanetto.

"They are too far" Zanetto shook his head, remaining silent as he observed the Black Wolf's banners flying on the other side of the valley. "They must advance"

"But, sir, the orders-"

"Are well-received, and we will begin in earnest!" Zanetto disciplined the herald, who bowed his head and rode back to his position.

"Artillery captain. Commence firing"

"Quick, Huakin! Rodrigo! Take positions!" the captain barked, as he placed the long support on the field, sliding his heavy rifle over it. The wick burned on the side of the weapon, sparking as it was coged back by its handlers.

The first shots were fired by the Rionese, who took liberally open positions ahead of the Rionese army, to bring themselves in range. Squealing metal rounds flied over the first lines of the Espadan host. The more the time passed, the more the shots finding their marks on the Black Wolf's vanguard.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

As the Black Wolf Company assembled, Vyona of the Wolf Clan rode forward to join Adosinda’s ranks. The seasoned gladiator's presence added another layer of strength to the already formidable force. Marcus watched from a distance, allowing the alliance to form, his trust in Adosinda's command unwavering.

When the Rios army began their assault, Marcus couldn’t help but scoff. Their opening volleys were premature, their cannonballs and musket shots falling short of the advancing Espada forces. The enemy’s impatience was evident, their shots wild and ineffective.

Yet, as the minutes passed, the chaos of the battlefield began to shift. The enemy's artillery, once misaligned, found its range, and the vanguard of the Black Wolf Company started to take hits. Even then, Marcus remained still, his gaze never leaving the battlefield. He knew Adosinda would rise to the occasion, ordering her troops with precision and calm. There was no need for him to intervene—she knew the maneuvers and tactics that would bring victory.

Nearby, Marcus could feel the eyes of Euthanor, and the Iron Priestess studying him closely. He was well aware that their interest went beyond mere observation. Euthanor was a cunning figure, and Marcus was no fool to believe he was entirely an ally. Humans, he had learned over the centuries, often wore many faces, and Euthanor was no different.

But Marcus, the Vampire King, was not one to be easily outmaneuvered. He played along with his mind games, allowing him to see what he wanted her to see, knowing full well that the true battle of wits was yet to come. For now, his focus was on the battlefield, where Adosinda, Vyona, and the Black Wolf Company would carve their path to victory.

Tag: @Dreadheart @Vyona of the Wolf Clan @Adosinda Castellanna

 

[Vyona of the Wolf Clan]

Vyona nodded as she received her orders from the Commander of the Black Wolves she seemed a capable woman and commander as Vyona was sure she’d have to be to serve in such an important position on the battlefield. She reminded Vyona of herself in fact. Vyona couldn’t help but be appreciative of the fact. She would have to make sure to buy her a mug of ale after the battle should they both survive. Vyona shrugged at the thought to die in battle was the best death one could hope for after all if it should be this one so be it. The only shame in it would not being able to complete her own quest of vengeance against the Demon King which as far as she was concerned she was doing anyway by empowering the Night Court enough to fight him.

Vyona nodded to herself sharply satisfied with the train of logic then wondered since when had she been so concerned about logic? Reading all those books and scrolls were starting to effect her thinking. Previously she was only concerned with survival, pleasure, honour and vengeance. The problem began when trying to determine the best ways to serve vengeance, then contemplations on her honoour such as this one.

Vyona shook her head trying to focus.

“With me. We form up behind the pikes we charge their artillery head on” Vyona instructed her Gladiators a couple of them raised eyebrows but Vyona narrowed her eyes they shrugged and complied.

Her Gladiators formed up with the pikes a few of them restless as much as at the chance of killing the enemy as fear of their own death. Vyona waited until the Pikes got closer inch by inch. She could see the enemy trying to frantically load their shots.

It was tempting to charge across the field headlong but if they reached the enemy tired from the distance distance not even a cannon shot had crossed they’d be slaughtered just as easily as the pikes would be by a barrage.

Vyona waited while her Gladiators got in to position and snorted as the enemy fired too early. Vyona waited until the artillery had wasted their shot before ordering her company into a light trot. Even to her limited experience with artillery and muskets it was an obviously clumsy attempt. No doubt the fault of that fool noble Vyona had met or another just like him.

“Charge!” Vyona yelled her Gladiators screamed and rushed out of their trench. They were a fearsome sight no uniform or standard armor each fighter wearing their own personal preference. The group comprised of various races, goblins, ogres, humans and any other race nobles had wanted to watch die in the arena. Vyona had saved them from a fate worse than death so they would die for her.

The Gladiators fell upon the artillery cutting down any in their way. Vyona was tempted to join in the carnage but she restrained herself as she knew she had to keep an ear out for the galloping. It was galling but crucial. Sure enough he heard the sounds of hooves. Vyona lifted a sharp whistle and blew three sharp piercing whistles in the signal to pull back.

“Form up. Square formation!” Vyona ordered her Gladiators complied briskly. Ever since their campaign in the north Vyona had insisted they learn to fight in formations. They had been fine single combatants but had needed to learn to work as a group. She was pleased to see them responding. The Cavalary charged into them.

She just hoped the cavaliers she was promised would arrive in time.

@Dreadheart @Marcus Aumont @Adosinda Castellanna

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

Flame and thick white smoke jumped out of the iron barrels, as one after the other the cannons of the Riosian host cast their deadly load on the advancing Black Wolf formation. The pikemen preserved their formations as their pace remained true, steady, regardless the urge filling every man within to break in a wild dash in view of the coming bombardment.

"Come on... Come on...!" The Chaplain grinned her teeth observing the advance. "Is the cavalry ready?" she inquired, not taking her eyes from the battle's view.
"Yes, commander" her lieutenant assured her, riding his own steed next to Adosinda. "They will hold, commander. They know God is with them."

The captains of the pikemen roared for the crossbowmen to rush forth, resuting to a locust of them running from through the pike formations into the field, as soon as they entered their range, casting bolts against the enemy troops to soften the coming of the pikes. In retaliation, the Riosian musketeers engaged them in earnest.

The superiority of the Riosian muskets led many of the crossbowmen fall. The opening skirmish seemed to be on the enemy's side up until the Orc captain suddenly gave the signal for the Gladiators charge. In a moment of shock, the fast moving troops rushed out of the Espadan formations and charged against the enemy artillery. The most dreadful of sights before such an attack were the Ogres. Larger and far more dreadful than their barbarian comrades, they posed easier targets for the marksmen, of which though none dared to hold his ground and aim against.

The Chaplain nodded, continuing to observe the development of the confrontation from the Espadan line...