Expansion Taking Rios | Expansion Into Rios

[Dreadheart]

The skirmish caused many of the Riosian troops to burst in shouts of encouragement for their comrades, seeing the ease with which their marksmen pushed the enemy skirmisher troops back, holding superiority by the gifts arranged for them by the clergy, and their new strange ally from Ostronnia. The artillery, with the gap between their guns and the Black Wolf pikes closed by the advance, fired shots of devastating effectiveness, landing cannonshells right in the formations' midst that caused broken gear shattered pikes and limbs to scatter in a red fog that blended with the rising dirt.

Alas, the fortunes of the Riosian host were soon to shift, as a sudden charge of a warband of what could only be described as barbarian amalgamation of races and cultures emerged from through the Espadan ranks, in a furious charge against the artillery. Confidence was in a moment turned into shock, as the hulking Ogres and the berserk gladiator champions befell the artillery crews.

Some of the crews were lucky enough to be caught on the bulwark of the attack, being hacked directly enough to be granted instant death. Alas, those at the rear dropped their tools and turned to run for their lives, seeking the safety of the pikemen that stood barely hundred paces behind them, now advancing to reinforce the position. These cowards were not as lucky... The violent axe and spear and trident thrusts and hacks and bludgeoning of the Ogre clubs felled the retreating men, who desperately tried to drag themselves away, only to be consumed by the berserk onslaught.

"How dare they!?" Giermo roared in frustration, witnessing the gradual collapse of the flank. "Do something, damn you! Kill those savages!"

Zanetto remained silent, and seemingly calm, simply nodding to one of his commanders who then gallopped to the far back, where the cavalry reserves rested, carrying orders known to him enough that did not necessitate a vocal reconfirmation.

"Fret nought, your lordship." Zanetto reassured the livid noble.

"Is this mockery, commandante!? These cannons are the most expensive element of this army!"

Zanetto shook his head. "They are, your lordship. And the enemy knows this. It is a blessing that battles are not fought with wealth, but tactics, however...." His eyes turned over his shoulder, tracing the gradual mobilization of the Black Riders from the rear who rode towards the flank.

"They are right where we want them..."

The ground quaked by the gallopping of the cavaliers as they circled around the Riosian flank pikemen formations that seemed to not advance against the gladiators, before commiting to a head-on charge against the enemy. Instead of clashing against the gladiators, who at the time had already formed up to a defensive square, the cavaliers pulled their pistolas and engaged them from some twenty paces distance, shifting their galloping sharply to unload their weapons against the enemy, before pulling back, allowing the riders behind them to repeat the process.

The cavaliers were not willing to engage what was clearly a great foe in close quarters, but chose to bleed them enough for the next phase of the engagement to find them weakened. Again and again cavaliers took their aim and fired their pistolas, refusing to close the distance between the two opposing units. In the case the Gladiators pushed towards them, the cavaliers pulled back.
Unlike the infantry, or the Espadan cavalry, the cavaliers did not maintain a formation, instead, spread around the enemy unit in a chaotic manner, resembling mosquito shroud over a beast, with each grasping on the chance to suck the blood from within by firing yet another shot from distance, before retreating to reload.

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

As the battle unfolded, the army of Rios adapted their tactics, pulling back 20 paces to maintain distance from the Espadian forces. From this range, their pistolas cracked through the air, sending volleys of lead into the advancing lines. It was a method designed to bleed the Espadian army slowly, weakening them for the next brutal phase of engagement.

Marcus watched the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as he observed the shifting tactics of Rios. Their movements were calculated, attempting to wear down his forces with each passing minute. The hits were taking their toll, and while the Espadian army suffered, they were far from broken.

Marcus did not waver. “They seek to weaken us before they strike. Let them think they have the upper hand,” he muttered to himself. The Espadian forces were quick to adjust, adopting their own defensive strategies—shield formations were reinforced, cavalry took to harassing their flank, and the musketeers repositioned to answer fire with fire.

The battlefield became a dance of movement and counter-movement, each side probing for weakness. Marcus stood at the helm, a dark figure on his black steed, knowing that in the end, it would be Espada’s adaptability and resilience that would turn the tide. The Rios army may have been clever, but Marcus had seen battles far bloodier and foes far more ruthless. This, too, would be a victory for Espada.

 

[Vyona of the Wolf Clan]

Vyona scowled and cursed herself a fool for not arming herself and her Gladiators with the proper weapons of guns and muskets before launching into the fray. The enemy were maintaining there distance picking them off. Vyona knew that her Gladiators would hold but the temptation to break formation and charge to get close to an enemy and feel her axe cleaving through their skull was great. Vyona maintained rigid discipline by barking at her Gladiators.

“Hold formation damn you! We hold!” Vyona yelled at two men who had been gearing themselves up to charge. “It’s what they want. Once we’re out in the open they’ll cut us down to pieces. We hold!”

Vyona just had to hope and pray that the Night King would send his forces to relieve them push the enemy cavalry far back enough for her and her men and the few women with her to regroup. Then maybe they could wait until the battle engaged in close quarters once more.

A woman cried out next to her clutching her arm that ended at the wrist. The women were rare in Gladiator circles mostly cause they usually had to be both pretty enough to serve patrons bed chambers and tough enough to survive. Like Vyona herself. To Vyona’s mind they were her toughest soldiers. Soon she’d have to make some of them commanders in their own right. If they survived.

It was the irony of it. When faced with a cavalry charge all you wanted was a pike when faced with a cavalry skirmish all you wanted was a musket. Unfortunately one could only carry so many weapons. Still if she survived she would have to remember to arm atleast half of her Gladiators with firearms and make sure they got proficient training in them too.

Gladiators weren’t allowed firearms in the arena too much risk they could turn them on the spectators. Exhibition duels with pistols and marksmenship shows with freeman happened but the slaves themselves weren’t trusted with weapons that could be turned against their masters.

Vyona would have to commission a pair of pistols and a musket. If she survived. Vyona cursed as blood brain and a tooth spattered down her cheek as the man next to her took a bullet to his mouth and out the other side.

“Close ranks! Don’t let them poke gaps in our line!” Vyona commanded moving to do just that laying the fallen mans body aside. If they survived the battlefield her people would get proper burials befitting the warrioirs they were but for right now she needed to be ruthless.

Vyona may have misjudged the Night King he may have decided Vyona and her company were worth sacrificing now that they had played there part in the battle. Or perhaps he knew of Vyona and Sylvia’s relationship and considered her a tool that Sylvia shouldn’t have. The thought chilled Vyona. Killing her outright would provoke a response but Vyona dying nobly in battle. That could be seen as justified. Would be seen as justified. In fact Sylvia would expect nothing less of her.

Perhaps Vyona had played right into the Night Kings hands and lost as a piece of the Night Courts never ending chess games with each other. Vyona just prayed the reinforcements would come in time.

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

IN THE NAME OF GOD

The sound of visors closing came in synchrony almost as if part of the deathly choreography of the battle, conceived by its very architects long before the first bullet squealed through twisted intestines. The black cloth wrapping the long pole was removed within the armoured vanguard, baring the standard of the Black Wolf naked to fly against the winds of war, adorned with golden thread; A symbolism of the revelation they were gifted in Oveda, and the unshakeable faith to their patron God and King.

IN THE NAME OF THE KING

Adosinda, the Captain-Chaplain and Living Saint of Espada, rode her black stallion before the Espadan line. Her hand aloft, her fist grasping a white fabric stained with blood. As her trotting mount moved along the front, her very presence caused a wave of cheering by the troops, shouting the phrase "God Wills it!" in response to her arcane-enhanced loud warcries.

ONWARDS, SONS OF ESPADA! SONS OF RUIN! APOSTLES OF LIGHT! ONWARDS, MY CHAMPIONS! SMITE THE FOUL! PURGE THE CORRUPT! BLEED THE WICKED!

A NEW SUN RISES! AN ESPADAN SUN! A SPARNISH SUN! BE HIS ICONOCLASTS!!!!

The very soil shook in anticipation, as the battle-spell took effect in the hearts of the Espadan soldiers needing little if naught arcane influence to spart a bloodlust and battle fever to the troops, as the Captain-Chaplain rode forth to the halberdiers of the Black Wolf, chosen of her knights. She jumped off the horse, drawing her blade as soon as she touched ground. A rhythmic beating of the weapons against the armour followed, eventually turning from a battle cry to a rhythm with which the Black Wolf advanced.

From the far rear, the Black Wolf cavalry gallopped towards the Black Riders of the Riosian army, at the time engaging the forward pike elements of the Espadan offensive. Dust clouds rose high, as one after the other, all units of the right Espadan flank pushed forth, yielding not before the ever-increasing intensity of the enemy fire.

Unlike the pistoleers of the Riosians, the Espadan cavalry, lightly armoured, rode in galloping speed, armed with long cavalry swords and war picks. Their task was no skirmishing nor harrassment nor scouting. They were the butchers. They were those who would bleed the Rios riders into a rout, of slay them all at sight, in close quarters battle.

The manuveur was wide and elyptic, stretching their thickly packed formation far from the flanks, before pushing eachother on a knee-to-knee front, charging against the skirmishing black riders with relentless aggression. Their light gear and trainned horses caught up to the riders, giving the narrow breather to the pikemen vanguard to cross the field directly to the enemy's artillery, without the pressure of the pistoleers...

"Forward!" the pike captains roared. The distance closed quickly, and so did the Riosian pikes rushed to deny the advancing Espadans access to the breach of the artillery position initially collapsed.
The two moving forests of pikes pushed against one another, over the remnants of the artillery. Pistols fired, while the armoured troops at the front turned their long weapons horisontally, initiating the bloody and grim business of Sparnish carnage.

Throats turned red; Soldiers crawled mutilated; Boots dove in guts spilled. The battle joined, now moved to the stage most vile.
And as the pikes battled, beneath them, in the narrow pits of dead and dying, daggers were drawn. It was the work of those troops equipped with more specialist weapons, versatile and capable enough to perform under such horrific conditions, who crawled and squatted beneath the battling pikes, striking below-belt the vanguard troops who wielded the pikes to force gaps in the formations. Occasional shots of pistols were fired, flying stray over iron helmets and bloodied troops. Muskets, in confrontations so thick were pointless to deploy, having little to no space to make the shot matter any more than a hurtled stone would...

 

[Euthanor Nachimar]

The methods of war in Sparnia differed little when compared to the Central Erovan battlefields. Much less use of artillery and rifles, perhaps, yet Euthanor reasoned that the Sparnish were much younger a culture on that regard. Central Erova had experienced some of the most bloody and important battles, according to the Iron Cult. The Cult itself was established in a long, attricious conflict that reshaped warfare as a whole.

Pikes and manuveurs around a single battlefield that resembled actions undertaken on a chess board had dusked, ever since the Iron Cult's innovative approach to what they called "Total War". Contained within a battlefield, more often than not armies had to conduct a contest of equipment as well as numbers. For Euthanor, the Cult's choice to stretch battlefields across provinces in attempt of negating any initial advantage of the enemy's more traditional army was a step of evolution in warfare. A step the Iron Cult had no monopoly on, he reminded himself. There were other, malevolent forces who practiced similar if not replicas of the Iron Cult's Total War dogma.

"Variety such as this is a sight to behold indeed." he admitted, resting his palms atop of one another at the forefront of the saddle. The horse snarled. The steam exhaled from the large nostrils greenish in colour. "Your Sparnish seem not to invest in artillery as much as blocks of infantry, and fast-moving cavalry which plays the role of the offensive weapon. Pikemen are awe inspiring, perhaps, but they are but an obstacle for the real pawns to play on the deck, aren't they, King Marcus?"



@Marcus Aumont @Vyona of the Wolf Clan

 

[Marcus Aumont]

The battlefield churned with chaos as the Black Wolf Company, led by Adosinda and reinforced by Vyona’s gladiators, crushed the Rios musketeers. Even as the enemy’s precision fire tore into the vanguard, Marcus remained still, his mind swirling with the creeping presence of Tiarnadorch, the god of madness. For a thousand years, the Vampire King had not known the peace of sleep, and the weight of that eternal wakefulness pressed against his sanity like a vice. His control was absolute, but in moments of anger and boredom, the cracks in his composure began to show.

As the Rios army adjusted, pulling back with disciplined precision, Marcus grew more detached, more distant from the mortal concerns of tactics and maneuvers. The people of Rios had defied him, rejected their god who stood before them. And now, they would suffer for their hubris.

The Plague Doctor, dark presence looming near, broke the silence, his voice smooth and observant.

Marcus tilted his head slightly, a faint smile curling at the edge of his lips. The Plague Doctor’s words were astute, yet dripping with that ever-present cynicism that marked his kind.

“You speak true, Doctor,” Marcus replied, his tone cold and regal. “Their pikemen stand like statues, useless without true firepower behind them. And cavalry, though swift, is nothing against the force of will we bring. They have made their choices, and now they will be unmade by them. But let us not mistake them as pawns entirely—they are yet useful for the slaughter.”

Marcus’s gaze flicked back to the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as the musketeers’ fire began to falter against the overwhelming force of the Black Wolf Company. His thoughts drifted, touching upon the minds of his soldiers. He felt their weariness, their doubts, their fears. But beneath it all, he sensed their motivations—their families, their children, the lives they fought to protect. Marcus, with his unnatural gift, reached into the minds of his men, gently coaxing their deepest desires to the surface.

“Remember why you fight,” Marcus whispered into their thoughts. “For your families, for the lives that depend on your strength. The enemy would take all you love and destroy it. But you will not allow it. You are the sword and the shield. You are the wrath of Espada.”

The effect was immediate. As if the very breath of their king had filled their souls, the men surged forward, their spirits emboldened by the reminder of their purpose. The fear that had gripped them moments ago dissolved into raw determination. Their thoughts of home, of loved ones, fueled their ferocity as they pressed on against the enemy.

Still, Marcus was unsatisfied. The mortals fought well, but Rios had not yet suffered enough. As his regiments pressed forward, slaughtering their way across the battlefield, Marcus grew restless. Boredom, once again, began to gnaw at the edges of his mind.

His voice thundered across the battlefield, cold and merciless. “These people have rejected the mercy of a god. Now, they will suffer my wrath.”

His command rang with finality, leaving no room for hesitation. The men obeyed without question, their weapons cutting through flesh and bone as they pushed toward victory.

Marcus, the god-machine, would make sure the people of Rios understood the price of their defiance. His madness, his hunger for their destruction, would be the last thing they ever knew.

Tag: @Adosinda Castellanna @Vyona of the Wolf Clan

 

[Dreadheart]

The cannons roared flames. The pikes pierced flesh. The muskets, hot and fiery-barreled, shot ceaslessly. The two armies clashed, as the battle had now unfolded to a zenith. Although Espada and the Rionese had pretty much the same equipment, the spirit under which they fought was far different. A fact that initially was unseen, before the battle standards were blood-drenched, yet the more the fighting continued, the more it became obvious for Zanetto and any who had eyes of experience.

The Rionese fought for coin, King and Country. But only one of the three they truly believed in. The mercenaries, before such fury, begun faltering, with the black riders being the first to pull back from the hand to hand engagement, most to their unliking. The pikemen, slow blocks of troops, remained in combat and bled their foe as much as they bled them.

"I cannot have these peasants get the better of me!" Giermo complained, drawing his blade as his horse snarled in anticipation. "I will take the fight to their flanks! Kill that so called "King" and his minions!" Zanetto, mounted by the noble's side, remained once again silent. A fact the Iron Priestess took notice of.

"You worth not the coins my uncle gives you, mercenary!" he demanded of Zanetto, before reining his horse around and waving his naked blade over his head, shouting rallying orders to the cavalry behind him. Giermo, and his horsemen, soon were trotting behind the Riosian line, heading to the Left Espadan Flank, which up to now, had seen no action.

The Iron Priestess rode her white horse next to Zanetto, who kept observing the battle's thickest point, the Riosian Left flank, where the Gladiator warband, the Black Wolf and the Riosian pikes were locked in bloody hand to hand, while the skirmisher cavalry withdrew before the fierce Black Wolf knights led by the Captain-Chaplain herself, posing a direct threat to the entirety of the Riosian flank.

"He will die." The Priestess intoned, sparing no gaze to the aged mercenary. His attention was eitherways focused on the flank.
"There are never few of his kind to plague Sparnia..." he admitted. Zanetto reasoned, in silence, that to oppose a clearly suicidal manuveur of the noble would be in vain. Instead, perhaps out of bitterness towards him, or simply consumed by the real battle, Zanetto chose to ignore Giermo's arrogance.

"But there will be no more of him..." the Iron Priestess suggested. Her gaze tracing a distant figure from the Espadan force. Mounted, emitting dark majesty, the King of Espada led his troops through what he could recognize as nothing less than arcane wit. Witchcraft.

"I am here to see the battle through." Zanetto refrained from commenting further. "Alert Captain Garcia." he declared then, to a nearby herald. "Centre to move forth. Pike and Shotte. And order the artillery to pull." His gaze journeyed towards the Gladiators butchering their way ahead of the Black Wolf, establishing themselves as a wild card for the battle. "These barbarians must not get hold of the guns!"

The Iron Priestess shook her head, grasping onto the large medalion that hanged from over her pale cloak.

"Fighting means dying here." She said in a tranquil tone. "Your troops cannot hold against the Damned."

Zanetto turned his head and looked at the Iron Priestess. A glare of contempt. A glare of defiance.
"We Sparnish do not cower behind adversity, Priestess..."

 

[Marcus Aumont]

As the battle raged on, Marcus caught sight of a lone force breaking away from the main body of the Rios army. A small unit charged toward Espada’s left flank, led by none other than Giermo, the young prince of Rios. The charge was bold, reckless, and, above all, unsupported by any reinforcements from his own army. It was clear to Marcus that Rios held little regard for their prince, leaving him to die without aid—a lamb sent to the slaughter. The arrogance of Rios knew no bounds, but Marcus would not let this gift go to waste.

Though Giermo and his men managed to cut into the left flank, Espada’s pikemen quickly rallied, forming a wall of spears that advanced with ruthless precision. The Rios men, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, fell one by one as the pikes drove through their ranks. Giermo, for all his noble status, was no warrior, and soon found himself overwhelmed. The prince was captured, his small unit slaughtered like cattle.

When Giermo was finally brought before Marcus, he was thrown down at the feet of the king’s massive black horse. Marcus loomed over the boy, his crimson eyes studying him with a predatory gaze. The prince was soft, boyish, his noble attire spotless despite the battle. His body showed no signs of hardship, no scars from war. He had been pampered, sheltered, and now he was at the mercy of the god he had dared to defy.

A smirk curled across Marcus’s lips as he regarded the prince. “So this is what Rios sends against me—a child dressed in noble finery, with no understanding of war. You were left to die, Prince Giermo. Your people don’t value you, but I will.” He spoke with cold amusement, his voice laced with cruel intent. Giermo looked up in horror, realizing the dire fate that awaited him.

With ease, Marcus dismounted and lifted the prince effortlessly, throwing him over his horse like a sack of grain. The king’s troops watched silently as Marcus, with Giermo draped over his mount, rode toward the center of the battlefield, directly in sight of the Rios army.

The prince hung limply, terrified and utterly powerless as Marcus stopped in the middle ground between the armies. Without a word, Marcus drew his sword. The steel gleamed in the dull light of the overcast sky, and with a swift motion, he sliced through Giermo’s clothes, stripping the prince of his dignity. The boy’s naked body was exposed to all—his soldiers, his people, his enemies. Shame flooded his face, but that was only the beginning of his humiliation.

Marcus’s smile widened as he tied a rope around Giermo’s ankles, securing the other end to his horse’s saddle. “Let this be a lesson,” Marcus declared, his voice booming across the battlefield. “This is the price of defying me—your god.”

With a flick of the reins, Marcus began to ride slowly, dragging the naked prince through the dirt. Giermo’s body bounced and scraped along the ground, leaving a trail of dust and blood. Marcus rode in a wide circle, making sure both armies could see the disgrace he inflicted upon the young noble. The Rios soldiers looked on in horror, their morale sinking as they watched their prince reduced to a mere plaything, humiliated beyond repair.

For Marcus, it was a game—a display of dominance, a reminder to Rios of the consequences of their defiance. “This is what happens when you reject your god,” Marcus called out, his voice dripping with cold malice. “You will be brought low, stripped of all pride, and left in the dirt like dogs. Your prince, your leader, is nothing in my hands.”

The Vampire King’s power was absolute, and Giermo’s suffering was only the beginning of Rios’ downfall. The battlefield had become a stage, and Marcus its cruel director. With every drag of the prince’s body, he etched the message deeper into the hearts of the Rios soldiers: resistance was futile, and Espada would reign supreme.

 

[Dreadheart]

God.

The very word reverberated in the Iron Priestess' mind. Her eyes widened, staring at the sight that caused awe across the Riosian host. Although most among them were stunned by the sudden demonstration of brutality, and the utter humiliation of the DeSorien, the Iron Priestess had no interest in the noble's defiling. Nor did she have time to care about the outcome of a battle she had already foresaw the ending of.

Oh no...

"I have seen enough. Pull back. Now." she demanded from Zanetto.

"This isn't normal" Zanetto admitted, shaking his head to the view of the King. To his knowledge, although rumours did surround the dark realm Espada was becoming, Zanetto could not wrap his mind around the sudden change. Since when was this a religious war? Of course, everything in Sparna WAS a religious affair to begin with, and the DeSorien escalation of the war fever, which he initially dismissed as politics, perhaps had indeed grounds in reality after all.

He could only fear the prospect of such being a fact.

"All troops. Commence retreat." Zanetto shook his head. To draw the attention of the Iron Priestess on that extend, whatever witchcraft King Marcus conjured, it was vile.

"Withdraw, commandante." the Iron Priestess reined her horse about, nodding to him in determination. Although irrelevant with the hierarchy of the army, she held enough prestige amidst the clergy for her voice to matter perhaps above all others, on the particular occasion. This was no longer a war of slander and powerstruggle. With the declaration of King Marcus as a god, he ignited a religious war on Sparnia. A war, in which the Iron Cult had major interest in...
Zanetto nodded.

The Riosian lines begun pulling back. Orderly, and in seeming cohesion, the formations started withdrawing from the field. The Black Wolf cavalry having pursued the Black Riders, now becoming a clear threat to the entirety of the Riosian host.

"Protect the left flank!" Zanetto ordered, pointing at the advancing cavalry.

"Commandante." The Iron priestess demanded. "There is no time."

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The Riosian army had finally broken. It was not her, but her knights who took notice, while Adosinda had been consumed by the pursuit. Her knights' shouting eventually caused her to pull the reins of her stallion and bring the pursuit to a halt. There was little point continuing, was there?
As her brown eyes gazed at the distance, the large clouds over the Riosian lines became clear.

The stallion snarled, rearing by the tension after the pursuit.

"Something happened!" one of the knights intoned. "They are pulling back!"

"They stood in the presence of a God." The Captain-Chaplain replied. "More than a reason to withdraw. And heresy to stand against. Black plague befall those who dare stand against us. Against God-Machine!" She lifted her blade, rallying the knights around her.
"Come, brothers! God is with us! GOD IS WITH US!"

The warcry was repeated by the knights, who quickly joined her celebration. The unit started trotting onwards, creeping about the enemy retreat. Adosinda knew a raid against a retreating army could shake them, yet the pike formations endangered her cavalry to casualties that could be avoided. And she -needed- the men. Instead, the Captain-Chaplain chose to follow up the enemy, ensuring any rallying unit could be attacked in detail, ensuring the defeat would be undisputed.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

As the battle raged on, an unexpected order echoed across the Rios lines. The Desorien family, seeing the defeat of their prince and the humiliation inflicted upon him, signaled a retreat. The forces of Rios, already broken in spirit, began to fall back, hastened by the iron priestess of the Iron Cult, whose authority among the clergy carried great weight. The surrender came swiftly, though it was clear to Marcus that it was forced, a desperate attempt to salvage whatever remained of their pride.

The Vampire King halted his horse as the armies of Rios retreated, their weapons discarded and banners lowered in defeat. His crimson eyes narrowed, a flicker of disgust passing across his face. The sight of their retreat, their sudden surrender, left him unsatisfied. He had wanted more—a total annihilation, a complete submission. But this? This was weakness. Unacceptable.

Without a word, Marcus turned his gaze down to the prince of Rios, still tied to the horse, bloodied and broken from his humiliation. The retreat, the surrender—it all seemed to have come too late for Giermo. Bored, and now fully unsatisfied, Marcus bent down and, with a swift motion, slit the young prince’s throat. Giermo’s body went limp as his blood spilled into the dirt, his life extinguished like a fleeting whisper.

“So ends the fool who dared stand against Espada,” Marcus murmured coldly, wiping the blood from his blade as if the act had meant nothing. Giermo had been a pawn, and now he was no more.

But the battle was not over. Marcus straightened, turning his attention to the retreating forces of Rios. “No mercy,” he commanded, his voice a dark growl that reverberated through his troops. “Let none escape. Chase them down and make them pay for their insolence. This battlefield will be their grave.”

With a flick of his reins, Marcus spurred his horse forward, riding toward the fleeing enemies. At his side, he signaled for his elite guard to follow—El Santo Caballero, the holy knights of Espada. They were a stark contrast to their king in every way. Where Marcus rode a black steed, his armor dark and imposing, the knights of El Santo Caballero rode upon white horses, their gleaming iron armor shining like beacons of light on the battlefield. These knights were Espada’s most revered, charged with carrying out the will of the kingdom with unwavering faith.

As Marcus led the charge, El Santo Caballero followed, their swords drawn and their banners raised high. They moved with a divine precision, their light-armored forms cutting through the battlefield like a blade through flesh. The retreating soldiers of Rios, already broken in spirit, had no chance against the might of Espada’s holy knights.

Marcus smirked as he charged ahead, his eyes gleaming with the promise of carnage. The retreat had been a coward’s move, and for that, there would be no forgiveness. As his horse thundered across the field, Marcus knew that the retreating soldiers would be cut down, one by one, and none would live to see another day.

This was the wrath of Espada, delivered by its king and his holy warriors. The battlefield would be soaked in the blood of the fallen, and the name El Santo Caballero would be etched into the minds of Rios’ survivors—if there were any.

 

[Vyona of the Wolf Clan]

Vyona breathed a sigh of relief as the reinforcements came and the enemy were pushed back. Vyona glanced at her men trying to take stock of how many she had lost. It wasn’t as grievous as she had initially thought. Vyona had been worried her Ogre’s her best shock troops hulking forms would have made easy targets, but it would appear that ironically they’re hulking forms had meant the enemy skirmishers hadn’t want to get close enough to get clear shots.

Vyona cursed herself. Ogre’s did make easy hulking targets. In a battle with musket fire and artillery they should be either be kept back for the final charge… or if she were being honest with herself used exactly as they had been used sent forward to secure crucial positions. It meant potentially sacrificing your troops, but it could also be an early victory on the battlefield secured so that you could press the other points of the battle with ease.

It did of course mean using them as potential cannon fodder but then that was the life of a mercenary. She really would have to develop her mens skills with firearms.

Vyona sighed. She took stock of the battlefield and saw a full frontal attack being mounted. The King’s Banner itself charging headfirst which meant the Vampire King himself was taking part in the attack.

She was tempted to let her men rest and let the rest of the Night King’s army take it from here, her people had done their part. Vyona looked and saw the gleam in her Gladiators eyes. They would not be content with sitting the rest of the battle out. They wanted revenge at the cowards who had taken shots from a safe distance.

Besides the Night King himself was charging into the fray. This wasn’t a feint or a probe. This was an all out attack.

Vyona grinned.

“Charge!”

The Gladiators roared in approval and leapt into the frey. Several of their own forces were startled at the ragged eclectic group of gladiators joining the frey once more. Once they relised they were on their side. Or atleast against the same enemy, they cheered and joined the battle as well.

The Ogre’s did the job well brushing past the pike of the enemy formation though one got swered in several points, even as it flailed in death it took several men with him. Vyona winced at that. The tactician in her knew they should be used sparingly, but by their very nature they bridled at being kept in reserve. Once the word Charge was uttered. Well they didn’t hear anything else.

Vyona’s fellow orcs and goblins rushed into the breach while the men followed in there wake. They tore through the enemy ranks. Cutting, hacking, thrusting. Vyona with her Battle Axe leading her men on. Several of the enemy started to run, then as they did there friends did soon it was a full blown rout.

Vyona laughed. This was what she lived for.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

As Marcus and his holy knights thundered through the fleeing enemies, their white horses a stark contrast to the bloodstained battlefield, the slaughter was swift and merciless. El Santo Caballero cut through the retreating forces with precision, their swords flashing in the dimming light as they carved a path of destruction through Rios’ broken army. The sound of clashing steel and the cries of the defeated filled the air, but Marcus, atop his massive black steed, remained focused and calculating. His eyes, glowing faintly with the power of a thousand years of dark knowledge, surveyed the carnage with cold indifference.

Behind him, Vyona and her gladiators followed in the chaos, their blades gleaming with blood as they hacked through the remnants of Rios’ army. The rest of the Espada forces swept across the battlefield like a storm, annihilating all in their path. But amid the fury, Marcus allowed his mind to wander, calculating his next move with a strategist’s precision.

As the retreating soldiers fell, Marcus raised his hand, signaling his knights and the Espada forces to halt. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice like thunder over the battlefield. His eyes moved over the remaining Rios soldiers, bloodied and terrified, some still clutching their weapons in desperation. These few survivors, though battered and broken, would serve a purpose greater than simply dying here.

“Let some live,” Marcus announced, his voice carrying across the field. “They will tell the tale of what happened here, of the wrath of Espada and the might of its king. Let the world know of our power, let them spread fear far and wide.”

His knights withdrew their blades, stepping back as the remaining Rios soldiers stumbled away, fear and awe painted across their faces. Marcus, always the tactician, knew that fear could be a weapon as powerful as any sword. The survivors would carry his message, their stories of his invincible army and divine power spreading like wildfire across the continent.

Satisfied, Marcus turned his horse, looking to Vyona and Adosinda. “We’ve shown them our strength, now it is time to bend the rest to our will,” he said, his voice smooth but commanding. “Fear will drive them to the negotiation table, but first, we will offer peace.”

Though Marcus was a creature of war and darkness, he knew that sometimes the threat of violence achieved more than violence itself. The destruction of Rios was not his ultimate goal—control was. And control could sometimes be won without another battle. His mind now set on forcing negotiations, Marcus spurred his horse forward, the holy knights and the Espada forces following behind him as they prepared for the next stage of their conquest.

Peace, for now—but only on Marcus’ terms. Rios was now theirs.

Tag: @Vyona of the Wolf Clan @Adosinda Castellanna