Expansion War in the North: Darkness Unmasked [KOE Expansion to Deiswyn and DOS Expansion to Trygenn]

[Dreadheart]

"Domine?"

The very word wreaked of foulness, like embers drenched in acid before ignition under the altar of idols. His iron plate had grown dark by the rain, while the snarling of his stallion had turned to a deep clattering noise, hint to the infections suffered by the campaign before. He was an old comrade of Broacca Ehmr Corriolanous. Decade, or more, had it been since the two made haste to the field of battle. Once on the side of the Imperator. Then, the Loyalists. And now, years later, again striding the same path under the Traditionalist banners.

Oh, how far had Vandemar fallen, Broacca pondered to himself.

"What is it, Claunius?"

Broacca knew the young messenger by name. Old as he was, he tried to keep track of the many men under arms around him as he could. An endeavour that saw much success. He was the one to bestow punishment, as much as reward, to those who had claimed either. A father to his men, Broacca had seen the devolution and barbarization of the armies of Vandemar for years, reaching a sole period of tranquility under the short-lived Walder rule.

"Report from the South, Domine."

Claunius responded, offering a scrolled parchment to his commander, wrapped with dirty twine.

Broacca picked the parchment and nodded the man to leave, which he did, after saluting him with a strike of his fist against his own chest.

The Report, by all accounts, was an interesting development. Broacca had been worried of the movement of the Suthran army in Trygenn ever since he had suffered great casualties in the last endeavour to break into the province's mainland. Although the Traditionalists did not enjoy much support beyond the coastal settlements, the long preaching of clergymen and nobles proved effective, with numerous levies flocking around Trygennbraek as the Traditionalists begun drafting the people for the coming campaign.
The failure of taking on the city of Hillshire, the city once called Agricularum, prior to the Walder conquest, still loomed a dark presence over Broacca's head. All he knew, the Ulfbitenn may have gained the initiative while he had to pull back and regroup.

 

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

Reikswald was a proud city brought low. Strategic and calculative peoples, at heart, the Reikswalders were Walder groups that had migrated South into Trygenn; Into Bristyll, long ago. Reikswald was among the few cities who did not suffer during the Vandemarian civil war, for they remained isolated in their mountain stronghold of a city. After the Walder invasion, Reikswald quickly assimilated, becoming a political and occupation command centre, while the nobles of the settlement expanded their influence across the realm these few years of Walder rule.
By the time the realm collapsed, Reikswald was quick to return to isolation, rallying the rich nobles behind her walls and bracing for yet another period of conflicts. This time, however, it was different. While the last time the Eirish had launched a campaign of terror against the Loyalist forces, eventually breaking the morale of the faction to submission with the aid of their allies, the Draculean Saxe-Hoggarth, the times had changed drastically on the Isles.
This time, the mighty Eirish invasion force was commanded by the feared Sylvia Ulfbitenn; A barbaric, to many, warlord of Eirelunn who revelled in pagan blood rituals and grew the reputation of a cruel herald of the Eirish King's rule...

Samhradhan could see the devastation caused to the walls of the city by the Vestvinfol artillery during the cruel days of the siege. It was not the likes of the old sieges as fought decades ago, with brave assaults against the walls and siege engines rolling forth aflame, as the stories so glorified back in the North... Oh no. Samhradhan could recognize the signs of attrition suffered by both besiegers and locals, as he rode through the siege camp, making his way to the forward positions where, according to the sentries, the warmaster was located...

The stallion was cloaked with a thick caparison dyed in the yellow and blue striped colours of House O'Scand; A once feared force in the North, before the Ulfbitenn's final invasion. Although initially bitter rivals, King Harrul Ulfbitenn offered a pardon to the O'Scand, in exchange for servitute. Humiliating terms as they were, the O'Scand chose submission over extermination, forced to project the Ulfbitenn Eagle over their tabards as one of the many disgraceful demands of the agreed peace.

Samhradhan unclipped and removed his sallet helmet, sliding off the saddle as he reached the forward positions. Several hundred of the Mountain Tribes warriors had gathered, while the distant gates of the city were openned.

Strange, he thought to himself.

Not far from his site, a rider dressed in an amalgam of plate and Vandemarian Segmentata approached the limits of the siege camp, where two poles flew the Vestvinfol colours. The rider, in stark contrast, held a broken spear where a long white fabric was bound at the far top.

"Peace!" the rider plead. "My masters have fought valiantly and endured much hardships! They have heard the sound of your cannons, and learned to fear your wrath, mighty lord!" he extended his hands towards the Warmaster. "They call to your mercy! Spare the people and their things, and they shall deliver you Reikswald!"

Right on time...

Samhradhan shook his head. These Alblish folk were far too weak when compared to the Eirish, far too drenched in war to value any sign of ill-command or worse, weakness...

He remained silent, curious to see the Warmaster's respond to the Alblish plea. He could not spot any, yet the stench of guts and rotten flesh was strong in the wind. With a quick glance to the walls, broken and crumbled in many places by cannonfire, he could recognize corpses swelling and broken weapons scattered. Fighting had taken place. A sally, most likely.

It had been, by his count, some eighteen days of siege, Vestvinfol had held in Reikswald... It was only a matter of time before these soft-skinned Alblish realize they stood no chance against Eirish warhosts....

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

What awaited the rider was not a lord perched upon a horse, but a towering figure covered head to toe in a plate armor that glowed with the haunting light of a silent moon night. A blood red jewel at its center reflected the anxious massager’s face as he was regarded by the brooding figure of the Warmaster. Her arms crossed over her chest as she only glanced in the riders direction for a moment, a sigh of annoyance falling from the woman’s lips. Why couldn’t the cowards come out here to talk themselves? Still hiding behind what was left of their army and walls… well she knew how to sort that out. Sylvia gained no strategic benefit from leveling the city and slaughtering the innocent… not at this point in the campaign anyway. The last thing she needed was every city becoming a fight to the death instead of potential sources of supplies and equipment, but that being said… she would not tolerate weak cowards ruling over the fiefs under her command.

With a simple gesture some of the Night Lords who stood nearby would head back to the nearby command tent and return with some chairs, a table, and drink. She didn’t speak, but the outstretched hand towards one of the chair for the messenger was obvious. ‘Sit… and partake.’. To the Arch-Duchess the solider had been the one to take a grave risk, given her threats at the start of the siege. His mission must have surly seemed like a suicidal one. Unlike her son-in-law, she didn’t plan on starting this one on the path to nobility, but the least she planned to do was keep him set aside at the table… safe from her wrath. It would only be once he had gotten the message and partook that she reached up to remove her helmet,

“Your masters deliver me nothing. I am the Warmaster, Iron Lady of the Northern Alliance, and the Moon Mother. Reikswald belonged to me and my liege the moment I laid eyes on it and my armies marched to its gates. The only choice your master’s had was how intact it would be and how many of its people would die.” She left that last detail hanging in the most ominous fashion given she used the word 'had', as she sat across from the man who would find himself eventually flanked by two of the Night Lords large armored frames. She reached for a drink and took a swig from it and let out a satisfied sound before staring at the man with a shark tooth grin,

“Now tell me when should I expect your ‘masters’ to come speak to me themselves, or do you have the authority to do so, because my terms for surrender are unconditional. They should come out now and sit across the table and talk about the surrender or I unleash my army to go find them and you shall be the only survivor of Reikswald. I have no desire to kill one of the newest members of my court. Your suicidal level of courage for the people of this place is something I admire. Something that your ‘masters’ would do well to emulate.” Pausing for a bit she added, “You will not need to return to deliver the message either… I have my own ways to deliver a message as I would hate to have you skitter off…”

If there was one thing that Sylvia didn’t allow it was things that she considered to be her prizes during conquest to be lost. The man would be useful as a messenger for her own army in the future, or if the nobility of Reikswald was unsalvageable… then he would find himself raised in status. It wasn’t the first time that she had done this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She also had the need for people who could tell her even more about these lands or provide a positive propaganda mouth piece whenever the velvet glove approach was required to her iron fist.

 

[Dreadheart]

The eyes of the messenger dreaded the coming of the Warmaster's wrath, and what would befall those who opposed the Ulfbitenn Rule, which was so brutally demonstrated in the last war barely years ago. Vandemar; A proud land, with people valient of their past and eager of their future, had finally been brought low. Walder corruption and Eirish greed alike burned rampant across the provinces, with the old nobility no longer a flag of their past glories, but merely a shallow ditch for the skeletal remains of the Sigismund line, yet unaccounted in the histories...

The water heavy and the seat hot as fiery iron, it felt for the man. The Night Lords marching to the city, with their reputation preceeding them. And then, her words came. Cold, determined and just, she voiced a reality none in Vandemar would. Many had died in the siege, for merely a single stronghold to fall, now seemingly inevitably. And yet, regardless the promises once given by the Traditionalists, no real prospect of a relief force ever materialized, to the people's horror...

"Reikswald is yours, dread sovereign." the messenger voiced. The Warmaster's ultimatum reverberating in his mind, as the consequences of the actions vowed much death and destruction. "The noble sires of Reikswald offer the city, and her key of gold, for regardless the courage of her host, she no longer is defensible." The Golden Keys of Vandemar. An ancient tradition, deriving from the times of the Old Empire. A symbolic gesture, offering one's settlement before the old Pantheon of the East. A tradition that was shared in Eirelunn.

"We ask only for the people's property to be spared, and them alike be not brought in chains for their resistance. So, say the noble sires. And if those terms are met, and your will just and fair, as Albion knows true, for the line of Adrius, then, say they, the Key of Reikswald, be yours."

Many were the eyes over the battlements who crept over the murlons, anxiously anticipating the reaction of the Warmaster, on which the future of theirs hung in balance. Should she refused the terms, many feared, then the city would be sacked. A city that stood for seven hundred years unbroken, be brought to ruin...

And yet, far, in the citadel's highest towers, the nobles held their breath. The streets of the city were cracked open, with numerous broken wagons and carriages and deformed furnature and dirt were driven in piles, forming makeshift barricades in the possible dark outcome of the negotiations... To resist, was futile. It meant dying here. Alas, there were supplies and hope enough, to those few who held still arms, for the false promise of the Traditionalist "Grand Host" to come for the city's salvation...

A promise, those among the nobles, knew well to be a lie...

They knew well, no dawn would come for Reikswald, should the Warmaster unleashed her mighty horde....