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

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

For many among the Erovians, the Eirish were among the most despised. Even in trade, they appeared reluctant, sharp and hard to bargain with, while violence in tongue, as much as in blade, was ever looming over the harsh words and patronizing behavior the Eirish projected for the rest of the world...

That may be so, yet not as many knew true of what gave birth to such hard peoples. Many who spoke ill of the Eirish had never known, less so seen, the vile monsters that lurked in Eirelunn, nor had they faced the merciless barbarian hordes of the Marauders. Indeed, in such lands where a simple word like Druidism, or kindness meant little than occult human sacrifices and executions above the gates, those who endured could be nothing less than Iron in will, and fire in wrath. Such was the nature of the Eirish, and this, was yet another tale of one of the many wars that spoke of heroism and conquest. Another tale of hecatombs and betrayals, with dark forces at play over the common folk no longer allowed any innocence, for the Dark Age had yet to fade from the black stone and the grim trees....

The War in the North had been waging for over three years. The combined force of the Ulfbitenn of Eirelunn and their new rising tendril of Suthra were bleeding the Isles white in their seemingly obsession of forging an Empire. An obsession that, to many, seemed more and more of a coming reality, than a distant dream... After the massacres in Meathyn and the annihilation of House Vaeroth, the Black snakes of the Ulfbittenn armies slithered southwards, to what once was the domain of the House Saunclair. With the old King Across the Eilean Sea gone, and the local feudal lords falling victims of a seemingly unexplainable plague, as soon as vast murders of crows flew over the settlements, the Eirish hordes set sails, marking a new offensive that heralded even darker days for the Isles. From the Manna isles and the Mountain tribes; From the Eirish coasts and the grim allies of the Ulfbitenn, the war banners flew over the dark waves...

Knowledge of the coming invasion soon reached the mighty city of Trygennbraek; Once ruled by fair and just imperials, Trygennbraek was now among the few strongholds of military power in Trygenn province. The domain's overlord, Bishop Hehmirch, reached out to the entire Southern Isles for aid. Many, in view of the coming storm brought by the already known Ulfbitenn, took up arms to its defence, with individual champions and mercenaries coming all the way from Gallia and Pottaun to see the malevolent foe stopped... Alas... Whether that would be a task possible to achieve, or yet another vain attempt to bulwork a tidal wave, it was only yet to be seen...

Barely days before the eve of battle, strange black-sailed ships made their way into the port and, hours later sailed away, leaving huge fabric-covered crates at the port under the armed supervision of the city's watch... Word started spreading of a Blessed Aid coming from the distant East, while strangely, the plague vanished from the city as unexplainably as it initially spread...

The

"War shall end when all Men are corpses" the Eirish saying went. Indeed, war in Eirelunn was as ancient and as brutal as the folk that lived on her sacred soil. The Eirish were no people familiar with monarchy. Even the old Empire, once dominating Erova, was all but capable of taming the wild heart of the Islanders. All this, for Dunwyn, the beating heart of the Ulfbitenn, was coming to a closure. The Eirish King, @Harrul Ulfbitenn , had embarked into a campaign to see the entirety of the Isles brought under the Ulfbitenn's crimson banner, with the Eirish war being the most violent of all, as the resistance was most fierce. For many among the Eirish, there was no surrender. There was no submission. The dark reign of that accursed House had already shown its true colours in the massacres that bled entire settlements of all life barely weeks before, with each asked person giving a different reason as to why these attrocities even happened...

It mattered not. Atop of the black steed, King Harrul led his troops under the Spring's rain and mist yet to break into heat, to the many a siege that had lasted throughout the winter all across the province of Deiswyn. After his return from Espada, the King had brought with him mercenaries, weapons, and a new determination to see the province broken. To do so, however, the very capital of it had to be made an example of. Faelynmirk. Had to Burn.

Darkness gathers around the Isles as the War in the North continues ever stronger.

The tables are set for yet another epoch of bloody clashes, blackest villainy and unrelenting heroism...

Choose wisely, the side you pledge your sword to.... For under every banner is a shadow yet naught unmasked against the stormlight and the red mist...

This is not a war of nobles. This is War, as fought on the barbarian lands of the Isles: Brutal; Twisted; And ever enduring....

Just like the black hearts of those who live on them.....
​

 

[Réalta Folaithe]

CAW CAW CAW​

The blood-drenched mud was a garden of the crows that feasted upon the dead and dying. Some of the fallen, spiked by arrows shot from above the walls or half-melted by the acid poured upon them while they climbed the siege ladders, became alive, by the twitching and shaking caused by the beaks that violently pulled the tissue off the exposed bone. Many among the men whispered in horrid realization of the black mist that perpetually loomed over the battlefield throughout the weeks of siege, causing a strange chilling sensation to all men's spines. And the crows... Oh, the Crows kept coming...

At the further back of the siege camp, the physicians and healers struggled to keep the wounded men alive as their swollen ooze-infested marks of battle became ever more septic by the day, against all possible treatments conducted upon them. And yet, the siege continued. A dark reality of war that was reflected tenfold behind the stone walls of Faelynmirk, where the besieged Lords had been cut off from the outside world as soon as the Ulfbitenn fleet formed the blockade.

Many among the men whispered in fear, as the crows flew. Though most refused to believe such was the case, men would swear, they had seen it happening. And so, it happened again...

The crows lashed their wings from which black mist emitted, as they all flew in unnatural synchrony, forming a whirl which within a thunder's moment took shape. The shape of a pale-faced daemon, of black hair and feather-dress, with claws reaching down her hims like black sabres....
The Queen of Crows had visited the battlefield, accepting in sinister silence the sacrifice of blood and soul performed unknowingly to her name and the name of the Beast, who she knew as patron; Tiarnadorch....

Her dark gaze turned slowly to the dying. A middle-aged man of few teeth and lesser vision, having been blinded by the acid that was poured against his half-melted face. The mud was thick, yet her stepping ethereal, leaving no mark against the soil she walked on. The cold followed her, causing the half-burried man to cease his cries of pain and the struggle of dragging himself out of the pit...

"Hel...Help!" he exhaled. Eyeless, and hopeless, the man could not explain the sudden absolution of the pain felt. Was it the loss of blood? Was it the cold that now had reached him? He extended his hand towards the grim entity who lowered her gaze to him.

"You have done well, Prince of Night... The Master accepts your most gracious of gifts."​

The claws of the Queen slowly spread, holding onto the man's hand. The blood turned black within the veins, as the man's body turned to spasms. His voice refusing to escape his lungs, as the black veins made their way like a hive of worm tendrils into the neck and up to the skull. As they finally consumed him, the body collapsed against the mud.

"What are you willing to sacrifice to see the Crown of Blood on your head, oh mighty Prince?"​

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

"Lord King."

The words shocked him enough to be summoned to his conciousness. He turned, shaking his head as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"What is it, captain?"

"We found the men, sire. One breathing. The others claimed by the Mer."

Ill tidings, the King thought to himself.

"Bring him to me." he ordered. The captain bowed his head and walked out the tent.

Harrul took few deep breaths as he walked back and forth infront of the two large wooden boxes that formed a makeshift war table. Nearby, the crimson armour hanged on the stand, unpolished from the past battle. His pale skin twitched as more and more thoughts clustered his mind. This war had dragged far too long. Although the Ulfbitenn were more than capable, especially now, with the supplies received from Erova almost monthly, to see the Isles fallen, the piling casualties would eventually weaken his armies when the time came for the grand campaigns. To take on mere provinces and feudal lords was one thing. Far greater foes lurked nearby and as per the latest knowledge attained in Espada, had already been making moves. Sooner or later, he would have to face enemies he had never encounter. And to do so, he would need weapons to fight these wars, and men to rank his armies.

This, was what had led him to the dark pacts that marked this seemingly inescapable situation he found himself in.

For Harrul, the only way to see himself and his kin out of this labyrinth of foes and trickstery was to reach out to the strongest, yet most volatile ally he had up to now. One who had seen and knew better than any both the King and the Pureblood sides of him. And so, he dispatched heralds, even knowing the tension that may have been built between them, ever since their visit to Espada and the loss of the Warmaster title among the now so tense Night Court....
But the King had far too much Eirish blood still flowing within him to admit defeat. In an outburst of wrath and ruthlessness, he invoked the dark forces that laid claim upon the Isles to conduct a conquest that would ring loud enough for all of Night and Day alike to hear clear.

The Ulfbitenn and the Isles Cabal would not be undermined so easily.

And so, the King reached out for his greatest of champions:

@Sylvia Ulfbitenn​

 

[Euthanor Nachimar]

Port of Volkenmech, Emder Province, few weeks ago...

The high spires of the city's citadel stood like shadows amidst the night. The moonlight illuminated the mirroring waters of the river that ran through the main settlement, marked by several curved bridges that connected the two districts of the city under the shine of the street lights, ever fading until the lamplighters eventually extinguished them, as the day dawned. A process to be repeated perpetually as soon as the next dusk came and the new moon rose to break the dark of night.

But this night, was different. At the far end of the port, large containers were being loaded onboard a large galleon under the name "Circonferum". The sole noise that disturbed the otherwise quiet streets of the city, as all activities were halted by the time the night fell, save for that of taverns and downtown betting clubs which belonged to the lesser branches of the social ladder, ever to be faced with the disgusted grimache by their betters.

The crew were of a diverse origin, with many among the crew being of so exotic nature one could struggle to pinpoint their origins. They exchanged few words between them, well aware they were being paid to rush the loading of the cargo before dawn, while constantly under the ever-inquisitive eye of the port master: A rather stout man dressed in flumboyant linen outfit of bright colours, supressed by the weight of the heavy raincoat that was worn over the shoulders.
His large mustache extending well beyond his lips was moving as he grimached every now and then, when a louder sound was produced by the crates being moved. He felt an urge to comment on the difficult task that would be explaining the port authorities the absence of the Circonferum from the port, as Volkenmech had a law forbidding ships from sailing after dusk, due to the many banks that littered the outer limits of the port. In times of war, this worked as a natural defense measure against naval attacks. But when it came to peacetime, merchant ships hitting on them would cause major problems in the port's operation as well as reputation.... To solve that, the authorities prohibited sailing without daylight, so as to monitor the ships' movement.

This case, however, was much more delicate than a normal route. The strange Osterian man who seemed to be in command of the ship insisted in leaving before midnight. The bribe received by the port master indeed reflected that "urgency" enough for him not to bring up the topic again... More so, knowing the reputation individuals like him had in that part of the world...

The dark dungeons beneath the city were narrow, with the only light illuminating the path followed by the Plague Doctor and the sentry coming from the torch held by the latter. A rather primitive tool, to Euthanor's eyes, but this was of little importance this day...
The two men walked down the many stairways and the narrow tunnels of the dungeons, until reaching a reinforced door. When they did, the sentry stepped back and the Plague Doctor walked forth, revealing a rather big ring of keys he held by his belt, under the black leather coat.

"Will it work, sire?" the sentry spoke hesitantly, with his disbelief being audible in his words.

"Are you a man of faith?" Euthanor inquired. His voice solemn, calm.

"Yes sire. I do my prayers as much as the next." the sentry replied.

"Then if this is your only hope, aren't your dark thoughts damning it to fail?" the Plague Doctor's cold voice was followed by a short gaze through the visors of the beaked mask, before shaking his head and moving into the next chamber.

The sentry remained silent.

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

​

Sylvia’s recent conquest did not stop the movement of her armies. No, only one thing could have pulled the Iron Lady away from the front and that was the call of family. Her brother Harrul summoned her, a call from her sire that could not be denied as the woman would always take care of her siblings. The promise of Tallite’s presence did tantalize her to show up. However she knew that this wasn’t just a warm welcoming visit that he brother had summoned her for. No this was a call from her ruler… as he was displeased with what had happened at the Masqurade Ball that Marcus had held. Not that the demotion from Warmaster affected the Iron Lady’s plans that much, but this was a chance to show her brother her new weapons.

The carriage that carried Sylvia pulled up Harrul’s castle and as the tall lady stepped out, decked out in the magical plate armor that carried her to war. The Duchess found herself disappoint to not be greeted by the presence of her brother or little sister. Sighing softly, she would peer into the shadows that surrounded her as she walked towards the gate. As little did anyone else, but her, know that she was being followed by her most loyal guards. The Grandmaster of the Night Lords had been worried about how the revelation of her newest weapon would go when she revealed it to Harrul. Said weapon would be delivered by a unit of the Night Lords at her signal.

Her words to the servants as she past by was like a gentle mother, with either a pat on the head or shoulder. The presence of the Iron Lady went by like a ghost. She had none of her daughters with her at the moment as they would come along latter. Little did she know though that her youngest… her human daughter had come on ahead to try and talk to her uncle and make sure that things didn’t fall apart. As such Sylvia would walk into the conversation that Nora was having with Harrul… a conversation in which the young woman had been careful not reveal anything about the Der Tollwütige. When Sylvia walked into the hall her main focus though was on her brother… as her eyes lit up for a moment,

“Ah Harrul… my brother… how good it is to see you.” She took a step forward and as she usually did, greeted the other with a big hug. Stepping back at she let him go she would look over at her daughter with a playful smirk as she continued, “I do hope Nora hasn’t been too much trouble. If I had known she planned to come and visit you I would have joined her, but alias… now what it is that you hoped to talk with me about?” She paused as she knew that she was asking a rhetorical question. She knew exactly what it was that Harrul wanted to speak to her about, among other things. She did add of course, “Oh and where is Tallite… you did say our little sister would be here?” Sylvia seemed expectant about the presence of her younger sibling because so rarely did they get together as a family in peace to plan out the future of the realm… all without the interference of Marcus’s shadow. A shadow which as far as she was concerned had no reach into the North… at least for the time being.

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

@Sylvia Ulfbitenn​

"Our armies remain the same. For the time being, the Isles still hold the greatest army in the Night Court" the King explained to Nora, during their long conversation. "What we lost was not something we already possess. But something we do not. To be the Court's Warmaster is to command the hosts of the Court in times of war. And war, is coming. If someone can take charge of the many hosts of the Night Court, that is Sylvia. The loss of that rank means the Isles Cabal lost face amidst the Court. And if we go to war, for the King, then someone else, a foreigner, will decide which and when our own people die, for another's cause. The Night is no friendly place to be, Nora. Especially when the Isles have the only rival to the King's supremacy..... Me. A pureblood."

The King had grown to value Nora's words. She was, after all, among the few "uncorrupt" to his eyes, and skilled in diplomacy. Contrary to her mother's hotblooded nature, she was one who could listen to reason and see through the complex web of diplomacy and political intrigue. Although Harrul did not admit it, he planned for her to be elevated to one such role, being the very banner of "civilized" agents of the Isles Cabal.

When Sylvia walked in, Harrul turned and stepped forth, embracing his cousin and most trusted of warlords.

"Sylvia" he intoned. "Indeed, she was. She will be back soon, after she completes her quest." Harrul explained. "Until then, I believe we have business to discuss."

He walked back, heading to the nearby table where he poured the drink to yet another tin cup, offering it then to Sylvia. The drink consisted of pig's blood, blend in with spices. Normally, such a beverage contained water or alcohol to break the blood's taste, but that was no issue for the Abhartach....

"There have been some changes in our plans..." he explained then. "Given the latest marvels in Espada, we will need to make a statement before others vye for command over the Night Court's hosts. And by that, I believe you know what I mean."

Normally, Harrul used to follow formalities, such as inquiring for the happenings of the other side before delving into the main topic. Unlike others of his kin, he indeed valued etiquette as much as protocol, believing it would be that what differentiated beasts from Man.

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

@Harrul Ulfbitenn​

The sense of disappointment from Sylvia as she sighed was almost palpable, but given the current situation she was sure that whatever mission her little sister was on it must have been important. It was not like she was going to be leaving soon, so eventually Tallite would be back and she could spend time with her… and hopefully under more pleasant curcumstiances than she was sure that this meeting might go towards. Gently she prodded about the scope of the mission in question, “A quest you say? Do tell what have you got her up to this time Harrul? You do know how I prefer to ‘keep’ her out of trouble… to a reasonable extent.” Sylvia was again playing up her motherly side, as she was trying to keep tabs on her younger sister. The women followed behind the king and took the cup with a graceful nod, but didn’t immediately drink from the substance within,

“Changes? I see no reason to change our plans, as control of the Isle’s has always been the first step to our overall goals and my recent conquest of… ah… I think I do.” She paused for a moment to take a sip of her drink as she knew that he was talking about the events of the masquerade ball and her demotion from the Warmaster of the Night Court. Personally she considered this to be only a minor setback, as the title was simply that… a title. It had its uses, but it had no power in the North as far as she was concerned. Marcus could put whomever he wanted in place to replace her… and in the end the host under her command would only march when she said so and not a second before.

She was also confident in her own ability to ‘intimidate’ any would be Warmaster to effectively cede their command decisions to her. Turning said title into a figure head, and leaving any glory gained to the Northern Alliance. In was in this realm of thought that a playful smirk crossed her face, “I believe you mean the loss of that silly title Marcus took away from me. Come now Harrul we both know that our armies are loyal to us and not him. They fight at the bidding of the Ulfbitenn and no one else.” Now that that was out of the way, she was curious on his idea of what sort of statement they could make. She herself was holding back on her new little weapon at the moment and waiting for the right time to reveal it,

“So tell me what did you have in mind Harrul? Because my armies have not ceased their invasions of the rest of the Isles. Just because I secured one Baronry did not mean that I would move to take another. In that vein it will be one that should provide us a large enough port that we can truly ship enough forces South… as Vethony’s position is looking… tenuous at best.” She was speaking of course of the land that her dear Nora had been making close deals with, but she wondered if Harrul was talking about something else.

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The King chuckled, as Sylvia worded the phrace "away from danger". Regardless how long it had been, one such as Sylvia could hardly recall an instance in which the King smiled, less so, laughed. But alas, whether it was the Beast Within's immeasurable corruption finally taking root, or a change in the King's character, a strange, sinister slit of the cold lips could be differentiated in his expression.
"You have always had your way of protecting your kin, dear cousin." his cold voice in response, as Harrul reached out for the tin cup. "But we never seemed to be in unison in that, did we...?" The once momentary abnormality of Harrul's chuckle was quickly consumed by his cold, sinister glare.

While Sylvia reported on her progress, and her dismissal of the warmastery as nothing more than a lesser trouble, Harrul remained silent. He nodded, once or twice, listening to her presented plans and advances, restraining himself from commenting on what, to him, and certainly the Beast Within, who screeched taunting spells against his mind, could only be described as denial of substance.

No... His time of rage was over... His time of mindless rule, was long done. This would not be the way the Cabal would survive in the Night, regardless how effective those practices might have been for the affairs of Day.

"Our armies are loyal to their true overlords, and so serve as it is expected of them." he spoke, in what could only be preceived as a disciplinary tone. "And I shall allow no foreign hand to command those who wear our Crimson."

Blood dripped from his grip around the cup, as he turned to face Sylvia, finally ending his back and forth pacing in the tent. As the blooddrop merged with the somewhat dry soil, the black boot stepped forth, crushing its black steam produced by what could only be arcane energies at work. The Abhartach's will grew dominant, causing the pale body to bleed its energy in a sign of the Beast Within's protest in its cage of flesh. The tin cup having twisted and cracked open by the unnatural pressure applied to it.

"By elevating you as the Warmaster of the Night Court, I had achieved that exact task, which now hangs on the balance, with all the other slaves of the Aumonts craving what we once possessed:"

The King stepped forth, closing the distance between him and Sylvia.

"The power to control all who serve the Night... Espada... Abhartachs... Vampires... Beast... The Cabals... The Isles... Cabal... With a single act, this quest is now stained with failure, for all the Night to bare witness. That, dear cousin, means our plans have indeed be spoiled. And by alot."

He turned, letting the broken cup to fall on the soil, as he brought his hands to his chest, scratching with his fingers his chin, pondering. "Our war must be swift. The message must be sent, before another statement can be made. We need the leverage to demand of the Court; Weapons; Armies... And Land, to last if Marcus chooses to enact on his throne of glass and the power it provides him..."

The King's mind was corrupt. In the presence of Sylvia, there were always little games played, as if any, it was her who had known him true, to bone marrow. He would not mask his plans for dominance, for her ears. It was, after all, her, the one who would eventually lead his armies to the war of Day or Night alike. For Harrul, Sylvia had always been and would always remain the Warmaster...

After seeing the powers the Night Court could conjure, Harrul had finally made plans to enforce his will across the world of Night. There could be no restrained peace. There could be no isolation, so long the Night held united. The Ulfbitenn, had to perform a show of strength. One loud enough for all of Erova to hear loud and clear, and the one who called himself the King of Night, to know for what it was....




@Sylvia Ulfbitenn

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

@Harrul Ulfbitenn
​

“Maybe not, but I never stopped trying…” Reaching out she would place a hand on Harrul’s shoulder, resisting the urge to pull him into another embrace, “… and given we are all still alive despite the turmoil of Ulfbitenn life… I think I did alright.” Sylvia noticed the slight change in her brothers demeanor, the Beast Within showing itself, and she could feel her own reacting to it. The sensation brought a playful smile to the woman’s face considering her wild nature. She never saw that part of herself as a negative so she didn’t always keep as tight control of it as Harrul… which is probably why in the long term it didn’t create as many problems for the Iron Lady. Letting off steam instead of having it explode all at once as it were,

“If we are in agreement on that fact, then it shall be hard for any would be ‘Warmaster’ that Marcus appoints to force our armies to march anywhere. That being said, the day we have to make said refusal…” She knew it didn’t need to be said as it would be the day the Night Court split. It would be the day that they had to be ready for, so that they could force the issue of her being given her title back as the Warmaster. Not that things would end there. Because forcing Marcus’s hand like that would cause backlash, and eventually lead to war… one that they needed to be prepared for.

Sighing softly as the other approached her, Sylvia gazed down at her sibling, but felt like she was the one who was smaller under his eyes. The sensation lasted only for a moment, fueled by his disappointment, but it was something that left a bad taste in her mouth. This fact caused her response to hang in the air… unsaid for longer than she meant it to. Looking down at her drink she took one more sip, before starting to speak, and as she did so… she would slowly crush the cup in her fist, causing the blood to run down her armor… fueling its magical energies that shown outward,

“That control Harrul, was not worth the dishonor of our family. Hear me well when I say that if me enforcing a decree which had already been establish was grounds for punishment, then Marcus was merely seeking a reason to take that title from me. He used what happen as an excuse… when he knew I was in the right punishing that witch for being in our presence after what she has done to our family.” By the time Sylvia was done speaking the was a hint of a growl to her voice, and the cup had been completely crushed. The Iron Lady dropping it down to the floor, “The real power of Warmaster is not with a title, but with the loyalty of the armies and the ability to lead them. That is something that can’t be taken away… and Marcus with his glass throne will learn that the hard way soon enough. I have many lessons to teach him…”

Harrul’s mention of the need for weapons, brought to Sylvia’s face the most sinister smile. The Iron Lady could no longer hide the fact that she had been thinking ahead when it came to this, “Interesting you say that…” About the time she was about to speak a messenger came in, one of the members of the Black Guard. Sylvia paused for a moment and turned as she had an idea of what the man was going to report, but didn’t say nothing as he spoke, “Your Grace, a handful of those bastards from the Night Lords are at the gate…” As any Ulfbitten noble would… the man didn’t bow, and maintained a level of calm expected of such elite troops, but his words where instantly cut off by Sylvia in the most playful manner,

“Now now… I understand you are doing your duty, but don’t steal a Duchess’s thunder…” Sylvia turned back to her brother with a look that showed she was behind this. However, given the nature of Harrul’s relationship with her favored guards, she had ordered them to wait outside… which is where she wanted to conduct her little ‘demonstration’, “As I know Harrul you would never allow the Night Lords to set foot into these halls, why don’t we step outside. Your sister has been a busy bee… I have such sights to show you.”

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

War...​

War in Day...

War in Night...​

The fact Sylvia didn't speak the words meant not they did not ring in Harrul's mind much louder than they would should she had spoken them aloud. The palace of thorns forged by Marcus' cruel reign was built atop glass, and held together by nothing than blood. Alas, blood made no foundation but of the occult, and the tower of corrupt reign had already started shaking... Harrul had seen it. Harrul had received word of it... Word he could not share with anyone, less so, its contents...

Was he indeed at fault for even pushing Sylvia this way? Was it truly worth it to mark another painful wound between them, while they both knew of the malevolence that shrouded Marcus and whatever plans he may have for the Isles Cabal?

"Of course what you did was wrong!" he grinned, glaring Sylvia with his black eyes. The arcane tension on his body by the rage consuming him caused the Beast Within to revel, taunting his mind with thoughts of impulse. He refused to give in, constraining himself, for the time being. "I wish that deviled whore put on a pike, and ghouls to feed on her rotting blood dripping for days on end, while she is force-fed diseased rat intestines to keep her cursed cadaver alive by the Beast alone! I wish for her eyes to be claimed by crows and be made jewelry for Taillte's neck to wear in absolution. I WISH HIS TRICE CURSED INFERNALS TO BE ASHES UNDER OUR FEET!"

With each of his black words spoken, the King took yet another step closer to Sylvia. With each of his vows of darkness, the arcane aura grew stronger, freezing the environment that escaped in an unnatural wind away from his taint. The Beast Within laughed maniacly, as its cage gave in to the rage seeded by it.

"But to have this, means that we fight a war we yet cannot WIN. To have this, it means that we fight a foe much stronger yet..." he reached out, gently caressing her cheek with his cold palm. "It means I must find a way to protect Taillte, his spawn, from what he will do to her, as soon as our blades begin to shine..."

Harrul never planned to serve Marcus. Nor did he wish to rule over the Night. The consequetive threats, and the reminder of what meant not being the apex had driven the King to forsake any promised, or better false, loyalties he could store for Marcus, and any future he could plan for, under another's rule, and carve a path for his own ascension. The Ulfbitenn, after all, had never paid fealty to no master but themselves....

He would not be the one to break tradition.

"We have an army of Day." he declared then, pulling himself away, readopting his initial formal expression so characteristic of him. "What we need, is an army of Night. And champions to challenge his rule. As of Taillte...." he then continued, his sinister gaze flying away, as soon as he lifted the fabric of the tent's entrance, looking far, towards the distant siege.

"I am already making arrangements...."

He did not ignore Sylvia's reply, although she was rudely enough interrupted, as the Black Guard knight walked in. His words caused a sudden spike in Harrul's blood pressure, having spared their chapter once from complete erradication due to Sylvia's own plea. Unlike most of the separatist champions of the old war, they were those who could pride themselves for having claimed the most Ulfbitenn lives....

Sylvia's response to the Knight, although anticipated, to an extent, by Harrul, did not do much but feed the flame sparked. He turned on his heels, glaring Sylvia as he awaited an explaination. What was received at the end, caused additional confusion to the King. But, especially in the presence of the knight, he chose to remain silent. He took few steps to the tent's exit, and then extended his hand, gesturing for Sylvia to lead the way.

"Stay here" he calmly instructed the knight.

"Yes, lord King."

He wasn't blind to the sensitive balance between the two knightly orders. For him, the spite of the Black Guard to the Night Lords chapter was justified, and there was little reason in constraining any act of retaliation. But, for the better or worse, Sylvia had found a place in which they had proven useful for the Ulfbitenn. What he could not explain to ordinary members of the clan, was that when the Night Lords were deployed, it was a battle won without Ulfbitenn dead. So early, in a war never revealed to any but Sylvia now, this was a winning strategy....

Eventually, when they had served their purpose, they would be assigned to battles they would conveniently not be able to win, or be sent to the edges of the world where they would never see glory, or the Ulfbitenn ever again...

But for now, they were a necessary evil....

@Sylvia Ulfbitenn

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

@Harrul Ulfbitenn​

Sylvia had to admit that she was a bit taken back by her brother’s response chastising her, but it didn’t show on her features. That same motherly expression remained as Harrul expressed in no uncertain terms the punishment they both which be inflicted on Hildabrenna. The woman had to resist the urge to reach out and lay a gentle hand on the other’s body… to try and calm her sibling. No… he needed to express his rage in this moment, so she held back anything that might soothe the stormy sea that was her liege. Instead she simply brought one of her own hands up to cover his, and nuzzled into it. The action was more reflective over the fact that she was his spawn than anything, “I believe you underestimate the strength of our forces Harrul, but if you are that worried about it… then we can always bide our time…”

It was an uncharacteristic statement by Sylvia, but she was planning things in the background and even she needed time to prepare them. At the mention though of what Marcus might do to her little sister at the outbreak of such a conflict. The woman’s entire demeanor grew cold… and the hand that held Harrul’s began to squeeze… uncomfortably hard. The Beast Within roared in a rage that would echo across the tent if it could make a sound, but the Duchess’s words communicated that clearly, “If he even dares to harm a hair on her head. I will make him wish he did not share our gift of… longevity… and durability. The so called King of Abertrachs will be turned into my play thing... to torture long after his mind breaks.”

The venom in her words was almost palpable. She had allowed for someone to get away with harming her family one time… there would not be a second. She would only let go of her brother, but not her rage at the idea of her sister being harmed once he had pulled away. What she cursed at though was her own short sightedness for not thinking in those terms. Then again that was what Harrul had always been better at that her. She tended to solve problems at the end of the blade, “If it is an army of the Night that you seek… then it is an Army of the Night that you will have. I may have failed in an act of diplomacy, but when it comes to war I will not fail the Ulfbitenn clan.”

She wasn’t going to be specific on what she was going to do to make this army. Somethings had to be kept secret. The Duchess cocked her eyebrow at the mention of her sister, “Arrangements? What exactly are you planning for our sister?” There was a hint of that previous rage in her voice, indicating that the Iron Lady was expecting to ‘like’ what she heard. Luckily for the knight in question Harrul would have time to explain what he was planning before the man delivered the message. Giving the Duchess a distraction incase she didn’t like what she heard… and if she didn’t… it would be brought up again at a later time.

As for now… she went into presentation mode, something that Harrul had seen many times when his sister was ready to present a brand new war plan to him in council as the Duchess did have a certain flare for these things. She didn’t say anything at first, but simply led the way, with a playful smile on her features, and it wouldn’t take long before the King was greeted with the sight of what the Duchess wanted to show him. Flanked by four Night Lords on either side, the eight armored knights facing the tent was a large cart pulled by ten draft horses. At the back of the cart where two figures, one was a large woman who was almost as tall as Sylvia and based on her facial markings came from the tribes she ruled over. The other was a smaller man, lithe in stature, dressed in the clothes traditional of those who lived in Vestvinfol proper.

Near them on the horse was a large glass sphere from which a continuous stream of fog flowed out like a waterfall spilling up over the side of the wagon like water filling a container and it spread outward from there. The fog was deathly cold to the touch, comfortably so to Harrul and Sylvia's kind. The object which the two people were caring for and slowly getting down off the wagon to place on a metal pedestal seemed oppressive in its presence. As though it were watching everyone around it.

​

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The rage of the King was finally constrainned, through the tone of Sylvia's words. In utter alignment, although much thought she was a rogue element towards her liege, in reality she was the voice Harrul could not produce. A voice of honesty and acceptance of the sentiment that fountained through him, which he, the King, could not risk revealing to the world for so much was at stake. For Sylvia, primitive and brutally direct as she was, well-earned trait from the Mountain Tribes and the Suthran folk, to be false was a rarity, if not a sin in and of itself. He respected that. Although that tendancy of her's brought him numerous difficulties both within and without the House, it was a medicine only she could provide against insanity that always lurked near the King.

The two shared a sinister gaze, which spoke what words would fail to transmit. Their goals were the same. He was the one to chart the course. She, the bow to cleave through the waves. Regardless the nearly two decades they had spent in this state, beings of Night, they had, knowingly or otherwise, performed together in a trial and error course to find the rhythm that delivered them. For a moment, it felt like after years, they had achieved it.

Harrul's willpower allowed him to navigate through the newly discovered complex webs of politics and wicked scheming that was the Night Court. Sylvia? Well... Her domain was that of primordial violence; She was a general. A Warlord... A Warmaster... Even if the Night Court denied seeing it, to Harrul, she would always be who commanded his armies, as she was the sole person to whom he bestowed blind trust on. Her ways, primitive as they were, were matching perfectly the honesty and ill-masked words of her's.

"He won't." Harrul interrupted Sylvia's spiraling rage to the very prospect of something befalling Taillte. "Think not of such. You have a task, cousin. A task to keep your mind from wander adrift." he instructed. Indeed, these words, he believed. If it wasn't the continuously difficult quests and goals and strategies he flooded his mind with, he himself would already would have gone mad. He could recognize that weakness, this ragefulness, in Sylvia. And could not blame her for it. Many were the nights he rode to the woods to scream and feast upon creatures dark and vile, only to force himself out of the very thought of the defiling of his kin by the spawns of Marcus.

A sin, he would never forgive... And most certainly, never forget.

Sylvia's determination quickly planted thoughts to Harrul's mind. She knew not of such schemes, nor was any of his actions known to her, or at least to his knowledge. For her to be so well-prepared for such a request could only mean, to him, that her mind was aligned with his from the start. Her feral instincts urging her to claim the seat of the apex, before she became the prey. The same instinct, supressed and chained as it was, that drove Harrul to act the way he did. Could this be an alignment of the Sire and his spawn? Could this be a common instinct of survival? Harrul could only guess. He refused, regardless how obvious it seemed to him, to grant the Beast Within the credit he thought deserving.

He reached out to her shoulders. A gentle, calming grip, as his black eyes pierced through her's.
"I need you to trust me, with Taillte. And trust not, any of what we speak, to her. What you are, to me, she is to Marcus. The last thing we both wish is for her to speak the wrong words to her Sire. I cannot bare the thought of her realization, after doing so. She has suffered enough. I plan to relieve her of the burden they forcefully bestowed upon her. The less she knows, the better it will be. What you need to think, is what you can do best:"

Give me an Army Worthy of the Night​

"You do this, then our kin shall be freed of the chains they will upon us. And we shall be able to yet again embrace one another, and my sister, as kin, with no false banes between us."

The confidence of Sylvia soon captured Harrul's attention. Many were the times her joyfully presented "innovations" had brought suffering to the foes of the Ulfbitenn. She alone had managed to break through the old realm to the East and establish a domain as great as the old empire's lands on the Isles.

The presence of the Night Lords caused the King's eyes to narrow, in acknowledgement. He had ordered and witnessed the decimation of their chapter, having been spared from extinction only by Sylvia's own plead. To him, they were a blight. A blight, nevertheless, serving under Ulfbitenn Chains, and Sylvia's reign over them ensured their blades never again turned against an Ulfbitenn. It would be her, after all, that would have to carry the final sentance, towards any or all of them, should they ever turned in any way against their Ulfbitenn masters. A pledge that found great discomfort among the Black Guard, of which knights were hard to restrain from taking their feud to their own hands.
To Harrul, they would serve until they were discarded, or extinct. Slaves, to the dark will of the Ulfbitenn, for crimes they commited against them. A far cruel sentance than death indeed.

The view of the wagon found Harrul doubting. It was in Sylvia's character to immerse herself in a plethora of new, extraordinary ideas which, Harrul admitted to himself, were all ashtonishingly innovative in ways too horrid for mortal minds to comperhend, less so, adopt. But she was no mortal no more. Harrul himself had seen to that. A blessing and a curse, he kept doubting. Blessing, for her. To him... oh well...

The strange cold aura from the nameless yet dread new horror conjured by the Iron Lady, second of the title, first of her might, reached the King's pale skin, resulting to a tilt of his head towards it. The Beast, as well as he himself, both recognized it for the arcane element it was. Strange; Outworldly. Mist had always been part of the Eirish culture. Be it in druidic rituals, dark tales or the shroud over era-changing events, it was mist itself what introduced the Man to begin with to Eirelunn. A land the Eirish would later on call home, while Goidels shall share their bloodlines to the North.

Mist...

He then returned his gaze to Sylvia, remaining silent in anticipation of what could only be expected to be a grande review.

"Is this a form of Alblish magick, cousin?"

This was not expected, he could admit to himself, yet there was no denying that Magicks, sooner or later, had to be employed, regardless of the ill-view shared by many against it. There would soon be no taboo or limit to their arsenal, if he wished to engage in the coming happenings in Erova.


@Sylvia Ulfbitenn

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

“You are right Harrul… he won’t because the moment he does I will snatch off the hand he used to harm her.” She paused breathing deep with a breath shook with an underlying rage, attempting to focus on the task ahead. Sylvia had always been the one to protect the family, and while she trust her brother to take care of Tallite… the other’s absence set the Duchess on edge. Now even more than before considering what her sire had brought to the forefront of her mind. The poor dear had already spent enough time locked away by Hildabrenna. It was only a repetition of such an action that would allow the Iron Lady to always keep Tallite under her watch in a manner that kept the other from gaining any information as Harrul indicated she could. No… she didn’t have the heart to do that,

“I will do that brother on the condition that should I deem her physical safety be at any risk, that I be allowed to do what I must to take her out of danger and place her in her my custody at Vestvinfol.” The was a note of heaviness to Sylvia’s voice as she knew what it would mean to lock Tallite away again… a repeat of past trauma, but if she had to be the bad guy to save her… then she would make that sacrifice. The gaze that gave Harrul would tell him that this wasn’t up for debate, and in her mind securing her sister was the exact type of smash and grab operation her newest unit was made for. So once she had her brothers word, that was when a smile returned to her face,

“Now when have I ever failed to provide you with an effective fighting force. You don’t keep my darling Night Lords around because of their good looks now…” There was a heavy note of affection in regards to her personal guards, the knightly order that swore their loyalty to her as the Moon Mother. The Duchess wasn’t completely ignorant on Harrul’s future plans for the Night Lords, but it was hardly like she was going to allow anything to happen to them. This was actually factored into her current plan for an 'alliance'. If she had to she would use it to make her own Sire think twice about trying to harm anyone under her control,

"Our first problem has always been and will always be that Marcus is a being much older than either of us. His knowledge Harrul is beyond what we are truly ready for, and so I believe that I have found a way to remedy that problem. I extended an olive branch to those in the most northern part of the Ilse's and asked them about rumors I have heard of a deity they call the Fog Empresses." What Sylvia didn't let Harrul know is that most of her information on this being and the fact it exsisted came from Caoilfhionn... the Moon Druid was ever pulling the strings on her puppet and this was just another time that she was doing that,

"I was sent this object and told that it contains a dignitary from the Northern Tribes and this Fog Empress's. Now I can't be sure if this being actually exist or if this gift they sent us Harrul is not something that the Northern peoples are using to avoid conquest, but I think we should look into it. We both know that there are things on these islands that are almost primordal in their age... both me and you are children of these forces. I believe Marcus forgets this and we would do well to bring to our side things that might match him." As she was speaking the fog in the large orb began to swirl around until a pair of glowing red eyes formed in the fog as well as the shape of a rudimentary mouth,

"Very preceptive little ones. I can see why she choose you to do her bidding... 'would be king of the Ilses'. Oh that young child did always have a sense of humor." Pausing for a moment the voice stopped and a gentle chuckle sounded that contained a note of a hiss, "Oh were where my manners, you children may call me Vera... High Druidess of the Fog. I am told you seek to parlay for a potential path North? Maybe an audience? Tell me... as I do so enjoy hearing why your kind grasp at nothing."

​

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

"You will be the one to wield the blade, if it comes to a contest of steel and silver, rest assured, cousin" Harrul reassured Sylvia, who he could see spiraling into a trail of grim thoughts yet again. It was expected. Part of him wanted to endulge into it himself, pouring his own black words for the being that stood a constant looming threat to the bloodline's existence. And yet, it was not his part to drive such thoughts, but to banish.

"Condition?" he inquired. His black gaze narrowed, hearing the words of warning on Taillte's mention. He knew well of what Sylvia's passion had brought last time she was taunted with a bleak past. Taunted. Indeed, that was the word that latched onto his mind. Sylvia was all what he could never be, and for a moment, he felt it was he himself that had pushed her to such an extend. She had always been hot-blooded, yet through her wrath, he could recognize the depth she had fallen ever since the Beast grew roots within her, corrupting her in manner unspeakable even for him. A risk he knew he took the moment he brought her near-death pale body before the Queen of Crows. A risk that still haunted him to this Night.

"The world of Night is not as straight-forward and simple as the world of Day in which we reign, here, on the Isles. Threads are entangling and speech becomes weapon greater than the sharpest axe. You are my strength, cousin, you know thus much. But strength can be as effective as it can be destructive. So, no. You will trust my judgement. Our bloodline has suffered enough, for me to allow any other misfortune to befall it. But I shall be unable to do so, if you take charge on matters without knowing the whys and the whens. If you but heed my words, the world will soon change. But there will be no longer room for error. The next time you act on your blind rage, it could be our kin's blood wetting the soil. And that... I cannot allow. Not anymore."

The King's words were cruel, but honest. More so than they would be towards any other. It was his attachment and understanding to Sylvia, that made him repeat himself in manner he could only hope to be understood. Without her, he could not pursue what lied ahead. Without Sylvia, he would have lost his chosen Child.

He listened to Sylvia's introduction of her work with the Northern Tribes in silence. Regardless of what transpired, when it came to such affairs, he had faith in her. This, after all, was what she was meant to do. What she was doing.

The fact that whatever these primordial entities in the North were clearly yet another antediluvian creature that far exceeded his own power no longer stood as a thing to bother him. He had gradually accepted that he was a mere infant, in the world of Night. Much less so, in the cosmic ties that held Terra Firma together.

But to have gained the attention of one such creature.... indeed posed certain questions in his mind...

His hand instinctivelly moved to grasp the pommel of his sheathed blade, as the mist twisted into life. A roar from within shook his bones to marrow, yet his lips remained sealed. His black eyes abysmal, as his arcane aura bursted from his pale body. He restrained himself from adopting any fighting stance. So long into the world of Night, he had to eventually learn to tame his reflexes, gradually evolving to a more steadfast and less engaging when encountered by the malevolent creatures he was now bound to consort with.

Alertness, on such a scale, after all, could always be translated as a sign of weakness... And he could not afford to show any...

"High Druidess" the King intoned, tilting his head to the view of the eldrich eyes. "I wish to speak, yes. But through conjured trickstery and magicks, I shall not. An Ulfbitenn will speak the words I have to say to you, face to face. Words of coming change, and pacts to be made between the Druids of the North, and the Cabal."

 

[Sylvia Ulfbitenn]

Sylvia was quick to understand that her ‘condition’ had struck a nerve with her brother. He had always understood the navigation of the political waters better than her, as her solution to such things usually involved a blade. Harrul’s promise of allowing her to be the one that struck the final blow against their shared enemy was enough to satisfy the Iron Lady’s more primal urges that came from the Beast Within, but she was careful to point out, “I will keep my rage in check brother for the day that you wish me to strike at the so called ‘Kings’ throat. You have always trusted me, just like I have trusted you, and so it is this way I trust you to watch out for the safety of our little sister. The quicker our power base grows… then the safer she remains… and we each much accomplish this in our own way I guess.”

She laughed as she reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, before turning the attention of the conversation back towards their ‘guest’ from the North. This was after all going to be exactly how she would provide Harrul with not only a fresh army to bolster their current forces, but a new source of magical secrets. She was sure that these Druids of the Fog would make them pay a cost as the other Druidic Circles tended to do, but that was why she brought their messenger to Harrul. She hoped that he could mitigate that cost, especially given his close attachment to the Queen of Crows.

Something about these Fog Druids unnerved even her… the way they spoke and the terms they used that referred to the other Druidic Circles in… well the way you would speak about someone much younger. She couldn’t be sure if it was an act like those Caoilfhionn played or was a simple truth. She hoped that her Sire could figure this out. In this regard her brother made the smart move of demanding that this talk happen on their ‘chosen ground’. What Sylvia didn’t expect given that she wasn’t completely privy to the exact details on what the glass orb was beyond a simple way to communicate was that at the moment that Harrul made his demand… he was granted his wish.

Slowly the orb itself began to drain of fog, which swirled up to form into a cloaked figured with empty eyes that now perched itself on top of the glass orb. Its entire body seemed to be made of the hazy substance and for a moment it would sit there lifeless regarding the man, before moving down off its perch to close the distance. It both walked and floated across the ground as it began to speak, “Such a demanding child too, oh the Fae do choose well. Do understand King I am not here yet to make any such pacts or deals, but to observe. Your child was mistaken on my purpose. Now should I find your abilities to make war to be sufficient then we can speak on matters of pacts, but on the coming changes… that we can speak on anytime you desire…”

It then paused and grinned as its skeletal hand slowly reached up towards Harrul’s face. Any attempt to bat it away would prove as fruitless as if one were grasping at smoke. The moment though it touched his features with a touch that was surprisingly warm if moist… just like the feeling of a humid swamp. That was when it made physical contact, “As for speaking to me directly young one, I can promise you that what you see in front of you is no trick… no illusion. Magic yes, but I am sure you know all about communication so directly with magic.” Pulling back the being’s moment of mischief turned back into the seriousness that it had held within the orb around it forming that dark old air again.

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The powers tackled by this meeting were nearly unfathomable even to a being such as an Abhartach. It was known well across Erova that Eirelunn, of all Isles, was the darkest, and yet, such arcane was more than a match for even the Beast Druids, who had birthed the Abhartach themselves into existence.

Was these the forces Harrul ought to conjure to challenge Marcus' Night Court? Or was he awakening something far greater, soon to prove a foe to them both, in this otherwise vain attempt of supremacy? Harrul could only guess to his favour, and trust in his firstborn. Of all, Sylvia knew well the workings of the dark, and the eldrich, having had long history with abominations such as the devilries of the Mountain Tribes and the Faerith. When there were no courtly walls, or golden chains around her, Harrul knew Sylvia had her ways much better than he would ever do, for she had embraced what he continuously defied and supressed.

As the strange entity shaped and formed, its words did not come as a surprise to the King. He knew there were things in the North even the Beast Druids knew well to steer clear from. An unspoken rivalry that both sides chose to neglect.

"War is a way of life for the Eirish..." the King retorted to the entity's taunting words of doubt. "You shall bare witness, to know our blades bleed much sharper a foe than do the Alblish, or Goidelkin of the East."

It was war that had birthed, and war that had nurtured the Ulfbitenn of Night and Day alike. Their expertise in it would not be doubted, before Harrul. To allow any such flexabilities would be to lower the standing the name in and of itself represented. A flaw that even the likes of Harrul respected and upheld.

As the eldrich talons reach for the King's face, his tall head turned to the side in a motion to distance itself from it. To no avail, however. As the skeletal hand reached, a slight grimache of disgust altered the otherwise dead of expression face of the King. He would not lower his gaze, however. Even to such a potential threat, Harrul upheld the Ulfbitenn unweavering pride.

The warmth that followed the touch, however, was a surprise. A sensation he had long forgotten, ever since the Beast's nest within him. Contrasting strongly the deathly cold of his own pale skin, the entity's contact was countered by an inner wave of arcane from within the Abhartach Pureblood, as the Beast Within growled in a warning grin, almost instinctivelly contesting the approach to His Vessel.

His. Red Angel.

The King spoke no reply to the entity. His entire being focused in silence to supress the wrathful darkness within.​

 

[Dreadheart]

Vandemar. The old Ally of the Ulfbitenn. An imperialist state heir to the Old Empire's glory on the Isles, now long forgotten by the Alblish. It was there where the bloodiest civil war yet had been fought, when the line of Sigismund collapsed and the powerful commanders of the Vandemarian legions turned into warlords. It was then when the forces of the Saxe-Hogarth and the Ulfbitenn launched their first invasion along the shore, while the rising Walder King from the East consolidated the inland.

Alas, the peace in Albion was not meant to last. After the great Heather Army's invasion and the internal turmoil in Raedwald, and the rebellions in Britsyll, the now known as Trygenn province, the Ulfbitenn had made ready for a second invasion, this time, to claim the entire province for their own.

And so, the war for Trygenn had begun...

Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus, once a Vandemarian centurion of the Loyalist faction during the civil war, had given up arms to the Walder King, after the Separatist defeat and the dissolution of the Loyalist forces. Now, after years of servitute under the Walders, had finally grasped the opportunity to lead the peoples of Trygenn into an uprising that was soon called the Second Coming of the Imperials. A false promise, yet backed by enough looted and abandoned gear for Corriolanus to field a mighty army against the Ulfbitenn, with several settlements declaring for the Broacca cause.
With his forces mainly centred in the North and along the coast of Trygenn, the Broacca reformed their armies into a powerful infantry-based war machine that stood as a mockery of the old Sigismund legions, corroded by the attrition of time and bloodletting.

The inland, following the example of the coastal cities, trailed the same path of defiance, with the settlements rallying under the House of Acca; A Vengaardian warlord, son to a Vandemar prefect, who rose in the ranks of the Walder garrisons and was proclaimed Prince of Trygenn by the peoples of the South.

With two mighty warlords, and the province in anarchy, many of the settlements gradually become city-states, preserving neutrality to avoid being entangled in a loosing war, while the great powers gather around them...

 

[Dreadheart]

Bristyll Castle, Trygenn Province

The cold of the Autumn rain befell the large muddy field outside of Bristyll Castle, making the tasks of the hundreds of men and women setting up the siege camp ever harder. A full day had passed ever since the master of the large war-host had dispatched his ultimatum to the castle's nobles, demanding their oaths of fielty as subjects of the New Crown of Vandemar. The nobles, once supporters of the separatist faction in the civil war, did not see any better treatment after the war, under Walder rule. Having been in the mercy of the advancing Draculean brigands and Loyalist retaliation raids, they had little ally in the face of the new Walder King, for as little as he got to rule the proud lands of Vandemar.

The hooves of the trotting stalion cast the mud aside, staining the fabric of the white tents, set equally to one another with the help of palisades and ropes. The rider was clad in segmented armour of the Vandemarian style, with no little influence of the Eirish and Walder plate and scale mail respectivelly. Long gone were the days of the cultural renaissance of Albion and the gorgeousness of the Vandemarian style, devolved and twisted now in the face of necessity and foreign influence.

The rider made his way across the camp, to the larger rectangular blue tent that stood in the very centre of the siege camp, guarded by the select few of the Praetorian Guard; The Traditionalists' most elite troops, loyal to the infantry dogma that once characterised their culture.
The horseman dismounted, rushing in the large tent. The interior was laid with fabrics of Alblish design, while large candleholders and torches trapped in elegant cages illuminated the otherwise secluded by light interior of the tent. In the middle, a wooden table was placed, filled with the stretched chainmail tailored armour of the Traditionalists army's commander, who stood not too far behind the table. Assistant boys helped the man adjust the several pieces of armour that were laid around him, in preparation for the coming clash. So sure was the long-haired, stoic Alblish man of the conclusion of the rather short-lived negotiations, he saw no wisdom in expecting the reply from behind the walls, before dispatching orders for the army's deployment for a siege.

"My lord, sire!" the horseman voiced, saluting Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus by a strike of his fist against his chest; Ancient Imperial salute adopted by the line of Sigismund, later nearly lost in foreign influence and defeats. Broacca looked at the man, nodding. "The nobles have rejected the terms, sire. They will not surrender Bristyll willingly."

Bristyll was more than just a fortified position in the inland of Trygenn. It was a symbol. The place of a massacre, during the Draculean invasion, and a castle where the old banner of the Loyalists was kept, by order of King Adwin I, the Walder King who usurped the province after the civil war. It was the Walders' belief that the forceful erradication of the old regime would spark rebellions and resentment in the local populus. Instead, the Walders established a fair system of governance which gradually introduced more and more laws, discreetly stepping on the old pagan traditions in favour of the Walder religion. A change that had many in Trygenn, as the province was renamed, rise in defiance, leading to almost a year of brigandry and looting.
The nobles who ascended from that chaos were those who served the Walder king, and wielded enough power to enforce change through the blade and the flame. Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus was among those nobles. He promised his people a new life, post civil war, with hopes of a Vandemarian restoration, under a Walder rule. That, in a way, he did give, being among the voices in the Wald with enough influence to avoid any too sudden changes.

With the Walders gone, it was now the time to act. It was now the time to break the chains and unite the province in a new era. When Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus declared his independence, many rallied to his banner, driven by either greed, need for a strong ruler, or simply desperation, in the face of a whole new civil war, as the entirety of the Isles entered a Warring States period, far worse than that in the times of Rhann and Raedwald and Laighin, barely a century ago.

It was Bristyll that would serve as an example. Those who defied the claims of Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus, would be made to regret it, sending a message loud enough even the Ulfbitenn, warmongering barbarians from Eirelunn, now resting gaze upon Trygenn, would listen...

 

[Dreadheart]

"Loose your arrows!!"

The sergeant roared, pointing the castle walls with his gladius sword, moments before a storm of barbed arrows were shot by the hundreds of archers. The Traditionalist force consisted of numerous veterans of the Civil war and the Vandemarian Legions, making for a deadly war machine, yet to be truly tested by the times.

In stark contrast to their Vandemarian precessors, the Traditionalists fielded armies mainly clad in scale or chain armour, employing fabric capes or tabards to distinguish between units, much to the chivalric fashion of the rest of the isles. Vibrant battle standards flew over the troops, while the Praetorian Guard took position opposite to the gates, holding the makeshift ladders at hand, beneath their large oval towershields. Ahead of them, the Legionnaire Veterans advanced in closed formations, forming testudos to protect themselves from the ceaseless defender arrowfire, bleeding them for every inch of ground gained towards the walls.

Broacca Ehmr Corriolanus remained still, standing before his Praetorian Guard, observing the unfolding confrontation before the walls. His long hair danced in the wind in synchrony with the cloth of his lower armour, kept away from his face by a leather strap. Men bled off the formations, as every few breaths, yet another arrow would pierce through the testudo tight formations either by cracking through the wooden shield targe, or by flying inbetween the narrow gaps in lucky shots. Broacca knew that it had struck a blow by the sudden new scream that sounded from the formation when such an event occured.

"The infantry is almost by the walls, sire" Aldwaine assured. He and Broacca went back years, having been in the same unit in the Legion of Vengaard, long ago when they served the true masters of these lands, the Sigismund.

"We are taking casualties. Their archers are very good in their trade..." Broacca acknowledged. He was not a fool. It was an Alblish tradition to field huge numbers of archers; A tradition he too had kept. To the defenders' surprise, many of the province's serfs and lesser folk had taken up arms to join the Traditionalist side. According to the latest information by the riders, Broacca knew they had already engaged the Southern Wall. Some two units of archers they were. Not enough to attempt any meaningful assault on the walls, for sure, yet numerous enough to press the defenders to split their forces in the defense of yet another position, while Broacca's main force assaulted the Northern gate.

Long had it been since armies encircled entire settlements, Broacca thought to himself. The devolution of the times had taken a painful toll to all on the Isles, even his beloved province. Trygenn, it was now called.... Pff.... He had never grown to accept the change....

As another volley of arrows flew over the walls, the near-massacred infantry of the Traditionalists broke to the pressure of the highly skilled bowmen who fired high poundage warbows, with shots capable to pierce the very shields when the troops pushed too close to the walls...
Men were routing; Running for their lives instead of meeting death like warriors. Alas... Most of them were not.

 

[Dreadheart]

"Keep firing, men! Kill them all, the Bastards!!!"

The sergeants roared to inspire their men who had already grown tired of shooting the heavy bows. Some had even given up, withdrawing from the formations holding their hands of which tendons and muscles had been torn by the excess push of the string. And yet, from the retaliatory fire from the walls, they knew the enemy was growing weaker.

Back near the Northern Gate, the Preatorian Guard finally fixed their ladders on the walls, along the right side from the gatehouse. The defenders rushed reinforcements to the battlements, while the ramparts grew thick with the archers who tried to withdraw in the face of the much feared opponent. The first of the Preatorians to scale the walls successfully were recognizable from afar by the red mist caused from the swipes of their warhammers and halberds, dying the nearby murlons red and white with the defenders' blood and brain liquids. The battle on the ramparts grew much gruesome, as the retreating defenders soon chose to jump off the walls to the courtyard, instead of standing against the onslaught of the Preatorians.

It was the Alblish reserves, Rhantii troops who had poured in during the early days of the Walder reign, now finding much coin in the unfolding conflict as mercenaries. Their roundshields fit for such thick confrontations, while their scythes and shortswords and hand axes ideal to contest the ramparts.

After an entire hour of brutal battle, Preatorians started falling off the battlements, as the Rhantii advanced, dislodging the invaders from their salient. With access to the ladders limited, the Preatorians had little choice but to stand and fight. And fight, they did. For each of them falling, a dozen of the Rhantii and Alblish defenders fell prior; A grim tithe of souls, the defenders were not capable of keeping up with....

Alas, for the Traditionalists, such high losses were not a winning strategy... Those troops that had yet to scale the walls heard the trumphets in relief, as the signal to call off the assault was given. One after the other, the units pulled back to their camp. The Preatorians on the walls, however, were not so lucky...

It would be a whole hour still, before the last of the Preatorians was slain on the ramparts, cast over the battlements into the thick bloodied mud of the external wall, before the battlefield, once again, fell silent....