Game of Crowns - In Character

by **Harkback Union** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 9:57 am

A Game of Crowns

In Character

Fast Travel to OOC

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CALENDAR

Current Year:
905 AD
(turn 5)

-

MARKETS
(901-905 AD, prices update every 5 years!)

COMMODITIES

Spices - 15 C
Textiles - 7 C
Wine - 7 C
Pottery - 5 C
Horses - 5 C
Charcoal - No Market
Iron - 5 C
Stone - 4 C
Clay - 4 C
Flax - No Market
Wood - 3 C
Food - 2 C

Buy/sell price is the same,
No markets for Charcoal yet, can only be traded between players.

WEAPONS

Swords - 17 C
Armor - 15 C
Bow & Arrow - 12 C
Spears - 12 C

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MAPS

Resource Map

Political Map

THE REMNANT EMPIRE

Light Purple - House Enrüth
Arx Caelo
Kingstown

SUBJECT LORDS
List and map still WIP, if you are missing, dont worry, I'll add you as soon as I have the time!

Light Red - House Scipio - Novas Arcanum
Xanthos

Light Green - House Horton - Ralnis
Mur Quhalden

Sky Blue - House Zaphoroz - Grim
Druzhina

Dark Green - House Gelbovic - Olthenia
Mercywood

Bright Yellow - House Salian - Mersdon
Inner Swadia

Grey - House Eadweald - Labstoska
Anglthorn

Orange - House Kosmas - Seno
The Triple Rivers

Black - House Dorbeorn - G-Tech
The Vale

Dark Red- The Sons of Black Thoric - Knights Azorea
Mountains of Grafmarch

Yellow- Leofrun of Lockinge - The Miaphysite Church
Wilbrod

Blue - House of Salazar - Finland SSR
Ambrosia

MAPS BY MIAPHYSITE

Provinces

White: Unclaimed, with resources
Grey: Unclaimed, unexplored/no resources
Blue: Ocean

Faith

Red: Cross
Green: Serpent
Gold: Rose
Blue: Arborists

Loyalty

Blue: Lord Jarn/Holy Leage
Green: Emperor Otto II
Yellow: Undetermined

OTHER FACTIONS

by **Harkback Union** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 9:57 am

- Crucial Rules -
(Overrules the old version found at OOC)

Your Inharitance
!!!IMPORTANT CHANGES!!!

Character Actions
!Some changes!

Hand limits

Conspiracy
!New!

Army Training/disbanding

War length and battles

Buildings
!Some changes!

Troops

Traits
!Some changes!

by **Harkback Union** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 10:31 am

Arx Caelo
1st day of spring, 901 Anno Domini

A new twilight

The last rays of the sun shine through the overgrown ruins of a once great city. Home to many thousands, perhaps even millions at one point, now a bitter reminder of what was lost. Only a few districts remain, housed within the walls of Arx Caelo, the last line of defense of the city. It was here, where the barbarian warlords were stopped by an engineering marvel, walls as high as man can build, elaborate defenses, war machines and traps to thwart intruders, supplies for many months, a fortress never taken, until now...

The castle gates open, a convoy enters, at its center the royal carriage. Emperor Otto the 2nd has returned from his hunting trip, an ageing man, slightly wounded and exhausted from the journey. The convoy arrives at the palace entrance, where the royal family, or whats left of it, awaits him. His only daughter, his only heir, Helena. Her eyes bright, her hair dark, young and unmarried, pious, intelligent and charitable. Popular among the masses. His father gives him a fatherly kiss, and they together walk into the palace, where dinner is about to be served. A small feast by candlelight, the court attends.

"Mylord, how was the hunt?" - Asks the chancellor, Ludwig, arch bureaucrat of the nation.

"Very pleasant, my dear friend, many rabbits, I've struck 2 with one arrow!" - Replies the emperor, a skilled marksman or bad liar, but few would ever doubt him...

"Of course you did, just like the other time you drank a whole barrel of wine in one sitting." - ...save for her daughter. His father smiled, his chancellor laughed.

"Mylord, If you may excuse me, there is something we must discuss in private, after the dinner, of course."

"Very well Ludwig..."

The 2 man leaves, their bellies full, the night young.

-

-

The next morning, a dozen couriers are summoned to the palace, each handed a letter, and sent on their way.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 5:17 pm

The Lee-Barrows, Marches of the Vale
April 15th, Year 1799 of the Reckoning

Here and there pockets of snow clung to the hollows of the hills, mounded in the shadows where the sun’s embrace from the north barely peeking over the Earthbone Peaks had yet to dislodge it. It was a chill wind that blew from the ink-black precipices and crags north of the Barrow-Lands, Jarn contemplates. But the breeze was always chill before spring’s rains came in earnest in the shadows of the Home Country, and that was hardly unusual. He spurred his destrier, Trueheart, forward to catch up with the rest of the column.

Marching soldiers, most bearing bows and shortspears, clad in the somber sable, black, gray, and white of House Dorward shambled along the rough dirt-packed road, probably bored out of their minds. But it was honest duty, guarding the last shipment of timber to Farholme. Come summer the humble peasants here would have to be expected to bring in their own crops, ward their own homes behind the light palisade this timber would finalize the construction of - for now though Jarn saw grateful faces upturned in the rough-hewn fields, farmhands and goodwives glad to see the Primarch and sturdy Tiersmen instead of strangers.

An odd spring. But finally the Vale was emerging from under the cloak of the Long Night, and men could dream of more than ekeing out enough of a living for their children to see the next winter. A good spring, for all that the purse-strings of the Gate were already tightening in this gamble. But it was what the Primarch owed to his people, at least.

by **Seno Zhou Varada** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 6:25 pm

The Triple Rivers

Inside the manor of the province sat a council, of seven to be specific. Dressed in simple white robes, befitting of priests in this rough province, with small pendants of black serpents identifying them as anything but. The only mark of difference among them was that of one sitting on a more ornate chair than the others. While you couldn't call it a throne, it signified a slightly differing status that he held over the others, the Lord of this province.

The council surrounding him was that of the priests of the province, officially anyways. Unofficially, they were the leading members of The Serpent, a heresy opposing The Cross, with the lord being the Head of them. The council had been called regarding a royal message, that of the Emperor. A most important event was upon them, that being his most Royal Majesty's 71st birthday, with an "invitation" to attend it. The word being used loosely, as attendance was essentially mandatory under threat of treason otherwise. There was no question about whether the Priest-lord, Arkadios Kosmas, must attend, but rather the motive behind the message.

2 coalitions had been set-up among the councils, that of those proposing that it would be a dangerous event, and others proposing that this message was sent out to all the lords and would not be dangerous. The former, a group of 2 of the more paranoid members, had suggested it was an attempt to kill the lord for being a heretic. Of course the heresy in this province was a secret, not every peasant was initiated into the mysteries, and some level of syncretism was not unknown on the borderlands. However the King may have spies set in the province who were initiates, and so this secret may be uncovered.

The latter faction, however, dismissed this. Not on denying the spies, it was always a risk as the cult expanded its membership, but on the fact that a courier was sent and not an army. Sure it would be simple to lure the Priest-lord into a trap and kill him, but why do that when resistance would be put up anyways by the loyal soldiers of the province? Rather it was simply the Birthday celebrations of his most Royal Majesty's. Sure there might be a dangerous announcement, but it would be applied to every lord, not just the Priest-lord.

Unfortunately a crucial witness for this trial, the courier, was already on his way back to the capitol. Fortunately, it was unnecessary to stop him for questioning, the Priest-lord's fate was already sealed, he must attend the Birthday of his most Royal Majesty's, as said Lord reminded the bickering council, who was getting quite heated at this point.

"Men of the council, must I remind you that there is no other option for me to consider here? In order to even consider the survival of our most Faithful Brethren, I must go. You know what must occur if I'm killed in the service of our Lord by the most cruel Archons. Leadership transfers to my sister and the sect goes back into hiding. We've gone into hiding for our survival many times, once more is simply routine. Despite the attempts of the most evil Chief-Archon to destroy us, we emulate the weeds in the field and come back from the dead," pausing from his long-winded, at this point, speech, he observed the council and then continued, "cease the discord among us and get to work. Prepare for the worst but don't act, continue as if I won't immediately die from poison on the message, and lead your flocks. I will pack my bags for Arx Caelo and attend his majesty's celebrations."

Upon this speech, the council bowed and was dismissed by a wave of the Priest-lord's hand. The men exited the room and proceeded to their horses, going back to the simple churches of the province. Kosmas proceeded to his room and monotonously packed up his things, reflecting on the current state of his lands. His flock had grown quite a number, with a few of the peasantry initiated into the mysteries throughout the years. Not only that, but the spearmen serving were also initiated into the mysteries, or at least their commanders were. A crack had been made in this horrid material world, and the most Divine's light was spreading into it, nourishing the seeds in it.

Progress had been made, now it only remained to see whether it would be set back yet again.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 10:22 pm

Somewhere in Ulm.....
1st day of spring, 901 Anno Domini

“Failure to attend will be an act of Treason. Heh, I’m not surprised by that.” Ismanna haphazardly throws the letter on his counter. “Let’s hope that he dies soon.” Ismanna states quietly. A maid in the office rises a high-brow. “If Otta caught you saying that then your head would be rolling in no-time.” Ismanna chuckles at the thought. “You’re not wrong. Otto is not exactly a fun person to be around. I have personal experience of this.” Both of them laugh for a second before silence takes over.

Ismanna sighs, looking over his small office room. The manor that Ismanna inhabited was nothing more than a refurbished old-barn house. The office was really just a second-story storage area where hay was supposed to be stacked. Any noble would be appealed by these conditions and treatment, but Ismanna had no issue with it. The barn house provided what was needed of it - a roof overhead.

“How’s Snow doing in her grammar studies?” Ismanna grabs the letter from the counter, folding it before stuffing the letter into his clothing. “She’s not liking it, but she is doing good in it.” The maid bushes off dust from the walls and furniture in the meanwhile. “How long you’ll be gone?” The maid quickly follows up. Ismanna shrugs, walking towards the downstairs . “Wish me luck that I don’t somehow agitate our most sacred Chancellor.” The maid grins at the comment. “You’re the most inoffensive person I know.”

“Let’s hope so.” Ismanna says back, leaving his office. An escort provided by the Chancellor was awaiting Ismanna.

by **The Miaphysite Church of Coptic Archism** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 10:55 pm

Lockinge, Wilbrod
901 AD
Wulfhilde Leofrun, the Marchioness of Wilbrod, smiled warmly and welcomed the Imperial courier into her manor. She had paid the necessary respects as instructed by her chancellor Bregowine, and accepted the letter offered to her. She did not ask for the courier's reading of the letter, allowing him to leave. When he was gone, Wulfhilde stepped down from her petty throne and placed on it her coronet, before trotting down her great hall, and locating Bregowine to read the letter for her. Though she was still a beginner at reading, she didn't see the point in the entire Empire being made aware of it.

While travel was not a particularly onerous task, the demand for it was a frustration, simply the latest in a long-lasting string of presumptuous and overbearing acts of Otto II. Nonetheless, it would doubtlessly be simpler for everybody to simply attend to this demand. Wulfhilde, along with Bregowine, two ladies-in-waiting, and four of her landed knights were prepared for their travel, along with the necessary retinue. The Steward, Aldred, would remain in Lockinge to oversee the Leofrun holdings while the Marchioness was gone. When all was ready, the wagons and horses were set on the Old North Road, towards the great river where a riverboat would ferry them into the personal lands of the Emperor.

During the absence of the Marchioness, the peasantry of Wilbrod toiled peacefully, producing an abundant harvest as was common in these lands of rivers and rich soils. Even more stock of barley and wheat came in down the great river, the Steward buying it up from the middlemen to prepare the larders for the long-term.

by **Gullystead** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 11:26 pm

The Duchy of Chalphy

The Valenti Manor's study was far too quiet, Sigurd decided as he sat at his desk fiddling with the iron crown within his fingertips. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." A bard or a playwright, he guessed it didn't matter which, once composed that line. Those words rung more true with each passing day. This crown in particular was nothing more than a symbol. It held less weight than a true crown should, made of iron and adorned with little jewelry, merely just a singular, shining blue gemstone melded into it. But it served its purpose as a symbol quite well, Sigurd would have to admit. The common folk told stories of his father Baldur riding into battle, iron perched upon his head, slaying opposing armies and driving them back to the west. Whenever people saw the crown, it reminded them of their struggles for 'independence', hope for a better future, but also of the terrifying power the Duke could wield against unruly subjects.

Taking his mind off such matters, he once again regarded the letter sitting idle. No, being branded a traitor wouldn't exactly be the best choice, now would it? But who shall he burden with the crown in his absence? There was his wife, but she wished was troubled enough making sure the manor ran smoothly, much less the entire duchy. Besides, he wanted Deirde to travel alongside him anyways. Of course, there was always his mother. There was no doubt she would be able to handle affairs while he was away. But he was afraid that she would be too lenient on her former family. The Seraphs controlled much of the southern farmland near the coast, and they were infamous for forcing some of the lesser nobles to pay absurd amounts of gold in exchange for making sure their house doesn't starve. They had long been a pain in his back but they had been properly dealt with. His mother, however, might loosen the grip he had worked so hard to maintain.

As he mulled over the potential candidates, his eyes widened as he realized he'd forgotten about one. Perhaps the one most suited for such a task. Until yesterday, his brother had been to the west, scouting potential lands they could exploit. How fortuitous the timing of his return. He called for someone to fetch his brother and it wasn't long until he arrived. It never was too long with Caelden. "You asked for me, Sigurd?" he asked in a neutral tone, seemingly devoid of any emotion. It sometimes annoyed Sigurd how dutiful Caelden had been. He always did what he was told, without question, and as efficiently as possible. So different from Gerold. "Yes, I shall be traveling to the royal capital. It's the emperor's birthday. Old fool decided he wanted to live a longer." He paused a moment, glancing at the crown. The substitute it sat upon could grow drunk with its symbolical power, but not Caelden. Never Caelden. "In my absence, you shall manage the duchy's affairs."

After Sigurd spoke his final words, an uncomfortable silence grew. It seemed as if neither of them were willing to break it. Sigurd wanted to speak again, telling Caelden how to rule, how to negotiate with the lords, but it would all be empty words. He knew quite well that Caelden was perfectly competent without his advice. Sometimes he believed that Caelden should have been the eldest. It could have spared the family much pain. It could have spared two lives. But thinking in "what if's" was dangerous. Too much lingering in the past. Sigurd opened his mouth, but Caelden beat him too the punch. "Is that all, Sigurd." Sigurd contemplated giving that advice anyways, but all that came out was, "Yes. You may leave."

And with the sound of the heavy door creaking open and promptly slamming shut, the study once again proved too quiet for Sigurd to bear.

by **Finland SSR** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 12:09 am

The Golden Ambrosian Republic

A new year dawns in the Golden Ambrosian Republic, a shining light of freedom and plutocracy in a harsh feudal world. Though declaring itself to be a free state liberated from any lord, in reality, it is subservient to the Emperor in Arx Caelo like many others. However, such a status quo could not last forever.

Under the orders of the Grand Protector, Almus Salazar, the Grand Council of the Republic was summoned to resolve several key questions in the affairs of the state this year. Merchants, guild leaders and aristocrats from the entire realm gathered in the capital of the province, over two hundred of them, and the debates on the direction of Ambrosia began. After significant lobbying from the mercantile faction within the Council, the Republican government has agreed to grant the labor and resources needed to significantly renovate the markets of the nation. New marketplaces shall be constructed and a grand hall for traders and craftsmen alike established in the capital to allow them to trade goods from foreign lands with ease and comfort. This is bound to provide additional wealth to the Golden Republic.

Lastly, the Grand Protector received a letter from a courier carrying the royal insignia, sending out invitations to the Emperor's 71st birthday. Almus Salazar's answer was laconic and swift:

Dear Emperor Otto the 2nd, may your dynasty reign for a thousand years.

Alas, as much as I and the great peoples of the Golden Ambrosian Republic would desire to attend these celebrations, we are busy people, and for us, time is money. This time cannot be wasted in any way. In addition, we fear that Your Majesty's court would not welcome men of common birth intermingling with the nobility.

Perhaps a monetary compensation for our inattendance would suffice as to not draw your ire, Your Majesty?

- Almus Salazar, Grand Protector of the Golden Ambrosian Republic

The Golden Ambrosian Republic
Current Character Almus Salazar Trait: Merchant (+1 Coins per Market)	Held Regions Ambrosia 2 Fertile Land, 1 Lumber 2 Population Palazio Reppublico (Manor) Farm Employs 1 Pop Produces 2 Food Farm Employs 1 Pop Produces 2 Food Hand limit: 5	Held Resources 10 Coins	Held Military Units Ambrosian Guard (1 unit of Loyal Archers) (no maintenance)
Turn 1 Actions
Character Action Ignore request of attendance Action: Hard Labor -2 hand limit +1 Coins next turn	Production 1 Farm employs Pop to produce 2 Food 1 Pop is unemployed, producing 1 Labor 3 Coins is spent to purchase 1 Wood	Construction Market (Ambrosia) Cost: 1 Wood, 1 Labor

by **The neo glactic empire** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 12:57 am

Lords Manor,Paris 901AD
"Failure to attend well be taken as treason..."
Louise sighed as he saw the kings tyranny yet again charged with treason...for not joining his bloody birthday? The lord thought

He went to the balcony before finally deciding it was worth going there to gain the old mans favour after all he wanted the spoils of being as close as possible to the king for it opens many oppertunities

"Prepare my horse"
"I well be departing to the kings party now"

His wife alice came in
He looked at her and said
"My love i leave you my realm until i get back"
As the sun sets he leaves for the royal palace

Alice went ahead and planned until her husband comes back she knew he has interst in developing the realm economically and as such ordered materials to be bought for they were needed to build new markets for the land

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 4:29 am

Narrows of the Dor, Walls of the Mountains of Morn
October 12th, Year 1799 of the Reckoning

The plodding tapestry of knights, house-guards, and retainers was a sorry sight to see in the windswept Vale. Men were bundled up tight against the winter chill, happy to be marching away south towards warmer lands. The Glass River ran on the eastern edges of the Vale, between it and what men called Inner Swadia, an uncouth land where men were brash and hot-tempered compared to their western neighbors. There was little love between the stern Dormen, who preferred high walls and singing bows to the boiling cavalry charge, but on the Glass River at least the bargemen managed to be civil with each other, shipments of wrought stone riding down the Mirrormere to wider markets forming the life-blood of the Dorbeorn.

Truth be told, Jarn would have happily ridden across all of the acreages of wild feral Swadia for a year and a day, if it meant he could avoid the summons to Arx Caelo. The omens of the Father had not been good for this journey, but it was one he could ill afford to not take. Oaths of fealty and honor he had sworn to old Octavian when the man's vigor had still burnt in his eyes, and his mind was not overthrown. Now, of course, it might be much to expect ought other than madness and humiliation within the great keep of the Breaking - but it was his duty as Primarch to do what was necessary, for his people.

At least there was some comfort. A technicality, perhaps, but the scholars of the Ivory Tower on fair Dormallon's shoulders that rode back in the caravans with Jarn's sister-son would be a diversion for heart and mind, and their maintenance had been thoughtfully provided for by the crown as part of his retinue. The collapsed passageways, hidden tunnels, and immense crumbling citadels of the capitol would make a delightful essay in his childhood obsession, discovering the old and forgotten things of the world - and Messirs Avitus and Longingus would be there to record any discoveries. If the feasting got to be too loathsome, or the politicking too oily, he would be able to just slip away for a few hours to delve into some forgotten library or vanished armory. They had the tomes of pass-words, the lock mechanism drawings, the cantrips of opening; what remained unlooted in the half-century since the Devastation, Jarn looked forward to seeing.

No part of his family accompanied the aged lord on this journey, not to Arx Caelo. Otto's mind was not always his own, and any man who ventured to that lair took his life in his hand, in part. It was not given to the Master of the Dor to choose not to risk his own hide, but his children and wife he would not wager against Otto's good moods. But that was a part of the life that had been given to vassals of the faltering Empire for nigh on thirty years now, and it would simply be as it was. His guards were strong, well-trained, and his own skill with a blade was not lacking. It would have to be enough. And besides, in the midst of such an assemblage of rogues, brigands, courtiers, and syncophants as would be in Arx Caelo for Otto's birthday, the odds were good that some other man would draw the Mad Emperor's ire, not the son of the Earthbones.

by **The Grim Reaper** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 8:36 am

Lord Siczhmund of Zaphoroz
Kampaniyawend, Druzhina
Known in the common tongue as Campaignhold, the Lord's Manor of the City of Campaigne

Druzhina was one of the largest, if not the largest province in the realm. Defined along its historic borders, Druzhina continued to hold fast to its ancient traditions; situated close to the heart of the old Empire, it had not been conquered but peacefully assimilated. Its martial culture had remained resilient through decades of political turmoil and the immense influence of the Empire, and its strange pseudo-hereditary rulership had proven a powerful symbol of both stability and an independent identity, manifest in its continued adherence to a semi-nomadic lifestyle. Many still viewed the Druzhine as strange barbarians, redeemed only by their long-standing and stalwart support for the Faith, which was known to have spread to the Druzhine nearly simultaneously to its development in the crownlands themselves.

The boy-Lord Siczhmund was not an unusual story for the Druzhine. Its Lords had always tended to die young, commited in full to the leadership of the Druzhina against all enemies foreign, domestic, and local. What was unusual was his intuitive passion for gauging the atmosphere of the times, and his commitment to maintaining a healthy relationship between the Druzhina and its neighbours, as the sickly scent of corruption and decrepitness descended upon the realm.

Traditionally a mounted, nomadic peoples, the Druzhina largely supported themselves through forage and communal, informal plots of land shared between migratory bands, with each band harvesting the plots and planting a new set of produce for every season as they passed. The vast forests of Druzhina had been carefully cared for and were viewed with near-religious fervor by the natives of the province, as a symbol of the Druzhine's heritage. Under the yoke of the Empire, it had seemed unnecessary to capitalize upon what some called the Druzhine's true treasury, although Sichzmund had almost immediately upon taking the Manor begun to surround himself with advisors well-grounded in the working of wood and lumber.

Though horse-archery was a famed sporting practice for the Druzhine, their warfare had been honed by generations of life in the Druzhine forests, where archery was of little use. Spears were the traditional weapon of their ancestors, and some of the finest spears in all the realm were borne by the retinue of the Druzhine Lord, crafted not by army smiths but by ancient lineages of artisans for whom the selection of wood was not a means of commerce but of spiritual communion. That was not to say they were any more effective.

Siczhmund took audience in the yards of Kampaniyawend, intending a subtle reminder to his new visitor of the expanses of his domain. He had not been expecting to receive an invitation to the birthday of the Emperor Otto, but it did not seem to faze him. This was not an important occasion for him, even as the royal insignia and the heralding of the courier caused great buzz in the entire city of Kampaniya. His eyes looked straight through the courier's face, as the courier was gently instructed to read out the contents of the letter by a courtier - unsurprising to the Lord's retinue, but perhaps a shock to the courier, who may have known that Siczhmund was reputed to have read every modern military treatise available.

No, Siczhmund was a military man, and he had no interest in a matter for which there was no choice. In purely pragmatic terms, there was no need to decide whether or not playing with treason was reasonable, for he knew he could not match the military might of the Emperor. And so he waved the courier away, without a word.

A momentary confusion may have set upon the courier, before Siczhmund's loyal aide-de-camp swooped upon the scene. The Marshal, Dmytro Khortytsky, quickly took the courier aside, with a beaming smile. "My Lord needs not say a word; he know that I may take it for granted that when the Emperor offers an invitation, it is my responsibility to make the arrangements. There is no consideration to be given; merely adherence. What else would be expected from a military man?"

He gave a nod to the man who would be known to the courier as the Captain of the Guard, Siczhmund's other closest confidante, Andrei Pronsky. Known locally as the Governor of the city, Andrei would be responsible for governing in Siczhmund's absence, elected from the officer-ranks of his retinue. As the courier was escorted from the grounds, Andrei approached Dmytro with a grin on his face.

"Quite the letter - didn't Siczhmund seem to be excited?"

Dmytro rolled his eyes, the stoicism of his lips suggesting none of the life and vibrancy that characterised his voice. "I haven't seen him that lively since the last time he sharpened his sword."

"50 years of peace. What a milestone."

"Ah, I'll believe it when I see 49 first."

Andrei stepped towards Dmytro, leaning conspiratorially towards him. "Still convinced the bandits hail from Arx Caelo?"

"I'm the one who has to lead the militia to see them off, and I tell you, no Druzhine would die as easily as they do. I'd stake my rank on it."

Andrei laughed. "Ah, whoever they are, you are much appreciated. It is thanks to you that I couldn't possibly make a guess as to who they fight more like."

"Perhaps I should show them the way to Kampaniya some day, and we can really get a bet going."

"Ah, who knows. Perhaps someday this god-forsaken Emperor will actually call upon us to do some fighting and I'll be able to see them with you on the way."

Dmytro smirked, almost inperceptibly - Andrei beamed in response. "Alas, it will be only myself and the Lord for now. And as many men as may be necessary to see those bandits away."

The two mumbled in unison as they separated. A succinct Druzhine saying that harkened back to the mythical ancestral Druzhine, said to have been able to lead a herd of horses as if they were themselves its lead stallion. A constant refrain that reminded all Druzhine to strive to be better warriors, and a refrain used to respond to a myriad of unrelated situations.

"Too many."

by **Olthenia** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 9:06 am

The Mercywood, Bovic Hall
May 13th, 901 AD

«Treason?»
Bernam’s voice was petulant. Incredulous. For a moment, he was a child again – marveling at some misfortune. “It actually says that?”
From his seat by the table, Oleg rolled his mismatched shoulders in a shrug. “Ask one of the priests to read it,” he suggested. “Or don’t. They’ll tell you the same.”

Bernam’s younger brother had always had the fair hair and dry wit of their mother. A shame, then, that his twisted spine and mismatched shoulders robbed him of good looks as surely as Bernam’s mind forever muddled his letters. 'God gave me two sons', Bernam had once heard their father grouse. 'But they have one good head and one good body between them.' Thanks, father. Thanks for that.

“Oh, forget it.” Bernam turned and cast a searching gaze out beyond the study’s only window - but no. The ranks of the Mercywood’s dull, green maples held neither solace nor solution. Not for him. “I’ll go.”

It wasn’t so much that the journey to the Emperor’s court gave him pause. Granted, it was some way away – but Bernam was a sturdy sort. The road held no worries for him. Rather, it was what lay at its end. The last of the emperors had a great many nicknames. ‘The Kind’, ‘the Just’ or ’the Good’ were exactly zero of them.

“You know-“ Oleg started, and hunched forward with an elbow on his knee – the way he always did when he had an idea, “-you could try not to.”
“Try what?” Bernam’s tone was as dubious as hen’s teeth.
“Going,” Oleg went on. “Look, the Emperor is a doddering old man. And he’s mad. From what I hear, there are days he can barely recall what he had for breakfast.”
“Or whose execution he ordered,” Bernam remarked. “Or what their crime was.”

He wasn’t wrong either. Not completely.

“Or perhaps-“ Oleg continued - likely with with some jest to mind. But Bernam's tone, as the scribes might say, gave him pause.
“Don’t, brother,” Bernam groused. “You know what that is.”
“What?” Oleg’s tone was as innocent as a cat neck-deep in cream.
“Treason,” husked Bernam - and turned to leave. But not before he caught Oleg's wan little smile.
"Exactly."

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 10:34 am

Catacomb Exits, Beyond the Walls of Arx Caelo
December 2nd, Year 1799 of the Reckoning

The men were unprepared. Armed with nothing but ceremonial daggers, they were easy opponents. Jarn cut down the first with a single strike.

"Run!" - One of them screamed to the others, while trying his best to fend off Jarn. - "You fool! You have no idea what you've done!" - He was a skilled fencer and managed to parry the first couple swings but his blade was not built for such a fight. It broke off, leaving him defenseless. As he fell to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds, another one of the cultists let out a cry. - "Brother!" - His voice rough and old.

He wanted to lash out, but he was held back by another, while the third shut the entrance to the secret pathway. From behind the stone, Jarn could hear mumbled voices lobbing vague threats at him.

The smoke was now unbearable. There was only one way out. With a swift stroke, almost as an afterthought, Jarn's blade swung downward into the stricken cultist's neck. His head fell, still hooded, and the gurgling death-rattle of his punctured lungs was ended. After hesitating for a moment the Scion of Dor, took up the grisly trophy, bending low under the smoke. Their robes had been opulent, their tones refined. A cultist with connections, connections that would have to be rooted out. Sheathing his sword, Jarn hefted the lady and followed the trail of the mysterious fireflies, which soon found him led to the surface. His men were already awaiting him outside.

"My lord! We thought you were lost! Thank heavens you are fine."

The woman Jarn rescued would not awaken. Her body growing colder by the minute. Perhaps she was already dead when he found her, or she inhaled too much smoke and suffocated. Her clothes were decent, but not luxurious, perhaps a merchant's daughter.

Everywhere around, smoke rose from the ground, accompanied by the crimson particles. An eerie sight.

"There is foul devilry at work here. I know not what. Cultists, of some ilk. I slew two - and here is one. It seems they meant to make a blood sacrifice of some sort." Jarn tossed the hooded head down onto the night soil, where the new torches of his guards and Hadrian illuminated the staring dead eyes of the foul heretic.

Most looked without recognition as the deep burgundy hood fell away, but one man gasped in horror - his wife's brother.

"Jarn. That is the chancellor's face, or I have never seen him."

Slow dread filled the lord's veins. In his mind's eye the cry of "brother" played again, and the old but gruff tones resolved themselves more clearly into the voice of a man seldom seen, but heard from before, long years ago. Treason, that was what he had committed - but worse treason had been done by the supposed protector of the Faith.

"Darkest heresy then. Gather our folk. We must ride for the Dor at once, or we will not ride at all. Call the couriers, and have them wake all the lords that can be found. The Emperor is a worshiper of the Serpent, and has killed to fulfill the wishes of his dark magic."

The red fireflies and hellish vapors unnerved the normally unflappable Jarn, and he spoke with urgency.

"Bring all that we have found, and go. To the horses!"

by **Democratic Peoples republic of Kelvinsi** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 12:07 pm

Magsylvania, The Land Beyond the River

Snow once again falls upon Magsylvania and its mountains, Magsylvania and Magsylvanians were no stranger to the cold brutal weather of their homeland. Foreigners, on the other hand, have encountered less success in surviving the dreaded winter. Indeed, if not for the yaks Magsylvania would be unable to continue its wretched existence. The religion of the Serpent is also extremely prevalent in Magsylania with priests coming in regularly from the Three Rivers, faith is often the only thing that keep the common folk from ending their wretched existence. Deep inside the mountains of Magsylvania lies Magyarflotte, the ancestral home of House Magyar, the lords of Magsylvania. However, today Miklos was riding to deliver a message to Lord Heinrich, a message that he found on the body of a drowned courtier. The courtier did not seem to have known that is was absolute folly to attempt a river crossing at Magyar point, though the waters near there looked calm in reality the hidden violent currents make it a death sentence.

Miklos Der Grenzer was a minor courtier who rose to prominence as Lord Heinrich's right-hand man. Miklos grew up on the borderlands who learned how to read and write by himself. His abilities at literacy were noticed by Lord Heinrich's father who invited him to the Magsylvanian court. However, his intelligence was recognized by the old Count's son, Heinrich who brought him on expeditions with him. Despite being physically weak, his skills in logistics made him invaluable to the expeditions.

Miklos approached the gates of the small castle and was promptly let in by the guards. He went straight up to the Count, something that would have been frowned upon in most other realms. However, the luxuries of court culture never really developed in the county, mostly due to the concept of luxury being completely alien to Magsylvanians.

"Lord Heinrich, I have put the farmers to the main yak herd, and put some laborers into the quarries like you have asked. I have also begun making provisions for your great expedition to the lands beyond that you wish to undertake in the next year. I have begun scouting out spots to place the supply depots and rest spots along the way. But I fear, there are more pressing matters for you to deal with at the present moment my lord"

Miklos handed over the letter to his Lord, he could not help but shiver at Heinrich's icy touch, and he could scarcely stop his shivering when Heinrich's two pale orbs stared at him. Saying nothing his Lord picked up the letter and scanned the letter.

"Well then " The Lord's low almost whisper required all of Miklos' concentration to hear. "We have no choice in the matter, the king requires our attendance in the wedding. It does not seem that we have any other alternative... to this matter"

Miklos nodded curtly, just hoping that Heinrich would lift his gaze upon him. "Just as I thought milord"

"Well then" Heinrich rose, his magnificent frame forcing Miklos to take a step back. "I suppose it is time that we made the preparations for the journey. Miklos I trust that you can handle... the provisions. You have never disappointed me before, do not disappoint me this time."

Miklos' spine shivered. "Yes milord, I will see to the provisions immediately."

"We are done here done." Heinrich's whisper almost drowned out by his heavy footsteps lingered in the chamber a bit too long for Miklos' liking.

by **Labstoska** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 12:35 pm

The earldom of Anglthorn
The long winter that had afflicted the province had finally past and throughout the provincial city of Olric the population were slowly beginning to reinvigorate life on the streets, this rebirth was sped along tremendously by what the people of Anglthorn must have seen as the happiest event in recent history: the funeral of earl Abrecan. The populace barely tried to hide their merriment from the Black hand's security force, of course not to say that the security forces were even particularly concerned with attempting to eliminate such behaviour, such indifference went right up to the top as the Winter Earl spared ever expense possible, not even a proper casket was provided for the old bastard instead the former Earl was provided with nothing better than rectangular wooden box. The procession through the streets was also marked by such cost effective measures, in proper Angthorn tradition the body was to be carried through the streets to the families mausoleum on the outskirts of town yet under the wise ruling of the Winter Earl he elected to have his farther cremated in the public in the proper native fashion besides it also meant he didn't have to pay for all that damn stone cutting.

As the procession of black coated militia men marched their way through the city the two sons of the deceased Earl went alongside the casket upon two of the finest stallions that could be purchased for the lowest prince, the winter earl's own stallion appeared to be buckling beneath his great mass an issue that has claimed the lives of many a poor beast in the past. "I say they are applauding rather loudly aren't they" The earl said over the casket to his brother.

"Well I would do to if I were in their shoes" The Black hand responded talking far more loudly over the corpse of their farther.

The Earl responded in the most monotone voice possible without putting it on "You really shouldn't say such things it'd be no good if the peasantry caught word that the Eadweald family was condemning the actions of it's members, t's like farther said: An Eadweald is never wrong"

The Black hand emitted a harsh laugh "Well I'm not the one who's bloody burning him"

The Earl muttered " Well you know budget cuts and all that, must keep the palace properly maintained."

Among the back of the procession a great clamour soon emerged as a small ratty looking man pushed his way up to the desperately jogging along in an attempt to keep up with the horses. The winter Earl stared down at the little man with a face of utter rage "What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at! You..." He than noticed the badge of an imperial courier upon the rat like man's jacket and immediately changed his tone " are perfectly welcome to relay your message." The small courier passed a letter to the earl and then stumbled onto the pavement before collapsing.

The Earl yelled out to the procession "ALL OF YOU HALT!!!!!" The procession came to a grinding stop as the Earl opened the letter and read through it and then read through it once more. He quickly turned his suffering stallion around and got the horse trotting towards Otto's lodge, the black hand called out "You off then?" The Earl yelled back " That mad old fool in Arx Caelo is having a bloody birthday, he's blabbering on about treason on some such thing!"

By noon the Earl was upon a carriage towards the capital with a hasty series of notes drawn up on what he expected to be done in his leave while the Black Hand sat smugly in Otto's lodge he was going to have a rather good time in the absence of his brother.

by **Democratic Peoples republic of Kelvinsi** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 1:37 pm

Arx Caelo

Magsylvanians have known to lack any form of luxury, and rather predictably viewed the feast with hungry vulture-like eyes. Needless to say the lack of any sort of table manners by the majority of Magsylvanians should not have come as a surprise to anybody. Though some lords looked on with disgust. Miklos rolled his eyes, they would have done the same thing were they the ones that grew up in inhospitable terrain.

The journey to the capital from Magsylvania did not take long, the hardest part was without a doubt trying to find a good place to cross the river. By Magsylvanian standards that usually meant the river that did not sweep you away and kill you as soon as you stepped in it. Luckily they were able to find a good crossing point in a relatively quick speed, and rode for the capital. A small procession of Magsylvanian Crows, the loyal archers of Magsylvania, accompanying their lord to the feast scared quite a few peasants along the way. But Miklos was able to convince them that they were only there to attend the Emperor's birthday and meant no harm.

The gates of the capital were dilapidated, and quite a farcry from their glory days. Or so Miklos has read. Now the venerable old capital is a shell of its former self. If Miklos closed his ears, he could almost hear all the whispers from a time long past. Miklos smiled, only if things were still like that he thought, but alas what is gone is gone.

After the feast concluded Miklos felt stuffed, and as the trusted righthand man of Count Heinrich he shared bedchambers with him. The entire Magsylvanian delegation slept in close proximity to one another. Miklos thought about this was the first time in his entire life that he actually went to sleep with a full belly. With a near empty mind, Miklos felt happy.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"Is that so?" Heinrich asked in a whisper that was just loud enough to wake Miklos up.

"Yes my lord" The runner said as he finished recounting the grisly tale regarding the emperor, oblivious to the fact that he was speaking with a member of the faith of the Serpent. "

"Miklos, you are awake..." Heinrich whispered as he turned to Miklos. "Watch this"

All of a sudden Heinrich pulled out his blade and plunged it into the messenger through the gut. The boy let out a pitiful death rattle, as he did not even have time to react to the incoming blade. The body slumped to the ground motionless. Miklos looked on in stunned silence.

"Rouse our men from their slumber, Miklos my dear friend. There are numerous Valemen runners throughout this castle. I will rouse my escort and try to capture as many of them as possible. You will go and attempt to speak with the other lords with a small escort with you. Tell them the perfidious Valemen are currently attempting a coup to usurp the crown, they have assassinated the Chancellor and their man tried to kill me after I refused to join them in their coup." Heinrich commanded as he wiped his blade.

"Understood." Miklos nodded. All of a sudden the entire castle started playing a giant game of cat and mouse.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 2:13 pm

The Grafmarch, Mount Hywel

The 17th Reckoning of Athanaric One-Eye

As the imperial courier rode into the Grafmarch, he found a land much different from the soft lands of the Imperial Capital. The mountainous march loomed on the horizon for many a weary hour of riding, like some great wave on the horizon, petrified just at its peak. Narrow defiles and goat-tracks would be all the pathway afforded to the poor young page, leered at by the surly, grey-eyed marchers and being forced to sleep in the wild by their refusal to grant him accomodation. The people, just like the land, seemed at every step to refuse him. His horse was near-lamed by an errant stone, he awoke three mornings in a row to a rain-drenched tent and found neither hide nor hair of forage to supplement the blandness of his supplies.

The long and arduous journey would end when he was come upon, as he lay sleeping, and roused from his tent in the midst of the night. All but lifted from his bedroll, the courier was quick-marched in the midst of some of the Grafmarch's fabled Reislaufers, their uniform silver-grey gambesons and ringletted beards marking them out from the common levy. The man, not much more than a boy, was presented in the midst of a military camp, bleary eyed in the dawning sun, to the figure of the Grand Captain, who turned a disdainful eye upon the boy along with the scarred remain of his other, not concealed as usual by the eye-patch. In full military garb and wearing the plain and black-iron Diadem of the Margraviate. Surrounded on all sides by the tents of his soldiers, the old veteran listened stone-faced to the Imperial summons. The mad old fool was calling for him to march down from his people and his country to be the subject of his japes, another fixture in the circus-court of a gamboling lunatic.

His ancestors had not bowed to men like these, and in these times he had little intention of it himself. The emperor, likely as not, would not let him march back if he marched out. Likely as not the fat old fool would forget his threat quickly enough, and if he did not then the men of the Grafmarch would stand as ever they had and see him off. The old mercenary took only a few moments pause once the lad finished his message, before dictating his reply.

To the Emperor Otto,

I will not be attending the festivities. I am detained by other business in keeping the Grafmarch a prosperous land, as my ancestors have, and as yours once agreed was our right. May the Cross grant you the reward you deserve for the work of your long life. The men of the Grafmarch will drink in your name.

Signed Athanaric, Margrave and Grand Captain of the Grafmarch.

Instead, the Grand Captain would bide his time. He would need spears, and trained men to wield them. He would spend his days as ever he had, drilling his men into fine shape and keeping the cantons is sufficient order to raise more troops. A proper smithy would be needed, and a new set of fortifications later on. The captain could smell it in the air with each passing day. He, and likely the rest of the empire, sat at the bottom of a valley as an avalanche rumbled to life above them, with scarce enough time to take cover. With luck, he would wake when it was all over atop the snows not buried beneath them.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 4:12 pm

"That old bastard wants me to travel to that godforsaken land to celebrate his seventy-first birthday? I ought to tell that piece of shit to piss off, and remind him of Xanthos's voluntary status" Prince Marcus crumpled up the paper and threw it into the fires of the chimney, he took out a pipe and smoked breathing in the tobacco and exhaling deeply, the smell of smoke calmed his nerves for but a moment. He was grizzled man, well built like an ox, grey strands on the edge of his flowing brown hair, a sign of his growing age.

"Come now, husband. You mustn't be like that; we must keep appearances besides all the lords of the land are attending is that not exciting?" Lady Mara stated with a voice of velvet. Mara was a beautiful woman black hair, and grey eyes, her face, and body showing only the slightest signs of age.

"No, plus you know that I hate wearing tights and breeches."

"Indeed and you shan't complain any longer now hurry up "

Marcus couldn't argue with that logic he grabbed his clothing and headed to the dressing room, when in an instant Mara grabbed his arm and embraced him deeply, they silently looked at each other, then went back to preparing for their duties husband and wife.

by **The Miaphysite Church of Coptic Archism** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 5:59 pm

The Tower of Hands
Arx Caelo
The welcoming feasts had been generous, the hearths warm. An unexpectedly jovial atmosphere had overtaken the ancient halls of the Emperor's castle, and it appeared almost as though Otto II truly meant no business other than a celebration of his own birthday, in some rare bout of lucidity. Though Wulfhilde did not share religion with any of the other high lords in attendance, they had been more or less respectful. Of course, the young and unmarried Marchioness could imagine other reasons than politeness for them to have done so. Nonetheless, there was significant enjoyment and merriment that day. At least, above the surface.

Marchioness Wulfhilde and her retinue had been given residence in the Tower of Hands, an ancient and stout construction at the edge of the castle. It was secluded, and comfortable, if one ignored the old ghost stories and the strange marks low on the walls. In the night, there began signs of something amiss in Arx Caelo. Armed men stalking the halls and corridors, loyal to this lord or that. At that distinct sign of trouble, the knights of Wilbrod that had came with the Marchioness stationed themselves at the entryway to the tower, blocking access to the Marchioness. Bregowine, the Chancellor, roused her.

"My Lady, you must wake..." Wulfhilde sighed as she opened her eyes and observed how dark it still was. "What is it, Bregowine?" The Chancellor gulped and subconsciously glanced around him, though no one else was in the room. "A courtier, from Keen-Man's Vale, came with a message from his Lord." Wulfhilde sat up in bed, with a curious look. She hadn't seen Lord Jarn Dorward through the entire celebration so far, now that she thought about it. Where had he been? "He informed me that... his Majesty Otto is some manner of heretic to their faith. He claims the Emperor was practicing blood magics, under the castle, and that Lord Jarn intends to retreat to the Vale and call up his banners in rebellion." Thoughts swirled in Wulfhilde's head. This was the first real intrigue to which she had been introduced.

With little warning, a serjeant from her retinue, Widuc, opened the door slightly and peeked in. "Apologies, Illustrious Lady, a Magsylvanian is at the door to the tower, asking after any Valemen and making warnings that Lord Jarn has attempted to overthrow the Crown." Wulfhilde stared blankly for a moment, before turning to the man. "Send him away, Widuc. And have the horses readied, please." At the surface, this would seem to be no fight of hers, a heresy within the Faith of the Cross was of no importance. However, on a deeper level the Valemen justification may not matter all that much. Even if the Magsylvanians spoke truth, and Lord Jarn was nothing but an opportunist, there would still doubtless be those that flock to his banner on the greater ideal of overthrowing Otto. There was much to consider, but for now the ancient castle could not be considered safe, and Wulfhilde longed for the security and comfort of her home.

Through the games of cat and mouse, and the intrigues darting through the halls of Arx Caelo, a militant block of security moved. Wilbrod's sworn knights taking up the front and rear, and with armed serjeantry along the sides, the retinue of the Marchioness pierced through the castle, making for the grand stables. While the other lords had spread themselves thinly, to affect the castle at large, Wulfhilde collected her strength together, and none of the runners going to and fro impeded their advance. They made no intervention to stop either side of the brewing slaughter in the castle. At the stables, the horses and wagons were readied. Wilbrod's expedition to the birthday of the Emperor rode into the night, towards the safety of Lockinge Manor and the lands under it.

by **Mersdon** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 7:13 pm

"I give your liege my coin, my men, and my fealty, and this is what I get? My family has more honor than to lick the bootheels of that- serpentine... pig! And you... you jackal, you take pleasure in throwing me the scraps of his favor as you would a dog, and you would dare threaten me with death for not attending my 'liege's' birthday party?"
Otto von Salian sat on his throne, ducal crown on his head, and spat fire at the unlucky herald nearby. His grey eyes blazed furiously, boring into the man; then he closed them for a moment, seeming to calm down. He opened his eyes, stood up, his ermine-fringed doublet dropping to the floor, and clasped his ceremonial greatsword by the hilt. "You should count yourself lucky, sire, that you are under the protection of your heathen Emperor, and not under mine; otherwise, you would have been slain by now. Rise, you mangy dog!"
Otto growled and strode down the dais from his small marble throne, stopping mere inches away from the Emperor's emissary.
He continued on his rant. "Let it be known that Emperor Otto, although senile, was honorable enough to send an emissary to slap me in the face with his geriatric decrees. Let it also be known, my fellow Swadians and loyal people, that a bearer of such a harsh, traitorous message must be punished. The former Emperor- the one that we all knew and loved, as the guiding, kind hand that led the Empire through thick and thin for half a century- is gone. He is a Serpentine, no less!"

The audience in the throne hall gasped. Gossip started almost immediately in the viewing chambers above, but was soon quieted down by a liveried footman banging his ceremonial pike against the cold stone floor.

"Indeed he is, according to none other than the other lords of the realm! We can no longer accept his senile, incompetent, traitorous leadership. As such, we can not be forced, nor bound, to obey such a man's summons, born of mental disability and sheer immaturity. Let it be known that I, Otto von Salian, first of his name, fifth Duke of Inner Swadia, shall not follow the Emperor's summons to go to such a man's birthday party of all things. I shall accept his improperly wielded right to declare me a traitor and an outlaw, sure that I am in the right!"

He turned to the herald, who was now slightly blanched. The crowd leaned in, noisier than ever, and scenting blood.

"Go to your people, to your home, to your liege, with this news. Inner Swadia shall still send its tidings to the Capital, but will no longer pay homage until my unfair burden is lifted and all the lords and peoples of this many-splendored land's concerns are properly addressed. You will be escorted out of our territory, on horseback, until we reach the boundaries of the Emperor's personal demesne beyond the forests. If you come back with yet more outrageous and absurd demands, you will be castrated by ducal order. Take your scraps of self-respect back to your master. I shall keep mine."

He turned to the crowd.

"You are dismissed. My younger brother, Count Peter, shall be back on the throne ready to submit judgement and hear your concerns by noon in my stead."

The crowd filed out, uncertain about what the Duke intended to do, exactly, or meant to change about their personal lives. Behind the throne, Otto's siblings discussed the proceedings apprehensively among themselves, sure that they would be able to give Otto a piece of their minds later. The doors slammed shut behind them, and two guardsmen barred the oaken door with a thick wooden beam. Now, Otto's attention turned back to the unfortunate herald, still on the marble floor.

"You shall have two hours to gather your things and conduct whatever business you need to do within Praven's walls under guard. After that, I shall escort you personally with my personal bodyguard to the border."

He sighed, and helped the man up.

"I regret having to do this. Your liege was a great man when he was but five years younger than now. I remember seeing him at my father's funeral service. Now, I find that I cannot serve the man I swore to protect with my life and service because of his decree. I hope you understand my rage. I apologize." Otto stood up, gathered his robes, and left his chamber. The guards led the herald back to his room, and true to the Duke's word, within two hours he, his knights, and the herald were riding hard for the frontier.

---

by **Harkback Union** » Thu Jun 20, 2019 6:17 am

Arx Caelo
1st day of winter, 901 Anno Domini

The throne room.

"Mylord, we can wait no longer." - The chancellor informed the man on the throne. - "Winter is upon us!"

"Just a little more time, Ludgwig." - He replied.

"We've moved the calendar forward by 5 days mylord, they should have already arrived a week ago."

"You've told me already... But do tell me one thing. Why they really hate me so? What have I done to earn this?"

"Respect, My liege. You have lifted all taxes and ignored matters of faith. They are no longer concerned with the crown."

The Emperor stood up from his throne, walked to the windows at the corner of the throne room and gazed upon the ruins of Caelo. Then a courier entered the throne room, exhausted from the journey. He was stripped of his weapons and escorted to the ruler, where he would read his message. The Emperor was burning with anticipation.

"To the Emperor Otto,

I will not be attending the festivities. I am detained by other business in keeping the Grafmarch a prosperous land, as my ancestors have, and as yours once agreed was our right. May the Cross grant you the reward you deserve for the work of your long life. The men of the Grafmarch will drink in your name.

Signed Athanaric, Margrave and Grand Captain of the Grafmarch."

The courier was dismissed, the Emperor disappointed.

"Brother... We have only one option left, least our peace will be shattered."

Otto stood in silence.

Suddenly, the horns blew... Visitors.

Tears ran down the Emperor's face as he watched the convoy of carriages emerge from the cover of the forest.

"Call the servants! The feast is tonight!"

"But my lord..."

"And give them our best quarters. They deserve it..."

The Miaphysite Church of Coptic Archism wrote:The Tower of Hands
Arx Caelo
The welcoming feasts had been generous, the hearths warm. An unexpectedly jovial atmosphere had overtaken the ancient halls of the Emperor's castle, and it appeared almost as though Otto II truly meant no business other than a celebration of his own birthday, in some rare bout of lucidity. Though Wulfhilde did not share religion with any of the other high lords in attendance, they had been more or less respectful. Of course, the young and unmarried Marchioness could imagine other reasons than politeness for them to have done so. Nonetheless, there was significant enjoyment and merriment that day. At least, above the surface.

Marchioness Wulfhilde and her retinue had been given residence in the Tower of Hands, an ancient and stout construction at the edge of the castle. It was secluded, and comfortable, if one ignored the old ghost stories and the strange marks low on the walls. In the night, there began signs of something amiss in Arx Caelo. Armed men stalking the halls and corridors, loyal to this lord or that. At that distinct sign of trouble, the knights of Wilbrod that had came with the Marchioness stationed themselves at the entryway to the tower, blocking access to the Marchioness.

Democratic Peoples republic of Kelvinsi wrote:
The gates of the capital were dilapidated, and quite a farcry from their glory days. Or so Miklos has read. Now the venerable old capital is a shell of its former self. If Miklos closed his ears, he could almost hear all the whispers from a time long past. Miklos smiled, only if things were still like that he thought, but alas what is gone is gone.

After the feast concluded Miklos felt stuffed, and as the trusted righthand man of Count Heinrich he shared bedchambers with him. The entire Magsylvanian delegation slept in close proximity to one another. Miklos thought about this was the first time in his entire life that he actually went to sleep with a full belly. With a near empty mind, Miklos felt happy.

In the end, half of the kingdom was there. Prince Marcus Scipio, Lord Siczhmund from Druzhina, Marchioness Wulfhilde from Wilbrod, The Duke of Chalphy, even the heretics of the triangle payed their respects, having sent a representative. The feast was lavish. Fruits and vegetables, meat and bread, exotic spices, honey and wine. Renowned bards of the land sang their songs while the nobles danced in a circle. A night to remember.
+ Blessing of good health for those who attended (Ignore first death/sickness).

-

2nd day of winter, 901 Anno Domini

The next morning, the king announced that he has some important business to attend, and that the celebrations should go on without him. His daughter Helena took the role of hostess for the day. She would entertain the guests with her flute and harp, and introduce them to the art of oriental pictography, an amusing way to write by pictures, something even a peasant can read. The princess was a skilled artist and well versed in the ancient history. She was friendly and inviting, perhaps too friendly to his father's liking, who was at all times worried for her life.

Later that night, the guests would notice something peculiar. Smoke rising from the ruins outside the castle.

G-Tech Corporation wrote:Catacomb Exits, Beyond the Walls of Arx Caelo

The men were unprepared. Armed with nothing but ceremonial daggers, they were easy opponents. Jarn cut down the first with a single strike.

"Run!" - One of them screamed to the others, while trying his best to fend off Jarn. - "You fool! You have no idea what you've done!" - He was a skilled fencer and managed to parry the first couple swings but his blade was not built for such a fight. It broke off, leaving him defenseless. As he fell to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds, another one of the cultists let out a cry. - "Brother!" - His voice rough and old.

He wanted to lash out, but he was held back by another, while the third shut the entrance to the secret pathway. From behind the stone, Jarn could hear mumbled voices lobbing vague threats at him.

The smoke was now unbearable. There was only one way out. With a swift stroke, almost as an afterthought, Jarn's blade swung downward into the stricken cultist's neck. His head fell, still hooded, and the gurgling death-rattle of his punctured lungs was ended. After hesitating for a moment the Scion of Dor, took up the grisly trophy, bending low under the smoke. Their robes had been opulent, their tones refined. A cultist with connections, connections that would have to be rooted out. Sheathing his sword, Jarn hefted the lady and followed the trail of the mysterious fireflies, which soon found him led to the surface. His men were already awaiting him outside.

"My lord! We thought you were lost! Thank heavens you are fine."

The woman Jarn rescued would not awaken. Her body growing colder by the minute. Perhaps she was already dead when he found her, or she inhaled too much smoke and suffocated. Her clothes were decent, but not luxurious, perhaps a merchant's daughter.

Everywhere around, smoke rose from the ground, accompanied by the crimson particles. An eerie sight.

"There is foul devilry at work here. I know not what. Cultists, of some ilk. I slew two - and here is one. It seems they meant to make a blood sacrifice of some sort." Jarn tossed the hooded head down onto the night soil, where the new torches of his guards and Hadrian illuminated the staring dead eyes of the foul heretic.

Most looked without recognition as the deep burgundy hood fell away, but one man gasped in horror - his wife's brother.

"Jarn. That is the chancellor's face, or I have never seen him."

Slow dread filled the lord's veins. In his mind's eye the cry of "brother" played again, and the old but gruff tones resolved themselves more clearly into the voice of a man seldom seen, but heard from before, long years ago. Treason, that was what he had committed - but worse treason had been done by the supposed protector of the Faith.

"Darkest heresy then. Gather our folk. We must ride for the Dor at once, or we will not ride at all. Call the couriers, and have them wake all the lords that can be found. The Emperor is a worshiper of the Serpent, and has killed to fulfill the wishes of his dark magic."

The red fireflies and hellish vapors unnerved the normally unflappable Jarn, and he spoke with urgency.

"Bring all that we have found, and go. To the horses!"

Democratic Peoples republic of Kelvinsi wrote:
"Is that so?" Heinrich asked in a whisper that was just loud enough to wake Miklos up.

"Yes my lord" The runner said as he finished recounting the grisly tale regarding the emperor, oblivious to the fact that he was speaking with a member of the faith of the Serpent. "

"Miklos, you are awake..." Heinrich whispered as he turned to Miklos. "Watch this"

All of a sudden Heinrich pulled out his blade and plunged it into the messenger through the gut. The boy let out a pitiful death rattle, as he did not even have time to react to the incoming blade. The body slumped to the ground motionless. Miklos looked on in stunned silence.

"Rouse our men from their slumber, Miklos my dear friend. There are numerous Valemen runners throughout this castle. I will rouse my escort and try to capture as many of them as possible. You will go and attempt to speak with the other lords with a small escort with you. Tell them the perfidious Valemen are currently attempting a coup to usurp the crown, they have assassinated the Chancellor and their man tried to kill me after I refused to join them in their coup." Heinrich commanded as he wiped his blade.

"Understood." Miklos nodded. All of a sudden the entire castle started playing a giant game of cat and mouse.

"My Lady, you must wake..." Wulfhilde sighed as she opened her eyes and observed how dark it still was. "What is it, Bregowine?" The Chancellor gulped and subconsciously glanced around him, though no one else was in the room. "A courtier, from Keen-Man's Vale, came with a message from his Lord." Wulfhilde sat up in bed, with a curious look. She hadn't seen Lord Jarn Dorward through the entire celebration so far, now that she thought about it. Where had he been? "He informed me that... his Majesty Otto is some manner of heretic to their faith. He claims the Emperor was practicing blood magics, under the castle, and that Lord Jarn intends to retreat to the Vale and call up his banners in rebellion." Thoughts swirled in Wulfhilde's head. This was the first real intrigue to which she had been introduced.

With little warning, a serjeant from her retinue, Widuc, opened the door slightly and peeked in. "Apologies, Illustrious Lady, a Magsylvanian is at the door to the tower, asking after any Valemen and making warnings that Lord Jarn has attempted to overthrow the Crown." Wulfhilde stared blankly for a moment, before turning to the man. "Send him away, Widuc. And have the horses readied, please." At the surface, this would seem to be no fight of hers, a heresy within the Faith of the Cross was of no importance. However, on a deeper level the Valemen justification may not matter all that much. Even if the Magsylvanians spoke truth, and Lord Jarn was nothing but an opportunist, there would still doubtless be those that flock to his banner on the greater ideal of overthrowing Otto. There was much to consider, but for now the ancient castle could not be considered safe, and Wulfhilde longed for the security and comfort of her home.

Through the games of cat and mouse, and the intrigues darting through the halls of Arx Caelo, a militant block of security moved. Wilbrod's sworn knights taking up the front and rear, and with armed serjeantry along the sides, the retinue of the Marchioness pierced through the castle, making for the grand stables. While the other lords had spread themselves thinly, to affect the castle at large, Wulfhilde collected her strength together, and none of the runners going to and fro impeded their advance. They made no intervention to stop either side of the brewing slaughter in the castle. At the stables, the horses and wagons were readied. Wilbrod's expedition to the birthday of the Emperor rode into the night, towards the safety of Lockinge Manor and the lands under it.

by **The neo glactic empire** » Thu Jun 20, 2019 6:36 am

Arx Caelo
Louise was tired the night with all its food music dancing have been tiring he certainly expected a much more unpleasent experince but this wont be the first suprise as when he was in his room a man entered he informed him:

"Emperor otto is a serpentine a heritic! Lord jarn is preparing a coalition of holy men to rid the crown of him"

Before he finished another man entered the 2 men stated at each other for a momment before he spoke

"let it be known that lord jarn is attempting to betray the crown and stage a coup the emperor " he was cut short by the man attacking him soon a fist fight developed louise was confused shocked suprised at the same time he helped jarns man be plunging his knife at the emperors courier heart louise got rid of the body on the ground he threw it off the window before making a decision

"tell your superious that lord louise is with him an infidel well not control the crown and the empire"
The man nodded and left

The Game is on

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jun 20, 2019 7:01 am

Inner Quarters, Abbey of Saint Magnal
December 3rd, Year 1799 of the Reckoning

It was yet early morning before the dawn when the company from the Vale arrived at San Magnus - the First Priory of the Faith. Nearly a half day's travel normally away from Arx Caelo, they had ridden hard to make the distance in half that time, and as Jarn swung down from his mount the brothers watching noted that even his cloak was splattered with mud due to the great pace he had set. The face of the nobleman was pale as he approached the doors of the Abbey, but his voice low and urgent.

Only a minute passed as messages were sent to the Grand Theogonist within, and then into the high walls and frowning battlements of the Abbey passed the company from the north. Jarn's pace even on foot was swift, and he seethed within at the delay of the steadily walking monks who escorted him to the Grand Theogonist's cell, high in the western wall, where the honored father was taking breakfast with the other members of his council and the camerlango. But it was, in truth, a short journey - merely the rage in the Scion's heart made it seem an interminable period, and his knowledge of the need for urgency.

Eventually they arrived at the heavy oaken door that barred the way to the Theogonist's cell, and on heavy hinges of brass it opened. The Lord of the Dor strode in a few steps, locking eyes with the aging prelate of his holy faith before sinking to one knee.

"Rise, my child, rise. We have no need to stand on ceremony here, within the walls of the Priory, when you come with such urgent tidings they cannot wait until morning. Rise, speak. I see great anguish in your countenance."

Jarn did as he was bade, and his eyes swept the room briefly. Nearly a dozen men, good fathers and monks of the Faith. Some were known to him, some not, but he addressed them all as he spoke, hoping in his heart that none had fallen to the rot which had been spreading, it seemed, from the capitol.

"I come with tidings most grave, honored Overseer." From a sack he had carried from the gate the lord produced the severed head of the chancellor, a thing which made the religious men gasp and shrink back. Letting the sack fall he held up a hand, calling quietly for peace. The hood of deep satin and crimson in gold embroidery still lay upon the aging Chancellor's scalp.

"This man, our Chancellor who you all know, I found practicing dark arts in the catacombs of our fathers below the citadel of Arx Caelo. Blood sacrifice, most foul, and the possession of heretical texts of I know not what provenance. And with him too was his brother, our Emperor. Joined in worship of the Serpent, I think, or some other pagan deity. Heresy of the blackest sort, Overseer, and I came to you for council."

Holding a white handkerchief to his nose, the kindly eyes of the aged Grand Theogonist darted to and fro, weighing matters. Then he gestured.

"Give me the hood, my son. It has... a seeming I have observed before."

"Yes. I do not know all of these symbols - only the Holy Inquisition knows the depths of the many iniquities - but you can see here the broken cross, the winding serpent, the foul libertine. I had thought these garments destroyed long ago, taken from noblemen of the capitol to be burned when Otto put down a heretical sect in his younger days. And here they come again, remnants of a past that ought to have been destroyed."

For a long moment the lord of the Faith was silent, and the men about him murmured. Half-eaten breakfasts had been discarded, pious abbots and monks pulled into a more immediate conversation. It was the camerlengo who broke the silence, the young man's eyes burning with a holy zeal.

"So the Emperor is a heretic. I long suspected it, for his iniquities were many these recent years compared to what might be thought of a righteous man. We must move swiftly then. Knowing their chains loosened, their accusers silenced by corruption, those across the realm who practice debauchery in secret will be emboldened. To remove Otto the Mad from his throne must be our first priority."

Jarn inclined his head and would have spoken, but the Grand Theogonist held up a hand.

"These are grave accusations indeed. And, it seems, proven. But casting the realm into a time of fire and death should not be taken lightly. You ask my council, Lord Dorward, and I shall give it. I will confront the Emperor, though perhaps I go to my doom. There may be yet time to save his soul, or at least the souls of thousands from the bloodshed of civil war. Return to your home. Look to your defenses."

That word would have, perhaps, been the end of it - if Jarn were another man, a more pliable man. But the course of action spoke of vacillation, of hopeful optimism where none should be found. It was not a man of slow contemplation who had cut down the cultists where they stood far under the earth. The Scion of the Earthbones shook his head.

"Begging your pardon, holy father, but a man long in his iniquity will not be easily swayed. He has already killed. The cold body of his fair victim I have brought with me, on the back of the horse of one of my men. I had thought to commit the keeping of her death to your men of faith, for I have no time to make a proper burial. His soul may not be irredeemable, but he has no doubt been deep in the blood-soaked blackness of the enemy of our hearts, aye, even deep for a great span of years. You must send messages to the Shepherds. I have not the strength to oppose this wickedness alone. No man does. But a king whose soldiers are yet faithful to their hearts is a king who will rule no longer if he rules in wickedness. Tell those who serve Otto of his iniquities. Speak with the voice Our Father has given to you, and many may yet be saved out of the darkness."

Another span of silence, contemplation, and the Grand Theogonist sighed heavily.

"To think a man like Otto could turn to blood sacrifice, the slaughter of innocents. Very well. I will consider your words. A proclamation, perhaps - I do not say yea or nay, for all choices are fraught with peril. But if what you say is true, you must ride. The pursuers will not be long behind you, seeking to stifle the truth in the Enemy's web of deceit."

It was a dismissal, and Jarn had pushed the Theogonist as far as he dared. With a deep bow he turned, and departed, taking to horse once more and riding for the port that would bear his men away once more to his own country. There was much work to be done, and an age he had thought bright now seemed all too dark.

by **Olthenia** » Thu Jun 20, 2019 8:18 am

The Imperial Palace, Arx Caelo
The eve after the Emperor's 71st nameday

“They’re killing each other!”

Brom’s face had turned the colour of milk. Even in the flickering lantern light, it made his freckles stand out all the more.

Yes, Brom. Yes, they are.

“The Emperor is a Serpentine! Lord Jarn is raising all banners for faith and righteousness!” The words were yelled by one of several retreating arms-man – hastening off to only God knew where. Bernam couldn’t quite make out the colours of his surcoat. Unlike the bloodied corpses on the tiles, however – they were certainly not the Emperor’s. As for Lord Jarn? The burly Valeman had been absent from that evening's feast, as far as Bernam could tell. Were these murders in his name?

Saints save us. This is madness.

On his journey from the Mercywood, Bernam Gelbovic had imagined quite a few ways the Emperor’s nameday feast might have turned out. On one hand, if Bernam’s host had been the lucid, jovial emperor of years past – famed as a worthy successor to his forebears even as his hair greyed and eyes dimmed – the occasion may well have been one for the ages. Gleemen. Fine food. Dancing and jousting. All the glories of empire. On the other hand, if the Lord of Arx Caelo had been the arbitrary monster rumour had made him out to be over the last few years? Well. Bernam Gelbovic, Lord of the Mercywood, hadn’t quite known what to expect. In hindsight, however? God, it’d look a lot like this. Like murder and mayhem.

The first evening after their arrival had been fine enough. For the first time in what felt like ages, the Emperor’s grand hall had been alive with mirth and laughter. Largely, perhaps, because the Emperor had not been present. In his stead, his daughter Helena had played the part of hostess. She was even a skilled harpist. And unmarried, too. With goblets of honeyed wine to hand, Bernam could almost believe himself twenty again. A young lordling, blinded by pageantry.

And then?

“It’s treason! Betrayal! Infamy of the highest order!” A breathless courtier had shouted the words in passing, before heading in a decidedly different direction than the previous pack of armsmen. Bernam hardly blamed him. Even in the dead of night, the Lord of the Mercywood could scarcely avoid noticing that the sleeves of the man’s tunic looked stained with what definitely wasn’t wine.

“Hold, man! Wait up! What are you talking about!?”

In was no use. The man was already retreating into the gloom – but around them, the evening air held answer enough. Shouts of men and horses. The clash of steel. Blood.

But a few moments earlier, shouts and what sounded like hunting horns had roused Bernam and his entourage in the dead of night. His first bizarre thought was that some fire had broken out – that some inadvertent blaze was spreading out of hand. But no. A brief glance beyond the window of his room betrayed neither glowing haze nor columns of smoke.

“Is it some fresh revelry?” Bernam’s squire Brom had wondered.

“Heh, aye – I suppose it might be.” Bernam conceded, stifling a yawn. “Quick, Brom. Fetch my boots and a clean doublet.”

He had scarcely left the feast for more than a few hours by then – weary as he was from the journey. By the time he arrived, the feast itself had been well under way. The other guests had scarcely taken note of him, he thought. Oh, well. Better a late guest to the Emperor’s nameday feast than absent and a traitor. While listening to Princess Helena’s harp and sipping cups of honeyed wine, Bernam had surprised himself by feeling absurdly relieved. He’d made it. He was in attendance. And the Emperor himself wasn’t there to notice how late he was. This was good. All good.

And then it all went to shit.

The night was dark and skies clouded as Bernam and his men crossed the yard from their apartment. They’d scarcely gone thirty feet before they found the first bodies. Imperial guardsmen, hacked bloody and left to puddle on the tiles. Then the frightened courtier, Brom’s fearful remark – and here they were.

“Brom?” Bernam husked. “Gather the men. Tell them to bring weapons.”

“Are we leaving, my lord?” Brom wanted to know. “Should I send a runner to the stables?”

“No. We’re not leaving,” Bernam replied. The sword scraping from his scabbard had a good, solid heft to it.

“This is treason, and we’re rallying. To the Emperor!”

Game of Crowns - In Character

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