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King of Engleshire, Lord of the Englemen! [[Closed to H&F]]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Engleshire
Political Columnist
 
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Founded: Dec 09, 2024
Father Knows Best State

King of Engleshire, Lord of the Englemen! [[Closed to H&F]]

Postby Engleshire » Sat Dec 28, 2024 9:56 am

OOC:
Welcome to King of Engleshire, Lord of the Englemen!

In this RP, your characters will react to the death of King Fraser I, King of Engleshire, and the subsequent coronation of his son, Prince Fraser II. Our story will begin with the King's forces gathered in Aldoren, a puppet kingdom North of Engleshire that has seen rebellion and backlash against Engleshire in recent months. Those houses present at the encampment will react to the king's passing accordingly, before we fast forward to present day, where our new king will be making arrangements for his coronation. This RP will be closed to Heroes and Foes nations only. For those interested in joining us, check the sign up thread or join our discord server.




King Fraser I’s Camp
13th Day of the 1st Moon
1002 AE


Image


It was a cold, bitter morning the day the king died.

The first moon of the year was always the worst, especially in Aldoren; the countryside wasn’t nicknamed the Galelands for no reason. The snows had already started on the long trek North, but in recent days they’d picked up ferocity, accompanied by a shrieking, biting wind that cut the marching army to their core.

At first, the journey had been all songs and swordplay. After all, it was the old king lion Fraser I himself on the march. How many times had they stormed Aldoren to squash a rebel uprising and come back victorious?

But as the days grew colder and the march longer, the King had taken ill. A man in his sixth decade should not have been camping in a tent in the dead of Winter. It had started as just a mild cough and had developed into something much more insidious as the weeks wore on.

The bloody flux.

Once a man of considerable stature, standing well over six foot and weighing nearly sixteen stone, King Fraser was currently a husk of his former self; frail, gaunt, disheveled, and ill-tempered. He hadn’t even had an appetite the night before. “Take it away,” he’d rasped irritably when the servants tried to bring him a plate. “Gods please, TAKE IT AWAY.”

High Justiciar Osgood Manly, lord of Amroth and right-hand man to the king, had looked on with grave concern in that moment, privately counting down the days to the king’s demise in his own head.

If only he’d known how right he would be.



* * *




It was still dark out when Lord Manly awoke, cold and confused as to why he was cold. The answer of course was immediately discernible; his campfire had begun to wane in the wee hours of the morn. Sleep be damned, the High Justiciar resigned himself to getting ready for the day’s march. He was a military man at heart, after all. The early bird gets the worm, or so they said.

He awoke his squire abruptly and chastised him for letting the fire sputter out. “Every hair on my head would be froze if I had any,” he’d scolded, rubbing his smooth bald cranium in exclamation. “Which makes things all the worse considering.” He sent the teen scrambling for some boiled wine while he put on what pieces of armor he could by himself, none too thrilled at what the day would bring.

Lord Manly remembered strictly advising his king against this so-called Northern campaign. “Winter is nipping at our heels, your majesty,” he’d argued, while Fraser half-scowled half-smirked at him from his seat on the throne, his mind already made up. “And respectfully, my king, you are not as young as you once were. The Aldorenian winters can freeze a man’s blood.”

“And so what do you propose, Osgood,” the King had leered, pulling his great white beard furiously. “We let this rebel scourge permeate and call it a night? HA. Over my corpse, SER. OVER MY CORPSE.”

And that had been the end of the discussion. Now here they were, on the doorstep of a frozen hell, marching on some insolent Aldorenian lordling or other and freezing their balls off. Of course, Lord Manly wouldn’t have had it any other way regardless. It was his duty. The High Justiciar’s position was to directly serve and advise the king in ALL capacities, whether one agreed with him or not.

When the squire returned, Lord Manly let the hot spiced wine the teen had brought with him warm his chilled bones, before instructing his squire to finish armoring him.

Once the boy had finished, the High Justiciar fastened a cowl around his neck and stepped out into the military encampment, his first intention to check on the welfare of his king. “Wake the cooks. I’ll break my fast with his majesty before sunrise,” Lord Manly instructed, before trudging off towards the king’s pavilion.

The sun hadn’t risen yet indeed, and the wind was howling. A thousand campfires in a thousand tents flickered and danced in the snowy Aldorenian hills, and the military encampment was deathly quiet save for the shrieking gusts and the creaking of war wagons. The sentries looked miserable, even bundled in furs and flanked by fires, and the horses much the same.

“A mistake. A bloody mistake,” Osgood muttered to himself, though truth be told, Lord Manly knew his king was ultimately right in one regard. The Aldorenian uprising did need to be put down, and put down viciously if the Kingdom of Engleshire was going to continue to grow and prosper. They needed the taxes and levies from the hilly North, especially with the King growing older and the prospect of his son’s ascension on the horizon.

While Prince Fraser II was a man grown, he didn’t always act the part. Arrogant, childish, naive, selfish…these traits did not bode well for a prosperous reign. Not to mention the queer rumors concerning Fraser II’s choice in bedside companions…though who knew how much truth there was to those. For all Lord Manly knew, the stories could be sinister lies planted by enemies of the crown.

No, Osgood didn’t always see eye to eye with his king, but he respected him and he followed his lead. The alternative was less promising. That much was certain.

When Lord Manly arrived at the king’s pavilion, he exchanged a curt nod with the two sentries at the entrance. “M’lord,” they both chattered with misty breath. “His majesty sleeps I hope?” Osgood asked, pulling on his frosty pointed black goatee. “Like a rock, m’lord,” replied one, while the other quickly clamored to elaborate. “No coughin’ tonight, m’lord. First night in a week it’s been quiet. Might be the maester’s potions are finally doin’ their work.”

Thank Esion, Lord Manly thought to himself as he entered the pavilion.

Only to find the king slumped over face first in front of his chamber pot.

Dead.

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Kuriss
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 6
Founded: Dec 11, 2024
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Kuriss » Mon Dec 30, 2024 10:17 am

Northern Engleshire
Rebellion Territories
Engleshire Nobles Army Camp


The news broke a little after dawn, and everyone in the camp was in a frenzy. The flat-black tents of the Dread Guard had been close to the King's banner, as they served under contract to King Fraser I as part of his personal retinue. Around five hundred strong of heavy infantry that he could use at a whim to reinforce or punch through the enemy battle line, they had served well and with distinction under the cunning old man. King Fraser II, though, was not so cunning. His reputation was well known, and he was anything but reliable. As the King's banner came down, to be moved to where the new King resided, the Dread Guard had already withdrawn back to their own section of the camp, withdrawing from all activities they had previously done for the army. For the first time since the army began to march, Enra hosted Venlaus as her guest, and they spoke softly in her tent.

"You know this is going to come down on you, Venlaus. Maybe I could leave a detachment to keep them from acting against you?"

The Baron scowled, shaking his head. "That breaks your oaths, Commander. The charter is clear - he's not an acceptable employer. You need to go, we can send a bird to the capital for the debt owed. Include the previous job, of course. The crown is now indebted to the Dread Guard, and you can't afford to dally or he'll use it against you."

Commander Enra was silent for a time, thinking it over. "We don't know what kind of King he will be, but we know what kind of Prince he was. If he sees this as an affront by House Kuriss, they could try to hold you liable. You know where that ends."

Venlaus nodded, but held up his hands. "That's part of my job, though. I've got three brothers, you know, not even including young Caenil. The kid won't even know the man who sent him on the mission is dead by the time they enter a foreign nation, I bet. At worst, that works to protect the line. Let's face it, if they try to wipe us out, I doubt a lot of these flatlanders could even find half the family. They'll be looking for palaces. Can you imagine their faces?"

He smiled gently, but Enra knew him well enough to know when he was making jokes to hide the worry. Honestly, she was worried as well, but that didn't change the fact that he was right. She couldn't afford to put his life ahead of the Guard's reputation. If they stayed now, they wouldn't be able to leave, and they'd lose the autonomy that so many others had fought and sacrificed for. If the Dread Guard got stuck here, it wasn't entirely impossible for them to become bound to the crown in a payless contract. They didn't have a choice, they had to go. And be seen doing it.

Gritting her teeth, she nodded. "Be careful, brother. Keep your Armsmen close, and if it starts to stink, get out of here any way you can. You're a long way from home, and we don't have a lot of friends. Your kid hasn't yet come of age, he's still almost a decade behind Caenil. This isn't the time for a steward for Kuriss."

Baron Venlaus nodded again, getting to his feet and brushing off his gray-black-gray tunic, settling his sword at his hip. "You too, sister. I hope to see you back home soon. It's likely this will be the end of this campaign anyway, I doubt he can afford to keep the heads of so many families in the field. He needs the oaths."

The man walked out, not stating the thing they both understood so well. If he's smart enough to realize that the Kingdom could fall apart if he doesn't get everything under control. Too many experienced soldiers in one place, far from home and with no trust of the leader is a recipe for banditry, desertion, and worse.

He kept his head down as he walked past the Dread Guard, offering nods in response to the brave soldiers and their salutes, though it gave away who he was. He grew up with many of them, and cared for them almost as much as Enra did, but their respect could put him and them in danger if the act was misinterpreted as Kuriss rebelling against the crown.

By noon, the black tents of the Dread Guard had been struck, and the unit had formed up at the southern end of the camp. Holding their black banners at the fore, they left seemingly before the King's body had cooled, even in the current weather. With them, they had oxen and carts full of supplies for the return trip across Engleshire, a significant amount of food and livestock to make the journey without the previously-promised support. Their exit from the camp was uncontested, leaving while many of the nobles were still in shock and figuring out what to do. In the small, dirty section bearing the colors of Kuriss, the tents were all moved closer together, and extra sentries were posted while they waited for word from the ranking noble who would be general.

Venlaus sat inside his tent, with four guards outside, and played with the cuff of the heavy mail at his wrist, sitting in silence with sword, shield, and helm nearby. They couldn't leave, as a small Barony didn't have that sort of influence. Even with the current deployment of Armsmen, they needed a valid excuse to break out of the army group. In a few days, maybe, if the new King called in the families for their oaths. Luckily, House Kuriss's oath was directly to the crown, he had no liege lord but the King. If the oaths were to be called in, he would have to abandon the camp. It was his best chance.

That didn't make the next few days any less dangerous, though. They'd be left unable to move until new leadership asserted itself, and he had to make sure he could swim in whatever troubled waters followed. They were vulnerable, exposed, and had few friends. As he sipped a glass of fortifying schnapps, he steeled himself against the thought that he wished Enra had betrayed her convictions and stayed to protect him and his men, or that he could leave with her. This wasn't the time to waver, and despite the shaking in his hand, he tipped the glass back again.

Every great Lord of Kuriss faced terrible hardship. How lucky I am to have a chance to be among their number. His throat felt as dry as the desert sands.

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The Order of Knowledge
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Posts: 22
Founded: Dec 11, 2024
Father Knows Best State

Postby The Order of Knowledge » Sun Jan 12, 2025 7:00 pm

NORTHERN ENGELSHIRE
REBELLION TERRITORY
HIS MAJESTY KING FRASIER II’S CAMP




Josepf Fiveface, Grandmaester of the Order of Knowledge, heard the news first. It spread like all fire through the camp, but it was he who had verified there was absolutely nothing to be done. Who had sent word to the Prince-now King-Frasier, Second of His Name, that coronation proceedings were to begin. Something the incompetent Prince would likely rejoice it, given the new purview he would now have to pursue his carnal desires. Now, the only thing to be done was firmly establish himself in the King’s good graces. A sacrificial lamb would be a wonderful gift for the new King. And there was no dearth of victims. As many as half a dozen houses had struck up their banners, for instance the Dread Guard of House Kuriss. Indeed, those would be a fine offering to the fickle new king. Now, how to bring them in? The primary quality that made them such a valuable commodity, strength of arms, made them hard to reel in. Worse, House Kurris also knew this, and were counting on it to help them make their mistake before they were forced to bend the knee to Frasier II. But weren’t they reliant on the Dread Guard to even eke out a living? Yes, and mercenaries were reliant on word of mouth. Being driven out of camp would certainly put a crimp in their business. Robes flowing behind him, he headed for the distinct black tents of the Dread Guard. Asking around as to the whereabouts of the Baron Venlaus, he was met with some hostility but eventually found his location. Josepf called out,
“Baron Venlaus?”

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Kuriss
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 6
Founded: Dec 11, 2024
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Kuriss » Mon Jan 13, 2025 9:12 pm

Northern Engleshire
Rebellion Territories
Engleshire Nobles Army Camp


From inside a slightly larger tent near the middle of the cluster of gray-and-brown that made up the Kurissian part of the encampment, Venlaus responded in a tone that hid his concern. "One moment, please!"

The wait was no longer than a minute or two before the man stepped from the tent. He was brown-eyed and in his low thirties, light brown hair matted from the recent presence of a helmet over his head. He took a moment to look Josepf up and down, narrowing his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, I have seen you in the King's service, but I don't know you by name and face. You are...?"

He let the question hang in the air, standing outside the tent where the mud came almost all the way up to their ankles in the dryer areas.

”Grandmaester Josepf, at your service. I am here to discuss your service to His Majesty King Frasier.”

Venlaus raised an eyebrow at the man for a moment, then held open the tent’s flap of a door, revealing a sparse, small interior as he gestured the four guards to stand further from the tent to provide privacy. “Of course, please come in, Master Josepf.”

Once inside, he offered the only chair and desk to the Grandmaester, with half a lunch finished on the desk. “You have heard from the King?”

Remaining standing, Josepf responds, “Yes, I have. He would be pleased to see your service renewed.”

Baron Venlaus put on a smile, holding out his hand to receive the message from King Fraser II. “My family’s oaths have held for almost 900 years. May I see the missive from his highness requesting my presence to renew our vows with the weight of Jeskitt’s Left? I would be honored to receive my orders.”

”There is no such missive, as yet. However, my oath to the realm requires me to ensure that the transition is smooth as posssible.”

The Baron of House Kuriss transitioned quickly, lowering his hand to rest it on the hilt of his sword.

“And what is someone who is not part of the Kingdom doing, trying to obtain oaths of fealty? What are you playing at, outsider? Do you think yourself so grand your smile outshines Koskurn and we do not see you for what you are?”

Abruptly changing the topic, the Grandmaester says, ”I understand that House Kuriss is quite improvised. You’re reliant on the Dread Gaurd to even stay marginally afloat, aren’t you? How do you think you will fare when the King has declared you traitors?”

Venlaus doesn’t hesitate, flinch, or move other than to turn his head slightly to the side, calling out to the Armsmen who are still only a short distance away.

“Armsmen of Kuriss! This man enters our camp under the guise of speaking on behalf of the rightful King, with no missive and only threats on his lips. Take him into custody and guard him at the stockade, until one gifted with the grace of the crown and Jeskitt’s unblinking gaze can see the truth of his crimes and divine an appropriate punishment!”

To Josepf, he scowled, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword firmly. “Do not run, it would not look well for you. Your entrance to a place watched by the World Gods was a mistake. Lies rot under their gaze.”

”But of course. You understand, of course, what this mean for the future of your House.”

If Venlaus was concerned by the threats of the outsider, he didn’t show it as a pair of the gray-black-gray clad armsmen entered the tent, roughly taking the Grandmaester by the arms. They quickly turned him away from their Baron, and a man with a black rough-shaven beard gruffly began giving orders and warnings in equal measure.

“Shut yer trap old man, I’m Sergeant Daen, in service of House Kuriss. You’re charged with contempt of Jeskitt’s gaze, and conspiracy against the crown. Under Silcillen’s stone gaze you perpetrated these acts. Under the gaze of Jeskitt’s Left you’ll accept your punishment. Now move.”

Pushing roughly, he threatened to bodily drag the Grandmaester from the tent if the older man did not comply. Outside, more guards waited, armored and armed, as if the possibility of this series of events had been expected.

“A word of advice, if I may? Don’t anger an owl.”

The sergeant grumbled in annoyance at Grandmaester as he led the group away, mimicking an owl's call. "Who are you to give advice?"


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