Riposte

[Esterlen 4499]

 

 

 

“Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we.

 

They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”

 

John the First, after the Siege of Rhewengrad, 1537

 

 

---

 

 

16th of Malin’s Welcome, 1590

Johannesburg, capital city of the Holy Orenian Empire.

 

The relative peace of another day in Johannesburg was broken suddenly by the sound of armored boots on stone. The dwarves marched into the city, running through the streets, hunting out those they could. Most of the Legion was not within the city, out on patrol. Those few there fought valiantly, retreating to within their barracks. The Urguanites had not brought any falconers with them, and before long, birds flew from the fortress, summoning those out of the city. Before long, they came marching back, even as the Dwedmar pushed out of the city, holing up in a fortress behind the city.

Those that would defend their empire rallied in the square, pulling on armor and sharpening blades quickly. Knights mixed with common foot soldiers, the uniforms of the Westerlands company blending with that of the 1st Brigade of the Legion. And mixed in were splashes of color, the tabards of the Kovachev bannerman, and a lone Brawm. The gathered company of men and women marched down the road, swords held at the ready, dust rising from their march. They formed up outside the gates, arbalesters trading shot with the Dwedmar marksman atop their walls. Arrows fell on both sides.

Ser Mattington Ironsword looked out from the visor of his helmet at the fortress. The only way into the gatehouse was to kick in the door. Decurion Fletcher braced himself up, kicking at the door and loosening the latch, but failing to put the full force of the kick necessary to kick it in. Legate Ironsword waved back one of the Footmen, Zilas and stepped up himself. He’d lead from the front. He kicked out, the latch rattling just a bit, and then kicked again, the bolts shearing from the wall and the door swinging inwards. Savoyards had joined the defenders, and forwards into that breach surged a few of them. The Duke Renault and Decurion Fletcher ascended the ladder, swearing as they find the ladder too short to allow them up onto the walls. Ser Ironsword engaged the counterweight, raising the gates. The dwarves, expecting a charge, unleashed their explosive arrows and their alchemist fire, all of it detonating ineffectually. The damage done by these powerful weapons was minimal. Fletcher took over the gatehouse, manning the gate and allowing protected volleys for the men and allowing his Legate to join the defending party and coordinate the defense. From there, he directed the coordinated fire of the arbalesters into the breach. As the quivers emptied on both sides, he yelled one command. “Get ready, lads!”

Ser Rakim waited beyond the gate. The former squire of Ser Leopold, he grinned wolfishly at Caius, the two brothers in all but blood. Both had been raised to some degree by Ser Leopold, and now both were in the crowd now, trading blows with the dwarves. He’d waited for the crossbowmen to trade their shots and yelled at Caius, “You ready to fight, you little ****?” The Orenians began to shift, like dogs on a chain waiting to be unleashed.

And then came the command they were waiting for. Ironsword yelled loudly, “Now!” The men surged forwards, shields in the front taking the initial blows as the fighting devolved into chaos, into hacking and grunting. Rakim growled as he took a hit on the chainmail of his arm. There’d be a bruise there tomorrow, but with a sharp combo of punches that took the Dwedmar by surprise, he beat the dwarf into the ground. No one expected someone to bring fists to a sword fight, but he had, his axe having been given to one of the Legion’s lads. He caught a flash of Ironsword cutting one of them down, arterial spray hanging in the air even as another dwarf cut down the legionnaire at his side. The Legate pivoted and thrust his sword out, catching the dwarf before he could make sure his victim was truly dead, and then being saved in turn by one of the Kovachevs. And then he had no time to do anything but react. One of the snow elves charged him, the seasoned warrior catching him under the armpit and throwing him before bringing a hobnailed boot down on the head of the elf. There was a crunch and then he was fighting once more.

Henrik Kovachev looked down on the Legionnaires from his steed, trotting alongside the other cavalrymen from Turov. He returned the friendly nod from one of them before reining in his steed at the order of Andrei, the Kovachev leader having conferred with Ironsword and deciding that the mobility of his unit would be best suited to securing the perimeter. The horsemen galloped off, circling the fort. The Dwedmar took potshots at them, one of the arrows clanging off the helmet of the Vallberg woman in front of him. She tucked lower into her horse as they scouted the fortress, searching for a way in and coming up empty. Andrei steered his steed with his knees, in the way of the Steppe people, bringing up a bow and loosing an arrow at a dwarf poking his head over the wall. He only succeeded in forcing the Dwedmar to duck, but that was one less archer firing at the Orenians. The cavalry company circled around the fortress to rally alongside the other defenders. He watched as the alchemist fire burst, the air in the archway shimmering as it did, scorching the stones. The Doomforged that had thrown it had misgauged the discipline of the Orenians. They’d had harsher training since the last time dwarves had seen the men of Oren fight, and they held the line rather than charging as they had. Henrik tucked himself against the barding of his horse, his cavalry sword held ready. When the order came, he surged forwards, his horse trampling one of the dwarves under it’s hooves as charged forwards. He saw another of the cavalrymen go down as one of the more ingenious dwarves cut the forelimbs of his mount, sending it down and launching the Kovachev bannerman forwards, and killing him as he hit the stone with all of his continued momentum.

A snow elf raised a pike to take down his horse in the same way and was met by Henrik’s sword, the flesh of his neck and face parting under the sharp blade, the dwarf belatedly dying as he gripped his wound, staggering before falling as his mind and body caught up to reality. The remaining mounted fighters turned their mounts, prepared to surge back into the lines as it became chaos, some taken down by pikes, other by clever cuts to the legs. The raiders weren’t stupid, at least not entirely so. They were stubborn, they were aggressive, but they knew when they were going to lose, and they wagered that it’d be best for them to live to fight another day, either picking off the lone soldiers as they returned home, or simply by preserving the gear they’d carried with them. They did not break ranks, instead forming into small groups and pushing to the gate, before running together. They would not die alone, were Yemekar or the Creator, or whoever they worshipped, decided to call them to join him. They’d die swinging amongst each other. Henrik could respect that, even as he turned his horse to bear down on a trio of Raiders, the Doomforged who had wielded the alchemist fire amongst them. Andrei cut down the Doomforged as he turned to meet the advancing Orenians, the Doomforged falling to the ground, mortally wounded. He went to rise on his pike, determined to fight to the end and then being beheaded by Kaisa. Henrik cut down one of the snow elves that had been supporting the dwarves, the tall, pale figure raising his weapon to try and parry the blow and being speared on the cavalry sword of the Kovachev.

The successful defenders marched back to Johannesburg, longswords sheathed now, bloody armor and tabards adorning weary soldiers. They marched alongside one another, the bodies of their dead brothers carried on their shields or between each other. There was a muted sense of victory. They’d drink to their dead, celebrate their victory, and sharpen their swords for the next battle.

((Credits to Warmarcher for the RP post.))

[Taketheshot 3834]

"Grrrrr Big bad Oren defending itself grrrr!"

[colovian fur 8360]

Caius celebra con sus amigos y aliados. ¡Victoria para Orenia!

"¡Gracias para tu asistencia, hermano!" Caius le dijo a Rakim.

 

This message is bought and payed for by the SPLC, diversifying Oren since 1590. @Princess Shady

[Vetren54 368]

Mattington raises a mug of ale to toast to the victory at home as the Orenian forces will soon begin the march North. "Ave Orenia, and long live the Emperor!"  he'd touch mugs with the various other soldiers at the bar and lift the ale to his lips.

[CakePharaoh 4]

((Zilas?... I made it into a forum post! Mom! Get the camera!))

 

[HeroOfDuLoc 1935]

"First of all, Oren isn't even the aggressor, second of all if you ever say anything about Oren, I will not hesitate to kill you. Go complain about something that matters and leave Oren and Humanity alone before you lose your life! 'Grr Oren grr..'" Says Nick.

[Rammer 388]

A random peasent rushes to the fields gathering a few things "Ah how I love bread and salt"

[Galendar 631]

Somewhere in the deserts of Tahn, Vaktismo smiles the suns smile at the news of more dead orenians! He frowns the deep cold as he hears of the loss of his old friends. In the end, he does not care. 

 

 

 

[TankM1A2 840]

Henrik would be saddled upon his horse, moments after the brief skirmish drew to an end. He'd glance back to the carnage, surveying the corpses that would have been strewn across the fields, "So much bloodshed..." he'd shake his head, grabbing hold of the reigns. "...and to think this could've been so easily avoided." He'd shrug, "Truly these half-men are half-wits."  Henrik would gently tap his boot against his horse's side, spurring it onwards as he fell in with the rest of the Turovic cavalry and signaling for his comrades to form up. "This one's on me lads. Drinks on the house." He would shout, followed by huzzahs and cheers as they began their march back to Johannesburg.

[Onslaughted 920]

7 hours ago, Fizl / PrivetTovarisch said:

"First of all, Oren isn't even the aggressor, second of all if you ever say anything about Oren, I will not hesitate to kill you. Go complain about something that matters and leave Oren and Humanity alone before you lose your life! 'Grr Oren grr..'" Says Nick.

"What?" Says Danis

[Hiebe 2493]

(Good post I like reading stories like this)

 

Dwain hears little from the war front, he has yet to pick up his axe for battle as he instead continues forging for the legion 

[6xdestroyer 1610]

6 hours ago, DPM said:

Hjalnar and his fallen brethren lay scattered over the bodies of twenty Orenians. An "L" is inscribed on Andrei Kovachev's forehead.

Andrei would toss another of the dead raiders bodies in a pit to let them decompose, the rest of the defenders all present except for the lone dead defender.

((Idk where you got the number 20 from, ik you gotta compensate but still))

[Man of Respect 5471]

Eath'Lur drinks milk "Ukeh."

[KeatonUnbeaten 1103]

8 hours ago, Esterlen said:

They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.

 

[KBR 2046]

8 hours ago, Vetren54 said:

Mattington raises a mug of ale to toast to the victory at home as the Orenian forces will soon begin the march North. "Ave Orenia, and long live the Emperor!"  he'd touch mugs with the various other soldiers at the bar and lift the ale to his lips.

"Huh I thought you died." he mutters at the man who died to the dwarves before the battle