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The Emperor's March

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THE EMPEROR'S MARCH

 


 

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“What good is an Emperor if he shall not fight for his people?” Peter III after the victory. 

 


 

The wicked whispers of the Roswick highway men had unfurled across the roads, for they had captured lone stranglers and brought them to their den of degeneracy. For it is all they are capable of, ten men capturing a singular. Yet, it was the men of the Western Alliance that they had trespassed against once more - the famed General Thomas Elliot ‘The Blue’ had penned birds and sent them to their respective nations.

 

It was not long till the men of the Western Alliance sallied to the Capital of Helena, a grouping from all corners of the alliance brought their steel & horses to the Orenian capital. With little time remaining, they trucked across the beaten-path with stoic expressions cemented on to their face.

 

Upon their arrival they were met with a flurry of arrows soaring through the air, and it didn't take long for them to reciprocate with a similar engagement. For some odd reason, one of their commanders, Malgunuz jumped from his walls in a fit of rage to try and face the Emperor of Oren himself - yet he was quickly slain and brought down in a lonesome effort by Peter III.  It was said that after bringing down such a weakling that he exhaled a long spout of laughter in the midst of the engagement. 

 


 

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“HAHAHAHAHA” Peter III after slaughtering Malgunuz.. 

 


 

After slaying one of the enemy commanders, a surge of confidence rushed through the Western Alliances forces - an attack was signalled by Thomas Elliot in which they clambered up a tree; subsequently jumping off it to infiltrate the enemy city and charged soon after.

 

What was left was the littered bodies of the highwaymen.


 



Good 20v20!

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"Another victory for His Imperial Majesty. Ave Orenia!" an eastmarker would exclaim

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“Ez”

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“Maehr’sae hiylun’ehya.”

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“Almost beneath a Dragon’s honor to trample upon these miserable bands,” remarked the Prince of Alstion, present in the pitifully quick engagement alongside his Horenic kin – having leapt across the bandit battlements on his charger adorned with purple and black, striking down orcs with his lance.

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#066 returned to el’cihi, carrying Valenar back to the city after killing a few of the bandits. “Home, sweet home...”

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“C’est épique” Comments an Auvergnian dragon.

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A man would make the sign of the Lorraine with his right hand, looking up to the sky. ”Truly GOD has smitten the wicked!”

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The Imperial Field Marshal Leonard II cleans off his sword smiling at each of his men who fought bravely against the bandit aggressors.

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“Ave Oren, Ave man!” The Court Mage of his Majesty Peter III commented.

Edited by Moribundity

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The aging Knight trails behind his younger fellows, the weight of his armor and his aching body from drink the previous night keeping him from his top condition. He had done it to himself, of course, as he always did, but it was embarrassing after such a long career of war and battle to be found at the end of the line. As the army comes to the front of the gates, he catches the main body of the army, grouping alongside them with shield in hand. His heavy breath, reeking of liquor, fills his helm noxiously.

 

He pulls his visor up for a better view of the enemy as the Orenian soldiers group together for the assault, scouts dispatched by the General Elliot to survey the walls for weaknesses. Perhaps as soon as the scouts were dispatched, without word and warning, the arrows began flying, known only to John by the thud of one striking his shield off center. The Knight let a grin spread across his face, his vision clearing and his armor growing lighter as the familiar rush of battle returned to him. He was never a distinguished soldier in battle, but he knew how to fight with a group, and he had done so since he was a young boy nearly every year of his life.

 

It was not long until the Emperor himself and his guard clashed against the enemy’s sally from the main gate, striking down the Orc who appeared to be the de facto leader of the ragtag bandits. The Emperor’s laughter resounded through the battlefield, and the men echo’d him, the humor infecting the entire ranks in the middle of pitched battle. Soon the entire formation was in uproarious laughter.

 

John let himself laugh along, consumed by the charisma. It was not long before the scouts had returned, having noted a potential entrance to the fort that had been overlooked. John heard the General Elliot call the formation to move, and they circled the fort till the scout brought them to the tree which branches would allow the force entrance to the fort.

 

The Knight sheathed his sword, clambering upon the tree with the assistance from his younger comrades. He gazed across the gap from the tree to the wall for a moment, before he felt the push of a man behind him. He had already hesitated too long, and he was forced to leap. With a heavy thud, his boots landed on the roof of one of the  camp’s structures, safe from the short fall. The rest of the brigade followed quickly, bunching together behind cover.

 

John closed his eyes, drawing his longsword again. He knew this moment a hundred times over, had lived it countless times. He adjusted his grip on his blade, and didn’t wait long. General called the charge, and John let out a blood curdling battlecry. As the force turned the corner, the enemy’s line buckled. A cascade of convicted Orenians, empowered by the presence of the Emperor himself, crashed against the line.

 

On the left flank, John slammed his shield against a dwarven barbarian’s. They pushed against each other for a moment, but John was no stranger to fighting dwarves, and their low center of gravity. He relaxed his shield arm, stepping to the side to allow the dwarf’s pressure to propel the dwarf forward. The dwarf lost his balance, and while he scrambled to regain himself, John’s reeled his blade back, thrusting it at the dwarf’s upper spine. The weapon sank into the short creature with a grotesque gush of blood, splattering John’s armor. John ripped the weapon from the dwarf, which slumped over.

 

John turned to see the enemy continue to break, and saw an elf dashing off toward the corner of the camp, attempting to outflank the Orenian left. He grinned at the elf, from behind his helm, and took a few steps forward, raising his shield and slamming his pommel on the front a few times with an aggressive stance. This got the elf’s attention, who backed itself into the corner, with nowhere to maneuver in the oncoming onslaught. John kept his eyes carefully on the elf as it raised its shield, preparing for the fight. 

 

John raised his sword arm into the sky, as if to strike the elf’s shield. The elf raised its shield, blocking its own line of sight. No doubt this was a novice. John roared at the elf, raising his right foot and giving the elf’s shield a powerful kick square in the center. The elf’s body slammed against the wall of the encampment, disorienting him. The elf dropped its sword, and quickly lunged its hand to grab the sword it had lost control of. 

 

Too late. John slammed his boot on the elf’s wrist, hearing it cry out in pain as its bones cracked under his weight. John threw his shield off his left arm, gripping the elf’s visor as it knelt, disoriented in agony. He ripped the elf’s helm off, tossing it aside, and swung his sword with great force for the elf’s neck. The elf made no sound as its head was cleaved from its body, rolling down the hill toward the cage that held the captives John and the others had come to free. 

 

John turned instantly to view the state of the rest of the battle, to see a quiet field with countless dead; and not one of them Orenian. The bandits had been butchered completely. 

 

The aging Knight knelt, wiping off his bloodied sword on the cloak of the dead elf, and sheathed his weapon. He returned to the company as they freed the captives, one of them an elven women, throat slit and bound. John grit his teeth with rage at the cowardice, to murder a woman captive. He unbound the dead elf, slashing its bindings with his dagger, and threw his own cloak over the corpse.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep breath as the end of the battle brought his age back to his body. The rush of battle seemed to be the only thing that kept him competent on the field. Perhaps this is how he would spend the next years of his life. Perhaps this made him feel more alive than any drink could.

 

One thing was certain. These bandits were no match for the Imperium. To John, and the men of Oren, their deaths were a laughable waste of time.

 

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:Thumbs_Up:

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