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Skirmish of Stone Tower


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Nina Svetlana let out a soft sigh as she hung her sword, the engraving of the Haeseni Crow upon it's pommel. "And so the job is finished... For now at least."

Edited by Salvius
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bishop viktor prays to GOD, thankful that He saved Gillriik'Ungri, Hero of Eastfleet, Olog of his flock

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Lucien sustains and delivers wound to his adversaries. The day had been won, a crushing victory at the behest of united men of virtue adhered to GOD, he returns then, body aching, battered, bruised and bloodied. Jaw clenched as he mutters prayers to aid him in the tribulations to come. A bottle of Carrion Black in company of poetry granted in a remarkable tome gifted by Borris, the Lord Kortrevich kept him company in that stormy night. 

 

"No, now it ends."

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In front of him a scorched battlefield littered with the dead and dying. Hundreds of tangled bodies strewn across the field. Horses among them. So thick and twisted they carpet the sodden earth. A deformed mass. Bloody, black and brown. Eugen Barclay walks along the field. Broad shouldered. A cape of fur over leather and chain mail. He walks laboured. "Ist Providence next?" The Barclay would inquire, to no one in particular as he wiped blood away from his cheek.

Edited by __Stal27
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Battle Butler Candle returns home to Haense tired and dirty but victorious, having proven his worth  fighting in the very foremost vanguard, unhearing of the apparently many screaming commands for him to withdraw. He would fight on with a fierce tenacity till the very end of the battle where he would count himself amongst the victors.

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Amicia de Joannes proudly returned to her new home in Sedan. As she changed from her armor into a dress, she could not help but notice a bruise on the side of her ribs. "Ea can niet believe this is all they can do." She chuckled to herself, tightening her corset and going out to celebrate the Triparte's massive victory.

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Glod solemnly begins to carefully arrange the corpses of the battlefield, so that families could at least find who they lost. "Rest in piece lad. Not yer fault yer king dinnae give a shite about yer." He says to a decapitated Orenian corpse. He carefully places the head with the body, and continues his grim goal.

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Borris Iver Kortrevich sat upon the balcony of Jerovitz, his back against the wall and his leg swinging off the side. Borris scribbled away in his journal, pausing every so often to look up into the clouds. He closed his book, then tossed it through the open doorway as the rain began to fall. Each drop that hit is face caused him to flinch. “Perhaps everything es truly over now.”

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