THE FALL OF KAROSGRAD

[Mio 3771]

THE FALL OF KAROSGRAD:

PERSISTENCE AMONG SNOW AND SOOT

 

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Spoiler

 

 

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In the unforgiving North, where winter's grasp clung to the land in an white powdered blanket, the towering red walls of Karosgrad stood as a formidable bastion against the encroaching threat of the Mori’Quessir. Black and gold banners fluttered in defiance of the biting winds. Every crack in the stone and every chip in the terracotta told tales of valour and resilience; remnants of past battles fought and won. Every tower was decorated to capacity with deadly weaponry, and the Morrivi Prikaz loomed over all as a symbol of Haense's indomitable spirit.

 

It was ever-apparent that Karosgrad was ready for war.

 

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Like sentinels of Haeseni strength, the Brotherhood of Saint Karl and Order of the Crow spread over the city from these walls, their imposing presence a constant throughout the unknown battle which lay ahead. Aleksandr Otto, the Grand Prince of Kusoraev, looked up at these walls as the weight of responsibility began to settle upon his shoulders – but the beheld sight was no different than any other day, as it was always the warriors of the Kingdom that he looked up to with great pride. The three frontier forces soon began to station themselves according to their respective fronts, yet Aleksandr tried to cling to the last breath of peace that still lingered in the air.

 

“Aleksandra!” The Prince called from his post higher up by the stairs, overseeing the movements of troops.

 

“Mm-… mhmm.” Aleksandra vas Ruthern hummed, lifting her head to the staircase above, whilst her mother, the Princess Analiesa beckoned her to continue following toward the port-side gate. “We must go, nephew - apologies.”

 

“What of papej?" The Prince asked to his brother at his side, attempting his best to ignore the dismissal by those focused-many.

 

“He's safe, Aleks. Cease vyr worrying." His only sibling, Stefan Edvard grimaced as he pressed a shake into Aleksandr's hand by a grab of his wrist. ”Ea better be off to the front wall about now. Stay safe, borsa.”

 

Aleksandr’s meagre attempts to downplay the gravity of the situation ahead were entertained by none. All were ready; and the battle was imminent, and so he was left to join the crowd for otherwise he would be no Prince the people deserved.

 

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Spoiler

 

 

The Prince began his way down the stairs, his breaths bated and eyes wavering through the city as that air grew thick with smog and ash; distant clambers and battle cries reverberated to him through winding streets. As he made his way into the square that grim determination for victory grew noticeable, with great sacrifices having been made before any first strike. The once lively marketplace that in his youth bustled with life – was transformed into a makeshift military encampment, engulfed in the same atmosphere a barracks would. It was gray. The life of Karosgrad had been stripped. The only thing holding it to a semblance of its past self was the hope of its people.

 

The famous mural painted onto the square was one sight that felt familiar. Its great round eyes met Aleksandr’s as he stood atop it – it was nostalgic, a reminder of his boyhood, a reminder of why he fought. The only thing that drew him from this trance was a call from his betrothed, the Lady Amaya Colborn, with the Lord Carolus Colborn and Aleksandr’s own page Gawyn in tow.

 

“Docks and back gates are holding up well,” Amaya exhaled, breathless from her sprint around the city. “No injuries or casualties from what I could tell either.” The Lord agreed, nodding his head simply, “Ja. The fighting has only begun. We are up against their absolute force.” 

 

Silence befell the four of them, with cannon-fire raging off in the distance.

 

“. . . Do we have a chance? . . .  At winning?” Gawyn asked with apprehension.

 

While Carolus gave a dumbed-down sort of logistical answer to the child, Aleksandr told the boy some serious-motivational anecdote, and Amaya gave a motherly assurance of safety. Each of what the three said would be true to this battle.

 

“The four of us ought to quit sallying around.” Aleksandr spoke, slipping his helmet onto his head, “I'll be starting at the front gate where I sent those two men.” They all mutually agreed, concluding their rendezvous with unspoken nods to each other.

 

The Prince’s final gaze of the square was drawn back to that golden crow, its vibrant fire-lit shine juxtaposed against the chaos. He soon approached the front gate, his steps slowing and his heart began to sink. The rumble of cannons which once felt so far trumped the clashing of swords, sending them into silence every few moments. What set the tone of the fight ahead was the acrid smell of smoke and burnt flesh which grew more pronounced as Aleksandr climbed the walls.

 

Atop the wall was a view Aleks couldn’t have possibly prepared for. Shattered siege weaponry scattered the walls and polluted the paths with wreckage. Soldiers – some unfortunate to be in the way – lay deceased with shards of wood and metal piercing every part of them. Blood pooled and stained the gravel-mixed dirt that freshly sent soldiers had to march over without thought, for everyone’s eyes were set on emerging victorious regardless of the cost. Commanding cries from Ser Vlad awoke the Prince from the daze that had befallen him:

 

“DREADKNIGHTS! ONCE THEY ARE IN RANGE, RAIN HELL UPON THEM!” Shouted the Knight Paramount, sparing a moment's glance toward the Prince who had arrived. “Quick on the cannons! Do niet let them approach the wall!” He then barked orders toward a few Footmen, before continuing on with his own duty.

 

With a deep breath, Aleksandr stepped forward, drawing his sword from its sheath. The bitter wind whipped at his cloak, and the falling snowflakes seemed to prance in anticipation. It was time for him as the Prince to face the onslaught as many around him had been, to fight for the future of Haense, to fight for survival, and to fight to protect the legacy of his ancestors. 

 

Time was made a blur as the front gate became a vortex of violence. Aleksandr fought side by side with his comrades, their movements synchronizing like a well-rehearsed dance of death. The taste of sweat mingled with the metallic tang of blood upon his lips, while the symphony of clashing steel and desperate cries played a haunting melody in his ears.

 

“THEY DIE AT OUR DOORSTEP AND HUNDREDS MORE SHALL FACE SIMILAR DEMISE. THE DEFENDERS OF KAROSGRAD GROW STRONGER WHILST THOSE SEEKING TO USURP THE CITY FROM DESCENDENT HANDS FALTER! CONTINUE THIS FIGHT.”

 

“KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM!” Erupted from the soldiers in battle, the intensity and frequency of clashing steel increased as that fight continued to rage on.

 

Ser Vlad would be one among those many in the very thicket of the onslaught, “Vy hear the prince! Down with the Mori’Quessir! Let this story be one of vict-” His words were then cut off by an attacking dread-knight, which a dozen more soldiers pounced upon to aid their commander.

 

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Weariness settled upon Aleksandr's shoulders like a heavy cloak as he made his way towards the side gate, which granted access to the port, the Ducal lands of Reinmar, and most notably the forest of Dobrov. The port, once a bustling hub of trade, now stood as a strategic point of contention in the face of the enemy's relentless advance – a last frontier in the Mori’Quessir conquest. Under the superb command of Lord Marshal Wilheim Barclay, the Duke of Reinmar commanded the port defences, which became obvious to any within sight of this front as the Duke’s voice carried through the streets with passion and determination. Aleksandr thought it to be revenge the man sought.

 

The snowfall had intensified as he grew nearer, the icy flakes mixed with droplets of hail nailing into his helmet. He wondered whether this was nature weeping for the Haeseni, keepers of the North for centuries, soon to be possibly overrun by the savage Mori. Albeit fatigued, the Prince persisted in his pursuit of joining this front's ranks. 

 

Reaching the top of the ladder that led to the gate, Aleksandr paused, taking a moment to steady his breath where in the bitter cold he could see it through his helmet slits. The next ladder to climb faced away from the direction of the Mori’Quessir's attack, providing a brief respite from the violence unfolding beyond. But as he prepared to climb fully through the opening at the top, a sudden volley of arrows rained down from the enemy lines, darkening the sky, blotting out the sun… In the blink of an eye, pain seared through his body.

 

Two arrows found their mark with cruel precision, one piercing just below his left shoulder and the other lodging itself above his hip on that same side. Agony coursed through him, consuming his sense, as the realization of being this lethally injured for the first time washed over him. It was a searing pain, sharp and relentless, one so powerful it threatened to overwhelm his consciousness. 

 

“GRAND PRINCE!” Shouted Ser Baldrum Colborn, the only to witness the Prince go down, yet too occupied with his own battle to offer aid. Similarly there were several other cries, as the likes of Holy Knight Philip the Righteous and Andrik var Ruthern were struck in the same arrow hail. Gritting his teeth, Aleksandr pressed forward, his resolve unyielding. Yet he knew the difference between stupidity and bravery, so he chose the wiser of two options and keeled over, taking a knee. 

 

Malcolm Gant, a trusted ally and childhood friend, rushed to his side, his voice filled with urgency and concern. Promptly, he aided the Grand Prince, taking him by the shoulder and descending the ladder to their best abilities. The world around Aleksandr blurred, his focus narrowing to the intense pain that radiated from his wounds. Every step was an arduous journey. Every breath felt like the weight of a mountain. And every blink of his eyes felt as if he’d awoken from a nap time and time again.

 

“ALEKSANDR!” Hollered an oh-so familiar voice, yet his murky state nullified any sense to recognize it specifically.

 

They made their way to the impromptu medical area near the palace, a makeshift sanctuary amidst the chaos of battle. The air smelled of herbs and other medicinal items, all mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Aleksandr’s vision swayed and his breathing laboured, as the hazy yet familiar figure of a healer hurried to tend to his wounds. Her skilled hands worked with precision, with a voice murmuring words of reassurance and encouragement. 

 

As the pain began to dull, replaced by a numbing sensation, Alek’s mind drifted back to the thoughts of his duty and people he swore at his investiture to protect. The fight raged on in the beyond and his absence from the lines was surely a palpable one. Though upon his clarity returning, he realized his absence at the gates was far from the only one.

 

Princess and Duchess Analiesa lay injured across from him, with wounds one could only assume would be fatal. Andrik var Ruthern was only now having his arrow tended to after valiantly continuing his fight. Another friend, Fabian Kortrevich, had shrapnel embedded throughout his body, tending another with a cleanly broken leg. Soon after, Ser Vlad the Knight Paramount followed. The siege was growing costly with numbers in the field dwindling, the path ahead was treacherous, raging with unrelenting fury, with all wishing for a soon end.

 

Lord Carolus Colborn had joined beside the Prince and all those injured, yet wasn't wounded himself. He spared a nod toward Amaya, who had been treating him prior, before kneeling down to his level.

 

“Carolus - what's the full breakdown of all fronts?”

 

“Front wall has fallen, they are retreating and activating traps. Dock – I ordered a weak retreat, but the wall fell there as well.. Not much force from the back gate, but I ordered Ser Audo pull back his forces as well.”

 

All fell silent, before the Lord spoke one more.

 

“If the front clears of Dreadknights, that is our route. Two other methods are blowing through the walls behind the basilica, or the other side of the duma hall.”

 

“Our route..?” Aleksandr asked simply, fearing the answer.

 

“Ja, Prince. Our route of escape.” Reluctantly the Lord answered, tilting his chin downward.

 

It was this Aleksandr feared most. Would it be he that the Royal Capital of Karosgrad falls beneath? Centuries of his ancestors work, wars, reforms – all levelled in a single night's battle? He thought it couldn’t be so. But he couldn’t change reality.

 

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Aleksandr rose from his medical cot, his body still bearing the ache of his injuries, but he had to continue. Through the snow-covered streets of Karosgrad, he marched, his sword firmly in his grip as he travelled beneath the safety of the tournament ground tunnel where the eyes of Grand Champions stared down at him.

 

“I won't lose it.” He vowed to them, a promise he didn’t fully believe he could keep. 

 

Fire raged in the distance, billowing dark smoke into the sky. The echoes of battle cries and more clashing steel filled the tournament grounds – it felt quite normal to the Prince, an ironic factor which tugged a smile on his lips. 

 

In the midst of the turmoil, Aleksandr stood firm, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him. The once impregnable walls of Karosgrad were breached, and Mori’Quessir Legionnaires now walked the streets of his beloved city. The enemy forces surged forward, their relentless advance threatening to consume everything in their path. He watched as Nataliya Amador was dragged away by Lord Colborn – “but mea papej!” she yelled, desperately fighting against their hold, yet to no avail.

 

Soldiers around him loaded cannons on either side, preparing for a desperate last stand, yet Aleksandr – he felt at loss.

 

“Someone remind me. Which cities have fallen thus far to Mori?”

 

“Almost all of them.” A soldier called out.

 

“VYR HIGHNESS, VYR IN THE WAY.” – “Move, Prinzen!” – “CANNONS ARE LIT!” – “You need to move, Your Serene Highness!”

 

“Almost..” The Prince grumbled, a snicker slipping its way through at the irony.

 

Eventually, Aleksandr did move out of the way, and those cannon shots rang out in a crescendo of booms. Silence filled the air as soldiers awaited word from the Prince, some shocked, others curious. Though all were open ears.

 

“We’ve nie choice… place Karosgrad among them.” 

 

Truth struck him. The city had been breached. The forces of Haense were outnumbered and outmatched. With a heavy heart and a final glance at the besieged streets, Aleksandr made the decision that would shape the fate of the Haeseni. He raised his voice above the clamour, joining the command for the soldiers to fall back; to regroup and find a new path to live on. His words were met with a mixture of resignation and understanding. The soldiers, battered and weary, understood the reality of the situation. They knew that a strategic retreat was their best chance at regrouping before further casualties were claimed. 

 

Straggler cannons fired, their deafening roars punctuated the decision to retreat. The Haeseni forces began their orderly withdrawal, step by step, fighting a rearguard action to hold off the enemy as they fell back to a century old side-door in the walls that lead to the monastery. Person by person they escaped. Injured went out first, then women, then squires which had been held back, and finally the Prince and few of the Crow retinue. 

 

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Spoiler

 

 

Aleksandr shouldered the weight of his failure as a Haeseni, as a leader, as Prince, and the loss of the city and its legacy haunted his every thought. How could he reconcile his oath to protect his people with the bitter reality of their defeat?

 

The fall of Karosgrad was more than just the collapse of a city; it signalled the crumbling of Almaris itself. Karosgrad stood as the last bastion of descendant lines, the final stronghold against the encroaching Mori threat. With its walls breached and banner-standards replaced, the fall of this Capital would be felt in waves across the continent, extinguishing the already dwindled hope of resistance.

 

Yet even in the face of this overwhelming darkness, a glimmering chance of prosperity emerged. Aleksandr cast his sights ahead upon the walls of Savoy, riding horseback with Amaya and Gawyn behind him. These lands offered a silent promise of new beginnings in the beyond.

 

“What next, Aleks?” Asked Gawyn from atop Amaya’s lap, the boy so young he’d witnessed the rise and fall of greatness. 

 

Aleksandr, he had only one answer:

 

“We rebuild.”

 

Spoiler

HUGE ups to all the ST who hosted the event. was good fun.

wouldve posted sooner but i had a bit of an emergency. however, many people did help me in my first obligatory prince / king of haense POV blogpost. much inspiration was drawn from @Xarkly and others such as @critter, @sarahbarah, and @JuliusAakerlund were huge helps along the way.

@gusano too for motivational support.

thanks for the good rp everybody! :D

 

(all dialog in the post was said irp during the event which was neat to go back through)

 

[sarahbarah 5008]

Amaya rode atop the Prince’s steed, the young Gawyn sat within her lap. She pondered the future of their nation - the nation they would inherit, but sought to persist no matter what the future heralded.

[critter 2468]

Fabian Kortrevich was never meant to be a soldier. Too thin; too sick; too soft, down to his beating, loving heart.

 

And yet, fate.

 

He had fired and he had fought alongside better men. He had tended their wounded, sat soaked in their blood and murmuring unheard prayers. He had followed Amaya, a someday-Queen, as loyally as his own hunting-hounds once had. He had called to Baldrum Colborn with such glee - reporting that one of his sons would live, was healed, hoping to give the man one more reason to fight. 

 

Later, in Savoy, it would fall to Fabian to arrange Ser Baldrum's memorial. Later, in Savoy, it would be the same hands never meant to pack a cannon that would pass wood-scraps along the builder's line; that would till the soil for some small garden; that would stock pantry-shelves, and pass around candles.

 

Later, in Savoy, that which Aleksandr had foretold would begin. Slowly. In small ways. A cold bottle of Carrion. A driftwood Lorraine. Matters which felt more right, more natural, to the Kortrevich; means, however small in the grand shadow of the threat they faced, of rebuilding.

[ferdaboy 1551]

Gawyn Tiber's whining persisted as the Prince clumsily maneuvered the horse, failing to avoid the potholes and making the ride very much unenjoyable, all while his usual antics continued unabated.

[Deer__ 527]

An old soul returned amongst the Prince and his armies, features somber as he processed what the fall of Karosgrad really meant, not only for Haenseni folk, but his own a like. He would return to the district laid out for Elvenesse with his mind laden with thoughts of what was to come.

[GMRO 5245]

An old man watched from afar as that city burnt. He had poured his heart into that city, though all things must come to a close. He knew that his son and grandson would continue the flame, as their forebears had done before. The old king then rose his Carrion, pouring it out in honour of the city. “I hope that the letters will serve that boy well, he should know that there was nothing to be done. What will be, will be. His duty is to his people, not to some rubble.”  
 

Karl then resumed himself to drinking, watching the little prince he’d bounced in his arms grow into a king worthy of his kingdom.