27 R.R. | THE RED CORONATION

[M1919 2298]

Spoiler

 

 

 

FOEDUS VELEC

In the year 27 of the Age of Rights and the Age of Reckoning

 

 

☩ ☩ ☩

 

"Next time ask for an invite,"

- a letter penned by Queen Sybille to Sir Gaspard, following the abandonment of her troops during her coronation.

 

 

 

“Gaspard, why did you charge?”

“They were so few, yet I was one, Gehr.”

“But why? Are you the Bull of Middelan?”

 

Leadership. What does that word even mean?

 

Some might say that leadership is a post to which they are entitled by blood. Those who scrape for the mantle of nobility throughout the Midlands chatter amongst themselves in pubs or marble-cast halls that God ordains their existence alone to be noble. Those with Highlander heritage will cling to the edge of their barren wastes and frigid tundras while proclaiming their worship of ferns and animals to be likewise just. 

 

The Lodenlanders will tell you that merit breeds prestigious posts for honorable men. By GOD’s calling, a man is harkened forth to grasp that molen crown from its ruinous hearth. Yet, he proclaims himself a King of Naught. He does not forgo his humility to try and elevate himself to be the most favored tool of his devastating foes: titleage and peerage. 

Instead, the Lodenlander is the most favored equalizing force of the realms, A vehicle not for the State or the Aristocracy but for the defense of Venerable Veletz instead. What good is a peerage when your city is in decay? And what good are your worthless enumerated titles when they speak little of your candor and good deeds?

 

“Your dreams of enchanted halls,” one such Seer had cautioned once. “Your nightmares of pristine marbles enthralling the heart of your home.”

 

What had this come to mean? What had that wise woman’s mentorship been meant to serve? It was no scolding or harsh beat of a paddle; it was the inevitable realization of where some thirdborn son would find himself. Where a Cyclops would gaze or where the Bull would charge into.

 

The acts of Man curated destiny, no matter how shameful or virtuous he may be. Fate was the ink to that quill, for it was in GOD’s realm that this was all made manifest. It was in GOD’s dominion that these echoes of eternity were forged. 

 

So, why? Why is it that the most significant opposition ever faced by mortals in recent history numbered so greatly, yet their honor and willingness to fight dwindled to such fewer ounces over a mere handful of battles? 

 

Men stormed over walls, and Uruks clambered through windows and gates with harsh steps that roared like thunder and battering rams. Burgundy and green thrashed so many who were under the thrall of their decadent masters, soldiers who moved not to defend their country but to steal that of a people far less numerous. Even when they had numbered so few, the enemy found themselves quashed physically by the startling resilience of Gaspard’s host of Men and Orcs alike, bound in their shared values of honor and fraternity. It is such a recurring theme, a broken lapse in the hourglass spun by the vast grains of sand. Gore spilled out into chambers meant to be so blessed and sacred, so pristine and destined to be enchanted. Yet, where had their leaders gone? 

 

Where did those blessed sovereigns, those sacred priests - the liars that strung along the fools and manipulated them - end up? Countless peasants, soldiers, and lower-end peers were suffering and dying. Yet, the enemy leadership would retreat into their tunnels before impressing more of their untrained masses into service for a cause that mattered little to them. King Aleksandr once did that to his band of sixty. Others had performed it often throughout the battles held, and the slogs that endured were punctuated by defeat after defeat when their host was forced to contend against weathered warriors and resilient men, women, and children who refused to allow for their homeland to be exterminated by would-be Imperialist powers under the thrall of the Haeseni.  

 

Yet none such displays were seen from Uurk of Man on this bloody eve. Synchronous movements and strikes done in an orderly session were the seldom-learned lessons from every loss and victory. Utterances of peace made at the expense of lives from their ranks fell onto angered ears at the disregard for honor and life.

 

The result of it all was a slaughter. The enemy leadership, an uncrowned queen, and a conniving Pontif fled into tunnels and corridors yet unseen. Men with no stake in the fight encouraged boys as young as twelve to take up arms to defend their land. At the same time, they skulked in corners and withdrew their estranged souls into the damp barrows of cravens to evade the responsibility of the failed genocidal war they sought to wage upon the Veletzians. 

 

Minutes later, the final man was cut through by a man-at-arms in a dented kettlehelm, and commands were given out to acquire prisoners from among the dead. A halfling dubbed Sugarfoot kicked over the mangled remains of eight men who had blocked the windows with their bodies, quite literally trampling on one another in a vain effort to escape the offense. The rest were not to be spared. The sounds of steel dancing against it all could be heard, with a letter of regret found from the corpse of a Hyspian. All the same, the Ferryman aen Sov feigned taking a prisoner before skewering him through the carotid artery with a lance before uttering: “There shall be no mercy for you who displace peoples who are not of your own.”

 

Two prisoners were taken: one being a boy made to charge and die for his sovereign who fled, and the other being a noblewoman from Petra. After felling some three ill-fated coalition soldiers, Ruben found Sir Philip Laurent and Meira in the fray. They had captured a member of the House Temesch. The bastard guided them outside of the city and sent them to the town of Winburgh. There, they hosted the guests and entertained some simple dialogue. Somewhere in the conversation, it was made known that the captive had a propensity for sewing. The boy now found himself adorned with a burgundy beret as a simple consequence of the raid and to add to the growing pile of knit spoils from the war.

 

Her coronation was ruined, and the interiors were stained with sinful embellishments of their own. Why bother with the war, with the threats of massacring whole towns to the man, if it is nothing more than a shield made from rotten barley? Why take up arms in a false cause and warrant themselves to be marked as a target for the nearest archer? No, these were no queens and kings. These were children who played at war. Despite having countless soldiers and the necessary requisitions to wage their war in tandem, the Coalition stood as a disunified body that moved like a shambling gardensnake after decapitation by a planter’s rake. 

 

Never the matter. Invitations to solutions had been presented to all from those of The Alliance, and yet, in the name of the Blackguard, they have all been disregarded into the flames of an ever-molten hearth. War was to be had, yet the never-closing channel of parlay kept itself open.

 

“Who else, Gehr, but me?”

 

Spoiler

 

[Rig 17580]

The Ferryman aen Sov grins after the battle.

[OP bandamont 901]

"Classic" said Istvan, rolling up a cigarette, sitting in the keep of Veletz's Capital, laughing and discussing the battle with his comrades.

[Werew0lf 24180]

King Sugarfoot II clambered up the ladder from behind the Church, and hopped in through the window. With his shortsword, and pure fury and rage in his eyes, the man began to slaughter a number of soldiers in his path - humans, elves, and dwarves alike. At the end of the fight, he seated himself upon eight corpses, using his teal bandana to clean the bloodied weapon. "Wooph,"

[Zaerie 3747]

Kirsa Temesch, "The Hat-Maker", smiled to herself as her sewing was appreciated. "I hope he likes the hat and puts it to good use. I'm proud of that thing." She'd bob her head as she hummed and thought of the day, and all the amazing sights she saw from the back of the horse on her way to Veletz.

[Creator_Alan 232]

Sir Ethan had just crushed the wind pipe of a Balian knight he had dragged through the window. He stopped mid fight. It was time for a juice break. As the battle waged on around him he pulled out a tiny juice box gifted to him by none other than Lady Brasca. He lifted the straw to his mouth and stuck the tiny tube into a hole in his visor. Across the city the loud slurping of a juice box could be heard. The old knight was very content with his current situation. Finally he returned the juice box to his satchel forgetting to remove the straw from his helmet where it remained for the duration of the fight "No, this is OUR peace!" He shouted as he gave chase within the church

[growingivy 3382]

The youngest Sarkozic girl laments; for she had wished to go to Balian in attempts to make friends with the local children- but alas, she could not be friend to those who were the children of cowards.

[Orlanth 4667]

Calias read the message far from home. He hoped that the coalition would finally take the hint. 

[HurferDurfer1 2978]

Mired in muck and misery, morose man Belie makes his way homeward after the Veletzian forces failed to find him. Slyer then a rat.

[Aeus 2653]

Adriel's gilded armor shone brightly under the harsh rays of the sun that bore over the sprawling wheat fields of Veletz. The copper-toned Acaelanite knelt at his shrine to el'oem el'asiol'ehya, the one and only God as he presented his sword still stained with the blood of the invaders. "Iyul’maele asiol oem Acaelan ito kae’leh. . ." The elf started his prayer with the words of his ancestors. "Give me the strength el'oem to drive out the invaders and beat them back each and every time. Guide my blade like you did sil Malin’leh in his crusade against the Deceiver and bring us to victory."

[FireAGN 1207]

The unnamed boy from Balian who was captured read through the missive with a blank expression. Seeing the announcement of the captured Lady's House, the youngest son of d'Arkent was glad he never spoke of his surname to his captors. He knew it would be a stain on his family's name. Afterall, the twelve year old soldier did fail at not being captured. 

[BaconAvengerII 117]

"Peace was always an option."

Chono sets a few forms aside as they go through Steward Logs for Winburgh.

"One cannot shake hands with a closed fist. I wish those who label me 'enemy' would see this."

[JustAngel69 513]

Sir Philip mournfully looked back on the warm sands of Balian as their forces marched away. "Ill be back... Hopefully with a pina colada next time." 

[kuerbis 3802]

Margaret smiled upon hearing about the resounding victory.

"What - they even destroyed the balianite throne? That must've hit them hard!"

[Smmer 2441]

Perched upon the churches rooftop a singular Zar'ei observed the onslaught, ever watchful eyes alight with curiosity and joy. The Crow had been following the war closely on all sides. Showing up during the middle or end as she made use of the corpses littering the field after each clash, dragging the deceased back for her infernal siblings. Climbing down after the raiding party had left to walk upon the freshly sprawled out bodies, humming to herself with talons dragging across the stone grounds "They're only Descendants..." pausing only to bend down slicing and cutting apart varying body parts to throw into a wagon making haste before the guards and queen that had fled made their way back, listening to the voices of blood trickling down from the still warm corpses, continuing her song "They're only descendants Standing still, Doomed to live pushing boulders uphill, Only descendants, after all, so they give and they take, Hoping someone will help break their fall..." satisfied with her haul the figure would begin her trek back home, her wagon filled with unidentified fallen soldiers continuing her song as she walked.

 

@_Leyd