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THE GRAND COVENANT: ROLL OF BANNERS


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Flemius inspects the cannons and other siege cannons after the battle of Drusco, taking note which need repair and which may continue to serve as is in the battles ahead! 

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29 minutes ago, Xarkly said:

VICEROY CESAR DE PELEAR

Vicente Murietta goes back to babysitting his kids, happy to know the rightful title of his Liege was placed upon the paper. He then gives a cheer to the Covenant and its victorious campaign thus far! He pledges to be at the next siege, since he missed the last.

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The aging Duke Viktor 'Daemonsteel' swore he could still smell that overbearing stench of sulphur and steam and saltpetre even now, as he set to work saddling newly broken warhorses, and busying himself with the ledgers of the Northern Thunder's ammunition logistics alongside the Patriarch. It was bothersome work, and tiring, but rewarding to spy these leisure manors peeled away by the fruits of his labour. 

 

He recalled, though. There could be no rest until the fight was finished. He and his Brothers would continue till that end, no matter the cost in blood. Their honoured dead deserved no less than victory.

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Queen Amaya, the White Flame, distributes various pink capes to the members of the Rosen Banner.

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From upon the Fields of Middelan, Tiber had set his gaze upon the devastation of Veletz - plumes of smoke dotting the landscape, castles ruined, hamlets laid to waste. The Elf of nigh seven centuries took another drag on his cigarette, his helm uncharacteristically removed in doing so and puffed out the smoke into the open sky. He had seen these sights countless times before, so much so that the memories now blended together in an addled amalgamation of what his mind struggled to conjure up in his aging.

 

As he tapped away the ash, his pondering strayed; What was he fighting for? Ultimately, the lives of his human compatriots, their tribulations, ambitions, determination, meant little to the Elder Elf, for he would outlive them well over a couple more centuries - they were like children toying with flames they had no control over, like every other before them. Tiber had once cautioned that Mankind had degraded far too much to be salvaged, but, once in a while, stars align, and the passion of Mankind was revived. This is what endeared the Elf to these wildly ambitious beings, who so threw themselves into life with such reckless abandonment, and sought to seize their own destinies with unmatched ferocity, this is what kept the Elf in close ranks with the race of Men, instead of his lackluster brethren. A smile broke then as he scrubbed away his finished cigarette into the ruined stoneworks of Drusco beneath him, flicking it off into the chasm below.

 

With such processes of war having become a routine to him now, Tiber took up the BANNERS OF THE GRYPHON AND THE YACHTMEN, slaying his way through those who would hinder the birth of a new order. The possibilities to emerge from this war, what could be, what is to be, were endless, Aevos, and thus the world would be reshaped in a new image dictated by the victors. These events flared the embers of curiosity within the Elf and thus the purpose of his existence. He had no desire to idle away, and since took up the sword in order to extend the Tapestry with new chapters of history.

 

Having now concluded his time sufficiently wasted in mediation, Tiber picked himself up, brushed away the debris that caught onto his uniform, and made his way to his horse - riding off to regroup with General Ireheart and General Mareno as they pushed deeper into the territories of Veletz.

 

Another year, another battle, another victory - one step closer to a new world.

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The acolyte of the priesthood of the Owynssiah labored hard to build and bless and operate the great guns of the unit, but even then did the manufactory capacity of their forges extend only as far as the virtuous laborers could toil alongside the priests and neophytes of the Exalted of War. In truth, the guns were mighty, and their ammunition strong, blessed by the saints and martyrs and the fire of god filled their barrels. Truly a sanctified offering upon the altar of war. Yet there was plainly something amiss... 

 

It is plain that those forces they fought alongside was riddled with iniquity. 'Yactmen'. Ferrymen by any other name. Truly a cursed bunch. Made anathema by word of the holy pope, and for good reason. In the words of St Evaristus in his epigraphs. 'To fight alongside the impure, is the same as not fighting the impure at all'. Truly. The only repentance that can be offered for these sins is upon the penitence of toil. More labor... MORE PRODUCTION. 

 

The temple of manufacture cannot rise soon enough. The Great Work is unceasing. Godan save our souls for our impure deeds. Through the fire of our blessed forges may we be saved from sin. 

 

Amen. 

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3 hours ago, Xarkly said:

Wylein would perch himself atop the cannon lined cliff edge, he tosses a stone into the gorge below before lighting up his pipe. He thinks to himself "One task is over yet the work isn't finished, but I may rest for now..." He would blow rings out toward the ruins of Drusco before they where swept into the wind.

 

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Pale sunlight trickled through the meagre parting of the thick drapes, dancing across the wooden floors adorn with a rug, worn from use, and several toys disregarded by their infant owners. Soldiers carved from oak, and patriotically painted black and yellow, had been arranged in a nonsensical manner beside their toppled steeds. The scene of this miniature retinue provoked a subtle laughter from the Dame as she scooped up a plush bear from the disarray of toys and delivered it to one of her sleeping babes, who had stirred upon the arrival of the morn. Another, one of three, stirred in his crib - threatening to wail, and wake his siblings, until granted the attention of his dotting mother, who was content to oblige.
"My Lady." A matured voice hollered in a half-whisper. "Another missive has arrived." The nursery door clicked open, revealing the Valkonen housekeeper who extended a parchment that still possessed the sent of freshly pressed ink.
"Spasiba, Agafa." The Baroness returned with a sleep-infested smile, before promptly plucking the missive from the elderly woman's grasp. Rosalind pored over the contents of the missive, whilst simultaneously rocking her infant son - too possessed by drowsiness to seize whatever it was that had consumed his mother's attention. Crows shattered the otherwise peaceful atmosphere, their caws echoed through the frost-ridden streets of Valdev, provoking the Dame to recall the memories associated with the parchment at hand: blood-soaked fields, cannon fire, groans of the dying and namely the silence of the dead - always broken by crows, the emblem of her Kongzem, bound to the battlefield as she was and similarly desperate to fulfil a hunger.
"Vy have never known a time of peace." She uttered from her trance, rescued from the true depths of her thoughts by the coo of her children. "But vy will. Vy will know spring, summer and the joys of humanity, relishing their freedom. Vy will niet know tryanny, niet as Ich have. Know that the world has fought for vy, our children, for vyr futures."
Only now had she realised the vulnerability in her voice as she lay her heir in his crib, planting a kiss upon his brow as he settled. Similar attentions were deliver to her second son, still grasping his tattered bear, and daughter who was angelic in nature since her birth and had not once roused.

"Krusae Zwy Kongzem..."

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