THE RAZING OF WINBURGH

[Mio 3771]

THE RAZING OF WINBURGH

 

Spoiler

 

 

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Mitya carried the King of Haense slowly up the hill.

 

The rolling green hues of the Heartlands were nothing like the bleak skies and jagged terrain of the north, and yet it had become familiar to Aleksandr all the same. That notion was a disquieting one - surely these gentle lands, where the sunlight held warmth and the rain did not freeze, should be foreign to him–

 

And yet they were not.

 

Too many years, he told himself as he trotted Mitya past a copse of oaks, their branches bearing red-yellow canopies as autumn set in. Too many years in the east. It had been so long since the war’s maiden battle amidst the namesake stones of Whitespire, where Orc and Veletzian blood ran in rivulets between the cobblestones, and longer still since he first sensed this great war looming on the horizon, but it had all passed in a blur. Breakwater, Brasca, Westmark, Hippo’s Gorge, Stassion, and Drusco all mingled into one indistinguishable battle in Aleksandr’s head, marked by ceaseless charges and endless melees. 

 

That, too, felt wrong. Battle should never feel so normal to a man.

 

Perhaps most unsettling of all, though, was that these wars were not merely burnt into Aleksandr’s being, but that of his bloodline. His father had fought these wars. His grandfather had fought these battles. His great-grandfather had fought these struggles. He had always known that, but Aleksandr thought that he would be the one to break that cycle -- while his forebears had won their wars, they had always broken bread with their foe and returned north, only for that foe to strike back when the next generation assumed their thrones. 

 

When he read of his ancestors’ conquests as a young man, Aleksandr wondered why they never had the will to break the cycle themselves - to forego the brief reprieve of peace, and make it so that their historic foes would never pass their torch to another. 

 

But he understood now. 

 

As the wind gusted, stirring his cloak behind him and his locks around his crown, Aleksandr closed his eyes. He had climbed a mountain of corpses to scale the walls of Breakwater, greased the cogs of his artillery with the blood of the vanquished at Brasca, and led the Covenant to victory at Hippo’s Gorge on a road paved by hopeful sacrifice. He understood, now - he understood what only someone who wore a crown, what only someone who commanded a thousand banners with ten-thousand men, could ever understand. 

 

His gloves creaked as he gripped Mitya’s reins, and the stallion paused; it cocked its head backwards, and idly nuzzled Aleksandr’s hands. It is no wonder they never endured this path. Unbidden, memories flashed in his head of burgundy-clad bodies hanging from tree branches. Few men … few men could ever endure this. He felt the burn in his throat when he had roared for the Covenant infantry to follow at his heels, and sunder the Veletzian lines. This weight could never be borne … not forever. 

 

Slowly, he inhaled. Not forever. His eyes slid open, and shimmered with resolve. But a while longer is all I need. He flicked Mitya’s reins, and started up the hill once more.

 

No cycle went forever unbroken, but he had come closer than most - he had walked farther down the path than any monarch had in centuries. As the whistle of the autumn wind grew louder as he neared the hilltop, he drew what comfort he could from knowing that greater destruction might lead to some greater peace. He had no choice but to believe that. 

 

Aleksandr summited the hill finally. Between him and an abandoned Winburgh stretched an empty plain, trees sparsely giving cover to some areas. A decade ago he had dreamed this stretch would be one filled with battle and sacrifice, yet alas – it was a straight path without contest. He mustered a smile; this was it. He raised his sword skyward, briefly glancing behind him. The journey which had brought him here was one drenched in blood, the Covenant had crossed rivers and surmounted great heights, faced great loss and caused greater, in this moment ahead was all that was needed to face now.

 

And so the sword was brought down.

 

In the distance, in the ground – all that could be heard and felt was the grinding of wheels and the stomping of hooves nearing. The Grand Covenant would bring down Winburgh, this war – this age of terror, would be razed to ash.

 

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[!] The following letter would be addressed toward all within any and all ranks of the Covenant.

 

“‘LO, SOLDIER OF THE COVENANT,

 

May the peace and prosperity brought upon you be well, the Grand Covenant brings forth a final calling. The Winburgh Proclamation has ushered peace between the realm; our goal has been fulfilled, and you, a monumental part of history. You have endured war, your father and mother would have endured war – their fathers and mothers before them! War has plagued our continent, yet this war is no longer.

 

Rally together yet again, brothers and sisters in arms to bring a final end to this. As per the Winburgh Proclamation it is to be seen that the city of Winburgh be demolished and a monument erected. Surveyors have trotted the lands North to South, East to West, and deemed it certain that no citizen remains within the annexed territory any longer.

 

The Annexed City of Winburgh shall be RAZED in three months and you, called to partake. Marching orders shall be provided to you by your respective commanders and Majesty’s. 

 

Let the ruins of Winburgh bear witness: where we walk, enemies bow.

 

Signed,

The Covenant"

 

Spoiler

More info in RP

 

[MadOne 3387]

"Let us hope that the Midlands could heal after the monument of that war had been destroyed, that men can begin to heal and forgive each other." uttered the Pontiff-Elect, Brandt as he signed the Lorraine upon his body.

[tilly 3672]

“I’ll bring the marshmallows.” Renilde slaves over the stove to make the perfect treat for the giant bonfire. 

[ContestedSnow 778]

"The last step on this road. Dobry." 

 

The Duke of Vidaus lifted a hand to rub at his brow as he set the notice aside. He looked out the glazed window of his ducal quarters, gazing over the walls of Morteskvan, and further to the northern lake and far-off mountain peaks. It was a long, long path to have reached this far.

[Laeonathan 3970]

Vasyl Otto Sarkozic seemed rather confused on the Kings notion to burn an already razed town, "Has nobody told him? It appears not..."

 

"Odd. I guess you could build it up again and raze it again?"