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The Sun over Middelbroke

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Vikenz

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The township of Wing’s Crest, circa. 2029

 

An invite to Middelbroke

 

Beneath the high arches of Castle Waldemer, the dim orange hue of the evening sun poured across the stone floor like spilt wine. Lord Roger Rouen stood beside the hearth, a golden chalice in hand, when the great oaken doors creaked open and his young brother Bohemond strode in, mud clicked, sweat drenched, and still clad in his riding gear. Roger lofted a brow but said naught, letting the silence carry its weight till Bohemond, breath still heavy, cast down his glove upon the table.

 

“They've emptied the village,” Bohemond muttered, pulling the damp cowl from his brow. “Not a soul from Wings Crest to Göttenhal, fields scorched. Their encampments have been toppled. They've taken to the woods… the deep Rychwald… where no proper army can tread without bleeding for it.” He looked up then, his face half-shadowed by the firelight that casted itself upon his features. “It's no longer war, Roger. It's a hunt.”

 

Roger's jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to the valley below and unto the fields of Middelbroke, where the sun drowned itself behind the pine-covered ridges. “Then let them come as beasts,” He said, with plain disposition. “Let them dig holes and live like foxes among the forest. They shall tire from their games soon enough.” The Marcher-Lord stepped forth then, making for the map splayed across the table, digits tracing the winding edge of the forest to the ruins of Veletz. “We shall bait them out, and offer them an exchange they cannot refuse.”


 

Spoiler

Battle on Sunday 7 EST @Javert
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Bohemond quit his brother’s chamber, yet still mud clicked, sweat drenched, and still clad in his riding gear, making swift passage for the armory of Castle Waldemer. There, he cast his gaze upon the breastplates which adorned upon the wall, noting each, that every man might be duly furnished for the battle to come.

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*Vyke Ashford lends his sword to the Lord of Drusco´s cause.

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