The Battle of Middelbroke

[Vikenz 1162]

 

The Shame of Avistra, circa. 2034

 

 

 

“To Lord Altwegg,

 

If you are a true lord of this Empire and not merely a brigand cloaked in heraldry, then meet us upon the open field.

 

We await you in the fields of Middelbroke.

 

Signed, Roger of Bourdon”

 

 

---

 

The lands of Drusco were bustling, not with citizens but with the march of war, if one could call the slaughter which was to be had as such. Knights and footmen gathered in their thousands beneath the banner of the House Ashford de Rouen, answering the summons of the Margrave Drusco. Their forces, numbering some twenty-five thousand strong, culminated in the feared Druscan host, each man among them made strong and hardened from that war which saw humanity united. The men awaited in nigh perfect order within the seat of the Rouennais, Castle Waldemer, as their liege lord, Roger of Bourdon and his brother, Bohemond, counted their number, whilst their baseborn cousin, Hughes Ashes, outfitted them for the impending battle. And when at last, the sun broke before the towers of Castle Waldemer, when at last the Druscan host was made fit, the Lord Roger beckoned his men to ride forth.

 

So did twenty-five thousand riders descend from the mount crowned by the Castle Waldemer, their course set towards the fields of Middelbroke. As they rode, they jeered and jested, and sang with merry scorn of the craven Margrave Meili, he who led his men to certain doom. At their journey’s end awaited the subject of their derision, commanding a force of his own, one whose numbers could be likened to that of the Druscan host. Yet, herein ceased this likeness, for this frontier force of Ivoria, charged with the defense and stewardship of its northern border, was but twenty thousand peasants, clothed in ill-made and ill-fitting armor, donning swords that few among them knew how to use.  

 

The army came to a halt upon sighting the pitiful Avistran forces, all of whom stood ready to die for their vainglorious and foolish Lord, he who had once made a solemn vow to protect them, now sending them forth to die for the honor and glory of his own name. For but a moment, a silence stilled the fields of Middelbroke, as the Margraves regarded one another in solitude. At last, the Margrave Drusco raised the sword of his line, La Gloire Drusque, and, with a single gesture, loosed the red sun upon the fields of Middelbroke. Its light spilled not from the heavens, but rather from the charge which followed, as the rays of the red sun doused the fields anew in crimson.

 

What came to pass could scarcely be called a battle. The Avistran lines held out for but a single moment, then wavered, then broke, as the Druscan cavalry overwhelmed them. Roger and Bohemond led the charge. Alongside them rode Lucien de Brionnes and Killian Greye, cutting through swathes of the Avistran host. Whilst the trueborn brothers Rouen led the charge, the bastard of Rouen, Hughes Ashes, moved with the grim efficiency, akin to a daemon. But a blur amidst the terrified ranks of Avistra, he tore through some four-hundred men so unfortunate as to have crossed his path with his argentum blade, Nightfall. By the time the Druscan infantry had taken to the battlefield, the fields of Middelbroke were painted red, littered with corpses bearing the blue and white standard of Avistra. Not a single man of the Druscan host was felled in the battle. Their ranks stood unbroken and triumphant while the Margrave Avistra, undone and dishonored, flew back to Castle Avian with broken wings, there to await what would surely be his ruin.

 

 

 

Spoiler

Thank you to everyone that showed up and the Avistrans for being willing to take on fights like these.

And Mojanghunter for the writing!

 

 

[nunlover 579]

Lucien de Brionnes signs the lorraine for the fallen Avistrians.

[Boom_steel 538]

After the battle, the young soldier Killian wiped the blood from his armor. “GOD be with the fighting men of Avistra.”

[HogoBojo 4725]

“A mighty victory for the Margrave to be certain— to lead that many men into battle, and for not one to fall is a feat in itself.” Hogmund would murmur to his son Isaak as word of the outcome spread far and wide throughout the land. 

[amyselia 2962]

The Lady Drusco watched the battle from high upon the cliffs of Middelbroke atop a quivering steed, the sun's piercing sharp rays of white bathing steel helmets and swords with its glow, relief to the eyes futile below the canopy of her pale hand. Her breath was bated in the chest, every Avistran man brought to heel a new tension until at last, the battle was done, and her body melted; the sigh that left her was profound, yet hollow, for it stood for death and blood, even as her heart thrummed in exultation.

 

"Drusco rises." The Margravine spoke with the sun's smile on thin lips.

[mojanghunter 566]

Duty and war had long detained Joseph of Österland to the confines of Castle Waldemer, where he remained a guest for the passing of several moons. To while away his days, the Lord oft did ascend the castle’s parapets and cast his gaze across the breadth of the Midden, spending long hours in quiet contemplation. So did he, amidst one such idle vigil, happen upon the sight of the Druscan host riding out toward the fields of Middelbroke, to meet the Avistran host in battle. Though it could scarce be said that Joseph bore any fondness for the Lord Roger, whose disagreeable temper and ruthless manner had long preturbed him, his weathered features pulled into a smile still, for there was, in the Rouennais, a certain boldness which Joseph, for all his reservations, could not help but find admirable.

[subatomic 1497]

Within the hallowed hall of Drusco, Hughes found his accustomed seating, his gaze drawn almost instinctively to the massive portrait that dominated the nearby wall. It depicted his father, Richold, frozen in the grim glory of the Slaughter of Westmark, his hand, a veritable extension of his will, gripping the legendary blade, La Gloire Drusque.    Hughes then shifted his focus, turning to the very blade at his own hip, its polished surface reflecting not merely his visage, but the chilling realization that he, too, was inexorably treading the blood-soaked path of a true warmonger.

[MonteGiant 891]

Tancredi would stand over the corpses of his foes, recounting especially how he took down his own man in what seemed like single combat. A red malais would surround the bodies, and he smiles at the fact that none fallen are his companions. He wipes the blade from his sword, and mounts his steed towards Burgundy. This calls for Celebration!