THE EIGHTEEN

[Vikenz 1162]

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

 

“Here, I stand before you, to also reprimand your men. The war is considered over, you have lost. I am not prolonging this dribbly battle,” the imperial prince murmured, “Bring out the Druscan men who committed this murder, so that they may be executed.”

 

“If you are unwilling, just say, and we can start this show,” Hadrian's eyes undulate, gently brushing the mane of his horse. “I am not here for a debate, and I am sure you, too, are not here for one either.”

 

“The men,” the imperial prince commanded.

 

“Lucien.” He barked from underneath his helm.

 

Hadrian Tiberias croaked his gaze in the direction of Lucien.

Roger casted a glance over his men, and his eyes upon the Imperials, and lastly to Lucien. He then placed a hand before Luciens' chest, “Blood for Ashford. I wish you fortune in the wars to come. As for me, I shall meet my fate within my keep.

 

---

 

No sooner had the Archduke spoken did he withdraw to his keep, where the last of his men readied themselves for the battle to come. To the untrained eye, their cause was a lost one. A meager eighteen hundred men bore still the cross of the Vydric, the tattered remnant of the Druscan host which had been bled dry at the Battle of Lizard’s Run. And their losses had stripped them of more than men. Depleted of arrows, blades, and mail, the Druscans stood a host in name alone. Against them marched the might of the Empire, fourfold in number, drawn from a score of Imperial vassals. And yet, what the Druscans lacked in numbers, they bore in resolve and discipline, tempered in the Battle of the Sunset, the Storming of Cleves, the Sacking of Waldemer, and the Battle of Lizard’s Run. There had they learned of the Empire’s treachery: the Emperor’s blades were not the keepers of peace, but instruments of slaughter, for soldiers clad in Imperial burgundy cut down dozens of Druscans upon the open fields of Westmark. So did those who remained now stand with the certainty of men prepared for death, hungering for vengeance, their blades eager to sate such an appetite. Comparatively, the Imperial Host, though great in number, was a patchwork of stray Imperial guards and vassal levies, nigh all among them green men untested upon the battlefield. 

 

The Druscans were granted but a few short minutes to gather themselves whilst the Imperial host organized for the assault. At their head would lead Roger, dressed as one of their own, a soldier among soldiers, his rank betrayed only by the crown upon his helm. Arrayed so, the Druscans stood ready whence the Prince Hadrian at last voiced his commands, ordering the Imperials to scale the northern walls. Lacking the proper engines of war, the Crown Prince had chosen speed over patience, eager to bring an end to this conflict. His rashness would cost him greatly. Drawn inside by a feigned retreat, great swathes of the Imperial host found the gates barred fast behind them, and in the courtyard of Waldemer, they were hewn apart, slaughtered within the palace grounds. Those not trapped within the courtyard fared no better, as arrows rained down from the Waldemer’s parapets upon them. 

 

Having yet to fell so much as a single Druscan, the Crown Prince gave the order to fall back and reform the line, to ready the Imperials for another assault. The next advance was to be led by the Tar of Numendil, and once the ranks were redressed, a second charge loosed upon the walls of Waldemer. Roger led the Druscans still, who greeted the Imperials with steel. And upon the ramparts of Castle Waldemer, he came upon the Tar. Upon his Adunian counterpart Roger brought down his carbarum blade, only for it to be turned aside by a blade of the same make, wielded by the Tar. This exchange of blows would last some considerable time, before at last, though wearied and bearing still the wounds of Westmark, Roger’s blade drove deep into the Tar’s calf. So was yet another retreat called, as the Imperials whisked the Tar away, lest Roger’s blade more fatally find him elsewhere.

 

By now, scores of Imperials had fallen in the fruitless assaults upon Waldemer. Over a third of the host was slain, with more yet deserting into the woods to the north. Perhaps now chastened by his blunders, the Crown Prince set his scouts to ride the circuit of walls in search of some breaching point; at last they came upon a breach in one of the northernmost towers. Seeing his chance, the Prince drove a contingent ahead, to ladder into the Castle. As the Imperials swarmed the tower, the few Druscans holding the tower shouted for aid to those still butchering stragglers in the courtyard. They came at once, steel slick with blood, and met the climbers on the ladders. The fight was desperate, and close-run, but in the end, the invaders were thrown back, though only just.

 

Despite all expectation, the Druscans had held their ground, but the fight grew only more desperate with each passing hour, as what few resources the Druscans had to them dwindled down. Roger, whether haughty from his unlikely performance or desperate to bring the fighting to a swift end, pressed for a counterstroke, stripping the northern tower of its garrison. It was the opening the Imperials needed. The remainder of the Imperial host poured through and at last, the remainder of the Druscans were all cut down, save their commanders. Roger himself had been cast from the tower, his leg shattering in the fall, and all he could do was look up as the Empire’s banner rose over Waldemer.

 

---

 

  

The details of the battle would provide much for Roger to think upon, as he and his household were swept towards the capital. Could victory have been his had he not ordered that final, fatal charge? If victory had come, would it have mattered? Such thoughts were fleeting, for the capital drew nearer upon the horizon, and before long he was thrust in the great hall, to stand before the Emperor’s sons, his left and right hands in his absence.

 

Another man might have cowered to be faced with the Empire’s wroth. Roger was no such man. And so when that demand was laid plainly before him, to render his knee in fealty and swear again, his answer did not come swiftly. Fear gnawed at him, yes, if even it did not show. It was fear for his lady wife, for his young son and daughter, for the people who bore his banner. Yet he bore another fear too, a deeper one: fear of a soul forsworn, left to linger and rot in the void. Between his Emperor and his God, it was made apparent he could no longer serve both. One oath was to be broken with his answer, and he had long weighed which.

 

At last, he raised his voice, made certain from his contemplation, and spoke the same words of Jon Renault before him, those which he delivered before Philip the Tyrant:

 

“I bow to no man but GOD.” 

And so too did he share in Jon Renault’s doom. In the Emperor’s hall, he was hewn down,  as his knights gave their last cry: “Blood for Ashford”. His death bought neither land nor crown, but the passage of his soul into the Seven Skies. And in that death, his defiance rang louder than any victory.

 

 

 

 

	Arnaud of Drusco
	Geordie of Houndsden
	Renaud of Greye
	Lucien of Brionnes
	Michael of Zenorein
	Kerescen of Basarab
	Imre of Drusco
	Charles of Drusco
	Drolzu’Gorkil
	Leofric of Drusco
	Fulbert of Clare
	John of Orange
	Jon of Virdain
	Drogo of Valognes
	Tobias of Staunton
	Economos of Valdev

 

[Radzig 747]

Geoffrey did not flinch when Roger fell, nor when the Imperials jeered, for he knew that to weep was to give them mastery over his spirit. “I will not forget,” he murmured, low enough that only the night heard him. “Not him, nor what was done."

[Twodiks 597]

Spoiler

 

Pate Haddle sobs.

[mojanghunter 566]

Hewn down within the Castle Waldemer, CHARLES was felled a common soldier. A man of common mould and means, his death bore no great account, for as simply as he lived, so simply did he perish. Yet would his name endure, enshrined in song forevermore.

 

 

Edited September 8, 2025 by mojanghunter

[woke 1157]

Leofric cried a river, for his name now mentioned in this forum post

[subatomic 1497]

R

[Pancakehz 2279]

Tobias, the last Staunton, lay in a pool of his own blood. He stared at the ceiling of the keep he had so valiantly defended against those he considered oppressors. Truly a fitting end for a Staunton. 

[ErosTea 1084]

Edward's legs swayed as he reached for the nearest post within the paneled hall of his chambers.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Along the walls stood crates, stacked and bolted with crude iron nails, and great oaken chests that guarded the treasures he had gathered through his years in God's grace. Among his troves, he uncovered an old gambeson, its woolen coat long stripped of the deep purpur hues it once bore, alongside trinkets of war decorated with blood. Deeper within the chest at his bedside, his ailing hands lifted a pin. The small piece of shining metal, a memento of a captain who had served in his name, still caught the pooling light streaming through the tall windows of Morvelyn's highest peak.
 

He turned the pin slowly, tracing a finger along each groove that wound around its frame. The image of a boy standing stoutly behind his Rouennais father stirred. Edward’s ashen eyes narrowed, his faltering mind betraying him. The image of young Roger, not yet eighteen summers, settled heavily upon him. As his hand passed once more over the pin, he imagined the boy’s head severed, his body shortened beneath the father he had towered above. A dry chuckle slipped from Edward’s lips, only to wither as he pressed a hand to his mouth. The pin slipped from his grasp, and with it the memory died.

[Wavey 2568]

The Alstion of Zenorein bowed to no man but for Roger and John, he'd give his life. Thus, when the last Druscans were overrun he held his ground for as long as he could until a blade met his heart. He laid there in his own pool of blood as he drew his final breath upon the rooftops of Castle Waldemar with a smile. 

[Nestro_Miner 589]

A wandering Kalenz found himself lost, no home or family, war was such a casualty indeed however if the call to arms would ever be heard, you'd find this noble elf at the forefront of it all ready to lay his life once more.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Even a year onward from that fateful last stand, Julia still recalled that brief moment - catching the Archduke upon the stairwell of Castle Waldemer amidst the assault, the lady-in-wait stood diligently beside his wife Rosceline. He had bid his bride to flee and cut from her a lock of raven-black hair. It was the token stolen by a man who knew that his fate had been sealed.

 

She found herself thinking of them often now, as she kept vigil over what remained of that slain Archduchess. The Ulyssan had not come to love them, or even deeply care for them. But they held something that many others among Humanity's great throng lacked - integrity.

 

Pale, cold eyes passed over that silver band, bearing an engraved dedication to the lost Druscan heir named Geoffrey. She knew, someday, she would see that token returned to him - a symbol of who he came from.

[OP bandamont 901]

Arnaud gave  a final, fleeting cry for his liege: “Blood for Ashford!”,  he bellowed, before Adunian steel hacked into the back of his neck. The man was dead upon impact, but died loyal to Drusco and GOD.

[MailC3p 2402]

Ser Alexander 'The Runner' of Avistra stood upon the bridge of Waldemar. This was a sight he was used to, baring down upon an enemy in a fort, hopeless to see any true fighting, especially that of Druscans. His liege lord, Ser Meili breaking his feudal pact with the Archduke of Drusco. Just moments ago, he had been one of the few trapped within the gates of Waldemar; hopelessly fighting a horde of Drucans as his back was pushed against a wall of iron bars. As the Druscans poured down upon him, and yet they retreated back into their keep, he knew it was only a matter of time before they would break his defenses.

 

Then, he ran.

 

Through the doors of the Druscan gate, he caught one of their commanders off guard, knocking the poor man unconscious before retreating further into Waldemar's keep, where he unexpectedly found no one. In the chaos of the fighting, he had managed to break away from the Druscans, assuming they thought a single man was far too insignificant to transfer their limited resources to track him down. It was not his first time in Waldemar, fortunately enough for the Avistran, and within minutes he had found himself free from the Druscan walls, and once more with the Imperial host, leaving a fool but returning a hero.

[woke 1157]

6 minutes ago, MailC3p said:

Ser Alexander 'The Runner' of Avistra stood upon the bridge of Waldemar. This was a sight he was used to, baring down upon an enemy in a fort, hopeless to see any true fighting, especially that of Druscans. His liege lord, Ser Meili breaking his feudal pact with the Archduke of Drusco. Just moments ago, he had been one of the few trapped within the gates of Waldemar; hopelessly fighting a horde of Drucans as his back was pushed against a wall of iron bars. As the Druscans poured down upon him, and yet they retreated back into their keep, he knew it was only a matter of time before they would break his defenses.

 

Then, he ran.

 

Through the doors of the Druscan gate, he caught one of their commanders off guard, knocking the poor man unconscious before retreating further into Waldemar's keep, where he unexpectedly found no one. In the chaos of the fighting, he had managed to break away from the Druscans, assuming they thought a single man was far too insignificant to transfer their limited resources to track him down. It was not his first time in Waldemar, fortunately enough for the Avistran, and within minutes he had found himself free from the Druscan walls, and once more with the Imperial host, leaving a fool but returning a hero.

[indiana105 5126]

14 minutes ago, MailC3p said:

Ser Alexander 'The Runner' of Avistra stood upon the bridge of Waldemar. This was a sight he was used to, baring down upon an enemy in a fort, hopeless to see any true fighting, especially that of Druscans. His liege lord, Ser Meili breaking his feudal pact with the Archduke of Drusco. Just moments ago, he had been one of the few trapped within the gates of Waldemar; hopelessly fighting a horde of Drucans as his back was pushed against a wall of iron bars. As the Druscans poured down upon him, and yet they retreated back into their keep, he knew it was only a matter of time before they would break his defenses.

 

Then, he ran.

 

Through the doors of the Druscan gate, he caught one of their commanders off guard, knocking the poor man unconscious before retreating further into Waldemar's keep, where he unexpectedly found no one. In the chaos of the fighting, he had managed to break away from the Druscans, assuming they thought a single man was far too insignificant to transfer their limited resources to track him down. It was not his first time in Waldemar, fortunately enough for the Avistran, and within minutes he had found himself free from the Druscan walls, and once more with the Imperial host, leaving a fool but returning a hero.

 

Spoiler

this guy used his door perms