HappyShackles

Charles wipes his ass with the plagiarized letter.

Charles peers down at Tyravik from his fortress, taking pot shots with his bow in his free time.

A response is penned to the ex-Caliph from Ard'Ghorrock, Dear Sheep Fucker Each time that I read a word you have written, my head aches in agony. You are a thorn in my ass, a ridiculous snake. Toothless and stupid. You are not clever or powerful. At times I often have my stable boy, whose brain is damaged severely from a mule's kick, decipher your idiotic ramblings. I enjoy every moment that you suffer, for you are a heartless man who knows only cowardice and hate. I have no opinion to offer on your petty squabbles with your fellow Qalasheen, but the wife of your son is mine, Ard'Ghorrock is mine, and soon your head will be mine. I will carve through Vandoria, ripping your lands to shred so that never again may you threaten the sanctity of this world by sending people to die who have no vested interested in your cowardly ramblings, like an injured dog who barks and snaps but never bites. Threatening Nafis with the death of his child may do a great deal to effect the man, but you are an idiot to believe that I would let Nafis make any sort of trade with sodomites or sheep fuckers such as yourself. Of course, your folk who choose not to fight, to cast off your tiny, arbitrary leadership, they will know peace. As for you... Your life will be hell, Faiz Kharadeen, till the day you die. Prince Charles of Furnestock Holy Knight of the Ashen Urn

The humid air of the Cathedral of the Holy Sepulchre doused the armored Prince in sweat. The eyes of the room all fell on one man, and flooded the young Prince with nervous thoughts, but only for a moment. His heart was welling with pride. Each day he had walked with an empty urn, but now he would feel a blessed weight at his hip forevermore. "Charles Francis, son of John I, Imperial Prince of Oren and Duke of Banard," Charles stood, stoically before the altar in the Cathedral, the High Pontiff addressing him from it. Lucien III gave Charles a curt nod accompanied by a smile, and Charles felt a shiver run down his spine. He took a step forward a moment after his name was called. His hand tightened into a fist as the ominous silence in the room was broken by the heavy step of his ebony, armored boots. The black armor encasing the Prince caught the light of the chandeliers in such a way that the armor itself seemed to resonate with some righteous light. The High Pontiff pursed his lips and raised his hand. "You, who would stand before me and swear his sword unto the service of GOD and the protection of His children. Prince Charles, you have known war since the beginning of your life, and since your childhood you held a sword in defense of your father's Empire and it's people. Yet you are no longer a child, and you are more than just a simple man. Now, confirm your strength in faith and in GOD." Charles shakes his head once, descending to one knee before the High Pontiff. He cleared his throat, and after an uncomfortably long pause, he spoke; "If I should falter in my course, send me never to the skies above. If I should succeed, bestow unto me His blessings, forevermore. For, now I march into a valley through which there is no path. And the stones cascade behind me, to seal my retreat." Charles' eyes drifted from the marble floors to the Vicar of GOD who stood before him, his words growing firmer. "Though in this valley, I find my Brothers; Now I am named Guardian of His Flock. Should I falter, my shield shall turn to ash;" The Prince bites his lip, lowering his head for but a moment, ushering yet another uncomfortable silence, till he finally spoke once more. "But I shall not falter." The High Pontiff grins and raises his hands, "Then I bestow upon you the ashes of Blessed Stefan Himmel, and do name you Knight of the Ashen Urn, Holy Ser, Charles Francis Horen." Charles stood slowly, as the room grew ever louder with murmurs of praise and congratulations. The High Pontiff offered him a small urn from the altar, the clay imprinted with a vicious dragon, clasping a Lorraine Cross protectively. Charles nodded, speaking quietly in a tone only Lucien III could hear. "I shall not falter."

"I would kill a man who spoke of me publicly thus," remarks a confused Prince.

Charles falls on the floor, gasping for air, incapable of ceasing his uncontrollable laughter.

"We simply can not stop until we are certain Vanderguan will not attempt this again. Their current leadership will always seek to undermine and destroy Oren. If we are to keep our people safe, we must defeat those who would do anything to harm us."

Charles nods promptly, "Sensible indeed. But it is important to understand that the leadership dwarves of Urguan and the folk who call for Oren's downfall in Vandoria have been nothing but stubborn and unwavering. We can not assume that the dwarves of Urguan will honor any treaty, as they have quite literally disregarded the majority of their treaties. We must secure the safety of Oren from those who will fight to destroy us to their deaths and the deaths of their own people. If this means we must take every piece of land from them till they are forced to submit, then unfortunately I see no ulterior action. Both sides of any war have faults, but in this instance the dwarves began the war, and the dwarves refuse to surrender. They continue to call for Oren's destruction, and till such a time that those with such open threats to the wellbeing of our state are removed from Vanderguanian leadership, we must fight."

Charles offers the Orvars and other loyal Vandorians a quiet prayer, in hopes that he need not shed their blood for them to see reason and pursue peace.

A kindly man remarks, "Honor, yes. Honorable indeed to kill an unarmed man in peacetalks."

A pamphlet is distributed to the Lords of Vandoria, Oren and Urguan, as well as each independent settlement. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgSPaXgAdzE The Imminent Defeat of Vanderguan The Dwarves of Urguan, their capital city of Kal'Alkash a rigid and imposing fortress yet untouched by the marching imperial forces that have ransacked the countryside, are dying. Each day that passes, less dwarves remain to defend their home, and less allies continue to assist them. This war, if one were to call it that, has become little more than a chase; the dwarves running to their next fortress and the Orenian forces conquering it. They cry tyrrany, oppression. They call for aid from all corners of the world, claiming by virtue of 'freedom' and defending 'freedom', it is the duty of their citizens, and others citizens, to fight what they believe is the evil horde marching across their land and seizing it piece by piece. But this is not where the war started, and it's basic roots stem from Dunamis, the bandit steppe-men of the south. When they were concieved, they were bandits. There is no one way about it, they raided settlements, killed women, children, and priests. After John the First took the throne, they smelled blood in the water, and attacked relentlessly. These attacks were not triggered by Oren, Oren had no interest in these steppe-landers; they simply wished to capitalize on the weakened state of the Empire. Eventually, Grand King Midgor unlawfully overthrew the previous Grand King and friend and ally of John the First, Grand King Uldar. He had grown unpopular among the dwarves due to legislative changes which restricted the population's rights. Nothing, however, warranted their illegal overthrow of the rightfully voted Grand King. Yet they did so anyway, and crowned Midgor. Now, this Midgor, the Dunamisians, and Faiz Kharadeen; they share the same bed. Since the beginning of Dunamisian raids on Oren, Faiz has given them land from which to attack Oren from and lied to Orenian officials to protect the Dunamisians, saying he will remove them if they continue to raid. Approached peacefully and without threats, Faiz decieved Oren, and the Emperor and his officials were fully and entirely aware. He and Grand King Midgor had plotted Uldar's overthrow in hopes of then starting a war, joining forces, and crippling Oren. Then, however, when Midgor came and declared war, something quite remarkable happened, and the entire vassalage of the Empire rose up in support, condemning the dwarves for their ridiculous demands, those being the dissolution of the Empire among other foolish terms. Then skirmishes began, and where the Dunamisians had beaten the Orenians in raids and skirmishes before, the dwarves were not so lucky. The waited outside Felsen, baiting the Orenian forces into skirmishes and many times they were pushed back to their capital. This went on for quite some time, till the Emperor had had enough. The dwarves had failed to take the initiative and march onto Orenian fortresses, so John the First acted, taking the fight to them so as to protect his people from the blight of war in the north. Since then, we know the story. Six regions and forts have been taken, vassalized, or ceded to the Empire from Dwarven and Vandorian lands. Oren has lost not a single piece of land, and has won the vast majority of the battles that have taken place. So, in a frenzy and in fear, the Dwarves made perhaps one of the most ridiculous decisions ever made by anyone ever. Faiz Kharadeen, Chancellor of Vandoria when Frederick of Hollowvale departed and ceded Ard'Ghorrock to the Empire of Oren, thought, in some part of his walnut-sized brain, that an absolutely intelligent decision would be to appoint a Winter to be Dictator of his realm. Winters are an old Orenian House, exiled for their involvement in the schism wars, the Franciscan massacre and other intolerable crimes against God and men. This Winter, who could have easily promised his people peace and taken a step back from the conflict through negotiations, chose instead reference his own walnut-sized brain, and kill his people for no reason. He chose to unite Vandoria, which has all but shattered into pieces with Ard'Ghorrock taken and Sutica independent (as they informed me on their visit there), with Kal'Urguan, which, on a map, looks like swiss cheese from all the Orenian conquests. They called this union the Empire of Vanderguan, but this is no Empire. It is an attempt by the dwarves to appear larger, to make their vassals feel safer perhaps, or perhaps just because they enjoy the idea of an Empire. I can not fathom why the Winter agreed to this, but keep in mind he performed this ridiculous action only a few Saint's Days after becoming Dictator, and did so without the voiced approval of any other Vandorian lords besides Faiz Kharadeen. Winter, who knows nothing of this land and less of it's people, controls their very fate. This declaration served to do one thing alone; ensure that once Urguan is conquered, Vandoria will be next. Their attempt was to stir a rallying cry to fight Oren, preserve freedom, etc. Instead, they proved to me one thing. The Dwarves of Urguan were offered the opportunity to change their name, disband the Grand Kingdom of Urguan and find favorable terms to keep their people from the bloodshed that has, and will come. They refused, claiming that the name was ancient and t hey would never be rid of it. But they are selfish and desperate creatures, proud with no reason to be as they are sent reeling with their tails between their legs after each battle. Even so, no matter how many losses they suffer, they will fight to their deaths, and will drag anyone they can with them, in hopes of turning the tides in this fight that is so hopeless for them. They would not change their name to save their people, but they would gladly change their name in order to kill someone else's people. I ask you, Vandorians, Urguanites, do your leaders appear to be winning this? Do you believe they have your best interests at heart, while they make up ridiculous names and throw together governments made of nothing but words, so arbitrary and ridiculous? While they happily refuse to surrender, each day as their people suffer, and instead drag an entire other people down into the mud with them to die? I will not stand for this. I hate bloodshed, as any man, but no one in the True Empire will allow this folly to continue. We will protect the Vandorians and Dwarves you choose to kill. If they come to the Empire, we will give them favorable terms ensuring their safety. We will help them live safely, and without oppression. And we will defeat you, Vanderguan, and be certain you never have the opportunity to damage the world so terribly again. Charles Francis Horen Duke of Furnestock Castellan of Ard'Ghorrock

10th of the Grand Harvest, 1542 The thunderous march of the armies of man resounded through the frigid air of Avar, the cold wind slicing through the Emperor as he sat atop his massive destrier, surrounded by his entourage of generals, lords and knights. The siege engines slowly turned towards their target; the fortress of Kal’Valen called standing ominously in the distance; a challenge far beyond what the armies of Oren under John the First had faced in the previous battles against the dwarven menace. Engineers stood ready by the trebuchets lined up stoically inside the Orenian siege camp, the siege teams lining up their boulders, adjusting their payloads. An eerie silence fell upon the battlefield. And finally, it was broken. “FIRE!” On cue, boulders launched through the air, casting imposing shadows over the snowy ground as they sailed towards Kal’Valen. The exchange had begun. Urguanite missiles crashed into the Orenian siege camp while imperial boulders smashed into their foes walls, crumbling the mighty defenses of Kal’Valen. Yet the torrent of stone and arrows was found both ways, and the siege camp of man was nearly eradicated in the coming hours. Each team of engineers lost their trebuchets, one by one, as the dwarven ballistae smashed them to bits, leaving the armies of man with a singular option remaining, though they had made no significant breach in the castle itself. And the charge sounded, and the horns blew. The Imperials swarmed the treacherous walls, propping their ladders against the stony surface and clambering up. A fierce melee erupted on the battlements of the foreign fortress while archers exchanged fire, men seeking their way into the upper walls. Upon Vespasian de Sola making an offering of five-hundred minas to a pagan skygod shrine, the remaining siege team, with Prince Charles and Vespasian commanding, rushed to the looming hulk of a dwarven catapult. Wood elven archers picked off dwarven arbalests, protecting the Imperial siege team commandeering their new machine of war to breach the final wall. Yet it was for naught, as if by divine intervention of Yemekar himself, a boulder fell from the sky and crushed said trebuchet. No matter, the Imperials had GOD on their side. They would find another way in, and that’s exactly what they did. Doors broke, hallways crumbled, wood splintered. And a roar resounded. The final melee erupted atop the peak of the fortress with the pair of Oscar Lancefeld and Rhys Roke soaring first at the helm as brothers in arms.... When all the commanders had fallen and the battle seemed lost, Rael Acker rallied the disoriented and stuck warriors of the Empire. Leading one final and savage assault, doors were kicked open and the dwarven defenders squealed as pigs as the rallied and reinvigorated men of Oren slaughtered them, hailing Rael as a hero of Oren. A meager group of young Orenian men standing amongst many levels of corpses in the macabre aftermath of a costly battle. Yet no cost was too great, for victory was the Empire’s, and it would certainly not be the last.

Himmel......

Charles chuckles from the throne in Hollowvale. "Someone inform the Caliph, hm?"

IGN: happyshackles Character name: prince himmel Skin picture/Reference: https://gyazo.com/5aa138d337576ca2194aac42698aa3d4 Any background or scenery?: one of those chicken farms where they slice of their beaks with hot iron and stick them in tiny cages then shove food down their throat to they're fat and kill them

Charles beats his fists in fury.

By order of His Imperial Highness, the Lord Regent of Kaedrin The lands of Kaedrin have gone without the occupation of a proper township or commoner population whatsoever for far too long. The unoccupied Barony of Sentissten shall henceforth fall under the watchful eye of Jory Marbrand, Seneschal of His Imperial Highness' Court, and now Castellan of Sentissten. He shall be charged with the establishment of a functioning settlement encompassing the Summerhall Pilgrims, whom left Lorraine to follow His Imperial Highness in his endeavors in Kaedrin. Furthermore, His Imperial Highness shall be taking a short leave of absence of no more than three Saint's Days in order to fulfill his own spiritual obligations to the Faith and the Church. Charles Francis Horen, Prince of the Holy Orenian Empire, Duke of Furnestock, Regent of Kaedrin

I Shall Not Falter... "What does it mean?" The frigid air of Felsen's winter sliced through the young boy, the Prince. He shivered as his eyes gazed up at the Duke, his wardfather, with sorrow and rage. His cheeks flushed with shame and cold. The Duke looked down at the boy with cold, grey eyes before letting a thin smile stretch across his mouth. He motioned forward as the priestly droning accompanied a beautiful casket of ebony and gold to the ground below. "You shall learn," ~ He had hoped to. In his youth, his companions were many. Uilleam and Callum, brothers, trained alongside him under Ser Markus Aveere, a true example of Knighthood. They laughed together in a way Prince Charles had never known before, not with his brothers or anyone else. Yet no such thing could last, and the boy Prince would be found rushing down the Hall of the Imperial Palace, his eyes once again welling with misery. "Nuncle Godwine! Uilleam, and Markus! Is it true?" Slain, his cousin Godwine had told him. By whom, no one knew, but they had both been lowered into the ground, and they had both left him. ~ If only his brother had left him. John, the Crown Prince, whom he loved and idolized. Yet, whose voice rang through his mind each day that he awoke, and each night he drifted to slumber. To John, Charles was nothing. Worse than nothing. "A burden," spoke the Crown Prince. "A child as sensitive and weak-willed as you is better suited a stableboy than a Prince. Let us hope you do not embarrass your family lest I put you with the horses myself." Charles' face flushed with rage. He rushed into the kitchen quickly, shouting at the handmaiden, Sabia. He ordered her to fetch him a fresh pie, post-haste, though all the while he could all but stare. The girl was beautiful in his eyes, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. She had cared for him since he was quite young, and he felt her affection and returned it ten-fold. Charles snatched the pie from her and wandered into the Hall once again, where his brother still stood. Charles approached the Crown Prince, and waited for his brother to finally turn his condescending gaze towards Charles. "Would you like some pie, brother?" And the Crown Prince's face, flushed with rage, was disguised with sweet apples and pie crust. ~ Yet still, even Sabia, even his mother, were not exempt from the misfortune that had plagued him and those he loved. The boy cried once more, screaming with hatred at his father, the very Emperor, "Where is my mother!?" Sabia had died the week before, and his mother had held him tightly, comforted him as another had fled from his life without warning. Yet in the blink of an eye, she was gone. His father had removed her entirely, broken their marriage and shipped her off to Kaedrin where Charles knew he may never see her again. The Emperor stared at Charles for a moment with those same cold, grey eyes the Duke had. He pursed his lips and said nothing, and Charles ran. "Where are you going, boy?" Jan Kovacs, his wardfather's vassal, and the man to whom he was squire, stood in his way as he sped through the gardens, tears falling from his small eyes like a torrent. Jan pursed his lips at him and smiled. "Wipe your face and practice your strikes. A Knight does not falter, and especially not a Prince." ~ Yet now, Jan was on his deathbed, and Charles was once again left alone. His father had never given him anything but life and a home before, and he knew it was because he was the weakest of his brothers. So, perhaps it was out of obligation, or pity, but a circlet rested on the young boy's head now as he walked another hall towards a chair that would be his seat, and no others'. Smallfolk and courtiers he had brought with him to assist the young boy in governance crowded the hall and silently observed. The years since the great Augustus had left the land nearly abandoned, but those few who remained could be found here. "I present to you, Charles Francis Horen, Duke of Lorraine," The young Prince turned to face the small crowd and smiled before slowly lowering himself into the chair. The light of the Lorrainian sun struck through the paned glass, showering the room with color. He pursed his lips for a moment, allowing his smile to fade as he nervously stood from the chair. He reached down to his sword belt, taking the hilt of the castle-forged steel and sliding it from it's ebony scabbard. He pointed it towards the ground and spoke, "I shall not falter."

Name: Charles Littlecarp Age: 14 Birthplace: Felsen Criminal Record: None [Mc Name]: HappyShackles [skype (can send privately)]: You have it

Reksam'Kog grunts, "Eurhurhur."

Thanks for letting us know

OOC MC Name: HappyShackles Skype Username: happyshackles Do you have TeamSpeak: Yes RP Name: Resnar Thornbeard Age: 34 Race: Dwarf Warband: None yet assigned. Prior Merits and Services: Mercenary work of little note. Assisted the Dwarven Legion at the Battle of White Mountain.

James Turnbull observes the document quietly, penning a short response. "Your cry for a change to the tradition of the church falls on few ears. I do agree with your sentiment, but know that like me you shall be ostracized for your ferver. The Fsithful must all know God's word in the scripture if we are to truly know and follow Him, this much is evident. However, sections of the scripture are still undiscovered, and there is merit in not releasing them to the public until it is excavated in its entirety. A missing part may alter the very meaning of a passage. I would like to speak with you, sirrah, for you seem learned and passionate about God himself. Send a letter unto me in the province of Erochland detailing your response to my request and I will help you in what way I can."