Xarkly

A DISCUSSION ON MAP STORYLINES What is a map? Mechanically speaking, we know it as our opportunity to have a fresh start, both in roleplay and as a community, where we revitalize our systems, our communities, and our passion for roleplaying on this server. Narratively, though, 'maps' have always been a bit lacking, and often for good reason. Crafting a history and storyline for a map, one which can flourish into an engaging narrative that moulds the experience of every player who interacts with it, is a colossal endeavour. From logistics, to manpower, to structure, there's so many moving parts that make it no surprise that we haven't seen even an attempt to tell the "story of a map" for probably over half a decade now, if not much longer. Instead, we're left with this status quo where we go through the motions of "oh, holy moly, disaster has struck! time to move!" yada yada, we settle on this new map that has little distinction from its predecessors other than biome layout, and thereafter our narrative experience is typically confined to player-player interactions and infrequent, self-contained eventlines of varying scope. With 9.0 planning now finally in the works, it seems like an ideal time to broach this long-obscured topic. Basically, I want to take this opportunity to try to exchange some ideas with the community about what a "map storyline" actually is, and how we can begin to approach such a massive project. Before we start, though, I just want to make two quick disclaimers. the first is that this thread isn't intended as a critique of the Story Team or Staff as a whole. Secondly, the ultimate goal here is to have a discussion -- while I am going to draw upon my own substantive experience as an ET in the past to justify my ideas and perspective, I'm not asserting that my approach is necessarily the right or only one. So, with that said, let's get into it. I'll break this thread down into four parts: (1) what a map storyline is; (2) the point of a map storyline; (3) the unique challenges posed by LotC as a storytelling medium; and (4) a structure for map storylines. I What is a Map Storyline? So, what do I actually mean when I say 'map storylines'? Well, on the surface, it seems pretty simple - a map storyline should tell the story of the map we're on, for the duration that we're on it. We shouldn't envision these storylines as a single eventline like the Inferi, Westerlands, or Scyfling, which are mostly self-contained and ran for just a month or two out of maps that ran for over eighteen months. Instead, I think a map storyline should be a series of eventlines that all relate to and derive from the same overarching story, but with different eventlines tailored for specific periods of the map and specific playerbases. So, for example, if - for argument's sake - the map's overarching narrative is something like some big war against the undead, derisive eventlines could be done for, say, Elvenesse, who have to contend against some necromancer commander who is particularly shrewd and cunning, whereas another eventline for Norland could feature an undead commander who is reluctant about his duties and prefers diplomacy. In tandem, all these eventlines together make up the narrative, coming together at certain climaxes for the whole server (i.e., major battles). We'll talk more about this in Part IV, but the point is that a map storyline should, from start to finish, tell the story of the map and everyone on it, both in terms of its history and eventlines that happen in real-time, both to give the map life and identity, and to drive roleplay and player engagement on the server. Some of you might take the view that 'grand narratives' like this which make the map memorable should be the product of players rather than Staff. After all, we often remember past maps for their massive wars, the rise and fall of whichever nation we enjoyed most, or maybe just the people we had around us at the time, rather than Staff-ran events, irrespective of their scope or quality. This view definitely isn't wrong, but I don't think it necessitates exclusivity, either. There's no reason why large-scale player narratives (wars being the best example) can't coexist with big eventlines as part of an overarching map storyline (like we sort of had on Atlas). Granted, it's important that Staff 'read the room' and don't interject eventlines at the wrong place at the wrong time. Even a great eventline might be eclipsed, ignored, or even outright unwelcomed if thrust upon playerbases when they're busy with a war. So, with that aside, we can look a bit more closely at what should make up a map storyline. I think three boxes ought to be picked, namely (a) the map's past/backstory, (b) the present/main story, and (c) the ending/exodus. A: The Past/Backstory The backstory is important for any kind of narrative, and this is especially true for a server like ours. Comprehension, engagement, and, most importantly, meaning, are the chief qualities that go into making people care about the story being told and get them wanting to get involved. Given some of the unique storytelling challenges LotC as a medium faces (more on this later), one of the best ways to do this is through slow exploration of a map's history or backstory. A tangible past is what gives life to a map, subtly transforming it from a mass of blocks and biomes to living and breathing environment, where things have happened, and will happen again. Ruins of long-lost civilizations, monuments to forgotten battles and tragedies, and fragments of ancient tales and fables are all ways in which the map itself can, through a resourceful "show, don't tell" approach, begin to engage and intrigue players. These clues shout proclaim loud and clear that there is a story to be discovered here, and so, as they always do, players band together to embark on expeditions to find the pieces of this puzzle, and RP is driven before a single event can often occur. Perhaps most importantly, though, is the build-up. Delving into the lost history of the land we settle on shouldn't just be an academic exercise -- it should actively allude to the overarching narrative that awaits players. Whether it's something like explorer stirring a slumbering and ancient threat, or unearthing an artefact or resource that draws undesired attention, the backstory should offer players glimpses of what is to come. Not only does it sow the seeds of a natural and engaging story, but it services the critical goal of driving RP outside of the events themselves, which is the main practical purpose of enhancing our roleplay experience with Staff-ran events. B: The Present/Main Story Obviously, the meat and potatoes of a map narrative should be the eventlines that actually compose the narrative. Against the backdrop of the past (which should remain an integral aspect of the narrative even in it's later stages), the 'present' aspect, or the actual content of the narrative, should kick off shortly into the map, and it should mostly be a slow-burn. Whether it's plots to return Lord Voldemort, or the rediscovery of the One Ring, you get the idea -- built on the basis built on the backstory, some catalyst like this kicks off the main story of the map narrative that lasts throughout the map. When I say that, though, it's important to note that we're not talking about some massive event every weekend -- like I said, it should (for the start, at least) be a slow-burn, allowing for natural lapses for large periods of time in which some of the eventlines I spoke about above can happen, and to take a backseat to more pressing player-player interactions, so that the narrative doesn't overstay its welcome or burn itself out. And so, the narrative should be a looming shadow, always there and with a tangible presence, but strategically non-intrusive as dictated by the server's other events and climate. It should focus on smaller and engaging eventlines during down-time, and ramping up to big climaxes when appropriate. The best example that comes to my mind (though it's far from perfect) is the Vaeyl Order on Atlas, where it had multiple phases throughout the map -- there were big climaxes set months apart, such as the Battle of Poppy Hill or the Siege of Lasthope with massive player participation, but in between these were smaller eventlines characterised by character-based, exploration, and lore-building interactions (i.e., the Darkways, the Archive, Thandvar, etc.) in a way that tried not to overtly interfere with the rest of the map. C: The End/Exodus Lastly, a map narrative should include a natural 'end', or, in other words, provide a plausible reason as to why the Descendants depart the map in a way that forms a satisfying conclusion to the story being told until that point. This doesn't have to be the super stale sudden apocalypses that we all tend to roll our eyes at, but instead can take any number of other creative forms - maybe the narrative results in the discovery of a new and richer land across the seas. It doesn't really matter, and I needn't harp on this point for long because it's pretty self-explanatory but a satisfying and well-told story should include a good ending. Alrighty, so that's a run-down of what a map storyline should roughly be and the theoretical bases it should cover. Now, let's talk about why any of this is worth the hassle in the first place. II What's the Point? So, what’s the big idea? As a lot of you will know, any large-scale eventline is really difficult to pull off, so a map narrative, encompassing multiple of these eventlines under the same umbrella, constitutes a colossal logistical and story-telling challenge, the likes of which we’ve never really seen done even half-right before. So, in light of this, why should we bother with a map eventline? What’s the big benefit? Why don’t we just stick to the status quo with a few random self-contained eventlines scattered about maps? I think there’s three main reasons. We Should Always Aim For Better The first is a bit of a wishy-washy philosophical one, but I believe we should always strive for better. We have had some successful large narratives in recent years (albeit none with the resources or planning to qualify as a map narrative), so with a bit of actual passion and intent from ST, I think the possibility for a storytelling experience of this degree is definitely there, and a map with a successfully-executed map storyline has the potential to define itself as one of our best maps to date that will achieve the same nostalgic status as some of the all-time beloved eventlines of the past. The Ultimate RP Supplement Building on this, the second reason is based on the well-established idea that an eventline worth its salt creates and drives RP beyond the events themselves. Briefly put, an eventline should drive players to RP amongst themselves to explore, prepare, etc. based on the eventline or in anticipation of its next instalment. Explore a ruin looking for secrets, prepare a defence against a coming attack, or recruit other players or factions to achieve a goal. Aside from the storytelling experience itself, this is, in my opinion, the grand practical purpose of the ST on the server. Eventlines are the best supplement to player RP, and so a map storyline would seem to be the perfection of this idea, driving engaging RP in verses throughout the entire map. A Map’s Identity Lastly, I think a good storyline is an integral part of a map’s identity. What is the point of us moving map every 18-30 months? I think the likeliest answer is for that feeling of a new experience, a clean slate, a fresh and re-energising chapter. Map transition is often the rallying cry for staff and player groups alike to try out new systems and new ideas, so, overall, I think a new map represents the desire to grow and improve. So, our narratives should be no exception when it comes to the overall idea of what a map should be. It defies this logic that our approach to new maps to forego a storyline to accompany them. In a broader sense, I also think it’s what makes maps special and memorable asides from player activities. It’s what gives a map identity, and gives its terrain, regions, and biomes - irrespective of their quality - life and significance. III The Difficulties With LotC We've concerned the what and the why, so now the big question is the how. ...But before we can get to that, I think it's important that we acknowledge that LotC, as a massive Minecraft roleplaying server, presents some very unique challenges for storytelling. I think this is best observed in acknowledging that in large narratives, Staff have precious few tools to control pacing. In a novel, film, series, or most other storytelling mediums, the author immerses us in their universe and engages us in their tale with carefully crafted chapters, designed to take us by the hand slowly through the beats of the story. The intended effect of this is to slowly build an understanding of the setting, plot, and characters without being overwhelmed. However ... this doesn't exactly translate onto large eventlines on LotC. While we, too, are trying to tell a fantasy epic to hundreds of people, the issue is that we have to tell our story to all these people at the exact same time. With a book, movie, or whatever, you can explore the story at your own pace, moving through the episodes or chapters whenever suits you. If a new reader wants to experience it, they can just pick up chapter one whenever they want. Obviously, we don't have that option. If you're a new/returning/previously uninvolved player, the ST can't rewind the clock and re-do the earlier events or eventlines of the map storyline just for them. If you want to get involved (and the aim should be to get every player, or at least playerbase, involved), then you have to jump in at whatever point in time the narrative happens to be at. This is like watching Attack on Titan for the first time in Season 3 after the Marley reveal, or beginning the Harry Potters series half-way through the Order of the Phoenix. while, in theory, you can be brought up to speed about what's happening, you'll almost certainly be left wondering "wait, who's that character?" or "why are we fighting this guy?". On a more fundamental level, you're also just not experiencing the story in the way in which it was intended by the writer. The result is like a major exposition dump. Because there's no going back to the start of an eventline once it's begun, players can often face a steep barrier to get involved in a meaningful way compared to the players who've been there from the start. It doesn't cultivate a natural engagement, and can just discourage people. So, this is the main unique challenge that storytelling on a roleplay server presents, and it's important for us to be aware of this for the next section, where we talk about the how of map narratives, including how to work around this roadblock. IV How We Can Structure Narratives I've rambled a lot about what a map storyline should be, why we should do them, and some of the challenges we'd face, so now let's talk about how we could actually do them. Based on my time as an ET - from about 2018 to 2021, in particular specialising in large-scale eventlines - I've come to piece together a few factors that I think could formulate a basis through which we could approach a project like a map storyline. Before getting into that, though, I think it's important to draw attention to the more 'human' element that these kinds of projects are always going to be at the whim of Staff at the time, and real-life time constraints. While these are relevant considerations in pretty much anything on this server, their role is exacerbated because of the fact that a map storyline is bound to the length of the map, which tend to last at least eighteen months, with each map getting longer. We can't really do anything about that much, so, even though it's wishful thinking, for now let's just proceed on the presumption that Staff reasonably has its shit together and ST tackles the map storyline as a joint and organised project. So, with this presumption, I'm going to finish off by speaking about two really important ideas for making map storylines possible: (a) the need for a simple concept, and (b) eventlines within the narrative. A: The Simple Concept In the last Part, I spoke about large eventlines being difficult for new/returning/uninvolved players to start participating in after it's already started. This is because the players that have been there from the start have been - at the proper pace - introduced to the plot, setting, characters etc., whereas this hypothetical newer player has to learn all of this in one big and uninviting exposition dump that grows worse the longer an eventline goes on. So, this is massively exacerbated for a map storyline ... which is why it might help if the overarching story is grounded in a very simple concept. Aengudaemons, primordial colossi, and plagues might sound all well and good on paper, but the fact seems to be this: the more complicated an eventline is, the more inaccessible it is. This is true irrespective of the quality of the eventline. Instead, if we intend to tell our story to a larger audience (again bearing in mind the critical point that each 'chapter' can only be told once), then simple concepts seem far better suited. What do I mean by a 'simple concept', then? Generally speaking, established fantasy norms make themselves pretty ideal here, but as a rule of thumb, if you can't summarise the gist of the eventline in a small sentence, it's probably too complicated for the whole server. An undead incursion, a barbarian horde, the invasion of a foreign empire, the awakening of an ancient monster - stuff like this is all pretty understandable and accessible. Our hypothetical new player needs minimal, if any, information in order to participate in any of the bigger climaxes or understand what the general premise is, instead of any philosophically-charged Aengudaemon or incomprehensible Mathic Age stuff. The foundations of the eventline, its skeleton, or in other words its most basic premise, needs to be easily understood and communicated because of the theory that an ST can only tell each chapter once, and if you miss chapter one, then you're going to fall behind. At this point, you're probably thinking, "Undead? Barbarians? Seriously, ten years into LotC, and we can't come up with something more creative?", and you definitely have a point. The idea is that the base concept is super simple - and, for lack of a better word, conforms to a well-understood trope - so that people can jump into the big events without feeling like they're missing essential plot details, but this base concept its expanded and layered in characters, cultures, and activities in what we'll talk about next - eventlines within the narrative. B: Eventlines Within the Narrative I already touched on what this is earlier, but the idea is that a map storyline isn't just one singular eventline that goes on for ages. Instead, it's composed of multiple eventlines, all of which closely tie into the main overarching story - which is based on a simple concept discussed above for ease of accessibility - and are tailored for different playerbases at different points in time. I already used this example, but just to remind you now that we're actually talking about it, this idea of eventlines within the greater narrative could work out as something like this: A massive expansionist empire from across the sea lands on the continent. Its intention is to conquer the land, annexing all player nations and enslaving their populations. This is our simple, base concept that forms the overarching narrative. Every playerbase on the server can't be crammed into every event, because that would eviscerate any possibility to build beyond this base concept with things such as character, lore, activities, etc. Instead, the eventlines within the narrative begin to take place through the dispersal of this empire's battalions throughout the continent. For instance, one general takes his battalion to Elvenesse where he intends to establish a foothold. A group of STs then tailor an eventline around this particular battalion for the Elvenesse playerbase. Characters take shape from this general and his underlings, the culture and lore can unfold through battles, diplomacy, and other events alike. Needless to say, there should be a lot of nuance in terms of how the Elvenesse players interact with the invaders (i.e., they shouldn't be irredeemably evil). Sub-eventlines should also be able to occur within this eventline, for example with smaller groups within Elvenesse who find themselves involved in a particular facet of the eventline (maybe they infiltrate the enemy army to sabotage them). A player doesn't need to participate in these smaller world-building events in depth to still understand the basic premise of an invading empire. At the same time, other battalions can be sent across the map to spawn more eventlines (ran by different ST), and obviously they should all have some unique variation. The battalion sent to Norland, for instance, could be less militaristic, led by a general who might have some doubts about the morality of their empire and become more inclined towards diplomacy. Maybe he can even be convinced by the players to betray his empire and fight against them! Likewise, there should be similar variation across the other eventlines so that there's an element of uniqueness to all of it (not every eventline should be just another battalion, either). Then, with these eventlines engaging individual playerbases and tying them to the overarching story, they can be (rare) climaxes. These are the massive battles with 50-100 players that we're familiar with where, for example, the Descendants unite to fight off one of the armies at, say, Elvenesse or Norland. Again, even if a player hasn't engaged in any of the smaller eventlines, the simplicity of the concept allows them to easily participate in these bigger climaxes, as 'invading empire bad' is pretty universally comprehensible. This should be repeated in a couple of phases, but not the same thing each time. Maybe in one phase that general who turned cloak has to be supported as his homeland sends reinforcements to take him out, or a royal from the imperial homeland with a unit of battlemages boasting unique and dangerous powers that could turn the tide of the war. So, that's a pretty basic example that doesn't go into detail of other stuff I'd previously mentioned like the role the map's history should play, but things like that can be easily fit in. The point of the above is to demonstrate the concept of smaller eventlines within the narrative in operation. As an actual example, I'll again harken back to the Vaeyl Order, who were an antagonistic semi-undead force on Atlas with climatic battles that touched multiple playerbases, but inbetween these climaxes there were much smaller eventlines with event characters that built deep relationships with player characters and divulged the lore of the map and the eventline through exploration and character interaction. Wrapping Up Alright, well, there it is. In this thread, I've defined that I think map storylines should be the story of the map itself, encompassing the past, present, and conclusion, how they can be really cool resources to create a unique and memorable identity for a map that drives player roleplay, and how LotC can navigate the unique storytelling difficulties of a roleplay server and use approaches like the simple concept and eventlines within the greater narrative as a means to possibly achieve this massive achievement. Obviously, it's easier said than done, and my views have taken a lot of liberty in overlooking other potentially-massive barriers like Staff structure, support, unity, etc., but there's only so much we can really do about that. Like I said, and as the title implies, this is ultimately meant to be a discussion, so if you're reading this and have any thoughts of your own - whether independent, or as a commentary on some of the stuff I've written - then please do share them, and maybe we can attract some debate from the 9.0 Map Dev Team itself. Other than that, thanks for reading, and have a lovely day.

No, the names have been used, but the concepts behind making interesting regions hasn't, except for maybe the Tomblands.

Here's an example of some I wrote back when I was on WT ages ago. I'd disagree with using some of them now, but you'll get the general gist of what I'm suggesting: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1u4TVxFt9dTHGmYntW3HmAN9Z0-KqF1ikWrZGiovtWSc/edit?usp=sharing

The pitfalls past maps have fallen into with biomes is that they think a variation of boring biomes is sufficient. While we should have some forests, hills, yada yada, you should be able to distinguish one part of the map from the other. Almaris' populated land is just the same fields and hills and woods everywhere with minimal uniqueness. 9.0 should have interesting and memorable biomes that tell a story unto themselves, and make the map actually interesting to explore. To build on that, the 'interesting biomes' we have right now like the volcanoes etc. are painted in such a way where they're just an incomprehensible blend of mountains with nothing to really see. Biomes should also be interesting traverse - roads wounding through ruins, elevation, etc.

IGN: Xarkly Category: Creative Writing Artwork: I've been working on a not-so-short LotC short-story - titled 'Song of the Black' - set in Ruskan history (so, the past). Five Chapters have been released so far, and while they're in five seperate posts, if possible I'd like to enter them collectively as one. They're linked below. Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen Chapter IV: Soul & Sword Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER V: EYES OF RUSKA A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen Chapter IV: Soul & Sword After the exiled Karovic Princes - Barbov and Kosav - earn their first victory against their Nzechovich rivals at the Battle of Mejen, they do so knowing it is thanks only to the efforts of Lady Vlasta of Osyenia, who raised the alarm of the Nzechovich flank that would have surely doomed them in the Battle. Now, in the fighting's aftermath, the eyes of Ruska turn to the future; Szitibor Nzechovich, the commander of the failed defense of Mejen, retreats north to the shattered remains of his army where he intends to petition his cousin Vladrik, who besieges the trade-city of Dules, for help in rescuing his sister Mylah, who was captured during the battle; Vlasta is rewarded for her efforts in the battle; an imprisoned Mylah Nzechovich is interrogated; and the Princes' war council set their sights north, on the wealthy city of Dules. Music - Play Both Szitibor marched at the head of his army. Or what was left of it, at least. The scant column of surviving Nzechovich soldiers were plagued by a ceaseless light rain as they trudged down the soaked road winding north from Mejen along the hilly western banks of the Lower Huns River, from which a lonely wind rolled off to beat at their wet cloaks and the green-and-red Nzechovich banners held aloft by Szitibor’s standard-bearers. Not much longer, now, he thought grimly as rain dripped off his hood. At his command, his soldiers had fled Mejen through the tunnels that ran under the well and taken them several miles north of the town, but their escape had come at no small cost. Between the soldiers he had lost fighting on the walls, those who had accompanied Mylah on her foiled flank, and Szitibor’s own ill-fated charge against the Karovic Princes, his original army of three-thousand had been reduced to little more than five-hundred. Now, those five-hundred follow Szitibor on the road north. North, towards the trade-city of Dules. Normally, traders coming to and from markets in Dules would have thronged the road, but with the trade-city under siege, Szitibor had not seen a single traveller in the three days since they had left Mejen. The constant rain and dreary grey skies were a good reflection of the mood of Szitibor’s forces, which steadily lost another half-dozen or so soldiers every night as deserters slunk away from what they thought was a lost cause. Szitibor had even seen two soldiers sneak out of camp with their belongings the previous night, but he had done nothing to stop them. He did not blame them at all. Besides, the strength of his shattered army was no longer his foremost concern. I’ll save you, Mylah. I promise. While his troops mourned their defeat at Mejen, Szitibor’s mind remained fixed on the fate of his sister, who he had been forced to leave behind after the Karovic army separated them at Mejen. She has to be alive. Not even the Karovic would kill a valuable hostage like her, he told himself for the umpteenth time, but a doubtful voice always answered. But what if the Karovic didn’t know who she was? What if she was killed in the battle, or refused to identify herself when she was captured? What if she chose death? Those thoughts had kept Szitibor awake day and night. And what if she was a hostage? What if they torture her, or - … No, he stopped himself, and forced him to breathe in deeply. I have no choice but to believe she’s alive and well, and I have no choice but to rescue her. I owe her that much. It was Mylah’s idea to leave Lahy to hunt down the Princes to secure their own fame and glory, and while the plan to trap the Princes at Mejen had failed, it was far more ingenious than anything Szitibor could have come up with on his own. No, without Mylah’s cunning and initiative, Szitibor would have sat back and done nothing while the world forgot about him. And yet despite the ambitions he shared with his sister, he no longer cared about securing the throne of Ruska for the Nzechovich dynasty, or killing the Karovic claimants. Uncle Msitovic and cousin Vladrik can worry about that. All I care about now is saving Mylah, and with God as my witness, I will. Of course, that was easier said than done. He glanced over his shoulder at the column of dour-faced Nzech soldiers trudging behind him in the rain. Even if he had Mylah’s cunning to rely on, they would win no battles with a force of this size. Szitibor’s manpower was spent, and there was only one place on this side of the Huns River where he could get help. Cousin Vladrik. “Lord,” one of his surviving captains spoke up gruffly, “look; there’s the road marker.” Szitibor glanced up through the rain as a flock of gulls cawed overhead. Not too far ahead, where the road climbed to a small hill, there stood a statue of a weathered stone market, silhouetted against the bleak sky. That, Szitibor knew, was the last mile-marker on the path to Dules. “So it is,” he muttered back. “We’re almost there.” If that brought any relief to his soldiers, they did not show it. They continued their march, their boots squelching with each step on the rain-soaked road, until Szitibor at last stopped beside the marker atop the hill. From here, a view of the land for miles upon miles spread out before him. The road led into a vast quilted landscape of farming fields and pastures, broken by small clusters of huts, barns, and windmills, just beyond which lay an ocean of tents, stretching in a ring as far as Szitibor could see. His breath caught in his throat; he had read about great battles and armies throughout Ruskan history as a boy, but the besieging army camped before him was undoubtedly the largest force he had ever seen assembled. He heard a number of faint laughs of relief from his soldiers at the sight of the green-and-red Nzechovich banners flying proudly from the torch-lit, rainy camp. The main Nzechovich army … When Szitibor and Mylah had departed Lahy on their mission, their cousin Vladrik - who was insufferably arrogant, but a capable warrior and strategist - had been tasked with securing the trade-city of Dules with an army of thirty-thousand soldiers. Yet it was not the size of the Nzechovich army that captivated Szitibor, but the city they were besieging. Vladrik’s army surrounded enormous stone walls that stretched along the banks of the Lower Huns for miles upon miles. Behind those walls, magnificent coloured domes sparkled even in the lifeless grey light. Towers and spires scratched the sky, casting long shadows over hundreds upon hundreds of smaller houses and buildings below. A great-walled bay spanned out into the river, in which hundreds of ships bobbed in the water, and a massive iron chain stretched between either end of the bay to keep unwanted ships out. Above all of it, the golden domes of the Electors' Palace rose like a monument, visible for miles and miles around as a symbol of power and wealth. We’re here, Szitibor resolved, as he began to walk once more. The city of Dules. The streets of Mejen _________________ Vlasta tugged up her hood as she stepped out into the rain. It had been three days since the Battle of Mejen had been won, but the air still smelled of smoke and death, even with the ceaseless drizzle to wash the blood from the dirt. Since the Nzechovich survivors had abandoned the town, Vlasta had developed something of a morning ritual: she departed from her quarters in Mejen keep, and began to make her way outside the town. With all the talk of sieging and taking Mejen, Vlasta had almost forgotten Mejen was an actual town, and though everyone from Lahy called it small, it was still bigger than her home of Osyenia. Within Mejen’s wooden walls, townhouses, workshops, and halls were packed together, all of which spewed chimney smoke into the sky. None of the buildings had been damaged in the Battle - the Nzechovich had abandoned their defence after the fighting outside the gate - but since most of the Karovic siege camp had been lost to Mylah’s arson, each street in Mejen was thronged with Karovic soldiers. Every ale-house and tavern was filled to the brim with soldiers sleeping on the floors and benches, burghers had been paid for any spare rooms in their townhouses, and soldiers had even taken to sleeping on ships in the docks. Even still, Karovic troops lounged in the streets under makeshift shelters from the rain, but the townsfolk hardly seemed to mind. On the contrary, merchants flocked to them, hawking all sorts of wares, from new boots to protective charms. Vlasta wasn’t sure how they could all be so … happy. While the burghers and townsfolk were no doubt displeased about the crowds, to them, it seemed to be the lesser evil of a prolonged siege, or the prospect of a battle actually within their homes instead of just the walls. The merchants clung to any prospect of custom, and despite the bloody battle fought only days ago and the cramped conditions within the town, the soldiers loitered about drinking and resting with relieved expressions. More than that, though, Vlasta was not sure how they so readily ignored the bodies of Nzechovich officers hanging from nooses tied to various rooftops. Why don’t I feel the same relief? Vlasta wondered as she weaved her way through the packed streets, bumping into mailed-soldiers and cloth-coated merchants alike. An anxious knot had sat in her stomach since the conclusion of the battle, where Mylah and her infiltrators had surrendered, and the defenders inside Mejen had escaped through some hidden tunnel under the well. Frowning, she continued towards Mejen’s open gates, where two Karovic elites in their feathered helmets stood guarding either side. As Vlasta approached, the guards leaned on their bardiches as they dipped their. “Lady Vlasta,” they greeted in near unison. That greeting had become part of her new morning routine, too; since word had spread that Vlasta had been the one to raise the alarm of the impending flank during the Battle, everyone had begun to look at her differently. No longer did she seem to blend into the background, nor earn cordial greetings of etiquette rather than genuine respect. The soldiers and Boyars alike knew her name, and they had heard of what she had done. There was a newfound respect and admiration in their voices, and yet, Vlasta was not sure if she liked it. This is what I wanted, though. She flashed a half-hearted smile to guards as she passed through the gate, and then frowned immediately afterwards. Bah. Nothing makes sense anymore. Once she passed the gates, there was enough to distract her from her puzzling thoughts. It was as if she had submerged herself underwater; suddenly, the noise from Mejen seemed far away, muted to a distant din in her ears, replaced by the low whistle of the wind as it blew off the River and the cawing of ravens, not gulls. The colours of Mejen - from the heraldry, to cloaks, to tiles and slates - were replaced by a vista of dull green fields and a grey sky above. Worst of all, though, was the smell. The bodies from the Battle had been buried, but the sickly sweet smell of decay was oppressive, and the ground was still stained red with blood or stomped entrails in parts. Whenever the lonely wind gusted, fresh air was carried from the burnt siege camp - a mile of mounds of rain-damped ashes - and hazed through the air. She had read both stories and historical records of battles, but they never mentioned much about the aftermath. At least I didn’t have to bury the bodies myself, she thought in a vain attempt to lighten her mood, but to no effect. Pinching her nose - another part of her routine - she began to walk by the walls, away from the River. Before long, the graves came into sight. The Karovic dead - a little over six hundred, most of whom had died in Mylah’s surprise attack on the camp - had been laid to rest in a small, unused field between two clusters of farms outside of Mejen. Rows upon rows of wooden Hussariyan crosses marked their final resting places, and in the middle of the impromptu graveyard, a larger cross - some twenty feet tall - had been erected in memory of the Battle. Quietly, but for the caw of ravens and the thin howl of the wind, Mylah made her way into the graveyard. A few others - soldiers, mostly - gathered at various gravestones with bowed heads, but the field was mostly empty. There’s far more dead than living, here, a chilling thought occurred to her as she moved through the rows of crosses. Before long, she reached the grave she had come to for the last three mornings. MILIV VAR LAHY CAPTAIN OF 3RD BRIGADE & HERO OF LAHY CASTLE “Hello again,” she murmured to the fresh mound of dirt. She was not sure why she felt so drawn to Miliv’s grave -- she had only met the moustached captain a couple of times since the Princes had arrived in Osyenia, and even then, she had been far from friends with the middle-aged warrior. And yet … I was the one who watched him die. Unbidden, the scene flashed through her head: Mylah, disguised as a peasant, plunging her blade deep into Miliv’s gut; Miliv, clutching his wound, blood oozing through his fingers as he vainly tried to stem the bleeding, collapsed to his knees; Miliv, in a pool of crimson, going still as his soldiers died around him. A part of Vlasta worried it might have been guilt. Mylah had targetted Miliv as the officer in charge of the camp reserves, but Vlasta had stood just a few feet away when he had been murdered. Was there something I could have done? She had stood there petrified as Miliv collapsed with his fatal wound, but the attack had come as much as of a surprise to her, too. Could I have tried to help him? Bandage him? Stop the bleeding? She knew that was silly - the camp had been set ablaze, and the Nzechovich had started slaughtering every soldier - but it did nothing to loosen the anxious knot in her stomach. “ … I’m sorry, Miliv,” she said at last, before she began to mutter her prayers. She was only a few verses in when she heard boots crunch against the wet earth behind her, and when she turned, it was not Prince Barbov she expected to see. The Elder Prince wore a plain deerskin cloak, but he still managed to exert a regal aura with it draped across his broad shoulders. His hood was not pulled up, and so his chiselled face was framed by his shoulder-length dark hair stirring in the wind. Whenever she had seen the Prince before, his moods seemed to switch between boisterously gleeful to impatiently angry, and so the sad, pensive look painted on his bold face took Vlasta by surprise. “Lord Prince.” She swept into a deep curtsy. “As you were, my lady,” the Prince responded somberly, which also seemed unlike him. He stopped next to her, one gloved hand on the bejewelled, sheathed sword at his side, and the other holding a vibrant daffodil. A few feet behind them, Slavomir the Drowned, Barbov’s favoured Bogatyr, waited with his hands clasped patiently at this front, and his hood obscuring his stony face. Flowers? She almost looked at Barbov with open disbelief. “Didn’t know you knew Miliv,” the Prince went on over the patter of the rain. With a creak of leather, he crouched down, and gently nestled the flower at the foot of his cross before straightening up. “I … didn’t really, your Highness. I just wanted to pay my respects. I was … next to him when he died, is all.” “Ai, so Kosav told me.” Barbov’s pale green eyes, fixed on the grave, did not blink as rain rolled down his cheeks. “At least he didn’t die alone, then.” Vlasta swallowed a lump in her throat. When she spoke to Prince Kosav, he had some calming air about him once he started to speak, but not Barbov. “Were you two close, your Highness?” she found herself asking hesitantly. Barbov nodded slowly. “We were … friends. As much as a liege and a bannerman could be. He served my father.” Vlasta’s shock grew when the Prince released a shaky breath, as if he held back tears. She couldn’t understand - this was Barbov, the Elder Prince and rightful heir to Ruska, who had stood at the head of armies and charged into battle without flinching, and yet this was what gave the man pause. “When Msitovic and his Nzech tried to kill us and drove us out of Lahy, Miliv followed and protected us out of loyalty. Not for gain, nor ease. He could have stayed in Lahy, bowed his head whichever boy king the Nzechovich put on the throne to puppet, and lived a long life.” Vlasta’s eyes trailed back to the grave. “ … but he didn’t.” “No, he didn’t. He followed me as the rightful king, Nzechovich be damned. Miliv, he … he was an honourable man.” “No doubt, your Highness,” Vlasta nodded along. She knew little of what Miliv was really like, but it was obvious Barbov wanted to speak about the man. Does he feel guilty, too? “That’s the worst part,” he went on, his voice growing softer. “He was a good man. He followed orders, did the right thing. I just don’t understand, then, why he had to die like that. Stabbed in surprise, like he was mugged on the street, instead of in battle.” To that, Vlasta had no answer. “He deserved better.” Barbov’s voice was scarce a whisper. “Even if he had to die, he deserved better. Everyone who died in the camp did. When they joined me, I promised them honour, and glory, and instead, they were cut down from behind when -” he cut off as his voice grew thick, and he took a deep breath. “ … They deserved better. I should have given them better.” As Vlasta stared in unison at Miliv’s grave with Barbov, Villorik’s warning from the other day rang through her head. You’re lucky you don’t have to kill, or be killed yourself. After Mylah had murdered Miliv, the Nzech had spared Vlasta at first, because she was not a soldier. If I had been a squire … would she have killed me, too, before I could even draw my weapon? Vlasta had little reservations that she would have. If she had been a soldier like Villorik, then she herself would be the one dead and buried now. After a long moment of silence but for the rain, Barbov said, “My brother told me you were the one to raise the alarm about the attack. That so?” “Yes, lord prince.” “He also tells me that you told him you wanted to become a squire, and train as a Bogatyr, but your father forbids it.” “ … Yes, lord prince,” she repeated with a raised brow. “Hmph. If not for what you did in the Battle, the rest of us might be lying dead with Miliv. And, even if Miliv and all his men died, they can rest easy knowing the Nzech failed.” With one last shaky breath, the Elder Prince looked right at Vlasta for what felt like the first time. “As payment, I’ve decided you will train as a squire under Ratibor Skysent.” Vlasta’s heart skipped a beat. “Wh - me? A squire?” “That’s what you wished for, isn’t it?” “I - …” the words died in her throat. This is what I wanted. My entire life. Power of my own, skill of my own. And I earned it, too. This is … Her eyes twitched back to Miliv’s grave. She knew, now; she knew that there were more risks to becoming a soldier, squire, or Bogatyr than fighting in a battle. If she had been a squire on the day of the Battle, she would have been cut down without a shred of honour right next to Miliv. Can … I accept that? If that happened to me? Her mind gave no answer. “ … what of my father?” she asked half-heartedly. “He’ll be incensed.” “Iblees take him,” Barbov grunted. “No offence intended, lady. We’ve won a great victory at Mejen - in no small part thanks to you - so your father’s support isn’t as much leverage as it once was. Don’t worry about him - I will deal with any backlash.” Vlasta was not so sure about that; while Barbov, as the aspirant to the throne of Ruska, might be able to force his way, Vlasta had no idea how her father would treat her in private. And yet … Vlasta had barely seen her father apart from an occasional dinner on the march from Osyenia, and becoming a squire meant she would no longer need to depend on a man who loved her, but offered her no future except to be married off to some minor lordling. She tightened a fist. “ … You honour me more than I ever dreamed of, my lord prince,” she answered while her eyes were set on Miliv’s name, carved into the wet wood of the Hussariyan cross. “Well, as I say, it is earned, my lady.” Abruptly, Barbov turned, and started back towards Mejen. “We have a war meeting in the hall of Mejen’s keep at noon. You’re to be there, squire.” “Y-yes, your Highness!” Vlasta called as the Elder Prince marched away through the graves, with Slavomir the Drowned in tow. Just like that, Vlasta was alone again in the rain. Ten minutes ago, she had been Lady Vlasta of Osyenia, the sole daughter of Boyar Olske of Osyenia, but behind several young brothers in the line of succession for inheritance of the border territory. And now … I’m Vlasta, squire to Ratibor Skysent, and I might one day really become a chivalrous Bogatyr, the most noble and respected warriors in all of Ruska. Barbov had been wrong; she had not just wished for this -- she had dreamed of it. While her heart raced and her stomach fluttered, she did not smile. She looked back to Miliv’s grave. She did not smile, for she knew what it meant to be a warrior, now. The dungeons of Mejen's keep. _________________ “What did you say your name was, again? Mia, Mya?” “Mylah.” “Isn’t that what I said?” Stanislaw could not help but snort in amusement as Ratibor Skysent questioned the prisoner. Stanislaw leaned back against the walls of the cell, his arms crossed over his jacket, next to a frowning Prince Kosav. Ratibor, his fellow Bogatyr, paced back and forth, one hand idly scratching his neat moustache. “Mylah Nzechovich, then, is it?” Ratibor went on. “Or are you from a more minor pagan bloodline?” “I’m just a common soldier,” came a bored drawl from a weapon in the centre of the cell. Clad in rags and fettered with chains on her ankles and wrists that bound her to a pillar in the middle of the cell was a young man, her face and dark-blonde hair mired with dirt, and her flat eyes downcast. “I already told you to cut that out,” Ratibor tutted. “We have plenty of men who recognise you, pagan. Right, Stanislaw?” “Ai, no point lying, girl,” Stanislaw said, and even he found himself glaring at the prisoner. “I recognise you myself from King Karl’s tours in Nzechia. You’re a relation of Lord Msitovic, aren’t you? A close one, if I recall.” “Mylah of Karinov,” Kosav abruptly mumbled. “Lord Msitovic’s niece.” Mylah looked up from the floor, eyeing the Prince coldly. “And how do you know that?” “I know all the bloodlines of note in Ruska,” Kosav answered back with just as much frost. “Your uncle was the one who taught me. If your intention was to hide your identity, then you never should have spoken your true name.” Or perhaps that's what she wanted, Stanislaw thought, so that we'd spare her life as a hostage. With a jingle of metal, Mylah spread her chained hands. “I confess defeat then, my lord.” “Your lord Prince,” Ratibor corrected sharply, as if disciplining a child. “Highness, by your leave, I’ll teach the pagan some manners.” Kosav raised a forestalling hand, and kept his attention on Mylah. “Who sent you to Mejen?” For a moment, there was silence in the cell, but then Stanislaw blinked at the speed at which Ratibor slammed his boot into the prisoner. Mylah growled in pain and sagged in on herself, her chains clanging as she gasped for breath. Stanislaw knew that this woman had been responsible for the infiltration of their siege camp that had led to the dishonourable murder of hundreds of Karovic soldiers, but even he felt a twang of doubt at Ratibor’s aggression. “Easy, Ratibor,” Kosav intoned softly. With an unapologetic nod, the Bogatyr moved to the other wall of the cell, while Mylah still sucked in air. Kosav stepped forward, and squatted down so that he was on eye level with the woman. “Did Lord Msitovic send you here to fight us?” “Not … not quite,” Mylah answered in a throaty rasp. “We … asked him to be sent here to fight.” Stanislaw arched his brow. “We?” “My … my brother and I.” “Your brother?” Kosav repeated. “That would be … Szitibor Nzechovich, yes?” Mylah nodded begrudgingly, and Kosav went on. “Yes, I think I met him once, in Nzechia. An excellent swordsman, from what I remember. Your brother - he was in command of your forces in Mejen?” Another nod was accompanied by a clink as Mylah shifted in her bonds. “Hmph. Where has your brother gone, then?” Only one place to go on this side of the Huns, Stanislaw thought to himself as the Younger Prince went on with his questioning. For a moment, it looked as if Mylah was not going to answer, but after a sullen glance towards Ratibor, she croaked, “Dules.” Kosav shared an uneasy look with both the Bogatyr, and Stanislaw returned it. They had won a great victory at Mejen that announced to all of Ruska that the Karovic dynasty did not intend to let the Nzechovich usurp their throne without a fight, but Mejen was a small town, and the armies that had fought in the Battle were modest. The real fight for the crown of Ruska would start at the trade-city of Dules. Kosav straightened up, and frowned down at Mylah. “How many soldiers has your uncle sent to Dules?” “Thirty-thousand,” Mylah answered, without encouragement, much to Stanislaw’s surprise. Both he and Ratibor flinched at the number, but not Kosav. “My cousin Vladrik leads them.” “Hmph. You’re very trusting all of a sudden,” Ratibor remarked, and Mylah shrugged. “What’s the point in lying? You already know who I am, and who my brother is. And besides, Vladrik is my cousin, but he’s no friend. Fight him all you like.” “Even if that means the defeat of the Nzechovich?” Stanislaw asked. Infighting amongst Ruskan dynasties was hardly uncommon, but when the fate of their bloodline was at stake, Stanislaw had expected a little more unity than usual. Mylah gave no answer, but this time he suspected it was because she had none. “What about the rest of Ruska, then?” Kosav asked. “Where has your uncle sent the rest of the Nzechovich forces?” The rest? Stanislaw bristled to himself. If they have much of their forces left after sending thirty-thousand to Dules, then we’re in serious trouble. “My uncle didn’t include me on his war councils,” replied Mylah. “But I know some smaller forces were to rally the Boyars near the Carnatian border, then down south-east towards Bretzenov. I don’t know how many.” “Your cousin, Vladrik. Are there any Boyars with him?” “A … few, I think.” “From Nzechia?” At Kosav’s question, Mylah nodded. “All of them?” Another nod. Stanislaw chewed his lip. In a way, that was good news. While it was certainly unsettling to know that thirty-thousand enemies awaited them at Dules, at least it meant they knew where the vast majority of the Nzechovich host was. If the armies assembled from the Nzechovich stronghold of Nzechia were all at Dules, that meant that any other army on the field throughout Ruska had to be the individual forces of various Boyars -- Boyars which were likely coerced or forced into assisting the Nzechovich. With any luck, those were the armies that could be persuaded to join the Princes’ cause. If we can deal with the army at Dules, that is, he reminded himself grimly. We won’t be doing any persuading until we defeat Vladrik Nzechovich. Kosav’s frown had deepend with the news as he stared down at the prisoner. “One last question.” A hint of disdain entered Kosav’s glare, betraying his otherwise stony expression. “Why did you attack like that? Why disguise yourselves as peasants, and attack by surprise? Why dishonour yourselves so thoroughly?” “She is a Nzechovich pagan, lord prince,” Ratibor said as if it were a fundamental fact. “Why else?” Kosav ignored him, though, and stared down expectantly at Mylah. This time, the prisoner met his look with one as determined as her own, and said, “To win, Prince. To win, and to live. The same things you want. Would you not have done the same, if it meant killing your enemy and securing your throne? In one fell blow, without any further bloodshed?” Mylah doubled over as she recieved a second brutal kick from Ratibor, who coldly intoned, "Don't you dare to presume the Prince's honour, pagan," as Mylah's chest heaved for breath again. Kosav’s eyes tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned, and yanked open the cell door, before he stormed outside. Scratching his neck, Stanislaw pushed off the wall to follow, and Ratibor did the same. “I’m sure we’ll catch up again soon, Mia,” Ratibor chimed as they made for the door. “It’s ... Mylah.” “That’s what I said,” the Bogatyr said as he slammed the cell door shut behind him. In the hallway of the dungeon outside, Kosav sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. The hallway was far from quiet; while Mylah had been imprisoned in a cell of her own, every other cell was crammed with Nzechovich soldiers captured from the battle, many of which began to call out and began on the cell doors at the sight of Stanislaw, Ratibor, and Kosav. “Are you well, Highness?” Stanislaw asked sceptically. “What?” Kosav blinked, as if waking from a trance. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. We, ah, we should be making for the war council by now, shouldn’t we?” Even Ratibor seemed to notice the Younger Prince’s uneasy state, and Stanislaw pursed his lips. “Ai, it’s about time we do, Highness. Are you sure -” “Let’s not tarry, then, for Barbov’s sake,” Kosav went on as if speaking to himself, before he rubbed his hands and took off down the dungeon hallway without waiting for the Bogatyr, leaving Stanislaw and Ratibor wearing mutual frowns. “He’s suddenly distracted,” Stanislaw grumbled. “It’s not like him to be thrown off so easily.” Did the prisoner really get to him? Ratibor brayed. “Perhaps he’s taken a fancy to Mia,” he grunted dryly, before following after Kosav. “It’s Mylah,” Stanislaw said under his breath when there was no one left to hear, and trailed after the other two. The Karovic war council. _________________ “I warned you. Now it’s too late.” “Would you stop?” Vlasta hissed back to Villorik under her breath. The two of them stood at alert behind vacant chairs at a long feast table in the heart of Mejen’s keep. The pale light of noon filtered in through tall arched windows on either side the wall, and the light was faintly distorted by the continuous raindrops streaking the windows. It was a simple hall, not meant for particular luxury, with the empty Boyar’s chair set atop a plain wooden dais atop the hall, and only various candlesticks, rugs, tapestries, and banners along the stone walls for decoration. Boyars filled the other chairs of the feast table, most of whom still wore their armour from battle or bits of finer fur clothing they had pillaged from the castle, since all of them had lost their belongings and other clothes in Mylah’s fire. They spoke in hushed voices, while, at the top of the table, Prince Barbov still wore that distracted expression from earlier that morning at Miliv’s grave as he stared absently at the table-top, lost in thought. “I don’t want to call you a fool, but …” Villorik whispered at her side. Ever since he had found out that Vlasta was to serve as a squire under Ratibor, he had seem upset at the notion that Vlasta was his equal, now. He was not the only one, either; her own father, Boyar Olske, had looked at her askance all morning. He had nodded along when Barbov announced her appointment, as if it was what he wanted, but Vlasta could tell she was in for a tongue-lashing once they were in private. “Why?” she retorted dryly. “Worried you’ll offend me? Bit late for that, Turnheel.” “Tease all you want,” Villorik grunted. “But you’ll only realise what you’ve done when it’s too late -- when you’ve actually seen battle.” “You think I haven’t seen battle, then you’re the fool. I may not have been chased around the northern hinterlands by Carnatian raiders like you, but I was the one who warned the Princes about the flank! I had to watch our soldiers get cut down all around me and fight through a burning camp!” “What, and you want more of that?” Vlasta hesitated, but just for a moment. “Maybe I do.” Of course, now that she had seen what the Nzechovich could do, seen how she could end up like Miliv in the blink of an eye, she was not eager for another battle to come around, but surely what happened at the Battle of Mejen would not repeat itself. Besides, there’s no point denying this. The only way to be heard in this world is to fight. The muttering in the hall came to an abrupt stop as the double-doors were opened by feather-helmed soldiers to admit the final three war councillors missing from the table. “Thirty-thousand,” Prince Kosav announced with a distasteful twist to his lip as he swept inside the hall, with Ratibor and Stanislaw at his heels. Vlasta’s eyes lingered on Ratibor Skysent, the vixen-faced Bogatyr known for his zealous face. My new master… “Hmph. You’re late, brother,” Barbov said as if to scold, but his tone lacked any real intent, as if the visit to Miliv’s grave had left him sapped. “Thirty-thousand what?” “Thirty-thousand Nzech soldiers are at Dules,” the Younger Prince explained. “So the Nzech girl says, at least, and I’m inclined to believe her.” Thirty-thousand? The number rebounded in Vlasta’s head; she could not imagine that many people in one place, or even one country. The largest gathering she had ever seen had been the army the Princes assembled to attack Mejen, and that had been less than four-thousand. But thirty-thousand? The unease was not hers alone; all along the table, Boyars wore troubled expressions at the prospect, but not Prince Barbov. “The Nzech girl? I thought I told you to kill her,” the Elder Prince said with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “She’s a blooded Nzechovich, brother, kin to Msitovic himself.” Kosav unceremoniously dropped into the vacant seat beside Barbov, while Stanislaw took the seat in front of Villorik. As Ratibor approached, eyeing her with faint amusement, Vlasta’s breath caught in her throat. “I hear we are to become friends, you and I,” the Bogatyr intoned quietly. That was all he said, with a slight widening of his smile as he sat. With that tone, Vlasta was left entirely unsure whether Ratibor was pleased or not. “She’s the Daemon-blooded wench that murdered Miliv and the reserves,” Barbov insisted with a clenched jaw. “I want her dead, Kosav.” Many of the Boyars rumbled their agreement. “And you’ll have her dead, brother, I promise, but for now she can be of use to us to defeat the rest of the Nzechovich. Can we please discuss the matter at hand?” The hall was silent as Barbov stared flatly at his brother. For a moment, Vlasta thought that the Elder Prince was not going to let the matter go, but he reclined in his seat with a clenched jaw. “Thirty-thousand, you said? Tsch. If it’s true, that means they must have sent every banner in Nzechia to Dules. Who would their commander be?” "The girl says it's her cousin, Vladrik. He's another one of Msitovic's nephews, though he's a closer blood relative to the throne." "Vladrik?" Barbov snorted. "That prick?" “Would they have left Lahy undefended like that, lord prince?” inquired a lean, grey-haired Boyar whose name Vlasta did not know. “Not undefended,” Stanislaw input, “There’s no shortage of levies in the crownlands, but the issue is their loyalty. The forces from Nzechia are the only ones that the Nzechovich can rely on absolutely. Any other Boyar won’t have any particular loyalty to the Nzechovich, and only follow Msitovic’s lead because they think they have no choice.” Barbov spread his hands. “Our victory here has given them a choice.” Again, there came grunts of agreement and half-cheers from the Boyars. “Indeed, lord prince,” Stanislaw nodded, “though the crownlands are on the other side of the Huns.” “Perhaps, my lords,” Boyar Olske, Vlasta’s father, broke in, though he seemed to lack his usual look of admiration for the Princes since Vlasta’s promotion, “this presents a better opportunity. If we can send scouts to verify that number, perhaps we needn’t concern ourselves with Dules at all.” Barbov lofted an eyebrow. “You mean cross the Huns and go straight for Lahy?” “Ai, Highness. We can rally our faithful in the crownlands, retake Lahy while the Nzechovich are preoccupied with Dules.” “No,” Kosav suddenly interjected. “No, that reeks of a trap." More than one Boyar eyed Kosav askance. “And how do you figure that, brother?” Barbov asked. Kosav didn’t seem to notice their stares as his eyes locked on something unseen. “Something like this … yes, it would be just like Msitovic. If we withstood his attempts to defeat us at Mejen, then … he’d want us to cross the Huns.” “What, away from his army?” Barbov baulked. “Cross the Huns, where we gather support from loyalist regions, and threaten his rule in Lahy? That doesn't make any sense.” “Precisely. His foremost concern isn’t us; it’s Dules. Lahy might be the capital of Ruska, but Dules is the jewel. The wealth of the trade-city dwarfs everything else in Ruska. If Msitovic and the Nzechovich took Dules, they’d take control of their fleet, their wealth, and not to mention the thousands of additional troops within the walls. No …” Kosav tapped his knuckles absently on the table. “The eyes of Ruska are focused on Dules, but Msitovic is trying to distract us. He wants us out of the way so his army has no obstacle taking Dules, so much so that he’s willing to let us attack the crownlands … because, once they take Dules, they’ll have no difficulty wiping us out. If we cross the Huns, we’ll be dooming ourselves. Any victory in the crownlands will be short-lived; Msitovic is playing the long-game.” A sullen silence gripped the hall, but for pensive grunts and the creaking of chairs as men shifted in them. Several Boyars looked as if they wanted to say something, but could not quite find the words. Vlasta had slowly begun to see why Kosav, despite his lack of his brother’s strength or charisma, was just as valuable to their war than the Elder Prince. The man’s a genius, if he really is able to predict Msitovic’s plan. Barbov seemed reluctant to readily accept Kosav’s warning, and flexed his fingers irritably. “Hmph. If that were the case, Kosav, then how will we defeat the thirty-thousand Nzechovich besieging Dules? True enough, now that Mejen has fallen, we can send messengers to the western Boyars as far as Ingeslaw, but we at best we can bolster our army by another eight thousand or so.” The Prince spoke of tripling the size of their current army as if it were nothing, but Vlasta supposed it paled against the thirty-thousand Nzech at Dules. “Assuming that the Nzech haven’t already paid Ingeslaw a visit,” Ratibor added. “True enough,” Kosav went on. “Any open military confrontation against Vladrik at Dules will end in our defeat.” Barbov scowled. “So how -” “We may not have to fight them, brother,” Kosav interrupted. “How?” the Elder Prince demanded. Kosav smiled wearily, and began to explain. As he divulged his plan, Vlasta thought that if the eyes of all Ruska were going to be on Dules, then it would be Kosav they would watch, not Barbov.

We didn't always agree, but that's part of the job. You ultimately had backbone as a mod, you made calls you believed in, and you were willing to listen to reason. That's all we can ask for, and yet it's hard to come by a Mod that can do that. Not to mention, your early reforms took us out of the complete stagnation thanks to zero conflict. Thanks for your time, enjoy your rest, and best of luck with what comes next.

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER IV: SOUL & SWORD A Lord of the Craft short-story set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen The battle for the port-town of Mejen begins as the exiled Karovic royals - Prince Barbov and Kosav - clash blades with the traitors of the Nzechovich dynasty that stole their throne. Although outnumbered, Mylah and Szitibor - niece and nephew to the Nzechovich leader, Lord Msitovic - enact a cunning plan to trap and kill the Princes. As Mylah infiltrates behind the Princes' army, only Lady Vlasta of Osyenia - the daughter of a noble who is forbidden to fight - can do anything to warn the Princes before it's too late. Music Vlasta was frozen to the spot. Miliv, his mouth twitching wordlessly, dropped to his knees as he clutched the gaping wound in his stomach. Her blood had chilled in her veins. Her breath had caught in her throat. Why can’t … I move? As Miliv collapsed onto his front, she hardly heard the sounds of screams and fighting around her. As the woman - Mylah - splashed Miliv’s blood off the small sword she had hidden under her cloak, Vlasta could do nothing but watch. Why is this happening? On the ground, blood seeped out to create a crimson puddle around Miliv. Other soldiers were lying dead on the road between the tents, now, too; overwhelmed by the Nzechovich, disguised with dirtied faces and plain peasant clothes, the reserve soldiers caught by surprise fell victim to their onslaught. Though some of the Karovic reserves managed to raise their weapons in time, they only managed to strike once or twice before numerous blades overwhelmed them from all angles. Why? This … this isn’t … Smoke stung her nostrils. She could see columns of smoke rise from further back in the camp. As the soldiers fell in the road, she saw some of the Nzechovich overturn braziers, and toss torches and lanterns into the sea of canvas tents. Smoke and fire spread out before Vlasta as she stood petrified. Mylah prodded Miliv’s motionless form with a boot, to no effect, before her heavy-lidded eyes flit up to Vlasta. “You’re not going to make me kill you, are you?” she asked in a tone so casual she may as well have been remarking on the weather. “We’re here to kill the Princes, and not bystanders.” In a rush, Vlasta’s senses seemed to return to her. Without so much as she thought, she turned, and broke out into a dead sprint, leaping over the bodies of fallen Karovic soldiers as she bolted towards the battle at Mejen. “PRINCE KOSAV!” she roared, but her call was swallowed up by the chaos. Stanislaw lowered the spyglass. “The Nzech are thinning more on the south-west portion now,” he reported eagerly, though his eyes felt strained from scanning the walls of Mejen since the assault had begun. He sat amongst the Princes’ retinue, atop his stallion - Iskje - in decorated Ruskan mail with the other Bogatyr, their squires, and of course, Prince Barbov and Kosav. Ringed by elite Karovic footmen, they were positioned at the back of the army, watching as their soldiers exchanged a ceaseless hail of arrow-fire with the Nzechovich defenders atop Mejen’s wooden walls. “The pagans are pinned on the south-east side, too, lord Prince,” Ratibor Skysent, his fellow Bogatyr, remarked as he lowered his own spyglass. Stanislaw and Ratibor were tasked with monitoring the walls during the volley of arrows to assess where the defenders were concentrated on the walls, and try to identify any sections that were undermanned and ripe for attack. Of course, while Stanislaw sat safely on his horse, the frontlines of their army laid down their lives as their bows fired ceaselessly from behind the shield-walls. “They’re concentrated by the gatehouse, and we can’t sit here for much longer, my Princes,” Stanislaw said as he passed the spyglass to his squire Villorik, who sat atop his own horse next to Stanislaw with a face as pale as death. “If we wait much longer, we’re going to lose too many of our own to their archers. We should storm the south-west and south-east while the defenders are pinned there.” “Seems like that might be best. They have less soldiers than we estimated, it seems, to be weakening already,” Kosav intoned thoughtfully. The Younger Prince did not quite look like he belonged in his silverworked mail, whereas the Elder Prince Barbov seemed to have been born in his armour, with the way he wore it dignantly. “So be it, then,” Barbov determined with a nod. “I told you they’d crumble quickly. Elkna, Tarslev!” He called to two of his personal squires. “Signal Boyar Vitomir’s group to take siege ladders to the south-east, and Boyar Yarik to the south-west! Kosav, you join them on the south-west with Stanislaw. Ratibor, Slavomir, you two are with me on the south-east!” “This will be it, then. Stay close to me, Villorik,” Stanislaw said quietly with a soft exhale. As it had every night in his dreams, images of the bloody coup of Lahy Castle flashed through his mind, of the Nzechovich traitors trying to kill him in his sleep. “Our revenge for Lahy Castle starts here.” At his signal, Elkna raised a warhorn to his lips, and blew three short blasts, followed by a long one. Beside him, Tarslev hosted the maroon banner of Boyar Vitomir on a very long flagpole, and waved it about. Together, the horn and banner signalled Vitomir to attack the south-east, and they followed with another set of peels from the warhorn and another banner to signal Boyar Yarik to the south-west. Barbov stood in his stirrups, grinning ecstatically as his regal cloak and plume billowed in the wind. “TO THE WALLS, THEN! THE RECLAMATION OF RUSKA STARTS NOW!” “They’re moving on the walls, Lord Szitibor!” Szitibor stood atop the gatehouse, his eyes closed as the sound of battle washed over him. As his captain delivered the report, he cracked an eye open. “They’ve taken the bait?” “Yes, lord,” the captain answered with an uncertain nod. “They’re moving towards the south-west and south-east portions as we speak.” Szitibor glanced over his shoulder, behind the battlements of the gatehouse tower, to where hundreds upon hundreds of Nzech warriors stood in formation of Mejen’s dirt streets. The plan is working so far, then, he assured himself. His heart had been in his throat since last night, but he felt focused now. Fixated. Mylah had crafted them a cunning plan, if a dishonourable one, and Szitibor would do what he had to to win. For us, and for Ruska. As planned, he had slowly withdrawn his soldiers from parts of the walls to give the impression to the Karovic attackers that they were weakening, and bait them into attacking those sections with siege ladders. If the Princes attacked both the south-east and south-west simultaneously, it would spread their forces across the width of Mejen’s southern bulwark. Szitibor would catch them by surprise by charging the bulk of his forces through the main gate, smashing their spread lines. Normally, it would be suicide to abandon the defense of the walls, but that was where Mylah came in. He looked across the other side of the tower, beyond the attacking army. Already, he could see tents burning in the Karovic siege camp, and smoke climbing in the sky. Mylah’s infiltration was successful, then. Good. Disguised as peasants expelled from the town, his sister had entered the siege camp with several hundred Nzechovich warriors, and the Karovic had foolishly welcomed them as refugees. I … suppose dishonour does have its advantages, he told himself half-heartedly. Though without armour or heavy weapons, Mylah’s soldiers, with weapons hidden in their cloaks, were to ambush and slaughter the Karovic reserve soldiers, and then flank the Princes from behind. Between Mylah and Szitibor, the Princes would be trapped, caught off-guard, and crushed. “What is your command, Lord Szitibor?” the captain prompted after a moment. Despite his nerves, Szitibor almost laughed. “Have Velco and Lamek’s groups ready to reinforce Orm’s unit on the walls. Let the Karovic push up slowly, but too much. It won’t be much longer now.” Without blinking, he watched the flames spread in the distant camp. The Karovic had not noticed yet, and by the time they did, it would be too late. We’re doing this, Mylah. We’re winning. Mylah rolled her eyes as the dark-haired woman took off running. She did have that look in her eyes, she thought. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. As her Nzechovich cut down the Karovic reserve soldiers in the tents around them and began to pillage their weapons and armour, Mylah cracked her shoulder. “That one’s running for the Princes, Lady Mylah,” one of the nearby Nzechovich - who Mylah could not quite recognise thanks to the dirt they had covered their faces with to aid their disguise - said gruffly as he pulled his dagger free from the neck of a Karovic soldier. “Should we -” “I’ll get her,” Mylah cut him off. “The rest of you, stay your course. Burn the camp, kill every soldier you find, and then get into position for the flank.” Before the Nzech could say anything else, Mylah broke into a sprint of her own. Her sword clutched in hand, Mylah weaved through the crowds of fighting Karovic and Nzechovich soldiers on the camp’s main road as she trained her eyes on the dark-haired girl. Mylah had decided to chase her herself not only because she was most certainly faster than most of her Nzech soldiers, but also because something of the determined glimmer in the girl’s eyes right before she had bolted spoke to Mylah. It reminded her of herself, in a way. And if she’s anything like me … then she could be dangerous. Vlasta’s lungs laboured for breath as she sprinted. I have to get to Kosav! Or Stanislaw, or Ratibor, or even Villorik! I have to warn someone! If these Nzechovich attack from behind, the Princes will be caught between them and Mejen! Ignoring the cramp in her sides, she ran down the camp road, towards the gates, beyond which the Princes battled at the walls of Mejen. Nzechovich soldiers in their peasant disguises fought with small blades and axes against outnumbered Karovic soldiers. Although some of the Nzechovich lay dead and dying on the ground, they had sprung their attack far too quickly -- there was no organisation or unity among any of the Karovic left standing, and the numerous Nzechovich quickly surrounded and cut them down. None of them paid any attention to Vlasta - who was immensely grateful she did not wear any mail that might have marked her as a warrior, too - as she ran towards the battle. None of them, except one. With a panicked glance over her shoulder, Vlasta saw that Mylah was barrelling after her, her sword still wet with Miliv’s blood, and she was closing the distance. Damnit! She’s faster! Ahead of Vlasta, the camp’s gate neared, but a sinking feeling told her that Mylah would catch up with her if they remained running on a straight track. Damnit, damnit! I have to lose her! In a split second decision, she pivoted on her heels, and launched herself into one of the smaller paths between tents that branched off the main road through the camp. I can lose her in the tents! That’s my best hope! Without daring to look behind her, Vlasta dashed between tents, taking turns at random, in a bid to throw off Mylah from her trail. Even as she neared the fringes of the camp, some of the tents here had been set ablaze, and Karovic corpses lay scattered about. Tents had been slashed open, and men lay dead in the streets. Running as she was, she was grateful she could not get a proper glimpse of any of the bloodshed, but she still heard weak cries out for help that she had no choice but to ignore. I’m sorry. It’s too late for you, but I can still warn the main army! I - As she rounded a corner of tents, her foot snagged on a tent pegging, and she crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. No, no, get up! As she scrambled to stand, though, a boot was drilled into her side. With a strangled gasp, the impact sent her rolling several feet forward. She instinctively tried to stand, but the pain of the kick grounded her once more. “You’re quite fast,” Mylan said. The Nzechovich woman hardly seemed tired as she approached at a walk, now. “Get away!” Vlasta shrieked, and managed to scramble back. She did not realise she had backed into the corpse of a slain Karovic soldier until she placed her hand on his bloody torso, but instead of letting it distract her, she snatched up the fallen man’s sword. Focus. If I don’t want to end up like the rest of them, I need to focus! That, however, was easier said than done; her whole body felt in a panic from the ordeal, her lungs ached from the sprint, and her side throbbed from Mylah’s kick. “If you want to fight, that’s fine.” As cinders from the flames began to drift through the air and the sky became choked with smoke, Mylah shifted into a swordsman’s stance. “You can stand up, if you like.” Vlasta spat a laugh. With one hand clutching her side, and the other using the sword for balance, she stood, and glared at the other young woman. “Now you’re showing me honour? After you snuck into our camp, and attacked us from behind?!” While Vlasta’s voice quivered with rage, Mylah looked utterly unphased. “Honour? Heh. You sound a little bit like my brother." For a moment, the Nzechovich woman watched her with subtle intrigue. "How come you didn't run and hide? I didn't have to kill you, before you decided to go running for the Princes." "Because," Vlasta managed with as much strength as she could muster, "I ... I'm not some dishonourable craven, like you!" "That so?" Mylah arched a lazy eyebrow. "Then why are you here, and not on the battlefield?" When Vlasta only glared back, Mylah went on. "You must be some Boyar's daughter, right? I can tell, since your face is so clean. So, why do you care if the Princes live or die? You betrothed to one of them or something?" Gritting her teeth, Vlasta did everything to ignore her aching body as she raised the borrowed sword. “I ... I'm going to save them, and prove myself worthy to become a Bogatyr!" "Is that so?" Mylah cracked the faintest of grins. "What a coincidence. I aspire to be a Bogatyr, too. A great hero, like out of a babushka's tale." "You? A hero?" Vlasta spat. "After you deceived us and ambushed us outside of the battlefield?" Mylah shrugged, but her smile faded. "Well, with any luck, they'll leave that part out of the stories. You have a name?" "... It's Vlasta," she told her after a moment's hesitation. The longer I keep her talking, the more time the Princes might notice something's wrong. I can at least catch my breath this way. "Vlasta, of Osyenia." "Well, Vlasta of Osyenia, what I always tell my brother is that honour is just some excuse people tell themselves to justify what they're doing. Where was the Karovic honour at the Slaughter of Isztegan, or the Battle of Tefa? Truth is," she drawled as a gust swept cinders and embers through the air, "people only care about who wins, and whose in control. They won't care about how you fought and died with honour." Vlasta's grip tightened on her sword. "I don't plan on dying here." Mylah's faint smile, as if she was privy to a private joke, returned. "Neither do I." The Nzechovich stepped forward, and swung. Vlasta had received a little bit of training in combat - all Boyar’s children did, for self-defence if nothing else - and so she met Mylah’s strike with a high-guarded block. In the cinders of the burning camp, they clashed, striking back and forth with sparks flying from each clang of steel on steel. From the first, Mylah proved herself the dominant fighter; under her flurry of quick blows, Vlasta found herself on the defensive, consistently forced back as she had to twist her blade to meet Mylah’s snaking slices. I can’t keep up with her, a panicked voice rolled across her mind as he hastily backstepped to avoid an attempt from Mylah to grab her wrist. I - I can’t beat her! What am I going to do!? Another blow glanced off her sword, and grazed Vlasta’s forearm. No, wait ... I just can’t beat her in a fair fight, and she’s already thrown honour out the window. So … As an idea bloomed into her head, Vlasta arched her neck aside to avoid a sudden thrust. As soon as she parried Mylah’s sword aside, she turned, and dashed backwards. There! Her eyes settled on a marquee - a mess tent for the soldiers - just a few tents away, and she ran with all her vigour, hoping that Mylah would not catch her before she reached it. Fortune smiled on her as she leapt through the tent-flaps, and she was grateful to find the tent was absent of living or dead bodies. She knew she did not have long, though; the roof was already growing charred with encroaching heat from the fire. As Vlasta positioned herself in the centre of the tent, heaving deep breaths, Mylah followed leisurely behind her. “What happened to honour? Honourable warriors don’t run from battle.” Though she spoke it like an insult, her tone and expression remained completely placid. “I don’t have much longer to waste, so let’s get this over with. I promise, I’ll make it quick for you.” As Mylah advanced, Vlasta tightened every muscle in her body. Now! Instead of swinging at the approaching woman, she cut overhead; her sword sheared through the ridge-pole of the tent supporting the ceiling in one clean blow, and the burning canvas suddenly caved inwards. As the marquee’s ceiling collapsed, she rushed towards the back entrance, and sliced her sword through the support poles there as she passed. She heard only a surprised grunt to indicate that Mylah had become ensnared in the collapsing tent, with the canvas now afire, but Vlasta did not linger to see what became of the woman. Dropping the sword - it would only weigh her down, now - she forced herself into one final charge, towards the camp’s gate, and towards the battle. Before it’s too late … I’m coming! “STEADY! STEADY! HOLD!” Stanislaw’s throat seared as he roared commands. With several dozen other Karovic soldiers, he formed a turtle of red-and-black shields at the foot of Mejen’s south-west walls. His soldiers had formed several shielded turtles, within which they carried siege ladders to lift onto Mejen’s walls. Several ladders lay fallen and splintered in the town’s shallow moat, surrounded by the corpses of Karovic soldiers, but Stanislaw had seen for himself the Nzechovich numbers diminishing on the walls, and what defenders remained were surely growing spent. Just another push or two, and then we’ll be up. “READY?!” he bellowed, and looked to Villorik on his right, and Kosav on his left. Though both had their visors lowered, Stanislaw could see wide eyes through them. My squire and my Prince … I won’t let either of you die. “AI!” the soldiers around him roared back. “THEN PUUUUUUSH!” Their shielded columns surged forward as arrows thudded into them. Morning light shone through the cracks between their shields as his soldiers began to lift the long ladders, pushing them up as high as they would go until gravity pushed them against the battlements of Mejen’s walls. “WEIGH THEM DOWN! GO, GO, GO!” The bombardment from Mejen’s walls intensified as the Karovic rushed to drive weighted stakes into the bottom of the ladders to secure them, and while most of the soldiers managed to lock their shields back together, Stanislaw saw plenty of their allies fall victim to Nzechovich archers. Out of the six ladders they had erected, one was thrown back down by the defenders immediately, and a second quickly followed. Out of the four that remained, soldiers began to climb once the stakes were set. “Wait until they’re up, Prince,” he told Kosav as he and Villorik - and a handful of Kosav’s personal guards - cautiously stepped away from the ladder they had erected, with their shields walled together. “Once the first wave is up, it’ll be over. The Nzech don’t have the numbers.” Kosav gave a quick nod, his breaths sharp. “This will be our message to Msitovic. We won’t be stopped.” “By no one but God himself, my Prince!” Stanislaw flashed him a grin, but the smile did not last long; it was hard to smile while watching his allies fall to their death from the ladders as Nzechovich spears and halberds stabbed at them. Despite the resistance, the Karovic attackers were slowly pushing up. The walls would be swarmed any minute now. “STAAAAAANISLAAAAAAAAAW!” At first, Stanislaw thought the sound of a woman screaming his name had been his imagination, but a second later, he heard another cry over the sound of battle. “PRINCE KOOOOOOSAAAAAAV!” “What in the …?” Kosav started to turn, but Stanislaw stopped him with an elbow. “No, Prince! If you turn your back on archers during a battle, you’re inviting death! Villorik, disengage and see what that is!” With a nod from his terrified squire, Villorik was at least able to slide his shield out of the wall carefully enough for the soldier beside him to close the gap, and the squire vanished behind the mass of soldiers in their column. Could that have been …? “L-Lord?!” came Villorik’s voice from behind. “What?!” “It - it’s Lady Vlasta! She’s running towards us!” Szitibor lowered the visor of his helmet as he watched the Karovic climb the walls. Everything was perfectly in place. The Karovic force was spread all along the south wall as they tried to breach two separate portions, utterly oblivious to the fire blazing in their siege camp behind them. As instructed, Szitibor’s Nzech forces slowly abandoned the walls, letting the attackers get a foothold, while the bulk of his force rallied at the gate below him. Any moment now, he would gave the order for the gates to open, and he would charge into the thinly-spread attackers, and Mylah would strike them from behind. There was no sight of Mylah yet, but that was no cause for alarm -- it was too early to charge. They had to wait until the Karovic were partially on Mejen’s walls, so that they would not be able to band together quickly enough to withstand the Nzechovich counterstroke. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the peel of a Karovic warhorn. Three short, urgent beats. They’re giving a signal? Now? The warhorn repeated the signal, and suddenly, Szitibor heard a unified cry break through the din of battle. “PULL BACK! GET OFF THE WALLS!” From the battlements of the gatehouse, he looked left and right to see Karovic soldiers begin to climb back down the siege ladders they had spent the last hour trying to climb. The warhorn’s urgent bleat repeated, and the attackers began to fall back from the walls in a chaotic bustle. “Lord Szitibor!” called his captain as he rushed out atop the tower. “They’re retreating, they must -” “I know!” Szitibor hissed through gritted teeth. “Someone must have escaped from the camp to warn them!” Damnit, what happened?! Did something go wrong with Mylah?! “Should we reinforce the walls, lord? We can’t charge without your sister in the rear.” “No,” he barked back harshly. “We - we have to charge now!” If they did not attack now, Mylah would be stranded and left at the mercy of the Princes. “B-but Lord Szitibor, they’re regrouping, we -” “Then we strike now, before they can! Give the order, captain!” Under his tenacious glare, the captain slowly nodded, and descended back down from the tower. Drawing his sword, Szitibor looked back towards the battle as the Karovic forces began to regroup back into one central force. I have no choice but to attack now. That’s my only chance to save Mylah. He heard a warcry go up below him in the street, and the gates of Mejen began to open with a mechanical groan. To hell with glory, and to hell with Ruska! Mylah, don’t worry … I’m coming to save you! Mylah hacked a cough as she pulled herself free from the burning canvas. She collapsed on the ground outside, gasping for air as burns stung all over her body. Shouldn’t have let the ***** stand up, she thought as she sucked in deep breaths in an attempt to quell the pain, and regain her focus. She had been caught off guard by Vlasta collapsing the tent on top of her, and that mistake might have cost them the battle. Don’t let it be too late, please, she prayed vainly as she clambered to her feet, and began to stagger in the direction of the camp’s gate. Please, God, let one of the others have stopped her before she could warn the Princes. While she had chased Vlasta through the camp, her Nzechovich infiltrators had kept themselves busy; the tents had been swallowed by an ocean of fire, and some of them had been burnt to ash already, and everywhere Mylah looked she could see the bodies of slain Karovic soldiers. Everything had gone according to plan, except for Vlasta. Don’t let it be too late. Forcing herself into a painful jog, she emerged out onto the camp’s main road. It was there she found that most of her soldiers had gathered, and outfitted themselves with shields, weapons, and helmets from the bodies of their slain enemies in preparation of their surprise attack from behind the Princes. Despite their obvious victory within the camp, however, all her soldiers looked out towards Mejen with worry, anger, and even fear. “What … what’s going on?” she demanded of them, her voice hoarse and raspy from the smoke. “Lady, I … think we’re too late,” a soldier replied, and raised his sword to point to Mejen. Mylan followed the blade, and her heart sank. The fighting was no longer at Mejen’s walls, but at the fields outside its gates. She could see green-and-red Nzechovich standards flying above a host of soldiers clashing against the Karovic army. Siege ladders lay abandoned against the palisade walls, and Mejen’s gates stood open. Vlasta … warned them. They pulled back from the walls in time to face Szitibor, and I’m not there to strike from behind. Any last inklings of flanking the Karovic vanished when she saw something even worse: a retinue of Karovic soldiers had broken off from the main army, and were charging back towards the camp. “Lady Mylah, get ready!” One of the soldiers called hesitantly as they raised their weapons. “They’re coming! We’ll need to fight our way back to Mejen!” Mylah did not bother. As the shouts of the nearing Karovic soldiers grew louder, she yawned. There would be no fighting their way back to Mejen - even with her help, the entire plan had hinged on catching the Karovic attackers spread out along the walls. Now that they had all grouped up again, she knew it was hopeless. Well, Szit, I have to admit. I never thought it would be me that messed up the plan. She threw down her sword, and she raised her hands in surrender. The battle was lost. As Mejen’s gates closed behind Szitibor and the soldiers he had managed to retreat with, he removed his helmet, and flung it to the ground in rage. How could it have gone wrong!? What happened to my sister?! Back behind the gate, he a tremendous, triumphant cheer seemed to shake the entire land as the Karovic celebrated. Without the Karovic being spread out on the walls, Szitibor, despite every effort, had not been able to break through their ranks to find Mylah. The battle was lost, and so was his sister. While the soldiers outside the walls cheered, what was left of his Nzechovich army groaned and cried out from their injuries. Soldiers carried their comrades back to shelter within the houses, while his surviving officers, their faces stark with concern or disapproval, stood silently awaiting him to say something. What can I say? The plan … Mylah … “ … We’re leaving,” he declared. They could not hold Mejen anymore, not with these numbers; once the Princes recovered from the first battle, storming the walls would be childsplay. “We take the tunnels under the well, and we make for Dules. There, we join my cousin Vladrik.” Normally, it would have made him sick to even think of going to his cousin for help, but not anymore. Not when saving - or, God forbid, avenging - Mylah was on the line. No one objected to his plan - it was suicide to stay in the town - but no one looked pleased, either. Heaving deep breaths, Szitibor turned back towards the gate, and at the Nzechovich banner hanging from it. I swear it, Mylah, I’ll come back for you, and if they kill you, I’ll wipe out every last person with a drop of Karovic blood in their veins! By my soul and sword, Mylah, I swear it! I’ll save you!

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER III: MEJEN A Lord of the Craft short-story set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy After rallying their forces in the border-town of Osyenia, the Karovic Prince Barbov and his brother Kosav begin to secure ports on the Lower Huns River to prepare to retake the Ruskan crownlands - in particular, the wealthy trade city of Dules and the royal capital of Lahy. However, the usurpers of the rival Nzechovich dynasty move to stop their efforts before they begin. Szitibor and Mylah, nephew and niece of the Nzechovich leader Lord Msitovic, rally to oppose them in the port-town of Mejen. Music A gull soared across the sky. Cawing, it flew above theb anks of the Lower Huns River, its calm waters glistening in the mid-morning sun, and glided on the spring wind above the small port-town of Mejen. The gull sailed above the green-and-red Nzechovich banners flying from Mejen's thick wooden walls, and its shadow trailed across the quilted expanse of ploughed, but abandoned, fields and farms outside the walls until it passed above where Vlasta of Osyenia stood, on the makeshift ramprts of the Karovic siege camp. Stupid bird has it easy, she thought to herself as the wind tossed her dark hair about. He gets to fly everywhere, while I'll probably have these saddle-sores on my arse until I die. She winced as she pressed a hand against her lower back; she had practically lived in the saddle of her horse for the past fortnight, following the Karovic Princes around as they rode from village to village to gather more levies to bolster their army to reclaim their throne. I guess we have one thing in common, mister bird, she thought bitterly as she slumped forward against the palisaded battlement. Neither of us get to fight. Prince Barbov and his younger brother Prince Kosav had planned to secure the main riverports on the Lower Huns River - Kurwen, Brativar, and Mejen - to give them a foothold to assault the trade city of Dules, further upriver, which would bring the Princes enough wealth and manpower to drive the Nzechovich traitors out of Lahy and reclaim their father's crown of Ruska. The plan had gone well at first -- Kurwen had welcomed the Princes without a fight, and the Boyar of Brativar surrendered after a siege that lasted no longer than twelve hours. When they arrived at Mejen two days ago, however, instead of finding another Boyar with a measly levy and no wish to fight royalty - exiled though they were - they had been greeted by Nzechovich banners flying proudly from the walls, and a garrison of three-thousand Nzech warriors ready to halt their advance. "I still don't get it," she mumbled. "I thought the whole plan was based on the fact that the Nzechovich had their hands full with the rest of the Kingdom to bother with us down here." Before the succession crisis, Vlasta had never gone further than the handful of villages around her father's lands of Osyenia, but from everything she had heard, the Nzechovich coup had thrown the entire country into chaos. Compared to rebelling Boyars in the north or Dules trying to assert neutrality, the Princes' modest army should have been of little concern. "Well, it was," came a hoarse reply. Beside her, Villorik - squire to the famed Bogatyr Stanislaw Horselegs - stood staring at Mejen with wide, fearful eyes. Vlasta and Villorik had often found themselves waiting together like this while the Boyars, Bogatyrs, and Princes argued over their battle plans and logistics. Even looking frightened as he did, Vlasta had to begrudingly admit that Villorik was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, with his unblemished, chiselled face and his long, dark curls. That, however, annoyed her; Villorik was too pretty to be a warrior, and he lacked an ounce of courage to boot. "All that time we took taking Kurwen and Brativar will be pointless if we can't take Mejen, too." "We can take Mejen, even if the Nzech have holed up there," Vlasta said, crossing her arms. "We number well over three-thousand ourselves, now." "I know, but they have high walls, and -" "And we have some of the best Bogatyr alive!" Vlasta quipped back. "Stanislaw Horselegs, Slavomir the Drowned, and Ratibor Skysent! Not to mention the Princes themselves have the blood of King Karl in their veins!" As Villorik shied back from her glare, Vlasta clicked her tongue in irritation. The young man was a craven to his core, and yet he was allowed to fight in battle for honour and glory. Vlasta would have given anything for that opportunity - an opportunity to prove her worth for herself, and not sit on the sidelines - but her father forbid her from fighting, and none of the Bogatyr were prepared to upset her father by taking her as a squire. "I can't believe that someone like you gets to fight instead of me." "What is that supposed to mean?" Villorik narrowed his eyes. "Oh, nothing ... Turnheel." She had heard more than a few of the soldiers whisper that moniker for Villorik. Vlasta might have expected Villorik to storm off, or even to rebuke her, but she did not expect the soft, quiet voice that asked, "Do you think it's ... fun? Out there, on the battlefield? Do you think it's something people should want to do?" Something about the squire's eyes, and that soft voice, were oddly haunting. She opened her mouth to retort, but she never got the chance to speak; a sudden commotion from the camp behind them drew their attention simultaneously. Tents sprawled haphazardly across the grassy banks of the Lower Huns, broken up by larger marquees and bonfire circles beneath the black-and-red banners of the Karovic dynasty. Warriors in gambesons and mail, coloured in the style of the Boyar they served, milled about restlessly, talking in hushed voices around fires and glancing about with tight eyes. They're all so tense. They're waiting to hear if we starve the Nzech out of Mejen, or attack. The commotion had come from the command tent - a large, decorated marquee of red-and-black canvas - where the Princes were having their war meeting. The door-flaps, flanked by Karovic elites in feathered helmets, opened up, and the familiar bawdy shouts of Prince Barbov echoed. The Bogatyr left the tent first; Ratibor Skysent wore an eager grin on his moustached face, while behind him, Stanislaw Horselegs frowned thoughtfully as he so often seemed to do since leaving Osyenia, and Slavomir the Drowned wore the same stoic expression as always. The cohort of Boyars sworn to the Princes followed, including her father Boyar Olske, and they too did not share Ratibor's smile. Last came the Princes themselves; Kosav, the Younger Prince, lean and gaunt and messy-haired, looked uncomfortable with the sword at his waist and starkly contrasted his older brother. Broad of chest and shoulders, the Elder Prince Barbov looked every bit the King he aspired to be, with his face proudly set like an eagle, and his cloak and hair stirring in the wind with a regal, effortless aura. As the command retinue left the tent, the camp fell silent but for the flapping of banners in the wind. Soldiers began to congregate between the tents near the marquee, watching expectantly, waiting to hear if they would fight or wait, and the silence grew heavier. Prince Kosav looked uneasily as the retinue paused amidst the onlookers, but the silence was abruptly broken by a boom from the Elder Prince. "What are you all looking like miserable gits for?! TONIGHT, WE FEAST! AND TOMORROW, WE KILL EVERY LAST NZECH IN MEJEN!" The charismatic roar from the King-to-be was enough to cast away the tension that had gripped the camp only seconds ago, and a roar went up from the soldiers. The uneasy frowns of the Boyars turned to smiles of relief, and then joined the cheers. Beside Vlasta, Villorik did not join the cheers. Instead, he gave her a cool glare. "No matter what you want, you're lucky you don't have to get sent out there to kill, or get killed yourself." "Lucky?" she barked a mirthless laugh. "Are you serious? You might be a craven, but at least people know who you are! You get to be somebody, you get to be part of something, while I'm stuck on the sidelines for the rest of my life!" "That so?" Villorik said in that icy voice. "Then maybe we should switch." He hitched his sword at his waist, and then descended from the ramparts towards Stanislaw. Vlasta was left alone, and now it was her turn to frown as the cheers echoed through the camp. "What are they shouting for?" As the cheer from the Karovic siege camp echoed through the top of the tower of Mejen's gatehouse, Szitibor looked up from polishing his sword on a stool. In truth, he had ran an oiled cloth along the blade enough to polish it twenty times over today alone, but he had to keep his hands busy as they sat waiting in Mejen. The anticipation, the anxiety of waiting for the Princes' move, occupied his every waking thought. "Not sure," came his sister's bored drawl. Mylan leaned against the battlements, her head propped lazily on one arm, as her heavy-lidded eyes surveyed the Karovic siege camp across the fallow fields. "But you don't need to worry. They're not making any moves to attack just yet." "I don't need to worry?" Szitibor repeated with a scoff. "They're going to attack eventually." "Isn't that the point, Szit?" Szitibor clicked his teeth shut, and sucked in a calming breath. She's right. Of course she is. The reason we're here is to kill Prince Barbov and Kosav, not have a stand-off with them. " ... Yes, you're right." He rose from the stool, and joined as his sister at the battlements with his bared sword in hand. He swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight of the tents encircling Mejen's walls beneath Ruskan banners and the standards of various minor Boyars. He cast a sidelong look at Mylah; whereas he was nervous and wound tight, Mylah seem as composed and aloof as ever. She even seemed bored. "You're ... sure about this, Mylah? About the plan?" "You're the one whose not sure, Szit. You need to relax. It'll be fine." "I-I know, just ..." He pressed a fist to his forehead. "I wish we didn't have to do it this way." "What way?" "The dishonourable way." His sister rolled her eyes. "Do you want to win, or do you want be an honourable corpse? Not like that would make much of a difference. If you fought with all the honour in the world, that pig Barbov would still bury you in a pile of shit for opposing him." "I ... I know that, too." He had wanted to prove himself worthy of the title of a Bogatyr knight, a paragon of the Raevir King, all his life, but since the Nzechovich coup of Lahy Castle, he knew there was little chance of that; he was a Nzechovich, nephew to Lord Msitovic, and his honour would be forever tarnished by his family's attack on the Karovic Princes and their supporters in their sleep. But Uncle wasn't wrong ... He had to try kill them quickly, for the good of Ruska. I just wish ... "So, do you want to sit here under siege for weeks while Vladrick gets all the glory taking Dukes? Or maybe you want to risk taking on their full numbers in an open assault?" "No, I -" "Then we do the plan, Szitibor. Honour be damned, especially when it comes to Barbov. All that matters is that we win." "Obviously, I just ..." he trailed off. I just what? His right hand held his sword in a vice-grip, with his left hand jittered uncontrollably. What is wrong with me? I'm a warrior of the Nzechovich lineage, here to kill the Karovic usurpers. Why am I shaking like this? He nearly jumped when his sister laid a hand on his shoulder. "Look, Szit. It's ... okay to be scared. But you know that we have to do this. If we don't, we'll be overlooked for the rest of our lives. We'll never be chosen as Bogatyrs, we'll never earn land of our own. We'll be bowing and scraping to the sycophants in the royal court for the rest of our lives. We can't live like that, not again." Szitibor nodded, and exhaled a shaky breath. "Right," he began as a gust rolled off the Lower Huns, sending the Nzechovich banner flying atop the tower into a flurry. "This isn't just for us, either. Everything that Uncle said back in Lahy was true. Another Karovic King, especially one like Barbov, would ruin Ruska forever. We have to kill them here, not only for us, but for Ruska." Mylah smiled wryly. "If you want to be all patriotic about it, fine. Whatever steadies your sword, brother." "Don't worry about my sword," he snorted, and this time, he meant it. For Ruska. We'll fight, we'll win, and we'll be heroes. "You're the one with the dangerous part of the plan. You won't have any armour or heavy weapons." "I'm steady as a rock." Mylah straightened up from her leaning, and brushed down her plain rough woollens, in contrast with Szitibor's Ruskan mail. "Tonight, at sunset, we'll set it in motion. Agreed?" She extended a hand, and Szitibor clasped it to pull her into an embrace. "Yes," he whispered into her back. "Let's kill the Princes, and be done with it. For Ruska." As the sun set, the Princes' camp feasted. Since that morning, the mood of the soldiers had entirely changed. Warriors gathered around blazing bonfires, laughing and drinking of the music of men and women playing the domra and accordion, and the alluring scent of roast meat permeated through the air. Funny how a few words from Prince Barbov can lift their spirits like that, Vlasta thought idly to herself. Instead of partaking in the feasting, she sat alone in the fringes of the circle of tents surrounding the command tent. Despite the Elder Prince's call to feast, the Boyars, Bogatyr, and the Princes themselves remained holed up in the marquee, seemingly finalizing their plans to carry out their assault on Mejen the following morning. According to Vlasta's father, in order to be ready to attack tomorrow, the war council had to divide the army into groups, determine which groups would attack which parts of Mejen's walls and when, and set up a chain of command in case any of the commanders died. For all the way in which her father treated Vlasta like a porcellain doll, to be looked at and never endangered, it did send a chill down her spine to think that there was a possibility he would die in the fighting with any of the other Boyars. This is a real fight this time. A real battle. And yet, despite that, she still thought she would have given anything to change place with Villorik and fight to prove herself, to earn a place as a squire to one of the Bogatyr. Wishes are wind, she reminded herself, and slouched back against a crate as she stared into the dying flames of a small fire outside her father's tent. She ignored a hungry rumble from her stomach, and the dreadful boredom that had plagued her since that morning. She preferred it this way; as a Boyar's daughter, she could not feast with the common soldiers, and she would be at best politely tolerated, and at worst coerced into marrying some third-born noble, if she were to feast with any of the high-born warriors like Villorik. As a flock of geese flew overhead in the light of the waning sun, for the third time that day she resolved it would be easier to have been born a bird than a noble's daughter. As she flicked a small pebble at the fire, she gasped when a shadow in the corner of her eyes became the shape of a cloaked man, and she scrambled back, hands instinctively reaching to the dagger at her waist. "Sorry, sorry!" the shadow said. "I didn't see you!" "I didn't see you!" Vlasta barked back. "Who -" Now that she could see the figure in the fading fire, Vlasta's jaw dropped. The shadow solidified in a slender young man, with a touch of gauntness, and disheveled dark hair. "Prince Kosav?" She was not sure which was more embarrassing, her surprise or the way she squeaked his name. "Didn't mean to startle you." Unceremoniously, he slouched to his knees beside, and stared into the dying fire. "It's Lady Vlasta, isn't it? Boyar Olske's daughter?" Her throat was suddenly dry. Back in Osyenia, she had joked with Stanislaw about marrying Kosav for her power of her own, but now that the Prince was actually speaking to her like this ... "Y-yes, Highness." "You can call me Kosav, if you like. Never saw the point of etiquette when there's nobody around," he said idly. "You don't mind if I join you, do you? Just for a minute or two. I need a break from war council." "Not at all, High - ... ah, Kosav." It felt wrong - criminal, even - to speak his name without title. She watched him sat there, half-expecting him to pull his sword on her or something ridiculous, but, of course, he didn't. He just looked tired. Come on, Vlasta, she scolded herself. Stop acting like a little girl. "Pardon my surprise, Kosav. I just didn't see you leave the command tent." "I slipped out the back while my brother was arguing with Boyar Vitomir," he explained with that same casualness. "Just ... easier that way." His eyes flit from her to the fire. "You know, I've been meaning to ask. Why is it that you followed us here from Osyenia?" "Well, ah ... my lord father is here." "But that's only because you insisted on coming along, isn't it?" He spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion, and Vlasta did not bother to deny it -- her father had wanted her to stay back home in Osyenia, but she had managed to convince him to at least take her along on the march, albeit as nothing more than a spectator. "So why, then? Your father won't let you fight, so why follow us on the march to war?" A hundred of excuses came to Vlasta's head, from wanting to see more of Ruska, to trying to find a good husband by mingling with the other Boyars and Bogatyr, but instead she steeled herself, and spoke the truth. "I ... am going to change everyone's minds, Prince Kosav. I'm going to show them I can be a warrior, and not some prissy Boyar's daughter whose not worth a second glance. If I can't convince my father to let me fight, then I'll convince someone more powerful than him." Only a modicum of surprise showed on the Younger Prince's face. "Is that so? And how will you do that?" "I - ..." Her determined edge faded. " ... haven't quite figured that part out yet. But I will, Prince. I swear it." Kosav laughed, then, but she knew it was not at her expense. It was warm, and melodious. "Seems you've got the spirit for it, at least. The soul must be harder than the sword," he recited, in a faintly sing-song voice. "Did your babushka teach you that?" Vlasta asked in amusement. "Lord Msitovic, actually." That took Vlasta aback. She knew Msitovic, leader of the Nzechovich dynasty, had been chancellor to King Karl - deceased father of Barbov and Kosav - and that he must have lived in Lahy with the Princes, but it still chilled her to hear the name of the man that had started this succession crisis. "You ... knew him?" " ... I thought I did. He was my tutor back in Lahy, before ... well, all this." "Do you know why he's doing this? Why he wants to seize the throne and kill you and Prince Barbov?" For a very long moment, Kosav was silent. His eyes, lost in thought, stared unseeing at the embers of the fire as they gradually faded. "... No," he said at last. "I intend to find out when we take back Ruska." Something about the eerie softness of his voice, and the faraway look in his eyes, told Vlasta he was lying. Somehow, Kosav did know the root cause of all this, but he wasn't sharing it with her, and whatever it was, she could see the pain it inflicted on him. Why is he hiding it? Before either of them could say anything else, though, the sound of running boots heralded the arrival of a cloaked and beaverskin-capped Raevir captain, his long moustaches bouncing with each stride as he jogged towards the command tent. "Highnesses!" he called as he approached. "I'm here, Miliv!" Kosav straightened up, his expression suddenly strained with concern. "What's the matter?" "Prince Kosav," Miliv wheezed, dipping into a hasty bow. "It's the Nzech, lord prince -- they've expelled the peasants from Mejen. There's a few hundred of them, heading this way." As Miliv finished speaking, the flaps of the command tent opened to admit Barbov, followed by Ratibor, Stanislaw, and a few curious Boyars who poked their heads out at the commotion. "They've expelled the peasants?" The Elder Prince repeated in surprise. "Already?" "Yes, Highness," Miliv confirmed, and bowed once again. "Pfft. That was fast," Barbov guffawed. "They took them into the town two days ago, and only now they decide they're going to much put too much strain on their rations?" "Might be that the Nzech have decided to brace for a long siege," Stanislaw pondered. "It's only been two days since they pulled the peasants back from the fields into the town," said Kosav. "Surely the Nzech weren't so impulsive as to take them in and only then realize they couldn't spare the rations in the event of a prolonged siege." Ratibor shrugged. "The Nzech are pagans. Can't rightly expect pagans to be smart, lord prince." "They're headed this way," Miliv reminded, "and it's almost full-dark. Should we send them on their way, Highnesses?" Barbov shook his head. "No need. On the contrary, welcome them in! Miliv, see to it that they get settled at the rear of the camp, and have them fed, too." "You're sure about that?" Kosav input. "We've got supplies to spare, but that doesn't mean we should squander them on charity." Barbov grinned as he spread his hands. "There's no need to fret, brother! This time tomorrow, the Nzech rats in Mejen will be dead and buried, and these people can return to their homes as loyal subjects of the rightful King." A cheer of "HEAR HEAR!" went up from Miliv and the Boyars gathered at the tent, while Kosav only murmured, "If you say so, brother." "Alright, enough, enough," Barbov gestured for quiet, and then motioned back to the tent. "Enough arsing back with the pretty lady, Kosav. We're not finished with planning." It took Vlasta a second to realize Barbov meant her, and she was grateful that the fading sunlight hid her sudden blush. Barbov did not so much as look at her, but Kosav practically flinched. The Younger Prince's surprise was short-lived, though, and he quickly bobbed his head. "Yes, planning, let's, um, yes, right." As the councillors made their way back inside the tent, and Miliv took off at a jog again to settle the refugees, Kosav loitered by the fire for just a moment once everyone else had gone back inside. "Well, ah ... thank you for letting me arse about, Vlasta. I pray that you'll find a blade to match your spirit soon enough." Vlasta was unsure whether she ought to be offended or pleased with Barbov's comment. Settling on a mixture of both, and deciding she definitely preferred Kosav out of the two Princes, she smiled. "The honour was mine, Kosav." Just like that, Vlasta was left alone again outside the command tent as the sounds of feasting washed over her once again. As the last of the sun began to disappeared behind the western horizon, she looked out towards Mejen, where she could just about make out scattered figures moving away from the gates, and towards the siege camp. The peasants the Nzech expelled. She did suppose it was odd that the Nzech would expel the peasants so soon after taking them in, but she supposed Barbov was right - there was to be an assault instead of a drawn-out siege, so food supplies were of little consequence. It was just that the Nzech did not know that. Tomorrow will be the day, then. The first proper battle of the Karovic reclamation effort. Though she was forbidden to fight, she would at least get to watch how a real battle was fought by real Bogatyr and soldiers. With a clouded mind, she slunk off to her tent to sleep, and her dreams were of battle, Bogatyr, and Prince Kosav. The echo of drum beats woke Vlasta. THUM. THUM. THUM. With a start, she shot upright in her sleeping roll. The pale light of a grey morning shone through the canvas of her spacious tent, and cold air pricked at her skin. Where? When ... drums? It took another beat of the distant drums to dispel the sleepiness, and she realized what the noise was - war drums. The attack ... it must be starting already! Scrambling out of bed, she dressed hastily as the war-drums continued to peel across the camp periodically. She dressed hastily, and dove out of her tent into the trodden dirt paths of the Karovic siege encampment. Immediately, she could tell most of the camp lay deserted. Ignoring the cutting wind that blew off from the river - she had not spared the time to grab a cloak to throw over her jerkin - she hurried towards the main camp road. She passed a few soldiers, fully armoured and with weapons in hand, waiting in anxious clusters by tents here and there. She had studied a little of warfare, enough to deduce that the soldiers left in camp must have been the reserve units -- once the soldiers attacking Mejen's walls grew spent and tired, the reserves would be sent to attack while the original attackers rested, and they would rotate, applying continuous pressure to the defenders, until they were victorious. THUM. THUM. THUM. As she arrived at the broad main road cutting through the camp, Vlasta saw it was not just soldiers present. Men and women, with dirtied faces heavy with worry, in plain woollens stood in clusters, looking out towards Mejen. They must be the peasants from last night, Vlasta realised, and for a moment she was taken aback by their number. Even at an initial glance, she could spy at least one hundred of them, warily looking between the waiting Karovic soldiers, and the home they had been expelled from. There must be even more of them at the back of the camp by now. Some of them carried crates and sacks with their meager belongings, but most seemed to have nothing more than the clothes on their back. "Miliv!" she called as she spotted the moustached captain atop the ramparts where she and Villorik had stood the previous morning. "Hm? Oh, a good morning to you, lady!" Miliv called as he turned his head and bowed. He seemed to be one of the only soldiers in sight - those whose faces were not obscured by their helmets, at least - who did not appear outwardly tense. "Come to watch the assault?" "That's right!" she answered as she weaved through the scattering of peasants and soldiers along the road to join him on the battlements. "Am I too late -" She cut off as the view of Mejen spread out before her. Rows upon rows of soldiers, beneath a rainbow of banners pledged to the Princes, were arrayed before Mejen's walls, the tips of their spears and helmets flashing in the pale morning light. At first, she thought some kind of mist hung over the town, before she realized it was arrow-fire exchanged between the attackers and defenders, a constant hail of death sailing from walls to field. From this angle, it was difficult to make out how the formations moved, but they did seem to be gradually shifting towards the walls. "Just begun about fifteen minutes back," Miliv explained. "But don't worry, you're not likely to miss anything. With battles like these, they'll be firing their bows for a good hour or two before we'll see any fighting on the walls. To be honest, lady, I'm lucky I'm in command of the reserve units. By the time I'm called upon, we'll be doing the real fighting." While Miliv seemed pleased with herself, Vlasta grimaced at her view of the battle as the drums continued to beat. They'll do nothing but exchange arrows for an hour or two? THUM. THUM. THUM. "H-hello?!" a voice called from below the rampart, then. A woman's voice, strained and rough. "You - you're the captain, aren't you? P-please, I need help!" Both Vlasta and Miliv looked behind them, where a woman - one of the peasants, given her baggy sackcloth cloak - stared up at them. She was young, with heavy-lidded eyes, and she appeared doubled-over on herself as she clutched her stomach in obvious pain. Despite her state, Miliv's frown seemed far from impressed. "Damned peasant ..." he mumbled under his breath, before he called to her, "What is it?" "Please, captain! One of your soldiers attacked me!" "One of my soldiers?" His eyebrows climbing, Miliv descended from the rampart towards her, and Vlasta followed after one last glance at the town. She supposed she wasn't likely to miss anything, if what Miliv said about battle was true. "They wouldn't dare, lady. These are men of honour in this camp." "Please, sir, I - I just ..." she doubled-over further, stifling a groan. "Come, let me see the wound," Miliv grunted as he approached. Vlasta trailed behind, but as the captain moved to help the woman, she noticed that there were more peasants in the camp road now than there had been moments ago. Far more, and they were not watching Mejen anymore. For some reason, they were watching Miliv. "You'll be alright, easy, now. What's your name, woman?" "Miliv," Vlasta began. She felt her hairs stand on end. Even now, more of the peasants were appearing through the tents. "I -" She did not get to finish. Miliv staggered back towards her, blood oozing from a sudden wound that had bloomed in his gut as the woman who had called for his help brandished a short-sword coated in Miliv's blood. Behind him, from sacks or beneath their cloaks, other peasants pulled out small, concealed weapons before the soldiers around them took note of what was happening. In a heartbeat, weapons were driven into the necks and backs of the soldiers. Screaming erupted in the air as some soldiers were fought back, before they were promptly overwhelmed by the number of 'peasants' that had flocked to the road. The woman that had stabbed Miliv spun the blade in her hands, splashing the blood to the ground as she straightened up. THUM. THUM. THUM. "My name," the woman spoke softly as Vlasta watched helplessly as soldiers fell around her, "is Mylah."

I mean, there's an abundance of reasons why a certain person might be raid-leader. This can range from raid experience of members of the party, to the RP leader (say, Hugh) not being in a position to properly communicate with the raiders/mods/opposition at all times (for example, because of real-life circumstances). During the last Oren/Urguan/Haense war, despite being NL of Haense, I was never raid leader/defense leader on Haense incidents because (a) I had far more experienced raiders better suited for leading raids, and (b) these things typically happened late at night where I, as a European, had limited ability to voice chat, was tired, or playing on a laptop.

No, they wouldn't. Internal conflicts are warclaim rules. If you take a look at my previous comment, I break down why Nectorist v. Viros wasn't a one-in-a-million; far from it. It bears substantial similarities to the current situation, including outsider intervention, Orenians on both sides of the conflict (you conversely point to the ISA, who remained in Viros' camp until they stood down), and, like I've said, TOS bans etc. have absolutely no relevance. As far as OOC mechanics are concerned, 'claims to the throne' are also completely irrelevant. Once you establish precedence (i.e., the Brothers' War) it's entirely inappropriate to disagree/change that precedence only when it applies to a similar situation (the Acre incident). If Mods thought the ruling of the Brothers' War was defective and incorrect, that should have been distinguished immediately -- it's completely unfair to let Acre mistakenly rely on that precedent if Mods believe it's erroneous. There's a margin of error, but then there's inappropriate conduct. Ignoring any attempts of civil negotiation from the Acre players and responding with threats of bans and 'cope & seethe' is completely and utterly inappropriate behaviour. While humans make mistakes, I think the mistake in this incident is incredibly detrimental to Acre's legitimate efforts at roleplay and they have been unapologetically boned. Furthermore, when Staff attempt to enforce a 44 v. 25 CRP - a very blatant troll - then it's hard to seriously take their efforts as made in good faith. As someone whose made plenty of mistakes on Staff myself, of course, there's a margin of error, but brushing aside the irreparable damage done to Acre's status, condemning intervention - very clearly justified by precedent - as 'bad sportsmanship', and telling players to f*ck off or get banned and to 'cope and seethe' is totally not OK.

There were no real rules, but this is far from a new situation. It's almost identical to what occurred when Savoy backed a coup on New Providence, and it's got similarities to the conclusion of the Brothers' War, too. In both situations, Staff didn't intervene to prevent the widespread participation of foreign rallies in determining the fate of PRO and Nation Status. When you break it down, you're arguing that the Aster Revolution and the Acre Incident are distinguishable because (a) Savoy had vassalized, (b) there were lots of Orenians supporting Nectorist, and (c) there were several other relevant factors, including bans, leadership departures, etc. I don't think any of these are very compelling whatsoever - I'll break it down: (a) It's definitely rule-lawyering on your part to say that Savoy was a 'vassal' of a nation that did not yet exist to justify their participation. Savoy was the independent nation, who of their own accord, propped up and played a major role in players of their choice achieving the nation status of Oren. Also, I'm a bit confused why you keep saying Haense was a part of this to a degree comparable to the Ferrymen. There were three Haense players there in total, two of which were on non-Haense personas. Blackvale has also made a post announcing their 'settlement' in Acre (whether you want to call this vassalsiation is up for debate, but it's clear they've made RP steps to hedge themselves with Acre), and there's no point pretending a lot of Blackvale players haven't been hanging around Acre for a while now (given Acre's origins). (b) There were Orenians supporting Nectorist for sure, but there was also Viros supports up until NL was handed over after the Savoyard invasion. In the same vein, Acre, as a substantially active part of Oren, evidently has a large body of players behind it. In sum, there are 'Orenians' (referring to people from the nation as a whole, factions aside) on both sides, as in the case with the Aster Revolution. (c) I fail to see how Discord bombing, bans, and leadership departures do anything to distinguish the Acre Incident from the Aster Revolution. There's no mitigation of these things at all, there was still a clear chain of command/NL-ship that ended up getting passed off to a faction who enacted a de-facto coup with the support of an outside nation. KP's ban and whatever else did nothing to change the line of the succession or Savoyard intervention. How do these factors change that? It's at this point I'm finding the Moderation logic a bit questionable, again with reference to precedence in the form of Nectorist v. Viros and Da_Emps v. Lionhz. The fact that you, as a Moderator, are coming down on the line that war had not yet been declared should be answer enough. As in the case with the aforementioned examples, an Orenian faction with some outsider support, through fair and reasonable RP, attempted to kill/capture their enemy. If we refer to these past incidents, why on earth would we suddenly resort to warclaim rules for a large-scale raid? By definition, the only thing it can reasonably be is a raid - in your own words, a war was not declared, no wargoal nor warclaim had been posted. It just seems like an unjustifiable stretch to invite warclaim rules into this situation. Ultimately Burnsider, I can understand why this appeared to be the easier option for Mods, but it is without a doubt extremely harmful to the Acre players. Through superior planning and tactics, they were able to infiltrate the Orenian court undetected and corner their enemy to end the conflict right then and there. This cannot be done again because of today's void - palace entrypoints will be secured, and it's highly unlikely the targetted members of Oren's government will place themselves in a position of that vulnerability again. They've suffered a lot of harm as a result, and now we're going to see our fourth pitched war in four months.

Also, huh? Wasn't this exactly what Savoy did in the Aster Revolution?

The issue is that this is going back on the precedent of the two previous Orenian coups. Savoy's rally wasn't told to leave after they marched to Oren, and half the server online participated in the skirmish of the Brother's War. The Acreans were called to Vienne for trial, nor has any warclaim been posted in lieu of this trial. Through smart diplomacy and actual roleplay with other communities, Acre has secured help in ending the incident before a war ever began. Internal conflict rules are expressly listed under warclaims. Allegations of 'bad sportsmanship' don't really make any sense. Oren has made enemies of other nations, who in turn supported an anti-Orenian faction.

Huh? Raids are uncapped all the time. Coup rules also don't exist, so the distinction is moot.

Internal conflict is a term that expressly applies to warclaims -- there's no basis to apply the same provisions to raid rules for convenient interpretation. As a war wasn't even declared at this point, Acre just did smart diplomacy and carried out the first strike. They would have absolutely succeeded in this RP plan (Hugh has spoken to several other NLs IRP for this purpose). Acre could bring the entirety of Norland, Orcs, and Nevaehlen, and there's no reason raid rules should prohibit this. Far, far more arbitrary to stretch internal conflict warclaim rules (reminder: Brothers' War) to a raid.

He wasn't; on the contrary, there is no requirement of region membership to participate in a raid.

Alex never TP'd any attackers out, everyone started to leave because they were threatened with bans. No warclaim has been posted, nor even declared. A raid is not a warclaim. A raid does not require any region membership.

Nowhere in the rules does it say you need to be on a region to participate in a raid. Matta was the Mod Admin who removed raid caps to allow situations just like this. It's perfectly permissible for outsider forces to assist Acre in a normal raid. Interpreting a raid as some kind of warclaim is utterly incomprehensible.

From atop the walls of Reinmar, Vanhart the Carrot exhaled a slow sigh as the sun dipped below the horizon. He was grateful that - unlike the last war - this war was one his children would only know as stories.

Weird to see all these people commenting 'but shops aren't stocked!' when the reason shops aren't used is because the AH itself is what renders them completely useless

AH is a detriment to RP dynamics and cities. Remove it.

christiansen-mick ... ?

insecure about something?

conor#8203 xarkly dragon knight - 500