Porko

The dull ring of steel on steel was heard on the roads between Helena and Ves as it had been many a time before. A crimson trail stained the windblown grass, the remains of a clash between a Renatian patrol and the Reiver mercenaries. Civilians began to scatter, clutching their belongings with trembling hands and fleeing the roads in search of safety. This day, it would be hard to find. At the crossroads between Renatus, Haense and Adria, a harsh bark left the mouth of Philip of the House Vinmark, a staunch soldier under Renatus’ cause. He bore no noble title, yet his tactical prowess had earned the respect of the men who followed him. “Regroup, men!” A narrowed gaze was cast about him, assessing the state of the patrol he had commanded. One man was missing, his bloodied body lost in the golden maze of wheat outside the gates of Ves. Another body floated limp in the Cobblebrook river that snaked through Adria’s land, water lapping the crimson-stained garb of a Reiver mercenary. It had been an even exchange of life, and not one that Philip was particularly proud of.

As the men of Renatus bickered amongst themselves about how to proceed, a bird appeared on the horizon, approaching with a roll of parchment held gingerly in its feet. With a flap of its grey wings, it descended above Philip, delivering the message into the outstretched grip of the leader of men. With the gaze of the patrolmen now fixed on him, awaiting the news, he proceeded to unseal the letter and read its contents. “Well?” inquired the assemblance, arms folded and toes tapped in a display of impatience. Philip simply cast a smile towards them in response. “When I get tired, I sleep. When I get hungry, I eat. When I have to go… you know, I go.”

It was a busy day in the port city of Sutica. The dazzling sun illuminated the teal water that flowed through the city, the reflection of the white marble buildings visible on its surface. Crowds of diverse figures made their way down the tightly-packed streets, some pausing to admire the view before continuing along with their business. A circle of elves exchanged friendly words near the gate, guards reclining leisurely as they observed the tranquil ongoings. Suddenly, the clamor of a marching party, hooves clacking and greaves thumping, caused the elves to cast a worried look towards the gate. Within moments the Renatus patrol surged under the raised portcullis, affording the guards no time to react as they charged through the formerly serene streets.

Nearby, John and Francesca of the House Horen-Marna relaxed within the smooth flow of Sutica’s waters, easing their worries of their brother, Joseph I, “Holy Orenian Emperor”. Their relaxation was soon interrupted by the presence of armored figures on the ledge above them. Glancing skywards, their fearful eyes found the loaded crossbows and raised swords of the men of Renatus. “Kin of the false emperor- surrender or die.” The threats and jeers of the Renatian men filled the air that had until recently only harbored peaceful murmurs and sighs. The siblings’ attempts to stall the inevitable would only last so long. Under the watchful gaze of Philip Vinmark, the pair were retrained, frayed rope wrapped tight around their wrists, with arms held in place behind their backs.

The march back to Helena was surprisingly grueling. Wary of the presence of Reiver mercenaries and Orenian patrols, Philip led the group off the beaten path. Trudging through mud and heaving their prisoners over grassy hills, they eventually found their way back to the Renatian capital. Marching under Helena’s great gate, the Marnan siblings were finally allowed to rest. Forced onto their knees, the pair now were seen in the city square, buildings and terraces of clay and stone looming above them. The usual assemblance of knights and civilians from the city gathered around the returning patrol, having witnessed the capture of the Orenian Marshal only days prior. They were joined by a small group of orcs, the towering green figures allies who had earlier participated in clashes against the Hansetians and Reivers. The restrained John spat venomous remarks at the Renatian soldiers who began to surround him, his sister lowering her head to hide her tearful whimpering. Ser Darius Ault stood in front of the struggling Marnans, nodding to the soldiers at his side. “Take his tongue.”

An armored hand clamped John’s jaw, another planted on his forehead as he’d pry the Marnan’s mouth open. Francesa looked on in horror, mouth slightly agape as if frozen by the sheer brutality. Another figure advanced towards John, firm hand gripping a pair of tongs. Inching forward, the crude metal tool would enter John’s vulnerable maw. The snapping of flesh was soon heard from the inside of John’s mouth, his expression contorted in immense pain. Sobbing, trembling, Francesca turned away only to meet the armored form of a Renatus soldier, hands placed on her shoulder to turn her around to continue watching. “MRRRRMMGGHHH!” John cried out, blood welling up inside his mouth, muffling his speech even further. Jerking his body forward desperately, his frenzied efforts to free himself yielded no gain. “What to do with this traitor next?” one of the present knights wondered aloud, gazing down upon the weary John, his body’s movements slowing as more blood seeped from between his lips. The decision was soon reached.

A muscular green limb found itself wrapped around John’s neck, the arm flexed as it would tighten. “NO!” Francesca would yelp feverishly, her screams only rising in intensity as John began gasping for air. His final hoarse gasps were drowned out by Francesca’s fierce shrieks, desperate pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. Soon, even her voice was silent, pale expression fixed on her limp brother. The orc’s grip was relaxed, John’s corpse tumbling to the dirt with a sad plop. The knights would advance over the deceased Marnan, forming a circle around Francesca. A blade was slid from its sheath, Philip Vinmark grasping it tightly and raising it towards the panicked sister. “I’ll take her hand- so that she may never bear arms against Renatus again.” Attempting to step forward, Philip was halted by Lord Rodrik of the House Kortreveich, the Knight known as “The Bloody” raising his own blade to oppose Vinmark. “This isn’t your decision. Lower your sword, lest I cut through you as I would my butter in the morning.” Ser Darius would stand placid as the men growled at each other, the surrounding soldiers feeling the stirring tensions. Ser Gregor Thorne mentioned his intent to see the girl die once- but remained quiet afterward as others would voice their own ideas. Demetrio, a noble figure of authority, would interrupt as the voice of mercy, ordering that she not be killed. Ser Darius chose this moment to intervene, proposing Francesca be transported to Adria in an act of mercy if she would scribe a letter and mark it with her seal. Swords lowering, the knights released a collective sigh as a consensus was reached among the crowd.

Ves’ gate was manned by a resolute few as a large Renatian assembly was spotted advancing forward onto the stone bridge outside its walls. The soldiers at the front parted, making room for Ser Darius to pace forward, Francesca Marna held in his resolute grip. “We have come to return the sister of your ‘Emperor’.” He would shout in the gate’s direction, an assembly of Ves watchmen soon rallying out from the gatehouse. Forming a pair of parallel lines, the row of Orenians regarded the opposing row of Renatians with a bitter glare. Hands fell upon the hilts of weapons. Bows, swords, crossbows and axes were pointed forward, grips tightening as Francesca would shudder at the middle of it all, Ser Darius careful not to let her run to the Orenian side. A lone watchman called out a vile insult in the Renatian direction, a proud, unblinking gaze cast forward. Pausing, an idea would dawn on Ser Darius as he would address the other side. “You who so easily insulted the true Emperor- I will return this life at the cost of another. Only you can decide to take your own life- and if you do, Francesca will be returned to Ves without harm.” He called out towards the source of the rogue insult, expecting no response. Elric Roul would step forward unhindered, proud gaze still set on Ser Darius as his sword would be drawn. “I propose a duel to the death, then, to decide her fate.” Taken aback, the crowd of Renatians exchanged shocked glances and worried murmurs. The mutterings would soon be cut off by the swift response of Sir Darius himself. “I accept.”

Leading the brave soul down the road, the two men would stand opposite each other. The shadowed gaze of Ser Darius’ helmet and the defiant eyes of Elric Roul met, locked as they prepared to fight. Both Renatians and Orenians watched with interest, exchanging worried glances to each other and their weapons. A firm nod would be exchanged between Darius and Elric, the pair of men closing in with swords drawn. A shrieking clang was emitted as their swords met, Roul’s teeth gritted as he pushed his blade against that of Ser Darius. Sliding his sword down the side of Darius’, Elric swung his blade horizontally, freeing it past his enemy’s hilt and striking his side. Grunting, Darius brought his own sword forward, sending a vicious thrust to strike Roul’s side. With a gasp emitted, Elric retreated a pace, his left hand held over his wound. He barely had the chance to glance up before Darius was upon him, grip adjusted as he’d bring his sword down in a flurry of blows. Contorting his body, the proud watchman of Ves would meet each blow, his sword batted down by Darius’ at each of their clashes. Lowering his blade in a full charge forward, Darius would finally overwhelm Elric Roul. The watchman was simply too weakened to resist as he’d be struck backwards, falling to his knees. A yelp of pain would be heard by the onlookers, Darius’ blade now held to his neck. Roul dropped his blade to clatter on the stone road, sighing “Well done, now I know why you are feared… God save Ves…”. Without hesitation, Ser Darius plunged his blade forward, wetting it with the blood of the brave, defiant Ves watchman. “Unhand t’girl- a life for a life!” Francesca was freed of the Renatian’s grasp, a desperate whisper overheard by Lord Rodrik as they would depart for Helena.

John Marna’s corpse had already been removed from the square by the time the knights returned to Helena. The blood of the brother, the tears of the sister, had been removed from the square where the Renatians now rejoiced. Many made their way to Lyla’s tavern, where cups were surprisingly raised in the name of both Ser Darius Ault and Elric Roul. For the Renatians, their daily clashes and victories with the enemy had relayed to them a simple truth. The self-proclaimed “royalty” of Oren was willing to send their own loyal men to their deaths- but would do anything to escape facing it themselves.