indiana105

Ivan Aleksandr was most displeased. 

The Grand Prince of Kusoraev stood over a map of the shattered Midlands, flanked by bogatyr and other men in the employ of his father. A squire unfurled this decree before them, and spoke the words aloud. Ivan spat onto the ground. "Where was this man's piety when his liege-lord reaved his way across Canondom? Where was this man's piety when the Ferrymen assailed the host of the Pontiff? Only in defeat does he turn to Godan. Repulsive."

The news found Ivan quickly. A rider in the night brought reports of a small Brotherhood patrol ambushed in Petran lands. Only a handful of men had survived. The Marian Knight was not among band of the broken and mutilated that followed through the gates of Valdev. He was surely dead, left to rot in a field by the Veletzmen. 

The blood of the North had coursed through Ser Andrik's veins. Now it crusted the axe of some Heartlander dog. The same story had been repeated for near a century, though each time with a new name. 

"Godan?" Ivan muttered, his breath steam in the winter's air. "Guide me. Let this end."

HAUCHPRINZEN VAN

KUSORAEV.

“They are few, borsa. We win this day.”

THE LIFESBLOOD OF SOUTHERNERS RAN FROM EVERY STONE. Uruks roared in their foreign tongue as men drove their pikes deep into green flesh. A sickening, sweet stench filled the helm of the Grand Prince of Kusoraev, and his ears rang with the song of steel. All around them surged the righteous horde of the Covenant. Slaughter such as this had not been seen since the fields of Acre. 

The enemy this day flew the same banners. These men fought the war of their fathers, and their fathers before them. Orenian lay next to Lodenlander, Uruk next to brigand. Though unlike the wars of the past, true raevir followed them into the grave. They were not the sort to don a powdered wig and lick the boot of a heartlander named Emperor. These were horsemen, streltzy and bogatyr. Why do they spurn the Motherland, and take up arms with the lords of summer? 

A spray of crimson erupted from a Romstun levyman as a lance burst through his chest, snapping at the half. Ivan watched him crumple silently into the gentle waters of the river Petra. These ones were once bannermen to his great-grandfather. Once, they had been sworn enemies to this line of Orenian usurpers. Why had they abandoned their lands and titles? He threw down the stock of his spent weapon, and unsheathed the sabre that hung at his saddle. “It makes nie difference,” he told himself. “They are the enemy. Borsa or niet.”

Was this the fate of the Lord and Protector of the Highlanders? To slaughter his people in the wars of the heartlands? The victorious column wound through forest and plain, stomping the dirt of the Midlands beneath thousands of boots. The scent of Carrion was thick in the air, and Haensemen sang of their longing for the Motherland; for the North. Banners of black, embroidered with the proud Golden Crow snapped overhead, but the prince could only stare at the compass in his palm. Its needle pointed to the rear. The road to Valdev was south.

Ivan Aleksandr sat atop a horse in the Heartlands, looking down to the ugly heap of broken stone that was once the seat of Stassionite rule. This was the culmination of four generations of failure. Though he knew it to be in vain, he prayed they would be the last.

just bring back activity checks, if you cant scrape together 1% of the server's activity then you probably shouldn't be a """"realm""""

Prince Ivan Aleksandr stood amongst the smoldering ruins of the Stassionite castle. The Northern façade had all but crumbled, obliterated after volley after volley of the good Patriarch's artillery corps. Whatever throne these sons of sons of Orenians had claimed surely lay crushed beneath tonnes of rock and ruin. "It seems their dirt did niet save them," mused the Prince as he watched a contingent of Brotherhood men sawing at the rope of a purple banner, strung up from the parapets. He had read the stories of Phillip's Folly, and the Slaughter at Acre. His father had led the host that crushed Frederick II at Whitespire. Today, Ivan rode alongside his kinsmen as they put Richard's Principality to fire and sword.

He took up a post at his lord father's side, a hand lain on the blood-soaked hilt of the longsword at his hip. "Four generations of this fool Prince's line have made war upon us. And now, four generations of their men lay dead at our hands." A shout came from across the courtyard, followed by another, and another. The banner of Stassion fluttered unceremoniously into the mud, where it lay alongside a heap of teal and burgundy. "This was nie ant hill, but a nest of rats."

Ivan Aleksandr made his way into the castle granary. He looked about, scouring every bottle and every sack of flour - What was this man's secret? How had the humble Master of the Pantry managed to defeat the Marshal of Veletz in single combat? 

The prince turned to his good friend, Sigmar of Baruch, a kindred spirit, desperate to uncover the fabled Petrovich Power Blend. "Herzen - Vy saw that orc today . . . Even in death he did niet stop his vile assault. And vy tell me his commander was felled by a baker?"

"AVE VASILY 'THE GATEMAN'!" Ivan Aleksandr shouted from the parapets of Brasca, bloodied sword held high.

Ivan Aleksandr prepared a spike over the gate of Valdev. 

Ivan Aleksandr of Haense scratched his head as a strange galley came to port on the river Lahy, flying an even stranger flag. When the Prince saw Banjo and his "yachtsmen" stroll onto shore, he knew - It was over.

Ivan Aleksandr beckoned his squire, Garen of House Baruch. "It is time. Bring me my armour."

"Fool me once, shame on vy." Ivan Aleksandr mused as he read the parchment. "Fool me twice . . ."

As banners of black and gold streamed through the gates of Valdev, the Grand Prince stood tall upon the parapets. He had been left behind to marshal the garrison should the forces of his father be defeated. They were not. Seven thousand of the faithless and their savage allies lay rotting in the Heartlands.  

He turned from the victorious and looked to his betrothed, Nataliya of Morovar. "It has begun," said Ivan plainly. "And it is over."

"No Kings But Us . . . And the King's son." The Grand Prince of Kusoraev quipped to his good friend, Sigmar Baruch.

Sir Stefan af Don af Petra smiled a toothless smile. The aged Hero of the Petra drove his blade through his stomach and flung himself from the great bridge over the river.

"Aaunish balls are a rare gift, papej." Ivan commented to his father. "This might have been the only set in all the world."

Ivan Aleksandr had ridden after the men, but it seemed they disappeared into thin air after writing this missive in less than a Saint's Minute.

Ser Arthur Gant thought bitterly on his youth. As a squire he'd marched on Velec. As a Ser he'd buried his sister. It seemed now more than ever that it was all for nothing.

ASSERALA RAEV,

Greetings from the Motherland! I congratulate you on bending the knee to yet another Heartlander. Unless you were sired by a parcel of land, the name of your new house is a strange one. "Son of," is the equivalent of "var," in the common tongue. If you wish to refer to your former holdings in the south, I would suggest you take the name "van Pompourelia." 

KAROS AG SANGKRUV,

His Royal Highness, Ivan Aleksandr, Grand Prince of Kusoraev

"first germanicus now this" weeps sir stefan af don af petra hero of the petra

THE MARSHAL’S

ADDRESS OF 494 E.S.

“I SHALL NOT FALTER.”

Written by the Hand of 

SER ARTHUR GANT

On the 21st day of  Gronna ag Droba of 494 E.S 

ON THE CAPTAIN

“To each freeman his own time,

 to take it is to be a slaver.”

I have received multiple reports of troubling conduct by my Captain, Ser Audo Weiss. These range from slaughtering family pets to enslaving a sworn brother to his own will. Had this brother been born of flesh and blood, the Ser would be dead. He has been spared the rope only by virtue of ignorance. Admittedly the Haurul is not clear on the status of constructs. I shall be. Let it be known that any who have sworn the oath shall be treated as brothers, regardless of humanity. To bind them is to be a slaver, and to kill them is to be a murderer. Ser Audo is hereby stripped of the title of Captain and any who follow in his footsteps will be hanged.

ON RETIREMENTS

I extend my personal thanks to former Lord Marshal Wilheim Barclay and Sergeant Skaul macSkaul for their decades of leal service to the Dual-Kingdom and its Brotherhood. Both are hereby relieved of the title of Sergeant, and shall remain in our company as honoured Armigers. May GOD guide them in the years to come.  

ON INITIATION

As the Crown has not provided the Brotherhood with the books required to oath our men, I shall instate a temporary process of initiation. All Initiates from this point must prove their knowledge of Haeseni history and culture through a standardized test, administered by an officer of the Brotherhood. In addition to this, they must be trained to fight with pike and longsword, and shall be instructed in manning the gates. Only once they have proven their competence may they be eligible to be Oathed. If an Initiate cannot prove himself worthy within three Saint’s Weeks, and cannot provide good reason as to why, he shall be required to enlist again. 

ON PAY

I have convinced the Crown to allocate us a budget for pay. Any brother who regularly carries out his duties will be paid once per Saint’s Week, on the eve of Tov ag Yermey. Initiates shall receive five minae per year, and will receive a pay increase of five minae per promotion. It is expected of every man that he attend at least one regular training per Saint’s Week and perform regular guard duty on his own time. Those who man the gate are eligible for bonus pay of five mina.
 

KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM,

Ser Arthur Gant, Lord Marshal of Hanseti-Ruska, Knight of the Crow

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