M1919

I will pray for you.

STATE OF THE LEAGUE ADDRESS: MUSTERING OF ALL PATRIOTS FOEDUS VELEC In the year 27 of the Age of Rights and the Age of Reckoning

FOEDUS VELEC In the year 27 of the Age of Rights and the Age of Reckoning ☩ ☩ ☩ "Next time ask for an invite," - a letter penned by Queen Sybille to Sir Gaspard, following the abandonment of her troops during her coronation. “Gaspard, why did you charge?” “They were so few, yet I was one, Gehr.” “But why? Are you the Bull of Middelan?” Leadership. What does that word even mean? Some might say that leadership is a post to which they are entitled by blood. Those who scrape for the mantle of nobility throughout the Midlands chatter amongst themselves in pubs or marble-cast halls that God ordains their existence alone to be noble. Those with Highlander heritage will cling to the edge of their barren wastes and frigid tundras while proclaiming their worship of ferns and animals to be likewise just. The Lodenlanders will tell you that merit breeds prestigious posts for honorable men. By GOD’s calling, a man is harkened forth to grasp that molen crown from its ruinous hearth. Yet, he proclaims himself a King of Naught. He does not forgo his humility to try and elevate himself to be the most favored tool of his devastating foes: titleage and peerage. Instead, the Lodenlander is the most favored equalizing force of the realms, A vehicle not for the State or the Aristocracy but for the defense of Venerable Veletz instead. What good is a peerage when your city is in decay? And what good are your worthless enumerated titles when they speak little of your candor and good deeds? “Your dreams of enchanted halls,” one such Seer had cautioned once. “Your nightmares of pristine marbles enthralling the heart of your home.” What had this come to mean? What had that wise woman’s mentorship been meant to serve? It was no scolding or harsh beat of a paddle; it was the inevitable realization of where some thirdborn son would find himself. Where a Cyclops would gaze or where the Bull would charge into. The acts of Man curated destiny, no matter how shameful or virtuous he may be. Fate was the ink to that quill, for it was in GOD’s realm that this was all made manifest. It was in GOD’s dominion that these echoes of eternity were forged. So, why? Why is it that the most significant opposition ever faced by mortals in recent history numbered so greatly, yet their honor and willingness to fight dwindled to such fewer ounces over a mere handful of battles? Men stormed over walls, and Uruks clambered through windows and gates with harsh steps that roared like thunder and battering rams. Burgundy and green thrashed so many who were under the thrall of their decadent masters, soldiers who moved not to defend their country but to steal that of a people far less numerous. Even when they had numbered so few, the enemy found themselves quashed physically by the startling resilience of Gaspard’s host of Men and Orcs alike, bound in their shared values of honor and fraternity. It is such a recurring theme, a broken lapse in the hourglass spun by the vast grains of sand. Gore spilled out into chambers meant to be so blessed and sacred, so pristine and destined to be enchanted. Yet, where had their leaders gone? Where did those blessed sovereigns, those sacred priests - the liars that strung along the fools and manipulated them - end up? Countless peasants, soldiers, and lower-end peers were suffering and dying. Yet, the enemy leadership would retreat into their tunnels before impressing more of their untrained masses into service for a cause that mattered little to them. King Aleksandr once did that to his band of sixty. Others had performed it often throughout the battles held, and the slogs that endured were punctuated by defeat after defeat when their host was forced to contend against weathered warriors and resilient men, women, and children who refused to allow for their homeland to be exterminated by would-be Imperialist powers under the thrall of the Haeseni. Yet none such displays were seen from Uurk of Man on this bloody eve. Synchronous movements and strikes done in an orderly session were the seldom-learned lessons from every loss and victory. Utterances of peace made at the expense of lives from their ranks fell onto angered ears at the disregard for honor and life. The result of it all was a slaughter. The enemy leadership, an uncrowned queen, and a conniving Pontif fled into tunnels and corridors yet unseen. Men with no stake in the fight encouraged boys as young as twelve to take up arms to defend their land. At the same time, they skulked in corners and withdrew their estranged souls into the damp barrows of cravens to evade the responsibility of the failed genocidal war they sought to wage upon the Veletzians. Minutes later, the final man was cut through by a man-at-arms in a dented kettlehelm, and commands were given out to acquire prisoners from among the dead. A halfling dubbed Sugarfoot kicked over the mangled remains of eight men who had blocked the windows with their bodies, quite literally trampling on one another in a vain effort to escape the offense. The rest were not to be spared. The sounds of steel dancing against it all could be heard, with a letter of regret found from the corpse of a Hyspian. All the same, the Ferryman aen Sov feigned taking a prisoner before skewering him through the carotid artery with a lance before uttering: “There shall be no mercy for you who displace peoples who are not of your own.” Two prisoners were taken: one being a boy made to charge and die for his sovereign who fled, and the other being a noblewoman from Petra. After felling some three ill-fated coalition soldiers, Ruben found Sir Philip Laurent and Meira in the fray. They had captured a member of the House Temesch. The bastard guided them outside of the city and sent them to the town of Winburgh. There, they hosted the guests and entertained some simple dialogue. Somewhere in the conversation, it was made known that the captive had a propensity for sewing. The boy now found himself adorned with a burgundy beret as a simple consequence of the raid and to add to the growing pile of knit spoils from the war. Her coronation was ruined, and the interiors were stained with sinful embellishments of their own. Why bother with the war, with the threats of massacring whole towns to the man, if it is nothing more than a shield made from rotten barley? Why take up arms in a false cause and warrant themselves to be marked as a target for the nearest archer? No, these were no queens and kings. These were children who played at war. Despite having countless soldiers and the necessary requisitions to wage their war in tandem, the Coalition stood as a disunified body that moved like a shambling gardensnake after decapitation by a planter’s rake. Never the matter. Invitations to solutions had been presented to all from those of The Alliance, and yet, in the name of the Blackguard, they have all been disregarded into the flames of an ever-molten hearth. War was to be had, yet the never-closing channel of parlay kept itself open. “Who else, Gehr, but me?”

THE SOUTHERN OFFENSIVE. "Retribution is your birthright," Tenet of the Legion of Burgundy ☩ ☩ ☩ "BLOOD FOR BREAKWATER! BLOOD FOR BRASCA!" These two phrases illuminated our victory at Westmark, where, despite the odds, we triumphed over the great host of the coalition. Sent scattering, they tasted a defeat that was a stark reminder of what war truly is. With our enemy on their heels, we march to see if they will defend themselves and their allies. When captured, John of Aaun found his allies unwilling to come to his aid. When captured, Cesar of Hyspia found his allies unwilling to come to his aid. By the thousands, Hyspians, Dwarves, Norlanders, Numendilians, and Aaunites die to see the flags of other kings raised above the Midlands. Many more are mutilated in exchange for their lustful desires, while the sovereigns refuse to fight for their people. We do not see enemies in these people, only those misguided and deceived by the would-be conquerors of the Midlands. As we have broken our mettle on the field of battle at Westmark, so shall we prove our intentions to punish only those who have done great harm against us. We do not wish to exterminate any other peoples, nor do we plan to crown ourselves as King of Man as others may conspire to do; we only desire to see our lands liberated and our people untouched by the cravens who lead this coalition. If this liberation requires taking up our blades in the offensive, we will do so. We are no strangers to war, nor do we fear its consequences. Death is no dishonor; our judgment rests with GOD and GOD alone. WARCLAIM Wargoal: Annexation of Balian Tile_9 Attackers: The League of Veletz, the Iron Horde,, and the Principality of Stassion Defenders: The Usual Suspects Warpath: Date: Saturday, January 6th, 2:30pm EST