Thornz

Orcish corpses litter the road in a trail leading to the Orcish capital.

SHAMING OF THE REX

"3...2….1, Go!” - Lyuathir Daemyr

A Reiver laughs from he and his companions' formation as the Uzg sallied forth to avenge the lone Orc that the Reivers had accosted. At the helm of the infantry, Mah'r Volaren grinned at the sight of the frayed Orcish charge, and ordered the countercharge.
 
In an instant, the Reiver cavalry led by Lucius Daemyr smashed into the side of the Orcish warband followed only seconds later by the infantry, Mah'r Volaren and Dirty Mike at their head, and orcish blood drenched the sand at their feet. The Rex, at the heard of the warband, realizing they were severely outclassed, sounded the retreat. Yet even then the Orcish scourge could not escape, Lucius Daemyr and the mounted units cutting at their heels, leaving a trail of dying and dead orcs on the way back to their ill-fated city.
 
The Reivers could have easily taken this victory, but this was not enough. They would teach the orcs a lesson, and opted to invade the city on the heels of the orcish retreat. A group of Reivers, led by Daqcaer Sugarfoot and Lyulen Daemyr, found themselves trapped in the catacombs of the orcish city in their pursuit. Yet, as Reivers do, their solution to their predicament was superior skill and overwhelming strength. Instead of searching for an escape, they dealt murder to the remaining Orcs who confronted them in the tunnels, thinking them weak because they were separated. 
 
The entire warband was now decimated, with only the Orcish Rex, bleeding, weakened, and alone, limping off to the temporary safety of his primitive hut.
 

Remnants of the main Renatian army being butchered as they are abandoned on the field to fend for themselves

THE VICTORY AT FORT LOCHES

14th of the Amber Cold, 1715

It was a characteristically cold morning for the month of the Amber Cold. It was not, after all, as if the weather itself had come to work in mysterious ways given recent events. Come war or peace, the frigid air would still set the grass-blades stiff with chill and the howling winds would freeze a man’s bones until they rattled. But, just for the reader to make no mistake, there was nothing quiet nor peaceable about this particular morning. The chirping of blue-**** in the loosely forested plains west of Leuven had been replaced by the crow of vultures overhead.

The heavy beat of horseshoes rang out through the steppe like a drum. It was a cadre of light cavalry on what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission on the construction of an enemy fort - Fort Loches, was that the name? It hardly mattered. Before the turn of the year, it would be scuttled, and the Renatian rats who built it in the ground. That was the natural way of things.

They were Reivers, with Mah’r Volaren at the helm, troops behind him at the ready for a fight at a moment’s notice. Fighting Renatians came naturally to them, and though they were there ostensibly to observe, some of them prayed that they would be met in the field. Whatever gods they prayed to answered that call. It had been a poorly-considered trap on the part of the enemy, and a force of Pertinaxi thrice the size of their cavalry emerged from Fort Loches, screeching and screaming their cries - this or that or anything in support of the rebel lord Godfrey. Volaren lifted a clenched fist to his soldiers behind, indicating for them to prepare themselves. With his other hand, he reached for the blade at his hip, unsheathing it with the characteristically metallic sound. He had fought many battles against these people, a fact his scarred and weathered face did not obscure. And he was not going to lose this one, no matter the odds.

The Reivers were off at once. Dodging and weaving away from enemy ballistics as was their wont, they circled around the rallied soldiers, evading their strikes with skill and speed. Here and there, one of Volaren’s troops would land a strike on one of the Renatians, eviscerating their heads from their shoulders. He saw Scott Mudd sever the forearm of a hapless Pertinaxi levyman. A red font of blood sprayed at once, though the victim’s reaction was delayed by seconds - a shrill scream, once the shock of the wound had registered with him. The hardened soldier had no empathy for such cockroaches as they died, and one by one, the enemy force would dwindle. Another mortally wounded Renatian lay in the dirt, a spear-tip half through his neck. He clutched at it, as if it would save himself, but after a period of twitching and thrashing, his chain-mail clad body laid still. With as little effort at that, they had scattered the Renatian forces. But then Mah’r had a thought. He turned to his kinsman and battle-brother, Vydrek, giving him a knowing look. Their minds in perfect alignment, the Volarens nodded to one another.

“Onwards!” he commanded to his infantry, waving them in the direction of Fort Loches. The Renatians, akin to frightened hens, looked as blind-sided as he had ever seen them. Did they have no commander? What was the cause of this ineptitude? They rushed to the fort, which had maintained an open portcullis since their rally, seizing it at once. Time passed, and again and again, the Pertinaxi rats endeavoured to reclaim the castle, falling each and every to the Reivers and their armaments. Out of the corner of his squinted eyes, Mah’r saw an ebon-skinned halfling throw one of the Renatians off the ramparts and to an unfortunate demise below. Maybe the constant war had drove him mad? After this shameful performance by their enemies, he wasn’t sure.

With a force thrice as big, their competitors could not reclaim Fort Loches. Tiring of such games, the Reivers sallied out, to the turmoil of the Pertinaxi soldiers, who promptly turned tail and fled to the safe bosom of Helena. He observed one such routing Pertinaxi fall to the ground, impaled from behind by the shaft of an arrow shot from the bow of Lucius Daemyr.

And so was the victory at Fort Loches on the 14th of the Amber Cold, 1715.