Tide1

"I wonder how this will fare when the inkwells dry up." pondered an indifferent crusader.

"Who invited this guy." asked a Midlander to the spirit of his deceased brother as he gleaned from the missive the crest of Celia'Nor.

([wtf you scared me])

"The tongue-dancing grows tiresome. T'would be preferable if the Reinmarens spoke it as it were. Yet they too would prove bereft of courage. Alas, regardless, darkness doth lurk in that place and so it will fall. I only wish it did not take an elven scapegoat for it to happen." spoke a certain Middenlander that would no doubt participate in the war.

This is obviously an April fools joke because you put the words "work", "tech team", "lotc", and "20tps" on the same forum post.

Happy Easter. Christ is King, God save us.

"Didn't these ones abandon the war effort in favor of Haense? When you sold your land to the Northman, perhaps you should have asked him for some money." spoke an old veteran.

"A ruler unburdened by pontifical responsibilities should have acted sooner. What does it mean to be a canonist prince when unwilling to raise as much as a blade in the face of evil." lamented an adherent of St.Michael, preparing a venture for Kaethul.

I considered this your voluntary retirement on the day, because not even you would do something this stupid without expecting these repercussions. Right?

"And so where one tries to unite Humanity by the sword, another rises to do so by the pen. And when the age of strife hits will we all realize - that we needed one which could have done both." Lamented an adherent of St.Michael.

"Why, oh why must it hurt so much to be right. An inevitability given the idle nature of the see." remarked a youth of Burgundy blood and solemnly sighed. He signed the Lorraine and bid the man safe travels to the seven skies.

"Not even a year into our absence and evil shows it's true colours. Who could have predicted they would be the very same we've been fighting for years." A grizzled veteran spoke and found only pain in their validation.

"There he goes, dueling again." comments a boy-in-training. "It is the Midlander way." remarks a veteran somewhere else in the world.

"Is this not what 'excommunication' means? I mean isn't that literally it?" A very confused marshal of the Midlands asked a few Heidmen whom all seemed too busy laughing at the missive. "Suppose we better apologize before we get DOUBLE-EXCOMMUNICATED." "I wonder. If it happens twice, will my soul be let back into Heaven?"

"To think I would sit here, my Legions bloodied, my people deemed the target of total annihilation, and read about how threatened the mighty dwarves feel. We must be winning then." Remarked one weary Lord Marshal upon reading the propaganda and sighed disappointingly.

"Those who claim to be honour-bound the most - often shed so easily their binds when it is deemed convenient." Said Hendrik after a long and learning conversation with the King-Consort of Numendil who seemed to quite enjoy his stay in the city of Winburgh.

"Another day, another victory - and peace is still on the table. Who will be the first to make the right choice." Didst Hendrik wonder aloud.

For even though the man bore no name nor title, who was the marshal to refuse a virtue so vital? He picked up on it there, that love was in the air. And so in the end, it was a just and noble affair.

THE WARLORD'S COUNCIL: SUMMONS TO KING ALEKSANDR II FOEDUS VELEC In the year 27 of the Age of Rights and Reckoning ✠ BY THE UNWAVERING AUTHORITY OF THE STATE AND THE REPUBLICAN MANDATE BESTOWED UPON THE ILLUSTRIOUS CHAMBER OF HEIDMEN, WE HEREBY ISSUE THIS IMPERIOUS MISSIVE, RESONATING WITH THE EMINENT VIRTUES OF HONOR, DUTY, LIBERTY, FRATERNITY, VALOR, AND WISDOM. WITH THIS COMMUNICATION, WE ENLIGHTEN THY READER UPON THE INTRICACIES OF STATECRAFT AND UNVEIL THE CURRENT AFFAIRS THAT ENGAGE OUR SOVEREIGN REALM. Veletzian lancers raiding the Highlands, 21RR KING ALEKSANDR II, To the dishonourable King of Highlanders, we summon you to Veletz so that you may take the place of Queen Amaya at our table. The battlefield is no place for a woman of her standing and you know it well. The feast-hall of your enemy is no place for a woman of her standing and you know it well. You seek to exterminate our people, you seek the total destruction of the Midlands - yet these lands seem to mean more to you than your own family? Take her place so that we may convene like men, or let forever your altar-vows be in vain. You have shown that you will not protect your allies. You have shown that you cannot protect your people. And here you have the chance to show that you would at the very least protect your family. Our gates are open as always. Signed; Sir Hendrik van Aert, Lord Regent, Marshal of the Legion. Please wait not a fortnighte to respond.

"And no one ever will, it seems." Did Hendrik remark with a solemn sigh, for seeing his very own human race stoop to such lows brought him no satisfaction - only sadness.

Hendrik laughs and the spirits are high among patrons of The Rusty Cuirass tavern. Minstrel's song and Landsknechts lieder fill the room and merriment is had among all. Though victory was had, the marshal can be seen recovering from a particularly nasty lance-wound. What's one more scar?

The Net of Whitespire ☩ ☩ ☩ It was always a near thing, operations that required a short burst in, then a short burst out, accomplishing the objective within a brief window. Lennerd, a simple private in Blackvale’s ranks, had never undertaken such a mission before. He was not to go alone, of course, nor was he to be relied on for much. Well, just one thing… “Lennard. I hear that you are the surest catcher in all of Tiel. Stories of the time that you caught all of Miss Jette’s fruit when she dropped them during the market. I will give you the opportunity to prove that yourself. You are to be put under one of my most loyal men, Ivan of Arpa. My cousin Hendrik has summoned him and a group of orcs to partake in a covert operation. Aaun has betrayed us. Whitespire is weak. We must strike while we have the opportunity.” Lennerd was a poor boy from a small market town. His meeting with Sir Gaspard was the first and only time he had seen a man of such a stature. Proud in action, despite the state of the war. Strong in tone, despite the many cruelties that he had suffered. What awed Lennerd the most was his resolve and strength. Even in these dark days for the League, the Captain-General’s mind worked at a pace he had not seen before. The fear in Lennerd’s heart was great. His devotion to his liege was greater. And so it was that he and an orc, a giant, fat olog named Brug, waited at the base of Whitespire during a rainy, cold morning. Each held the opposite ends of a giant net. Lennerd was no small man himself, he weighed more stone than any other in Tiel, but he felt dwarfed by even the smallest orc on the march over. They were loud, boisterous, sure of themselves in a way he never was. Brug, for all the wits he lacked, could at least notice this. As they climbed to the base of the great tower, the seat of the King of Aaun, Brug hummed a merry tune. It calmed Lennerd’s nerves for what was to come. As the minutes went on, he could hardly see, much less hear, the men and orcs that had stormed the tower. The guards of the city had been unaware of their movements, nor had the general citizenry awoken yet, but still Lennard feared what would happen if even one person crossed the bridge over to the tower the whole operation would be blown. The anxiety in his heart grew and grew as each minute ticked by. Then, when it seemed like it had gone on for so long that the raid had blundered in some way, Lennerd heard the call. “LENNERD! BRUG! THE NET!” It was Ivan’s voice. The two looked up and scrambled to unfurl the net and stretch it out when they saw it: boats flying through the air, each with a parachute breaking its descent somewhat. One snapped, sending a group of men plummeting into the sea to meet their deaths from such a height. Lennerd thought he saw a bishop’s crozier go with it, though he had only heard of such things. The others kept aloft, but it seemed that they were drifting out towards the sea. “Uhhh…. Hurry!” Lennerd’s voice broke as he yelled to Brug. The olog got the message and began to wade out some into the shallow sea. Lennerd moved slower, along small rocks that he could find his footing on. He and Brug were the backup’s backup, only needed if the worst happened. Now, the worst was here. The man felt that he was going to vomit, as the fortune of this whole raid now rested on the shoulders of him and an olog who couldn’t count to three. But then, fortune broke in favor of Lennerd. The winds that had carried the fleeing boat-parachutes north ceased, and without it beneath them the boats simply drifted straight down. Right into the awaiting net. It was a brilliant catch, and Lennard and Brug could not help but cheer, for King John of Aaun and the High Pontiff were both snagged! Their flight, in both meanings, had been cut short by the movers of destiny that they claimed to have at their backs. Just as the king’s guards were about to hop out, perhaps to do battle to save the King and the Pontiff, Bo Amador and Warboss Apek, leader of the orcish contingent there, quickly scaled down Whitespire. It was as if they were climbing a rope, so fluid and peerless was their dexterity. Shocking the Aaunish soldiers into surrender, for they could see more soldiers quickly making their way down the wall after the two, no further fight needed to be had. Apek had carried chains during his descent, a show of strength as well as intelligence, for he soon had the soldiers shackled. The King of Aaun and the Pontiff were shown better treatment, and they were escorted to a small rowboat by Bo and a few of his soldiers. The return to Veletz was swift and without problem. It was as if the world had stood still for several hours. For his part, Lennerd was paid enough coin to allow him to buy a farm outside Tiel and marry his longtime village sweetheart, a cobbler’s daughter named Mariet. Brug was given a lifetime’s supply of roasted pig to eat, which he consumed in full within a month.

"And then no one came." Hendrik sighed with disappointment and wondered aloud how an alliance like this, built on distrust, could ever sustain itself.