Arkonos

Tales of La Superba- Chapter I
"The Sunderlands"
Late Harvest, 944

Summer had given way to autumn, and the trees' leaf-shedding had only further highlighted Sirenze's decrepitude. The outer districts of the city were stripped of their foliage, unmasking the half-collapsed buildings and weeds that had grown in the streets. Grand Doge Alessio's efforts to restore Sirenze to its former glory had been concentrated primarily on the city's waterfront, clearing away the wrecks of sunken warships, reopening shipyards decommissioned by the civil war and raising the Sirenzian coastal defences.

Presently, about four dozen colossal ballistae lined the walls guarding the entrance to the Bay of Amira, loaded with dense metal quarrels designed to punch through a ship's decks into the sea below, opening it up from top to bottom.

The Grand Doge walked leisurely along a great stone causeway, overlooking a massive pen, wide and deep enough to comfortably accommodate the entirety of Sirenze's war-fleet at its peak. Di Fontana leaned over and peered at the murky green waters.

"And you're sure?" he said, looking at the massive iron portcullis blocking off the entrance to the pen. Beyond that was the ocean. "It's escaped?"

The person he was addressing, a grizzled one-armed beast of a woman, was the Beastmaster for the Veprimtars in the days before the civil war. Her name was Corisenda de Alidosi.

Corisenda nodded. "It escaped," she said, pointing to a section of the enclosure where the underwater stone wall had been cracked open. "Sometime during the civil war, when we were too busy fighting off the insurrectionists, it blew open the wall and made it into open waters."

"And there's no point hunting it down," Di Fontana concluded. "It's been years... who knows where that infernal thing's got off to."

"It's probably still in the waters around Sirenze," Corisenda said, tossing a wicker basket filled with fish into the water. "We've been trying to trap it using all sorts of methods, but it's simply too elusive. We know it comes back every once in a while," she gestured to a pile of empty cages. "Because the food we leave out is always eaten. Some of the night guards have seen it slipping back in in the dead of night."

"Blasted kraken," Di Fontana grumbled. He proceeded further into the Kraken's enclosure, noting a rack on the wall inside the Beastmaster's quarters. "What was stored there?"

"The Horn of the Leviathan," Corisenda replied, squinting at the rack. "The Veprimtars to call the Kraken out at sea. I came back to my office after the battle for the city had died down and it was gone."

"But to where?"

"I don't know. A friend at the port told me he had seen it being loaded on a merchant ship heading north..." The weary beastmaster shrugged. "It could be as far north as the Roughlands now."

"Hm," Di Fontana said, slowly. "I remember hearing from the Council of War that they'd lost it in the Sunderlands. One of my ministers thought it'd been lost at sea along with the Veprimtar flagship."

"Could be the case," Corisenda said. "Either way, all the papers pointing to the horn's transport logs were burned to stop the rebels from getting their hands on them. So consider it permanently lost, Grand Doge."

"Fah." Di Fontana sighed. "The Kraken was never that important of an asset anyway. I'll just have more ships built to compensate for its absence."

-

Western Serensea

"Faster!" Captain Dragos shouted, as their galley sliced through the water towards a fleeing merchant ship. "Catch them, before the Sirenzian navy arrives!" Beneath his feet, a hundred of his men frantically pushed and pulled on their oars, as the chopping of paddles grew faster. A handful of his archers stood at the bow, and fired arrows at the retreating merchant schooner.

They were hunting a better prize than usual today. Their quarry was one of Sirenze's modern cargo ships, the sort built after the war, with a sharp prow that lended them more speed than most of their maritime counterparts, and as such, they were struggling to catch up.

But what they, the crew of the Black Revenant, did know, was that such modern merchant galleys were normally tasked with carrying the more important cargoes. Weapons. Gold. Spices. Perhaps even a noble to ransom. His corsairs held mattocks and swords, prepared to board the ship at a moment's notice.

They now passed through a series of islands, worth comparatively little, but still claimed by the authorities of Sirenze as their own territory. The merchant ship disappeared behind one of the islands, and Dragos howled at his men to keep rowing.

That was when their ship shuddered and slowed to a sickening crawl, oars caught by the unseen obstacle snapping like tinder. Shouts came from below as some men were thrown out of their benches by the force of the sudden stop.

"What on earth is going on?" Dragos rushed over to the railing, where the water below was bubbling. "Have we run aground?"

His helmsman looked bemused, then shook his head. "There aren't any sandbars in this area. The water's well over a thousand feet deep, captain."

"Then what?" Dragos turned back. "What stopped us?

He didn't have to ask for long, because the water then turned a deep black, as clouds of ink billowed to the surface. A gargantuan tentacle, as wide as a man was tall and bejewelled with colossal suckers, rose from the depths. A myriad of smaller tendrils curled their way up the sides of the galley, finding oar-holes to snake into.

The boatswain's face blanched; Dragos vaguely remembered the man having been through some sort of squid attack at sea. The boatswain sprinted over to the ship's bell, and began ringing it.

"Kraken!" He shouted, grabbing a sword. "Kraken!"

Almost immediately the battle began. The ship rocked wildly as another set of tentacles shook it from below; several corsairs standing at its edge were thrown off into the water below, and immediately dragged down by an unseen force. The smaller tentacles forced their way through oar-holes, holding the ship in place, as tentacle after tentacle grabbed men off the deck and severed rigging with careless swipes.

Dragos batted a tentacle away with an axe as his quartermaster shouted for calm.
"Get the jars of pitch!" he screamed over the chaos. "Shoot it with flaming arrows!"

The Black Revenant's structure began to give way as the tentacles in its sides forced their way deeper into the bowels of the ship. The crew tried desperately to repel the tentacles but often found that their weapons had little to no effect on the creature. And worse, their blades stuck to the monster's suction pads, and those holding on to their swords were ripped off the ship.

The ship quivered again, her deckboards straining. Finally, she snapped in half amidships with a mighty stroke of the Kraken's tentacles, sending bodies and debris flying into the air. Captain Dragos was flung up high, and landed in the water below as the Kraken's tentacles dragged the two halves of the ship under. He paddled for the nearby island, ignoring the shouts and screams of his crew- by now, the merchant ship they had been chasing was probably gone for good.

He hauled himself onto the stony shore, limbs screaming with pain, and collapsed there, fading into unconsciousness.

Several hours later, what started as the gentlest touch against his neck morphed into a sharp stinging sensation. Captain Dragos' eyes fluttered open to see two Sirenzian soldiers levelling their spears at his neck.

"We have a live one here," one of them called. Another pair came hurrying over, dragging a body. "Clap him in chains," one instructed. "Take him back to Sirenze."

Before he could react, the two men hauled Dragos by the feet to a nearby rowboat, where they locked his ankles together with cuffs, then did the same to his hands. They then placed a bag over his head, and transported the feverish captain off to a waiting warship.

-

Warcamp Thirteen, the Sunderlands

The stifling heat had turned to stifling humidity instead, with the coming of late-Harvest rains. The barren hills of the Sunderlands were suddenly alive with flowers and small bushes in the wake of near-daily rainstorms. A small slice of paradise, surrounded by the sand dunes of the Golden Sea.

But that paradise was tainted. Scorch marks scarred the beautiful hills, left by the clashes between Amarish nomads and Sirenzian troops; jagged stretches of charred topsoil streaked across the countryside where the Sirenzians had lit a fire to escape after a particularly disastrous battle.

Ephian hummed to himself as he forcefully scrubbed wooden plates and tin bowls dry, plunging a rag into the greasy water. He didn't mind the humidity so much as the heat. Although scrubbing dishes felt almost humiliating. He pitied himself, until he reminded himself that several others routinely stooped to similar lows- Isabelle, and Santino, for example.

The boy stooping beside him putting away the pots and pans stood.
"I'm going away for a while," he said.

"To where?" Ephian said, raising an eyebrow.

"To pray," said the boy, looking morose. "For the protection of my friend's soul in the afterlife. He died of his injuries today."

Oh, so ridiculous. To pray to Peregrinus for protection, then to pray to Peregrinus for safe passage to the afterlife.
Ephian wondered if the rest of these common riff-raff had the same delusions.
Oh, no! His prayer for protection was ignored! Time for me to pray for his protection in the afterlife! He was surprised these people had even survived up until now.

He continued to scrub the dishes, suppressing a mocking laugh as he did. Finally, when he was sure no one was looking, he turned back to the plates, and focused a great deal of willpower on scrubbing the dishes dry. An unending group of knights cantered past, having returned from a sortie. They barely paid him any attention as they rushed back to their tents. Another two hours of scrubbing passed, and Ephian was allowed to sneak some leftovers- fried onions and preserved fish on stale bread- from the kitchens before he then ran to and from the medical tent, carrying supplies and notes for the doctors and the officers for the next hour.

It had been two months since he had arrived in the Sunderlands, with only ten months of his tenure left. It didn't seem that he'd survive. Of the two hundred students sent there, fifty had died already, whether that be in battle, of their injuries, or heatstroke.

A quarter of them, gone, and less than a sixth of their enlistment had passed. At this rate, all of them were going to fall in battle before their time would come.

As the Sirenzians suffered more and more losses, the momentum of their offensive stalled; the southwards tearing of the Free Republic's armies across the Sunderlands had been faltering. More seasoned troops from the Republic's other campaigns had been brought in; whispers abounded of the arrival of the Knives of Sarella, a band of elite mercenaries drawn from Sirenze's many companies, organized into a single division. Killers without mercy, the figurative knife by which Alessio di Fontana overpowered and mauled the nation's enemies with.

But as far as Ephian knew, he had never seen a single of these so-called Knives. What he knew was that it was up to him, and only him, to ensure his own survival. He certainly wouldn't hinge his fortunes on those idiotic soldiers with who he had to fight alongside, or the bumbling officers that led their squads to the slaughter. The remaining College students were drilled and trained mercilessly, in accordance with some general's wish that their fighting force be more regimented. He marched, shot his crossbow, and sparred until his hands were blistered, and fell into bed every night sore and bruised.

For weeks they trained and rarely saw battle; it was only the knights and heavy infantry that left the camp to confront Amarish raiders. Until, one day, they woke up to find the camp abuzz with activity.

"Up, up!" Someone was shouting, running past their tents blowing a horn. "Now! Get up! We're marching out!"
Ephian stuck his head out of the tent. The warcamp was already awake, and its denizens moved for the gates, heading off to battle.

When Ephian had donned his armour and retrieved his crossbow, he joined the rest of the army. The College students lagged behind, so he took up marching formation in a company of spearmen.

The objective of their march soon became clear; a tall, flat plateau. They had arrived late; a large army of Amars, a force dwarfing what they had seen so far, waited for them across the plateau.

This time they had no chance to form up unharassed; they scrambled into an outward-bulging crescent under withering arrow fire from the Amarish, shields raised to the sky. Soon the Sirenzians returned that favour, unleashing a volley of crossbow fire. Ephian grimaced as he scrambled under the cover of his pavise, ducking a rain of arrows while an officer screamed at him to move to the front of the line.

As far as their drills and training went, they were utterly... useless. The students of the College forgot what to do, and ran left and right for cover in the face of a storm of arrows.
Horns blew, and the Amarish force surged across the hill. Most of them seemed to have been waiting behind cover, because the force that poured out from the slopes of the plateau numbered probably in the tens of thousands. The entire rock-speckled plain seemed to swarm with dark, cloth-wrapped nomads, their curved swords and barbed polearms shining radiantly in the harsh morning light.

The Sirenzians moved forward to meet them. Ephian ran onward, almost tripping over loose rocks and depressions in the plain. But almost immediately it was apparent that the Sirenzians were losing this engagement. What started as an orderly battle devolved into disorganized, jumbled, skirmishes, each between two dozen or three dozen fighters from each side.

Out of formation and still groggy, the Sirenzians slowly but surely lost ground. All Ephian could do was swat away the occasional attacker. He moved back towards what he presumed to be friendly lines, catching an Amar with a quarrel in the neck.

The dust raised by the frantic struggle limited their vision to ten paces in front of them. All he could see of the fighting beyond his immediate vicinity were the flashes of blades and semi-obscured blurs of movement. The Sirenzian army began to buckle rapidly. The divisions at the rear saw the odds pitted against them and withdrew, followed shortly by their flanks, then their cavalry.

Ephian was left behind; he saw the Sirenzians begin to pull back, the stragglers picked off by arrows and javelins. Those around him made a break for it, the slowest among them being caught and ran through.

A soldier beside him slammed his knife into the chest of an Amar, only to be tackled and skewered by two more with spears. Another group a dozen strong did well at first picking off stray nomads that targeted them, but were soon overrun and pinned to the ground and sliced to ribbons.

The Amar had learned their lesson, and at this engagement they had no battlemages present. Not that it would have made much of a difference, as the Sirenzian army was on the run. Ephian shot another nomad with an arrow to the knee, and turned to run, only to find his way blocked by a small group of the Amars. He turned to run another direction, but the soldiers holding that avenue of escape fell, overwhelmed. Everywhere around him, the Sirenzians ran off.

Now that the bulk of the army was gone, the Amars' objective turned from killing to capture. They forced lone survivors to their knees, binding them with rope and hauling them off. Ephian backed away, but didn't see the nomads creeping up behind him.
One swung the shaft of their spear into his head. Ephian stumbled forward and fell to his knees, his vision swimming. The nomad hit him again, knocking him out. They tied his wrists together with coarse, sinewy rope and dragged the Veprimtar away onto a waiting camel.

-

Tales of La Superba- Chapter II
"The Empress"

Alessio di Fontana received good news on the day that he had off. The Grand Doge had taken a seat at his favourite restaurant, nestled high up in the mountain overlooking the Bay of Amira. He stirred a bowl of oxtail stew as an aide hurried up, and delivered a message bound with red ribbon.

The Grand Doge read it, and laughed triumphantly, swallowing another glass of wine in satisfaction.

-

It had been two weeks since his capture, and Ephian had passed on deeper into the Sunderlands. They were in the deep desert now, but their journey was at an end. Crammed into wagons, with blindfolds over their eyes, the Sirenzian prisoners were led under the shadow of a great gate, into a city similar in size to Sirenze. The townspeople, dressed in long, airy robes, their faces protected from the sand by way of a veil, emerged to watch their new prisoners pass.

The majority of them were dragged onwards to a regal building fronted with sandstone pillars and motifs of lions. Some of them were sent off elsewhere.

"Your majesty," a soldier, bearing a golden band on his helmet denoting his status as a high-ranked officer, bowed before a throne carved from pale white stone. "Noble prisoners to be ransomed, as you ordered."

The woman on the throne glanced lazily over the two dozen captives before her. She sighed, and brought one olive-skinned hand bejewelled with rings to her temple.

"These are not nobles, Bashar," she said slowly. "It seems your subordinates were mistaken. These are regular Sirenziyani levies."

The Bashar's face blanched. "But," he stammered, turning back to his men. "But- but you said, your Majesty-"

"-You were mistaken," the woman said, sighing. "I said that the ones in steel armour, on horseback, were nobles. Not Sirenziyani with leather armour, not any one of them you found on the battlefield. You may go," she waved her hand dismissively. "These prisoners might have some use as of yet. Though I doubt it."

Sweating, the Bashar could not have retreated from the throne room faster. His men scrambled to follow, eager to escape the woman's scathing gaze.

A word in the Amars' strange tongue, and Ephian Veprimtar's blindfold was ripped off. The guard who had done so returned to his post at the side of the room, staring at him with hatred behind a mask made of gold-finished steel.

They were in a small throne room. Paintings of fish, blooming lotuses, and rippling water were coated to the ceiling above, held up by modest pillars with carvings of tigers and lions and palms. The throne, and the tiered platform on which it sat, was surrounded by a small moat of burbling water, as clear as glass, flowing from fountains dotted around the room. A slice of paradise in a land otherwise hellish.

A guard standing by the throne barked something first in the Amarish language, then accented Sirenzian.
"You are in the presence of her majesty, the Empress Shahsana Velin of Amaran," he said, his words understandable to Ephian now. "You will remain silent unless addressed by Her Majesty, and are to refer to her as 'Your Majesty' when you are addressed." The guard glared at him, grip tight on his spear. "Do you understand?"

Ephian mouthed something, but his voice was not with him in that moment; he hurriedly nodded, and mouthed an obscenity to follow.

"Good," came the voice of the empress in lightly-accented Sirenzian, from far above; Ephian tried to look up, but a guard held his head in place. Some strange custom of theirs, he assumed. "Now then. I will ask some questions of you." She stared down at the captive. "First; what position do you hold in the Sirenzian army?"

"A regular," said Ephian, mouthing another obscenity after that. "Your majesty."

Up above, the Empress shot an annoyed look in the direction the Bashar had retreated in. She curled her finger around a strand of her hair, and sighed.

"Next," she said, "Are you a mage? Do you hold a special role in the Sirenzian army?"

Ephian deliberated revealing his capacity for magick.

On one hand, he was sure to be granted good treatment if he did, and would certainly save him from a life of chattel slavery, which, it was said, the Amars subjected their prisoners to if they had no other use.
On the other hand, he feared what that repugnant woman on the throne would drag him into if he did confess to having magic. Instead of being enslaved, he might be killed, or ransomed, or forced to fight against his own people.

"...Yes, Your Majesty," he said, after a long silence, "I am able to use magic, which I found out a week ago-" He was lying- he had discovered it about a month ago, but hadn't had much time to practice- "But I am not a mage."

A second, shorter man wrapped in a black and indigo robe leaned into the Empress' ear and whispered something in the Amar tongue. They deliberated for a moment.

-"That is improbable," the robed man said. "Your Majesty, with all due respects, it's unlikely this whelp has magic."

The Empress nodded calmly, then looked back down at Ephian, who, in turn, was finally permitted to look up at this so-called Shahsana Velin.

The monarch of Amaran, as they called her, was tall and lean, with only one guard by her side. She had black hair which was tied into a bun and ran down just past her shoulders, and bore olive skin and amber-coloured eyes, and a curious expression with which she looked at him.

"My vizier doubts your claim," she said. "Are you telling the truth? Swear it."

"I am telling the truth," Ephian said hurriedly, as the guards closed in. The Empress and her Vizier talked for a moment longer, both glancing at him.

"This is what I'll do," said the Empress, rising from her throne. "I will test you. If you can produce even one burst of magic, I'll take your words for the truth." She descended the platform, a light breeze rippling throughout the room.

The guards removed Ephian's bindings, and for a moment he considered running right out the doors of the throne room, only to be met with a rush of disappointment as the guards quietly shuffled to the side with his fellow prisoners in tow, and the watchmen outside barred the great double-doors with a chain.

Before he could react, the Empress hit him with a gust of wind so strong it sent him tumbling across the hall and slamming into the doors. He cried aloud in pain as he slid down onto the floor, and scrambled to his feet, narrowly dodging a small tornado of arcane wind as it barrelled past him.

The guards were chuckling at his panic. Ephian ducked behind a pillar as a blast of wind sent everything not secured flying into the wall. He ran out to face the Empress, who held a coruscating ball of wind high above her head, which grew stronger by the moment. With her free arm, she was able to send forth another gust at him, which sent him sliding across the floor again.

No doubt that ball of wind would kill him, he thought. He charged her down, as the wind above her head grew stronger and stronger still, but he had hardly crossed the room before it became almost impossible to run without being pushed back. The guards ducked for cover.

Finally, the Empress unleashed the orb of wind. A powerful airblast shot across the room, blowing out windows and spraying water everywhere. The guards were knocked away like matchsticks, and as the shockwave approached him Ephian thrust out his hands and made a parting motion with them, hoping to somehow divert the shockwave.

Instead, a massive jet of fire roared into existence, parting the shockwave and diverting it to the sides and behind him. The room heated up for a brief moment, as the last vestiges of the Empress' attack vanished, and Ephian's flames died out.

The guards got to their feet, muttering; the Empress' vizier looked down at him curiously, then resumed a conversation with the Empress once she had returned to her throne.
They muttered for another minute, shooting Ephian sideways glances again; this time, however, they were looking at him with a different attitude. Respect, no matter how trivial or half-hearted.

"It seems," the Empress said finally, "That you were telling the truth. You will be of great use to me."

Ephian's heart sank. Perhaps he should have pretended to have no magic.

"You," the Empress stared at him, "Have very little control over your abilities, but you will be of use nonetheless. I will have you trained by another one of my mages, and in time you will fight Sirenzian mages in battle on my behalf."

"Fight Sirenzians?" Ephian said, dismayed and not entirely surprised. He knew it. He should have just went off to be enslaved.

"That, and agree to my plan," the Empress said, "Or be executed as a grave threat to my people. Choose wisely."

The guards closed in, already preparing to drive their spears through his chest.
"I'll do it," Ephian said, then immediately felt a surge of horror. What had he done?

Finally, the Empress smiled.
"Excellent," she said. "You will be housed in the palace. My mage will come to start your training tomorrow morning. Now go," she beckoned to two guards. "Take him to the Residency. I have more prisoners to interrogate."

The guards lead Ephian through the halls of the palace, which were adorned with paintings of lions and tigers, same as in the throne room- however, he had little time to admire them, as he was escorted to a small bedroom overlooking the city, and shoved in. The door slammed shut behind him.

-

Coronation P.2

On the Road to Sankt-Sigfrid

“Blasted rain!” shouted Karsten, one of Reinhard’s knights, his voice cutting through the steady drumming of water against armour and earth.

Reinhard’s journey to Sankt Sigfrid had come to an abrupt halt midway. A fierce storm had overtaken them, bringing howling winds and torrential rain. The once-solid path had turned to thick mud, and the cartwheels became hopelessly stuck. Soldiers scrambled with shovels and wooden planks, working tirelessly to free the carts, but their efforts were in vain, each time they managed to dislodge one, it would quickly become mired again. The storm showed no signs of relenting, leaving the entourage frustrated and drenched.

“This is useless!” Karsten exclaimed, throwing up his hands in frustration, “The path is a mess, nothing but mud and slick slopes, and with this pouring rain, the carts will just get stuck again. And look at the river.” he added, gesturing toward the churning waters below. “The current is fierce. If anyone slips and falls down the slope, it’s over for them.” He turned back to Reinhard, his tone more measured but still firm, “I think it would be best if we set up camp and wait out the storm. Pushing on now would be for naught.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Clas, another of Reinhard’s knights, nodding in agreement as he wiped the rain from his face.

“And what? Rest in the middle of nowhere? How barbaric, how uncouth!” Herr Heinrich von Hals retorted, his voice dripping with disdain. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, casting a withering glance at the muddy surroundings, “We should at least seek out an inn. Surely there’s some semblance of civilization nearby where we can find proper shelter.” His tone made it clear he found the very idea of camping in the wilderness utterly beneath him.

“And have your noble arse sleeping under a warm silk blanket while the rest of the men share quarters with the fine ladies of the stables?” Freiherr Ludwig von Pucha quipped, in a mocking tone. His jab at Heinrich’s unwillingness to endure the same hardships as the rest drew hearty laughter from the soldiers struggling in the muck, momentarily lightening the grim atmosphere.

“Someone of noble stock such as I?” Heinrich shot back, his voice was dripping with haughty disdain, “No, I don’t think so. A person of noble birth should not degrade themselves to such levels. Digging through mud in this wretched rain? That’s the work of peasants, such as these.” He pinched his nose theatrically as if warding off an offensive smell, casting a mocking glance toward the soldiers. His remark earned him a chorus of angry groans and hostile glares from the men, their patience with his arrogance wearing thin.

“Noble? I’d hardly say so.” Ludwig retorted sharply, planting his shovel into the mud with a forceful thud, “You inherit an estate with a few hamlets, and suddenly you act as though you own half the empire. You don’t even have the divine blood to justify such arrogance.” He turned his gaze to the soldiers around them, “These soldiers here, these men with hearts of true courage, carry far more noble blood in their veins than you ever will. To risk their lives like this, to defend their liege and their land, that is true nobility, the highest honour anyone could strive for. The mark of true nobility. But you? I’d wager you wouldn’t even dare raise a sword in his name if the time came.”

The soldiers erupted into cheers at Ludwig’s words, lifting their spirits.

“I’ll let you know that I–” Heinrich started, but before he could continue, Reinhard raised a hand, interrupting him.

“That is enough!” Reinhard’s voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding, “Now is not the time for that. Karsten is right, we should set camp here and wait for the storm to pass, or at least for the worst of it. Under these conditions, we risk unnecessary deaths or injuries.” He glanced toward the distant horizon, he furrowed his brow in concern, “I hope Fridl and his men have managed to find refuge somewhere.” Turning back to Heinrich, his expression hardened, “As for you, Heinrich, once we arrive at Sankt-Sigfrid, we will have a private discussion, you and I.” Reinhard shifted his focus to the task at hand, in a brisk tone, “Use the carriages and trees as support for the tents. Make sure the horses are given their own shelter as well. Let’s get to work.”

The men set to work. The downpour obscured their vision, and the howling winds fought against their every move, making even the simple act of unfurling the tents a gruelling challenge. After what felt like hours, the camp slowly took shape. Carriages and trees provided much-needed support, and the tents, though battered by the storm, stood firm. The horses, too, were secured in a hastily erected shelter, their nervous whinnies gradually subsiding as they were tended to.

=====================================================================

Inside the tent, Reinhard sat with his knights, a handful of nobles, and the High Priest, Elgast. The makeshift space was dimly lit by a few lanterns, their flickering light casted long shadows across the tent walls. The group engaged in lively conversation, their voices mingling with the patter of rain against the canvas while tankards of mead, beer, and ale were passed between them.

“Another mug of beer, Your Grace?” Clas asked, glancing at the High Priest

“No, thank you, my son. One tankard is enough for me.” Elgast replied with a soft smile. “Is there any juice, perhaps?”

While the clergy were not barred from drinking as much as they desired, Elgast had always been a man of moderation. Indulgence was not in his nature; he preferred temperance, finding satisfaction in simplicity over excess.

“Hmm… Let me see…” Clas muttered, rummaging through the crates of drinks.

Juice was far from the most popular beverage in the realm; most citizens preferred beer or mead, while the wealthier indulged in wine. Yet, juice remained a solid, if humble, choice for many. Most of it was crafted by monks in the southern abbeys, alongside their renowned wine, though peasants also produced small quantities for local use.

“Ah, yes! There’s some raspberry juice here. Would you like it?” he asked, holding up a clay jug.

“Yes, that’ll do.” Elgast replied with a nod.

Clas uncorked the bottle and carefully poured the deep red juice into Elgast’s tankard. “Here you are, Your Grace.” he said.

“Thank you, my son.” Elgast lifted the tankard and took a sip, his expression softening with satisfaction. “Ah, delightful. I do love the tartness of raspberries, so invigorating,” he remarked, savouring the drink.

“Yes, I bet you do.” Karsten quipped, unable to suppress a booming laugh that filled the tent.

“What is so funny?” Elgast asked, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his juice, clearly puzzled by the sudden outburst.

“Don’t mind him too much, Your Grace.” Clas said with a chuckle, waving off the laughter, “That’s a joke only Karsten understands.”

Meanwhile, Reinhard and Ludwig sat in a quieter corner of the tent, engaged in a hushed conversation about the events that had unfolded earlier.

“Ludwig, tell me, what happened back there?” Reinhard asked, “I’ve known you since we were children, and I’ve never seen you lose your temper like that. It’s not like you.” He placed a reassuring hand on Heinrich’s shoulder.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. It’s just…” Ludwig sighed heavily, frustrated, “It’s this new generation of noblemen that infuriates me. They lack even a trace of divine blood, yet they strut about, acting so high and mighty. Their arrogance is insufferable.” He paused, shaking his head, “How do you manage to stay calm in situations like that?”

Reinhard smiled knowingly, “I don’t.” he admitted with a chuckle. “Who said I keep calm? The truth is, I’ve just learned to hide it better than most. Staying composed, keeping a level head when making decisions, that’s something you pick up over time. It doesn’t mean the frustration isn’t there; I just don’t let it show.”

“It still makes you better than most of us.” Ludwig remarked.

“I don’t know about that,” Reinhard replied thoughtfully. “Did you not hear me when I said I would have a private talk with Heinrich at Sankt-Sigfrid? His comments and behaviour toward my soldiers and knights won’t go unchecked. He will face consequences for his arrogance. Furthermore,” he added, “I intend to launch an investigation into his estate. If he’s engaging in anything unscrupulous, it will come to light.”

Ludwig raised his brow, sceptically. “An investigation? Isn't that a bit far, your majesty? I haven’t heard of any wrongdoing on his part, in regards to the management of his properties and the surrounding hamlets.”

“No. Hildebrand had been telling me about the numerous complaints he received from Heinrich's workers and subjects. He was planning to investigate himself, but then all that business with his abdication happened.” Reinhard paused, “I intend to see it through. Any claims of mistreatment or corruption must be taken seriously and investigated thoroughly.”

“Then, if it must be done, so be it,” Ludwig replied with a resigned shrug. He shifted his gaze to the small opening in the tent, where the relentless rain continued to pour, “But enough about that pompous fop. Bad timing for Lady Nerta to shed her tears and bless the fertile lands, don’t you think?” He said with a tone of frustration from the delay they had to endure.

“Aye, but I’m sure it’ll pass soon enough. And if not, well, it gives the late arrivals more time to catch up.” Reinhard replied with a wry smile, “The coronation doesn’t begin until I arrive, after all.” He clapped Ludwig on the back, before rising from his seat, “Now, come along, let’s join the others before these drunkards drain the kegs and leave us with nothing but juice.”

Coronation P.3

In the distance, the walls of Sankt-Sigfrid came into view. Rising above it all was the Temple of the Blessed, the tallest structure not only in the city but in the entire Reich. A sacred heart of worship for the followers of the pantheon, the temple also served as the central hub of the church's operations. It was here that most priests resided, including the head of the church himself, the High Priest Elgast. Sankt-Sigfrid was often called the "City of All Saints," a name earned from its famed cemetery where the nation’s saints were laid to rest.

Many scholars believe that Sankt-Sigfrid was first settled by the ancient hero Dagaric, who sought a suitable home for himself and the families of his soldiers. This theory was supported by an ancient runestone, still standing today, bearing inscriptions attributed to Dagaric himself. Over time, the settlement grew, evolving from a modest village into a centre of Midland culture and sometime later, faith, once the first priest settled in and began expanding their influence.

The city’s transformation into a recognized municipality was formalized with the Royal Charter of 793 NR. Issued by King Gelfrid, the charter not only granted the settlement official city status but also delineated the boundaries of the church's authority. By that time, the church had already established a formidable presence in the region, which, coupled with the formation of the surrounding duchy, cemented Sankt-Sigfrids significance in the empire.

Sankt-Sigfrid eventually held the esteemed position of being the capital of the Duchy of Mittelland, once it was formed, and the current residence of Duke Herman III von Welden. With the authority of both institutions established, Its strategic location made it a commercial hub, where goods from the western marches converged before being distributed across the empire. The Dämmer River, cutting through the heart of the city, allowed for such a development.

Upon recognizing the arriving entourage as the Emperor’s, the city guards swiftly opened the gates to welcome them. Four mounted trumpeters heralded the procession with a ceremonial fanfare, their notes ringed through the air announcing the sovereign's arrival.

At the forefront, Reinhard rode his pristine white mare, Winter. Flanking him were Captain Berengar and Freiherr Ludwig von Pucha, his most trusted soldiers and sworn blood-brothers. In the Reich, leading from the front was not only a show of power and bravery but also a symbol of unity, a gesture that was meant to further cement Reinhard's image as a leader of both strength and honour.

Following closely behind were other nobles and high-ranking military officials, accompanied by two drummers who struck a lively marching tune to uplift the spirits of the troops. The procession's order was deliberate and impressive: standard-bearers carried the vibrant banners of Reinhard’s house and his possessions. Then, finally, came the disciplined ranks of soldiers, marching in perfect unison.

As the procession entered the city, curious citizens began to gather along the streets, drawn by the sound of trumpets and the rhythmic drumbeats. When they realized it was none other than the Emperor himself, many fell to their knees, while others bowed deeply in reverence.
Word of Reinhard’s arrival spread quickly, and soon the narrow roads of Sankt-Sigfrid were lined with spectators eager to catch a glimpse of their new sovereign. For most, this was their first time seeing the Emperor, as it was not uncommon for the average citizen to live their lives without the knowledge of their sovereign's appearance, and the grand spectacle of his entrance left them awestruck. Banners fluttered in the wind, and the glint of polished armor in the pale sunlight added to the moment.

Not all were enamored with the opulence, and a handful muttered discontentedly about such extravagance. Yet their whispers of dissent were drowned by the roar of cheers and applause that swept through the crowd. Women and children tossed flowers in a jubilant welcome, their petals carpeted the streets as a fragrant tribute to their ruler. A symbolic beginning to the new reign.

The procession finally came to a halt before the grand doors of the Temple of the Blessed, their first destination. As tradition dictated, the Emperor was required to first seek the gods’ blessing within the temple before proceeding with his coronation.

The temple itself was a marvel of Imperial-Vindaric architecture. Towering columns flanked the entrance, each etched with intricate runic motifs. These inscriptions, painstakingly carved and gilded, carried blessings from every deity of the pantheon. On either side of the nave, rose-stained windows casted ethereal hues of light onto the polished marble floor. Each window depicted a god, from the pantheon, in vivid detail, showcasing a more modern interpretation of their divine forms, as their actual looks were a long forgotten memory.

Reinhard gracefully dismounted his horse, his shoes touching the cobblestone as he approached the grand entrance of the temple. The massive double doors swung open, revealing the interior; it was teeming with people, citizens, clergy, and nobles alike, all gathered to partake in the grand mass led by High Priest Elgast. The ceremony began with a deep chant, as the High Priest recited passages from the Buch der Weisheit (Book of Wisdom), the sacred text believed to hold the divine teachings of the gods. Each verse recited, echoed through the chamber.

For over an hour, the congregation prayed and listened intently, heads bowed in reverence as the words of the gods were spoken. Reinhard stood apart from the rest, positioned at the very center of the chamber beneath the great dome, where the light from above illuminated him. Clad in his coronation garb, he knelt in silent prayer, hands resting on his legs.

At last, the High Priest concluded the mass with a final blessing, extending his hands toward Reinhard, he spoke, “An object of great emotional importance.”

Reinhard reached into his satchel and carefully withdrew a small, intricately crafted pendant. It had belonged to his late sister, Irmgard, who had tragically passed away from Consumption just months prior. Her final gift to him, given in her waning moments, carried immeasurable sentimental weight for him, “This.” he said solemnly, holding the pendant up, “Is my sister’s pendant. It bears great importance to me, may the gods find it to their liking.”

Elgast accepted the pendant with gentle hands, bowing his head in reverence. “May she forever find eternal respite in Frey’s loving embrace.” He turned toward the sacred flames burning at the altar’s end, their golden glow casted dancing shadows across the temple’s hallowed walls. With a steady hand, Elgast cast the pendant into the fire. The act was a deeply symbolic one, representing Reinhard’s willingness to make personal sacrifices for the greater good of his people and the gods he served. The flames roared momentarily, as if acknowledging the offering, before settling back into their steady glow.

A radiant light suddenly poured through the stained glass windows, with great intensity, as if the gods themselves were bestowing their approval. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the light softened, fading back to its usual gentle luminance. The crowd was left in awe.

With the religious ceremony concluded, Reinhard prepared to make his way to the second and final destination: the Sigfridssaal. The grand entourage, already impressive in size, swelled further as members of the clergy and nobility, and even the common people, joined them.

The hall stood not far from the Temple, allowing them to arrive swiftly. Its grand doors were already open, inviting them inside. Reinhard stepped in and slowly began walking to his place at the far end, marking the beginning of the coronation ceremony, his gaze swept over the gathered assembly as he passed by those already present. According to the Vindaric rite, the Emperor was to crown himself, and then address his subjects. Trailing behind was his entourage who all took their place as each arrived at their designated place.

The nobility occupied the front rows of the hall, while the common people stood behind them in orderly ranks. High above, on a separate tier that overlooked the gathering, the clergy were seated to the left and foreign dignitaries to the right. Among these honored guests was Viscount Herluin d'Orluçon, representing Lysmer, alongside Grand Duke Jehan-Luc de Pueyrredón, ruler of Brelogne. Both nations enjoyed amicable relations with the Reich, and their participation was a warmly welcomed tradition.

A new face in attendance was Grand Doge Alessio di Fontana, ruler of Sirenze. This marked the first appearance of a Sirenzen leader at such an event, and Reinhard eagerly anticipated the opportunity to introduce himself and establish a rapport.

The most enigmatic guest, however, was Ser Marga of House Fang, representing the mysterious Roughlands. Her presence stirred whispers among the nobility, not because of her appearance, which seemed familiar yet foreign, reminiscent of the fashion of the northern lords of the realm, but because of her homeland. The Roughlands were virtually unknown, only for a selected few who had some knowledge, and when her arrival was first announced, many questioned whether such a place even existed. Yet, Reinhard found himself drawn to her, intrigued by appearance.

Whatever murmurs lingered among the nobles were soon silenced as the ceremony continued, shifting the assembly’s focus back to the Emperor.

Standing at his designated place, Reinhard's gaze settled on the crown resting regally upon a polished marble table. Crafted from pure gold, the crown was a detailed masterpiece, made by the goldsmith Glockrian Ruppel for the coronation of emperor Gelfrid I, in 815. The circlet glimmered with an array of pearls and emeralds, while six fleur-de-lis rose proudly from it, each adorned with intricate rubies and emeralds at their tips, embodying the heraldic symbol of House von Lillien. From the circlet, a high arch extended gracefully, originating from four symmetrical points, crowned by the sacred symbols of the Church, the Hammer, and culminating in a radiant blue sapphire at its zenith.

Reinhard carefully lifted the crown, holding it aloft for the gathered assembly to see. A solemn hush fell over the hall as he slowly placed it upon his head, the golden circlet gleaming under the light. Moments later, a nobleman stepped forward from the crowd to present him with the symbols of imperial power: a scepter and a ceremonial sword, both crafted from gleaming gold and decorated with gems.

This honor fell to Duke Wolfgang von Essling. From a gilded chest, he retrieved the two sacred items and, with a deep bow, presented them to Reinhard. Accepting them graciously, Reinhard took the scepter in his left hand and the sword in his right. Fully adorned in his regalia, he turned to address the crowd. The noblemen knelt.

“I stand before you now, not as Reinhard von Lillien, but as Kaiser Reinhard von Lillien I, by the Grace of the Divines: Emperor of Thalengard, King of the Vindaric, of Thalen, and the Marchlands, Protector of the Ledenians, Archduke of the Lendereich, Ruler of the Lilleanic Crownlands, and Count of St. Weigel and Türnitz.

This day marks a most memorable and joyous chapter in the history of our nation. Your presence here, standing alongside me in this moment of great significance, fills my heart with gratitude. For what is a ruler, if not the reflection of his subjects’ strength and loyalty?

When the fateful day arrived, and my cousin Hildebrand was compelled to step aside, I could never have foreseen the path that would lead me to this moment, my coronation. Yet here I stand, resolute and prepared. Our glorious nation faces challenges, yes, but I vow to confront them with my head held high. I pledge to uphold unity, to strengthen our Reich, and to ensure that our enemies tremble before our glory.

In the coming months, I shall embark on a tour across the realm, to listen to my subjects and address their concerns with all the wisdom and justice I can muster. From north to south and east to west.

Now, rise, my subjects! Swear your fealty to me and to the Reich, that we may stride together into a new era of prosperity.”

The noblemen rose. Drawing their swords, they turned the flat sides toward Reinhard. With voices that resonated through the grand hall, they chanted as one: “Long live His Majesty! Long live the Reich!”

With that resounding pledge of loyalty, the coronation ceremony came to a close. Wolfgang stepped forward once more, retrieving the scepter and ceremonial sword and carefully placing them back into their gilded chest. Similarly, the crown was delicately returned to its own ornate case, prepared for its journey back to Lillienheim.

Most of the citizens, brimming with joy and high hopes for the new monarch and the future of the nation, returned to their daily lives. A few lingered near the hall, eager to catch another glimpse of the Kaiser or perhaps offer their personal thanks, if fortune allowed.

The clergy and nobles, meanwhile, remained behind, engaging in discussions among themselves. Reinhard, ever mindful of diplomacy, chose to first approach the foreign dignitaries, before turning his focus to the other gathered elites.

Reinhard felt a quiet happiness at how the day had unfolded, though a faint melancholy lingered. Parting with his pendant had not been easy. But, the thought of his sister watching over him from the afterlife brought him solace.

What truly occupied his mind, however, was the weight of what lay ahead. The grand tour of the country he promised: where to begin, whom to visit first, and how to listen to the voices of his people. It would be his first official act as Emperor, a critical step in shaping his reign, especially after months devoted entirely to planning his coronation.

Beyond the tour, more pressing concerns awaited his attention. The delicate balance of foreign diplomacy, the growing tension with the Kingdom of Fahlrein, and countless other matters demanded careful consideration. But for now, Reinhard knew, all those burdens would have to wait.

The Bull and The Bear part 1

The wind smelled of smoke, ash, with charred burning flesh melting away against magical fire.

A knight whose golden armor glimmered in the fires, looked on in horror.

Hell had truly come for them all.

Four days earlier, 944, late harvest.

Maksmillian awoke, stepping out of his tent to see the rising sun painting the sky in orange and pink hues. He could see the border city of Ryavir to the east; he could see the Gavarian army itself waiting much like they were. The Volonskyians had invited both kings along with other nobles from the realm to try and solve the issue without bloodshed. Though the prince had his doubts some were inevitably going to side with the Gavars, a fact he knew his father would not accept nor allow.

As he took a deep breath of the morning air he heard a voice from behind.

“Enjoying the morning, your majesty?” A voice asked as he turned to look, it was a young man perhaps of fifteen years. He gave a bow which the prince returned.

“Indeed, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure good sir?” The prince said, giving a friendly smile.

“I am Lupold Popek your majesty, nephew of the count of Swinia, I don’t fault you for not knowing one as low as me.” The young boy said, bowing his head once more.

That was when the prince noticed the lads features he was pale as winter snow, with long ink black hair, but didn’t have any such tinge to his eyes, he was humorless, a black omen for any family especially one which held prominent lands.

Maksmilian laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do not sell yourself short lad, perhaps in the days to come you may prove your own words folly.” He said thinking for a moment “Who do you ride with.”

“My cousin Ser Teodor your majesty, one of many my uncles tasked with being of service to him.”

“Are you his squire?”

“Unfortunately not your grace.”

“Perhaps I will speak with the good Ser I am in need of a squire, humored or no.” The prince said with a smile, he could see the boys eyes light up with recognition, he remembered the feeling all too well himself.

The boy bowed a few times, repeating “Thank you, your majesty.” For a few moments before the prince waved him off, as he turned to continue enjoying the morning horizon he caught a glimpse of one of his fathers knights approaching him. He let out a sigh his time was up, and with it perhaps the little slice of peace he had known.

“Your Grace, your father demands your presence.”

“Let him know I will be on my way.” The prince said as the knight gave a bow leaving.

It wouldn’t take long for the prince to make his way to his fathers tent, an ironically enough simple large war tent made of leathers and furs. The crest of their house hanging from both sides of its oversized entrance.

“You summoned father.” The prince said as he stepped across the threshold.

“The time has come boy.” His father took in a deep breath letting it out through his nose, Maksmilian could have sworn he saw steam come from the monstrous man’s nostrils.

“Today they either bow or be broken, if they are foolish enough to meet us in battle this day then I must be able to rely on you my son, can I?” The Minotaur king said placing his overgrown hand on the prince’s shoulder, he could feel him grip it tightly.

Maksmillian met his father’s gaze. “Of course, I stand ready to serve the realm as needed.” He said kneeling to his father who gave a smirk.

“Good we ride soon to the city, have your men be ready.”

Two hours later, gates of Ryavir

As they rode Maksmillian had been silently taking in the landscape, he remembered visiting the Volonskyian countryside as a boy with his brother, simpler times those were but times long past it seemed. His father had always said that they were warriors by blood, cursed to live and die by the sword like the conquest born souls they were. For a while Maksmillian had believed perhaps his grandfather's vision of a peaceful north would come to fruition under his brother's rule, or even with his brother in his father’s ear while the golden himself stayed and basked in imperial culture, one which he had come to love.

Now such dreams were folly, they had been tarnished in the great eastern battles, he now sat as crown prince and his father’s heart had darkened even more. War was inevitable and the gods wherever they may have gone had forsaken both throne and people to the carnage of chaos.

“Boy!” Yelled the king, breaking Maksmillians thoughts asunder as he looked to his father.

“You look miserable, why would you feel sorry for those who would deny your birthright?” His father asked with a sneer as they rode.

“Many of these noblemen I had met when I was a boy father, while you may hold no love for those around you I do.” The prince said with venom.

“If they kneel then nothing shall happen to them.” The king said, looking back towards the city. “Those who don’t will be cut down and forgotten by history as nothing more than fools.”

The prince stayed quiet only giving a nod to his father, no matter his personal feelings on the matter he still had a duty to his father and to the realm, he would subjugate the northern kingdoms for his family.