u/Patrick_Hill_One

Battle Generator Outcome

Battle post

Rumours reached the Phoenix Kingdom long before its army reached Myyvetar. Unrest gripped the Sanskrit Empire. Disorder spread through its domains, and its neighbours began to wonder how much strength remained beneath the imperial banners.

Prince Léoric de Cendrelume announced a peace mission… The Sanskrit Empire sounded like easy prey.

Under the promise of reunifying Tython and Myyvetar, Léoric marched with 126 soldiers and wizards: armoured infantry, archers, crossbowmen, and nineteen mounted knights, ten of them heavily armoured. Two small catapults and a medium catapult accompanied them. Above the column flew a phoenix and a great dragon.

At dawn, the peace mission entered the marshes.
Cold mist lay over the ground. Beyond it, General Decimus had assembled ninety-seven soldiers and two small ballistas. Praetorians and legionaries stood beside Celtic warriors; thirteen mounted archers waited for the order to ride.

Whatever chaos troubled the empire, its defenders had come prepared.

The first arrows made that clear.

Decimus drove his infantry forward in a boar’s-tusk wedge, Praetorians at its point, while his mounted archers swept away on a wide march toward the enemy’s rear. Ballista crews trained their weapons on the creatures overhead.
Léoric’s expectation of an effortless conquest vanished. 

His hammer-and-anvil manoeuvre broke down in the marsh, leaving his shield wall to bear the counterattack without the decisive cavalry blow he had planned.

For a moment, Decimus had his opening.
But his mounted archers failed to complete their mission. The blow from behind never came, and the imperial wedge spent its strength against a line that refused to break. Protected by four wizards, Léoric remained with his men. Shields closed around the gaps. 

The Phoenix banners moved forward again.
The knights of the Phoenix had called them savages. Now, knee-deep in marsh water, they discovered how little comfort the insult offered. Celtic warriors hurled themselves against the armoured line with fierce war cries, while the legionaries pressed forward behind locked shields. These were men defending their homeland, and they made the invaders pay for every step.

Yet courage could not close the gaps left by the failed cavalry manoeuvre. Slowly, beneath the relentless pressure of the Phoenix advance, the defenders began to give ground.

Through the afternoon, the knights of the Phoenix forced them back. By dusk, the Sanskrit army was retreating across the marsh, with the victors pressing close behind. Decimus was captured before he could escape.

When darkness fell over Myyvetar, the Phoenix banners stood where the imperial line had broken - and the general who had challenged them stood beneath those same banners as a prisoner.
Phoenix carried the field with a clear victory and comparatively light losses: five killed and thirty-one wounded. The defenders suffered sixteen killed, thirty-two wounded, and nine captured; forty-two remained fit to fight.

Léoric emerged unharmed. His “peace mission” had won its battle.

Strategic Outcome

Decimus’s capture sealed more than the defeat at Myyvetar. With its general in chains and its army broken, the fractured Sanskrit Empire collapsed. Whatever authority had held its divided domains together vanished, and it ceased to exist as a faction.

The Phoenix Empire had come promising peace. It left, having destroyed a rival.

As dusk settled over the marshes, Léoric’s banners rose above the conquered field. His “peace mission” was complete — and the empire it had claimed to help was no more.

Battle loot: 2 Irons for The Kingdom of the Phoenix u/silvertree99

Domain conquered & Faction destroyed: Sanskrit Empire u/no-armadillo4179

Part 2 

Master Jonk’s wooden merchant wagon groaned along the rutted highway, its iron-bound wheels crunching rhythmically through the dust. Beside him on the bench sat his young apprentice, Pip, who clutched his knees tightly, wide-eyed and anxious. 

Jonk was driving his mule hard, eager to reach the outskirts of Havarhal to sell provisions to the host of Anvard. Yet, the air felt unnaturally thick, heavy with the sharp, acidic scent of lime and scorched earth.

"Master Jonk, look," Pip whispered, pointing a trembling finger into the lingering fog.

The mule suddenly shied, snorting in panic as a lone warrior stumbled into the road. His steel armor bore the insignias of the Anvard vanguard, but his sword dragged uselessly through the dirt. 
Jonk reined in his wagon, calling out a greeting, but the soldier merely turned his head toward the sound.

Pip gasped and covered his mouth - where the warrior's eyes should have been, there were only raw, white-crusted sockets, scorched hollow by unslaked quicklime dust. The blind soldier offered no words, stumbling past the cart into the emptiness, searching the air with trembling hands.

A half-mile further, a second figure emerged. 
Another soldier of Anvard walked aimlessly across the field, his face covered in chalky white powder, weeping blood through ruined eyes as he wandered without direction. Pip shrank back into the bench, whispering, "What cursed magic did the Wyrmgaard use on them?"

When the road finally crested the ridge, the grand vista of Havarhal unfolded - and both tradesmen froze.

Before the towering battlements lay the engine-camp of the invasion force. The massive Dragon Slayer ballista stood silent, its heavy steel cables limp. Towering trebuchets and shattered siege towers sat frozen in the mud like wooden giants. Yet no drums beat, no officers shouted, and no campfires smoked. Across the field, dozens of Anvard troops lay scattered in the grass alongside fallen Wyrmgaard defenders beneath fallen masonry.

By the side of the road, leaning against the broken wheel of a supply wagon, sat three former men-at-arms. Their eyes were completely blinded, glazed over with chemical burns, staring blankly into the sky as they clawed aimlessly at their faces.

Jonk stepped down from his seat, motioning for Pip to stay close behind him. The eerie quiet was broken only by the whistling wind through the dead siege towers. 

The great gates of Havarhal stood splintered and ajar, but not a single living soul walked the battlements. The siege was over, leaving behind only a silent wasteland of the blind and the fallen.

Jonk tightened his grip on his heavy walking staff, gesturing for Pip to stick close to his shadow. Leaving the skittish mule tied to the cart, the two stepped through the splintered, scorched timbers of Havarhal’s main gateway.

Inside, the fortress courtyard was blanketed in a fine, ghost-white mantle of unslaked quicklime. It hung in the motionless air like a spectral shroud, settling heavily upon shattered barricades, discarded weapons, and lifeless bodies. Every breath burnt the back of Jonk’s throat with the dry, caustic bite of the dust.

Pip gasped softly, clutching the hem of his master’s coat as he looked down at the ground. 

In the gray mud of the inner ward, the earth churned with silent, agonizing movement. Men were crawling through the mire - Anvard infantrymen in scorched ringmail intertwined with Wyrmgaard defenders in crest-broken steel. Enmity had been utterly erased by ruin. Enemies dragged themselves through the slough side by side, completely blind, their eyes burned away to raw, hollow sockets.

The silence was absolute and suffocating, broken only by the wet scraping of steel gauntlets against stone and the shallow, ragged breathing of the stricken. 

Blind figures drifted like wraiths through the chalky fog, hands outstretched into the void. They bumped into fallen comrades without a word, turned aimlessly, and dragged themselves onward in perpetual darkness.

It felt no longer like a fortress of stone and war, but a threshold to the underworld. The living moved like phantom souls bound to a waking nightmare, drifting through a sea of white ash. 

Pip trembled violently beside Jonk, terrified that even a whispered breath might awaken whatever horror had reaped the sight of two armies. Jonk could only stare ahead, his knuckles white upon his staff, as they stepped deeper into the silent tomb of Havarhal.

Jonk held his hand out, forcing Pip to halt before they crossed the threshold. They were not yet in the main courtyard, but in the outer gatehouse ward - a claustrophobic chokepoint enclosed by towering stone flanks.

Here, the carnage of the final breach lay frozen in absolute devastation. 

Wyrmgaard defenders and Anvard shock troops were piled together in tangled, violent heaps, locked in a final, frantic embrace. Men had fought to the absolute last breath: an Anvard spearmen lay impaled upon a broadsword, his own dagger buried deep into the collar of a Wyrmgaard knight. 

The quicklime dust had settled over the fallen like fresh snow, muting the vivid crests of crimson and iron into a single, chalky gray palette of death.

Pip’s eyes darted upward, and a strangled gasp escaped his throat.

Sprawled over the eastern battlements, hanging limply into the outer ward, lay the massive, motionless corpse of a dragon. 

Its scaled neck was broken over the parapet, wings tattered like torn sails over the rubble below. Smoke no longer rose from its snout, and its colossal, reptilian eyes were clouded over with the same caustic white crust that plagued the men below. The beast had crashed in its final death throes, crushing masonry and soldiers alike beneath its immense weight.

Beneath the shadows of the dead dragon, the silent survivors still moved. Blinded Anvard infantry and Wyrmgaard archers crawled through the lime-dusted mire, dragging themselves past the titan's fallen head without a sound. They passed one another like specters, no longer foes, but lingering ghosts trapped in the shadow of Havarhal's fallen dragon.

Pip clung tightly to Jonk’s sleeve, his knuckles stark white as he stared down at the gray, silent mound of bodies filling the gatehouse ward. The young boy’s voice shook, barely louder than a whisper, trembling against the heavy, caustic silence of the ruins.

"By the Gods, Master..." Pip breathed, looking up into Jonk's pale face. "They fought down to the absolute last drop of blood. Look at them... jammed together like broken firewood. Anvard and Wyrmgaard, locked hand to throat..."

He gestured with a trembling hand toward the piles where fallen foes were still tangled together - daggers buried in visors, hands frozen around broken shaft-heads, men who had crushed one another beneath their own shields in the final collapse.

"It must have been a terrible battle," Pip whispered, his eyes wide with horror as he looked over the endless field of chalky, dust-covered corpses filling every corner of the ward. "No mercy. None at all. They just... threw themselves into each other until no one was left standing."

Jonk didn't answer right away. He only tightened his grip on his staff, gazing at the terrifying tableau. There were no victors here, no grand banners raised in triumph - only the quiet, broken remnants of two armies that had completely consumed one another in madness, leaving the blind survivors to crawl in silence among their dead.

With cautious steps, Jonk and Pip pushed through the heavy iron portcullis, its jagged rust-eaten teeth looming high above them. As they stepped out of the claustrophobic gatehouse ward and into the vast expanse of the inner courtyard, the sheer scale of the devastation unfolded.

The courtyard was a chaotic field of ruin. Shattered shields, snapped lances, and overturned supply crates were strewn across the stone flags, half-buried in the persistent drift of unslaked lime. Endless mounds of fallen soldiers - both Anvard attackers and Wyrmgaard defenders- lay piled around the courtyard in silent, motionless heaps where the final, desperate clash had reached its bloody peak.

Yet in the very center of this carnage, rising out of the sea of bodies, sat a single solitary figure.

It was Commander Viggo. 

He sat motionless upon a jagged, fallen masonry stone, his broad shoulders hunched forward. His head hung low, his chin buried deep against his chest, with long, matted strands of hair falling down to obscure his face entirely from view.

His armor was battered and blackened by soot, but his right arm remained extended, rigid as iron. His fingers were locked tight around the pommel of a massive, two-handed broadsword that was driven deep into the stone cracks between his boots. 

He sat frozen, leaning his weight against the upright blade as if it were the only anchor holding him to the living world, silent and still amid the quiet aftermath of the fallen fortress.

Jonk took a slow, deliberate breath, holding a hand out to keep Pip behind him. Step by step, his boots crunching quietly through the thin crust of white lime, the old merchant approached the motionless figure in the center of the courtyard. The air was thick and heavy, smelling faintly of scorched iron and chemical dust.

Stopping just a few paces short of the man, Jonk lowered his walking staff and bowed his head slightly.

"My Lord..." Jonk spoke, his voice gentle, barely louder than a rasp in the solemn quiet. "What happened here?"

For a long, agonizing second, there was no sound except the cold wind whistling through the ruined battlements. Then, the heavily armored shoulders shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, Commander Viggo lifted his head. As his chin rose, the matted, sweat-stained strands of hair fell away from his face, revealing his features in the light.

Pip let out a sharp, choked gasp and took a step back.

Viggo’s eyes were completely gone. Where his gaze should have met Jonk's were only hollow, scorched sockets. Down his grime-streaked cheeks ran thick, pale trails of a milky white fluid - a mixture of blinding lime dust and tears dripping slowly onto his breastplate like meltwater over cold iron.

In a single, violent moment, the heavy silence of Havarhal shattered. Commander Viggo tore the massive broadsword from the stone, driving his heels into the lime-crusted earth as he rose to his full, terrifying height. His blind, pale-stained face thrust into the sky, he roared a defiance that echoed off the hollow stone battlements:

“As long as I draw breath, Havarhal has not fallen! We do not yield to shadows. Die with the rest, Anvard!"

Before Master Jonk could take a single step backward or raise his hands in plea, Viggo’s heavy blade swept through the air in a blinding, desperate arc. Driven by raw instinct and madness, the steel cleaved the old merchant clean in two. Jonk fell without a sound, his body collapsing onto the chalky flags as his wooden walking staff clattered into the dust.

A strangled, high-pitched scream tore from Pip’s throat. 

Utter terror seized the young apprentice as he stared at the red ruin before him. Turning on his heel, Pip bolted toward the iron portcullis, his boots skidding across the blood-slicked stone. 

He scrambled past the blind, crawling wraiths in the outer ward, threw himself through the shattered gateway, and ran blindly down the long, empty highway - never looking back at Havarhal again.

The Siege of Havarhal: 
Official Casualty & Strategic Outcome

Anvard & Lionne Forces
Initial Strength: 120 men
Killed in Action: 89
Blinded / Incapacitated: 31
Prisoners Taken: 0
Fled: 0
Combat Ready: 0
Monstrous & War Losses: Dragon killed, War Toll killed, Rancor killed
Material Losses: All siege equipment and ships abandoned

Wyrmguard Garrison
Initial Strength: 88 men
Killed in Action: 78
Blinded / Incapacitated: 10 (including Commander Viggo)
Dragon Losses: Both dragons severely wounded and fled (one toward Valinvage, one toward the South)

Final Strategic Outcome

Tactical Result: Mutually Destructive Stalemate
Anvard Invasion Force: Completely destroyed / neutralized
Wyrmguard Defense: No remaining effective fighting force
Geopolitical Impact: Wyrmguard has lost all practical control over the domain; Havarhal and its surrounding territory are now entirely leaderless and without an owner.

THE ABANDONMENT OF BJÖRSLAND

Part 1

There was no time to celebrate the victory.

The four dragons were already growing larger against the northern sky, and beneath them the sails of the Blood Dragon fleet were appearing beyond the coast.

Anvard and Lionne had made their decision. They would not attempt to hold Björsland with their exhausted army. The treasure would go with the main force toward Valinvaga, while a handful of men remained behind to make the Blood Dragons believe the ruins were still defended.

The deception began immediately. Spears, pikes and torches were placed behind broken walls and along the battered defenses of the Wolfpack Tower. From a distance, their points and standards gave the impression of ranks of soldiers waiting behind the ruins. The wounded were positioned where they could still use bows. Twelve battle-ready soldiers remained with them, together with Lionne’s wounded War Troll.

The surviving Wyrmgaard prisoners were divided as planned. Six were executed and their heads displayed before the ruins. Five more were kept alive as hostages. The last five were taken with the retreating column.

There was only one problem with the second part of the plan.

The ships.

Eight men reached the shore and looked at the five vessels waiting there. In the confusion of planning the retreat, one simple fact had been overlooked: eight exhausted soldiers could not properly crew five ships.

For a few moments they tried. Ropes were cut loose, sails prepared, men shouted between decks. Then one of them looked north. The dragons were closer. There was no longer a decision to make.

Four ships were abandoned.

The eight men crowded aboard the smallest vessel they could manage, raised what sail they could and pushed away from Björsland with all possible speed. The remaining ships drifted beside the coast, empty and helpless.

They never saw what happened at the Wolfpack Tower.

The men marching toward Valinvaga did.

The retreating column moved hard through the hills. Fifty-three soldiers remained in the main force, accompanied by the two Hwach’as, the hammer-wielding Swamp Dweller and Anvard’s wounded dragon. Five Wyrmgaard prisoners were driven along with them. Nobody spoke much. They knew what the men behind them had volunteered to do.

Eventually the road climbed.

From the high ground, Björsland became visible one final time. Someone shouted and pointed back toward the Wolfpack Tower.

Two dragons were descending.

The deception had worked for a few moments. From above, the spears and pikes behind the ruins might indeed have looked like soldiers. But the dragons did not need long to discover the truth.

A few arrows rose desperately from the ruins.
Then the first dragon breathed fire.

Flames swept across the shattered tower and everything around it. The second dragon descended moments later, pouring more fire into the ruins. There was no real battle. The defenders had nowhere to go and no way to fight such creatures. The wounded War Troll disappeared somewhere beneath the smoke and flames.

From miles away, the retreating soldiers watched the Wolfpack Tower burn. For a few moments they could still see movement between the flames.

Then there was none. Nobody in the column said anything. They continued walking.

A second glow soon appeared near the coast.
The third dragon had reached the abandoned ships.

It passed over them once. Then again. Flames poured across the decks. One ship caught immediately. Fire climbed its mast and spread through the rigging before the next vessel began to burn. Soon all four ships that had been abandoned at Björsland were burning along the shore.

Farther out to sea, the tiny fifth vessel was already disappearing toward the horizon.
Against all expectations, the eight sailors escaped.

Behind them, the Blood Dragons landed.

One of their ships came ashore beneath the smoke of the burning fleet. Thirty-five Blood Dragon warriors disembarked and advanced toward the ruins. There was no organized resistance left. The Wolfpack Tower was theirs.
But they did not take Björsland for themselves.

They took possession of the domain in the name of Wyrmgaard.

The land Anvard had reclaimed only hours before had changed hands once again.

The retreating column knew none of this.

They had other problems.

Three dragons could still be seen behind them.
The fourth could not. Then a shadow crossed the ground. Men looked upward. Far above and behind them, something moved between the clouds.

The fourth dragon. And this one had a rider.

For several terrible seconds it seemed to follow the same direction as the column.

Had it seen them?
Nobody knew.
Nobody waited to find out.
The order was given to leave the road.

The column disappeared into the rough country between Björsland and Valinvaga, choosing gullies, wooded slopes and broken ground wherever possible. The Hwach’as became a terrible burden, but they refused to abandon them. Men pulled the weapons through mud and over rocks while others carried wounded comrades. Scouts doubled back to hide tracks. Whenever open ground appeared ahead, the entire column stopped and searched the sky before crossing.

And they still carried the 5 Iron.

Eventually, the commanders made their choice.

The treasure was slowing them down. If the dragon really had spotted them, every minute mattered. The Hwach’as were worth keeping. The Iron could be recovered later.

They knew this country well enough.

Far from the road, among rocks and broken ground, the five Iron were buried. The place was concealed as carefully as time allowed, its location committed to memory.

Then the column moved on without it.

Hours passed.

The dragon appeared again in the distance.
Perhaps it was searching for them.
Perhaps it was following them.

The soldiers pushed deeper into the most difficult terrain they could find, dragging the Hwach’as with them until the mountains finally began to give way.

Then, at last, they crossed the border. The first men crossed without cheering. Others followed, exhausted, wounded and blackened by the smoke of Björsland. Only when the last of the Hwach’as had been dragged across did the officers finally stop and count the column.

Once.
Then again.
Something was wrong.
Eight men were missing.
Nobody had seen them fall.

Nobody remembered them becoming separated during the march. But all eight knew where the treasure had been buried.

The commanders looked back toward the mountains. There was no question anymore about what had happened. The eight men had deserted.

And while the army continued toward Valinvaga, they had gone back.
Back through the hills. Back to the hiding place. Back for the Iron. By the time the theft was discovered, it was already too late to turn around.

Somewhere behind them was the fourth dragon.

Farther back, the Blood Dragons now held Björsland. The army had wounded men and two Hwach’as to get to Valinvaga.

So they marched on.

And somewhere in the mountains behind them, eight deserters dug the 5 Iron from the earth and disappeared with it.

The treasure of Björsland was gone.

AFTERMATH — BJÖRSLAND

Blood Dragons occupy the domain in the name of Wyrmgaard.

ANVARD & LIONNE — RETREAT TO VALINVAGA

53 soldiers began the march toward Valinvaga.
8 soldiers deserted during the retreat and stole the hidden treasure.
45 soldiers continue toward Valinvaga.
2 Hwach’as remain with the column.
The Swamp Dweller remains with the column.
Anvard’s wounded dragon remains with the column.
5 Wyrmgaard prisoners remain with the column.

LEFT BEHIND AT BJÖRSLAND

20 soldiers — Killed
1 wounded War Troll — Killed

ESCAPED BY SEA

8 soldiers — Escaped aboard the smallest remaining ship

LOOT

5 Iron — Lost / Stolen by the 8 deserters u/silvertree99

SHIPS
4 ships — Destroyed by dragon fire
1 ship — Escaped with 8 soldiers

CURRENT STATUS

45 soldiers + 2 Hwach’as + Swamp Dweller + wounded Anvardian dragon + 5 prisoners are making their way toward Valinvaga.
8 soldiers escaped by sea.
8 soldiers deserted and disappeared with the 5 Iron.
20 soldiers and the wounded War Troll were killed at Björsland.
The 5 Iron recovered at Björsland is gone again.

THE RETURN TO BJÖRSLAND

Initial Anvardian Attack
Lionne support
Defence

The first warning came from the sea.

From the battlements of the Wolfpack Tower, Wyrmgaard’s sentries watched dark shapes gather on the horizon until the morning mist could no longer hide them. One sail became five. Five became ten. A few carried the old red-and-white stripes of Anvard’s Viking ships, but most were unmistakable even from afar: white sails bearing great red crosses.

For many of the Anvardians aboard them, the coastline ahead was painfully familiar.

Björsland had once been theirs.

They had marched these roads, slept beneath these trees and collected tribute from these villages before the last war had driven them away. Even now the scars of that fighting remained. Burned farmhouses stood abandoned along the coast. Old earthworks had collapsed beneath weeds. Fields once trampled by armies had only begun to recover.

Now Anvard had returned to take it back.

But Wyrmgaard was waiting.

Ninety warriors had gathered around the Wolfpack Tower. Twenty-eight were Wolf Tribe fighters who knew every path through the surrounding hills; sixty-two more had been sent by Wyrmgaard to reinforce them. An owlbear prowled behind the forward line, barely restrained by its handlers. A small catapult had been dragged into position near the tower. Above them circled two dragons — the small green beast that guarded the tower and the great red Surstonn.

And somewhere beneath the dark water, something much larger was moving.

The Anvardian ships came as close to shore as their captains dared. Men threw heavy planks across where the water was shallow enough. Elsewhere soldiers simply jumped overboard, landing knee- or waist-deep in the freezing surf, holding shields and weapons above their heads as they struggled toward land.

Then the sea erupted.

Ourobos struck.

The great serpent burst from the water among the ships. Its coils crashed against wooden hulls and sent spray high above the decks. Oars snapped. Men were thrown from their feet. One ship heeled so violently that soldiers scrambled toward the opposite rail to keep it from rolling further. Captains screamed orders and ships scattered while the first Anvardian ranks desperately tried to reach the beach.

The battle for Björsland had begun before half the army was even ashore.

Yet the transports kept coming.

Anvardian soldiers jumped into the surf and forced their way toward land. Eighty-five men began forming beneath their banners as their dragon swept overhead.

Then Lionne came ashore.

Forty-five more soldiers joined the invasion. Behind them lumbered a War Troll, followed by the grotesque Swamp Dweller, enormous hammers hanging from its hands. Crews dragged two Hwach’as through the wet sand. Two cannons were hauled into firing positions. Farther back, men began preparing Lionne’s giant trebuchet.

The defenders watched from above.

Then Surstonn roared. The red dragon plunged from the sky.

Flame swept across the beach before the Anvardian line had fully formed. Men scattered. Some threw themselves into the surf. Others disappeared beneath smoke and fire.

Lionne’s officers screamed the order.

“Dragons first.”

The Hwach’as turned toward the sky.

Their volleys tore upward as archers joined them from below. Surstonn twisted away through a storm of missiles while the smaller green dragon descended from the opposite direction. Anvard’s own dragon rose to meet them.

For several minutes, Björsland seemed to have two battles raging at once.

One in the sky. One on the earth.

The Wolf Tribe attacked before the invaders could completely recover from their landing. They descended through paths between rocks and ruined buildings, loosed arrows, struck isolated groups and vanished again before Anvard could properly respond. Wyrmgaard’s main force followed, attempting to drive the enemy back into the sea before Lionne’s artillery could be brought fully into action.

For a moment, they nearly succeeded.

Anvard’s advance stopped.

Men fought among the rocks only yards from the water. Wounded soldiers crawled back toward the ships. The owlbear roared from somewhere above.

Then Lionne’s cannons spoke. BOOM. The first shot smashed through one of the old barricades surrounding the Wolfpack position. BOOM. The second tore into Wyrmgaard’s line, throwing earth, timber and men into the air.

Then came the trebuchet. Its first stone sailed high above the battlefield before crashing down near the tower with enough force to shake the ground beneath the defenders’ feet.

Wyrmgaard’s catapult answered. 
A great stone smashed into the advancing Anvardians. Men disappeared beneath it. Another group broke formation as fragments of rock and timber rained across them.

Above, Surstonn descended again. Fire tore across Lionne’s lines.

The Hwach’as answered immediately. The sky filled with missiles.

The smaller green dragon swept low over the battlefield, scattering Anvardian infantry, but this time it stayed too low for too long. Archers turned. One Hwach’a adjusted its aim.

The volley struck. The dragon twisted violently in the air. Then it fell.

It crashed beyond the fighting in an explosion of earth and broken branches. It was still alive - barely - but it would not return to the sky. A roar went up from the attackers. The balance above Björsland had changed. 

On the ground, the defenders unleashed their next weapon.

The owlbear charged.

It smashed into Anvard’s advancing line with terrifying force. Shields were ripped aside. Men were thrown from their feet. For several moments the creature simply tore its way through the attackers.

Then Lionne’s War Troll met it.

The collision sounded like two trees breaking.

The creatures grappled among the shattered defenses while men fought around their feet. The War Troll was wounded again and again, but refused to fall. Eventually the owlbear disappeared beneath the chaos of the melee and did not rise again.

Now the entire hillside was fighting. Anvardian infantry pushed upward. Wolf Tribe warriors fought from ruined walls, rocks and trenches left by the previous war. Wyrmgaard counterattacked wherever the enemy line weakened. Lionne’s soldiers advanced behind volleys from the Hwach’as while the cannons continued pounding the defensive positions.

The Swamp Dweller reached the barricades. Its hammers came down. Wood shattered. Men scattered. 

Anvard poured through the opening. Still Wyrmgaard did not break.

The fighting around the Wolfpack Tower became savage. Positions changed hands more than once. Wounded men continued fighting from the ground. The Wolf Tribe knew that every step backward brought the enemy closer to the tower, and they made Anvard pay for every yard.

Surstonn came down again despite the missiles filling the sky. This time Anvard’s dragon met him. The two beasts collided above the tower.

For several terrible moments there was nothing but wings, claws, fire and blood. Surstonn broke away first, already wounded, pursued by arrows and another Hwach’a volley. He escaped into the clouds, but he could no longer protect the battlefield below.

And without the dragons, Wyrmgaard’s position began to collapse. Not quickly. Not cleanly. But inevitably. There were simply too many attackers.

Lionne’s artillery had shattered much of the prepared defense. The defenders had lost their owlbear. One dragon lay wounded on the ground. Surstonn had been driven from the sky. The Anvardians themselves were bleeding heavily, but they were still advancing.

The last organized Wyrmgaard defense formed around the Wolfpack Tower. They fought until the position became impossible to hold. Some surrendered. Some fled into the countryside. Some died where they stood.
And eventually an Anvardian soldier climbed onto the battered defenses and raised the banner of Anvard above Björsland once again.

For several seconds there was silence.

Then the survivors began to cheer.

Björsland was Anvardian again.

But victory had come at a terrible price.
Bodies covered the slopes beneath the Wolfpack Tower. Smoke drifted between ruined buildings. The wounded cried out from both sides while exhausted soldiers searched for friends among the dead.

There was little wealth left to take. Björsland had changed hands before, and the previous war had already stripped much of the province bare.

Even so, the victors gathered what remained.

Battle Loot: +1 Iron

With control of Björsland restored, the surviving provincial stores and revenues provided another reward.

Björsland: +1 Iron

It seemed a poor prize for such a bloody battle. 

Until one of Anvard’s veterans remembered something. 

When Anvard had lost Björsland the first time, the retreat had been too hurried to carry everything away. Several chests containing coin, valuables and military funds had been hidden rather than abandoned to Wyrmgaard.

The old soldier remembered a ruined farmhouse. A road that no longer existed. And a boundary stone. Men were sent with shovels. They dug through soil that had not been disturbed since the last war. Then a shovel struck wood. One chest emerged. Then another. Then a third. Mud-covered and half-rotten, but still sealed.

The locks were broken.

Inside lay the wealth Anvard had buried when Björsland fell.

Recovered Treasure: +3 Iron

TOTAL: 5 IRON

For the first time that day, exhausted men laughed. Anvard had not merely reclaimed Björsland. It had reclaimed part of what it had lost with it.

Then someone stopped laughing.

A soldier standing upon the ruined defenses was staring north. Others followed his gaze. There was something in the clouds. At first it looked like a distant bird. Then another appeared. Then a third. And beside them was something so enormous that nobody immediately understood what he was seeing.

A dark shape moved slowly across the horizon.

For one impossible moment, it looked like a ship sailing through the sky.

Then its wings opened. Silence spread across the Wolfpack Tower. 

It was a dragon. A gigantic one. 

One of the greatest dragons in all Rutland. And three more dragons flew beside it. Far beneath them, ships were appearing on the horizon.

The cheering died completely.

Blood Dragons.

They had marched to relieve Wyrmgaard. They were too late. But they were not too late to avenge them.

135 fresh warriors. Four dragons. And one of those dragons was large enough to resemble a flying warship even from miles away.

The Anvardian commanders looked back toward the battlefield. Their men were exhausted. Their dragon was wounded. Lionne’s War Troll was bleeding from numerous wounds. Dozens of soldiers could barely stand.

Behind them lay Björsland.

Before them waited the sea.

Their ships were still there.

That meant escape was possible.

Possible. Not guaranteed.

The army could abandon Björsland immediately, carry the recovered Iron back to the coast and embark before the Blood Dragons arrived. But getting dozens of wounded men, prisoners, treasure and surviving equipment aboard would take time. Then the ships would still have to escape.

And the Blood Dragons had a fleet of their own.

If their ships reached the waters around Björsland before Anvard and Lionne could break away, the retreat could simply become another battle at sea - with four dragons overhead.

Or they could stay and fight.

Or they could march toward VALINVAGA.

The victory was suddenly no longer the end of the battle.

It was the beginning of a decision.

AFTERMATH — ANVARD
Deployed: 85
Killed: 19
Wounded: 17
Captured: 0
Fled / Missing: 3
Combat-ready: 46
Anvard’s dragon: Wounded, but still alive

AFTERMATH — LIONNE
Deployed: 45
Killed: 9
Wounded: 8
Captured: 0
Fled / Missing: 1
Combat-ready: 27
War Troll: Wounded
Swamp Dweller: Survived
AFTERMATH — WYRMGAARD

Deployed: 90
Killed: 31
Wounded: 18
Captured: 16
Fled: 25
Remaining organized defenders in Björsland: 0
Small Green Dragon: Brought down and severely wounded
Surstonn: Wounded and escaped
Owlbear: Killed
Ourobos: Survived and disappeared into the sea
Catapult: Captured

THE SPOILS
Battle Loot: +1 Iron
Björsland: +1 Iron
Recovered buried Anvardian treasure: +3 Iron
TOTAL: +5 IRON u/silvertree99

THE DECISION
HOLD BJÖRSLAND

Remain at the Wolfpack Tower and defend the newly reclaimed domain. The Blood Dragons are approaching with 135 fresh warriors and four dragons. Anvard and Lionne are exhausted and badly depleted. Without reinforcements, holding Björsland will be extremely difficult.

RETREAT TO THE SHIPS

Abandon Björsland, take the 5 Iron, evacuate the wounded and prisoners and return to the waiting ships. If the army embarks quickly enough, the fleet can attempt to escape before the Blood Dragons arrive. But escape is not guaranteed.

The Blood Dragons have ships of their own, and four dragons are already approaching through the sky. If they catch the retreating fleet, Björsland may merely become the beginning of a battle on the Björska Sea.

MARCH TOWARD VALINVAGA

Abandon Björsland and attempt to break through over land toward the Anvardian and Lionne forces fighting at Valinvaga. If the armies can unite, their combined strength may give them a chance against what is coming.

But the Blood Dragons are already close. The wounded will slow the march. And the army will have to carry its 5 Iron through hostile territory.

Björsland has been won.

Now Anvard and Lionne must decide how much they are willing to risk to keep their victory.

Initial Anvardian Attack
Lionne support
Defence

Wyrmgaard had been ready for battle.

Scouts had watched the Anvardian fleet approach the coast, and the warriors of Haverhal had prepared themselves to meet the invaders in the field. Eighty-eight men stood ready. Dragons circled above them, and Wyrmgaard's riders waited for the order to advance.

Against Anvard alone, they would fight.

Then new sails appeared upon the horizon.

Lionne had come.

Another force landed alongside the Anvardians: 35 soldiers, 1 War Troll, 1 Rancor, 1 Hwach'a, 1 Small Ballista and 1 Cannon.

The balance had changed.

Orders raced through the Wyrmgaard lines. Back to Haverhal.

The eighteen light horsemen remained behind. They swept across the roads before the advancing army, loosing arrows, threatening its flanks and forcing the invaders to slow whenever they attempted to close upon them. They did not seek a decisive engagement. They sought time.
And they bought enough of it.

One by one, Wyrmgaard's warriors disappeared through the gates of Haverhal. The cavalry followed last. Then the gates slammed shut. Chains rattled. The drawbridge rose above the filled moat. Ballista crews took their positions upon the walls, the catapult was prepared, and somewhere behind the fortifications waited the Displacer Beast. Above it all, two Wyrmgaard dragons circled over the capital.

When Anvard and Lionne finally reached Haverhal, the battle they had expected was gone.
Before them stood a fortress.

The Anvardian commander stared at the walls. This was not how the great offensive had been planned.

Even now, while he stood before Haverhal, two other battles were beginning. In Björsland another part of the invasion force was advancing on the Wolfpack Tower. At Valinvaga, the largest arm of the operation was closing upon Wyrmgaard's defenses.

Three attacks. Three fronts. One coordinated strike.

The timing had been part of the plan from the beginning: hit everywhere at once, give Wyrmgaard no time to move troops between its domains, and overwhelm its defenses before it could react.

One of his captains approached.

“My lord… shall we begin assembling the Dragon Slayer?”
The commander turned toward him.
“The Very Large Ballista. Against those dragons.”

Another captain stepped forward. “And the two Great Trebuchets? If we begin now, we can prepare them for the bombardment.”

A third looked toward Haverhal's walls. “The Siege Tower and Battering Ram as well? If we intend to break this fortress properly, we should begin immediately.”

The commander said nothing.

Before him waited 88 defenders, two dragons, ballistae, a catapult, a Displacer Beast, a filled moat, a raised drawbridge and the walls of Wyrmgaard's capital.

Behind him stood the combined forces of Anvard and Lionne: 120 soldiers, an Anvardian dragon, a War Troll, a Rancor, a Hwach'a, a small ballista and a cannon.

And aboard the Anvardian ships waited the heavy siege train: the Very Large Ballista — the Dragon Slayer, two Great Trebuchets, the Siege Tower, the Battering Ram and the Great Cross.

They could unload the engines and build them. The Dragon Slayer could challenge the beasts above the walls. The trebuchets could begin pounding the defenses. The ram and siege tower could be prepared for the assault.
But all of that would take time.

There was another option.

The ladders were already with the army.
They could attack now.
No trebuchets. No Dragon Slayer. No siege tower. No battering ram. Just 120 soldiers, their dragon, Lionne's already available weapons and monsters -and ladders against the walls of Haverhal.

It would preserve the momentum of the great offensive

It could also become a slaughter.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, the battles of Björsland and Valinvaga were already being fought. The commander had no way of knowing whether the great plan was succeeding or collapsing.

The captain waited.
“Your orders, my lord?”

Do you begin a proper siege?
Order the heavy siege equipment unloaded and assembled. Tell us which weapons you want prepared. It will give you the tools to break Haverhal but it will cost valuable time.

Do you order an immediate storming of Haverhal?
Attack now, before more time is lost. Your men can use their ladders immediately, but the heavy Anvardian siege engines will not be available for the assault.

Or do you withdraw?
Abandon Haverhal, return to the ships and preserve your army rather than risk the timing of the greater campaign.

The commander looked once more toward the two dragons circling above the walls.
Then toward his captains.
Siege. Storm. Or withdraw.

This is a Narrator-approved guest narration by u/DapperCardiologist25.

Initial Attack

“Monsogoth marches to war, Your Majesty. One hundred and eighty-two men.”

Valkoth, lieutenant of the Dark Forces, called out to his liege, Lord Malik.

“Good. Estria has been good to us. Let us return the favor.”

Malik turned toward his assembled commanders
.
“We march on Irtara within a fortnight.”

The great host of Monsogoth crossed the border expecting war. Instead, they found a land already in ruin.

Crops had been burned, villages abandoned or destroyed. Women and children wandered the roads, crying and begging the passing soldiers for food. Civil wars are rarely pretty, especially when one side is under the influence of a powerful talisman.

But not everyone in Irtara had lost hope.

A large army of more than one hundred men, still loyal to Prince Elekas, marched out to meet the invading force.

The fighting was fierce.

The Estrians fought bravely, holding their ground against the soldiers and creatures of Monsogoth. Again and again they pushed back against the advancing host, determined to defend what remained of their homeland.

But ultimately, they were no match for Monsogoth.

Their Prince was on the other side of the kingdom. No reinforcements were coming, and as their numbers dwindled, the remaining Estrians realized there was little left to fight for.

They surrendered.

Monsogoth had won, but the victory had come at a heavy price.

Irtara had fallen.

Battle Results
Monsogoth
Entered the battle: 182 men
Killed: 60
Wounded: 41
Remaining: 122
Irtara captured
Loot: 1 Iron (the domain has been devastated by the civil war)

Estria — Prince Elekas' Loyalists
Entered the battle: 112 men
Killed: 67
Wounded: 21
Surrendered: 24
Army defeated
Irtara lost
Result
Monsogoth Victory

Lord Malik now controls Irtara, but the civil war has left the conquered domain devastated and worth little more than 1 Iron

This is a Narrator-approved guest narration by u/DapperCardiologist25.

Initial Post:

Lady Ether stood at the front of her ship. Before her lay the mighty land of Drellendar.

The Shattered Vale had heard of the civil war raging in Estria and even now hoped to land and save Drellendar from itself, even if that meant more work for the Vale. In the midst of the confusion, it was their responsibility to help an old friend: the Queen of Estria.

The fleet made landfall that night, confident that they would be greeted as friends and help provide stability in the realm.

What they did not expect was to encounter 400 men of Prince Elekas's army, which was now in open civil war with the Queen Mother.

The following morning, Lady Ether sent a diplomatic envoy to the Prince's camp to offer their support to the Queen, unknowingly exposing her alliance with the Queen to the Prince.

Word travels slowly in the far reaches of the world, and in her defense, the uprising had begun while they were at sea. But tragic as it is, war does not accept excuses.

And so Lady Ether found herself preparing for battle with the Prince's army that evening.

With the head of her diplomat sitting on the table beside her in her tent.

Does Lady Ether challenge the Prince in open combat, or attempt to flee back to her ships?

Initial post

Previous post

This is a Narrator-approved guest narration by u/DapperCardiologist25.

The days were growing shorter and the nights colder as winter fell upon Estria. Things were quiet. Too quiet. The outside world was starting to fear the worst.

Allies, neighbors, and foes alike sent armies and dignitaries to discover what was happening in the land of Estria.

The mighty Kraken Clan, longtime friends of Prince Elekas and aware of the delicate political climate, sent an envoy of 35 female warriors, led by Thyra Tideborn, to the capital of Ullandria to inquire about the prince and his mother.

Word had reached them that Queen Alessandra had received a talisman from Orm, a strange artifact carved from whale bone. When they heard that the Queen had begun to change, Thyra and her warriors exchanged glances. Could the talisman she had received from Orm have something to do with it? And could the Cult of the Deep have had a hand in what was happening? Was that the plan all along?

Upon reaching the port city, the Kraken warriors were greeted by the putrid smell of rotting flesh and complete silence.

Had war and undeath come to Estria?

Yet the Estrian flag still hung from the walls of the great citadel.

Once ashore, Thyra and her warriors apprehended an elderly peasant and demanded to know what had happened.

“The Queen is not herself,” the man replied sadly. “Three months ago, she began to descend into madness. Prince Elekas feared for his life and fled east, where he raised an army and sought to challenge his mother for the throne. However, she is our matriarch, and many people still love the woman she used to be.”

He looked toward the distant citadel.

“The fighting was fierce. The Prince drove her back into the keep, and his army is now camped just beyond bowshot of the town. However, only two nights ago, the Queen mounted a sortie and raided his camp during the night. People are saying she captured the Prince and brought him back into the keep…”

He paused for a moment, then spoke quietly.

“If you care for Estria as you claim, I beg you. Go to Elekas’s camp and offer whatever help you can.”

Thyra looked at her warriors.

Now they had a choice.

Would they make for Prince Elekas’s camp and offer their aid?

Or would they enter Ullandria and attempt to speak with the Queen?

The Legion Lands in Myyga

Initial Attack 

This is a Narrator-approved guest narration by u/NegotiationFront3981

The shores of Myyga had been quiet for some time.

King Brutus’ failed invasion, dubbed Brutus’ Folly, was nothing more than a whisper of a memory. It had been several years since; the last anyone had heard of the Dark Host or their master, the nameless dark elf, had been during the Siege of Arathril.

None now knew what had become of her.

Some said she had perished in the blaze when the city was put to the torch. Others claimed she had journeyed to Volkarad and now served the Ancient Kingdom as a necromancer. Still more said that she had disappeared through the dark Portal, attempting to unravel its mysteries.

Either way, Myyga had since fallen silent for nearly five long years. None dared venture near, warning of feral trolls, undead, and more wretched and foul creatures. No vessel had reached the shores of that land - at least, none that returned.

But today was different.

The sun rose, its rays breaking through the fog draped over the land. Three ships sailed forward, black sails catching the wind. The water gently rippled as a leviathan, hidden from sight, swam below. Dragons arced overhead.

The Legion of the Dragon Lord had arrived.

A lone dragon rider soared above. He had been part of the failed invasion and subsequent retreat from Myyga. He thought back to the moment he had soared down, believing the despotic King Brutus to be in danger, and snatched him out of the rowboat.

That was long ago now, back before Lord Nerezar, when they were still the Black Mantles of Lathadura.

The first ship broke the surf, beaching itself on the shore. Soldiers clambered out, assembling into formation along the beach. The second and third ships did likewise.

A force 80 soldiers now stood before their vessels.

The air seemed thick and heavy, the mists obscuring what lay within the dense forests ahead. The soldiers felt as though they were being watched. Some saw shadows darting between the ancient trees. Others chalked it up to nothing more than a trick of the mind. 

Still, the voices and the quick, unmistakable sound of footsteps could not so easily be reasoned away.

The army looked around.

Traces of the last war could still be seen, even all this time later. Old, rotten remnants of rowboats lay here and there. Skeletons clad in rusting armor and rotting gambesons littered the shore, their colors only barely visible.

A man stepped forward, his foot unearthing something hidden beneath a light layer of sand.

It was a banner of Lionne
. 
Only fragments remained now.

There were three companies of soldiers, each amassed in front of their respective ships. One of the company captains motioned for a herald to go forward and proclaim that Myyga now fell under the Dragon Lord’s command until the Mistress of the Dark Host should return.

The man ran forward, standard in hand. He clambered onto a boulder in the midst of the beach and raised the flag above his head.

“By order of Lord Nerezar, Myyga shall be occupied by the Legion of the Dragon Lord for its continued safety and sec…”

He was cut off midway through his proclamation.

He turned around, looking at the rest of the army.

An arrow was lodged in his throat.

He collapsed, falling from the boulder and into the sand with a dull thud, choking on his own blood.

At that moment, seemingly a hundred hoots and jeers rang out from the forest.

They could see them now. 

There was no denying it.

“SHIELDS! SWORDS!”

The company captain’s voice boomed across the beach.

A storm of arrows burst from the trees.

16 soldiers fell dead immediately. Another 3 were wounded.

“SHIELDS, ABOVE!”

The soldiers raised their shields over their heads, the clinking of arrows ringing out as the barrage continued.

Then came the charge.

A horde of feral and disheveled undead and trolls rushed from the forest in a disorganized mass.

“SHIELDS DOWN! SWORDS READY!”

The captains thundered their commands as the enemy crashed into the Legion in a flurry of blood and gore. Men were ripped apart, limb from limb, as the undead bit down on those too slow to react. The first line of each company fell, taken by the initial shock of the attack.

But the survivors regrouped. All three formations joined into a single line, with the archers gathering behind them.

Now it was their turn.

They unleashed a deadly rain of arrows into the encroaching mass. Trolls and other creatures fell. The undead continued regardless, filled with arrows like pincushions.

The army lowered their shields as the feral corpses and trolls raged against them. The living brought their swords down and across, rendering the undead into little more than piles of bones and dried, leathery skin.

Whatever power had once kept the Dark Host unified and under control had disappeared alongside their master.

And slowly, the tide began to turn.

The onslaught of the Dark Host finally stopped. The few remaining creatures retreated into the woods.

“FORWARD!”

The captains called to the army. The survivors began marching, shoulder to shoulder, one unified line advancing toward the forest.

Then they heard it.

A great rumbling came from within the trees — the sound of trunks cracking, trees being uprooted and torn apart.

The Legion stopped.

Emerging from the fog-wrapped treeline, three massive trolls stepped forward. The soldiers stared at the beasts. Each troll let loose a deafening roar and began charging toward the line.

“HOLD!”

One of the captains shouted.

The soldiers at the front shook violently with fear.

Then a burst of flame shot down from above. 

The closest troll disappeared beneath the inferno. Large red wings beat against the air as two dragons soared overhead. The remaining two trolls grabbed logs and rocks, hurling them skyward in an attempt to bring down this new terror. 

The dragon riders skillfully dodged the barrage. One swooped low, engulfing the second troll in flame.

The other dragon descended upon the last beast, snatched it from the ground, and carried the furious troll out over a field of jagged rocks cutting through the waves beyond the shore. The dragon released its grip. The troll plummeted. Its body crashed against the rocks in an explosion of gore, its gnarled corpse impaled upon the jagged stone.

Silence returned to the beach.

The battle had been unexpected, but the Legion had proved its worth. The remnants of the Dark Host had been driven back into the depths of Myyga. And the Legion of the Dragon Lord now stood upon its shores.

Myyga now falls under the command of Lord Nerezar.

Battle Summary

Lord Nerezar – Legion of the Dragon Lord
Starting Forces: 80 Soldiers, 2 Dragons, 1 Sea Monster, 3 Ships
Losses: 16 Soldiers killed, 3 Soldiers wounded
Remaining: 64 Soldiers, 2 Dragons, 1 Sea Monster, 3 Ships
Loot: 1 Iron battle loot + 25% Dark Host’s Treasury

The Dark Host
Starting Forces: 38 Soldiers, 1 War Cart Catapult, 3 Large Trolls
Losses: 3 Large Trolls killed, heavy losses among the 38 Soldiers
Remaining: Unknown number of Soldiers retreated into the forest, 1 War Cart Catapult
Faction destroyed.
Result: Victory for the Legion of the Dragon Lord
Territorial Gain: Myyga — Myyga falls under the command of Lord Nerezar.

The Second Battle of Amathine

Initial Battle

King Leofric had made his choice.

They would not run.

Across the blood-soaked beach, the survivors of Yenvar formed their lines for the second time that day. Of the 147 men who had survived the first battle, 44 were already wounded. Some could barely stand. Broken shields were replaced with those taken from the dead, arrows were gathered from the sand, and exhausted men leaned upon their spears while healers tied the last bandages they had.

Leofric rode slowly along the line. Behind them lay the dead from their first victory. Before them, five dark-red sails approached the shore.

“Hold the line,” Leofric ordered. “We said they would not cross this beach.”

Above him, his two dragons roared.

The Blood Dragon ships drove into the shallows. Before they had even stopped, black-armored warriors began jumping over the sides into the sea. Hundreds plunged into the water and waded toward the beach, shields and weapons held above the waves. Behind them, crews struggled through the surf with ballistas and portable cannons.

Leofric raised his sword.

“NOW!”

The dragons descended.

The first tore into the Blood Dragons while many were still waist-deep in the water. Men vanished beneath claws, fire and waves. The second swept across the beach, smashing through warriors and tearing apart a ballista crew before the weapon could be brought into position.

The Blood Dragons scattered, reformed and dragged their weapons forward.

“BALLISTAS!”

Heavy bolts tore upward.

One missed. Another glanced from scales. Then a bolt punched through the first dragon’s wing. The beast screamed and twisted through the air. A second struck the same wing.

A third buried itself deep in its body.

The dragon crashed onto the beach.

Blood Dragons rushed the wounded beast before it could rise. Spears and axes descended until the great creature finally stopped moving.

The second dragon returned in fury, tearing through another group of Blood Dragons before the ballistas turned toward it. A bolt ripped through the edge of its wing. Another passed close enough to send the creature reeling.

The wounded dragon climbed and disappeared inland.

Then the Blood Dragons advanced. Yenvar met them at the waterline.

The battle was savage.

Leofric’s exhausted soldiers fought with everything they had left. Blood Dragons fell into the surf. Yenvarian spears shattered against black armor. Men fought among piles of bodies while blood mixed with seawater beneath their feet.

Again and again, Yenvar drove them backward.

Again and again, the Blood Dragons returned.

But Yenvar had already fought one army that day. Nearly a third of Leofric’s remaining men had entered this battle wounded.

The Blood Dragons had arrived fresh.

Slowly, exhaustion accomplished what steel alone could not.

The Yenvarian line broke.

Small groups continued fighting until they were surrounded. The wounded behind the line were captured. Others died where they stood. By sunset, almost nothing remained of the army that had defended Amathine that morning.

Leofric stood among the last few men still able to fight.

The Blood Dragons surrounded them.

Their commander stepped forward. His armor was battered and dark with blood. He looked first at Leofric, then across the beach at the dead of both armies.

He raised his sword in salute.

“Hail, King Leofric.”

Around him, the Blood Dragons struck their weapons against their shields.

“You have fought well. Many good men have given their blood upon this shore because of you.”

He looked toward the setting sun.

“It has been a worthy battle.”

Leofric remained silent, his sword still raised.

“Much blood has been given today. Enough that the Red Dragon will rise in the east tomorrow, and another morning will be granted to this world.”

The commander looked back at him.

“You have earned our respect, King. Lower your sword and you will live. Your people may ransom you.”

Leofric glanced toward his captured soldiers.

“And them?”

“Their blood will be offered with ours. They should be proud. Few men are granted the honor of purchasing tomorrow.”

Leofric looked back at him.

“And if I refuse?”

A faint smile appeared on the commander’s face.

“Then you honor us.”

He raised his sword again.

“Fight until your strength leaves you. Die with your blade in your hand, and your blood will join theirs. After what has been spilled here today, the Red Dragon in the East will surely be satisfied.”

He paused.

“Your descendants will speak proudly of you. Your enemies will remember you. And in the halls of the Blood Dragons, the name Leofric of Yenvar will be sung with honor.”

His eyes moved across the blood-covered beach.

“You drew your line in the sand, King. We crossed it.”

Then he looked at the dozens of his own warriors who had died doing so.

“But you made us pay dearly for every step.”

He extended his hand.

“The choice is yours, King Leofric. Live and be ransomed… or finish what you began.”

Battle Results
Yenvar
Entered the first battle: 178 men
Entered the second battle: 147 men
Already wounded before the second battle: 44
Killed in the second battle: 121
Captured: 20
Escaped: 6
Dragons: 1 killed, 1 wounded and fled
King Leofric surrounded — fate undecided
The 20 captured Yenvarians will be sacrificed by the Blood Dragons

Blood Dragons
Entered the battle: 218 men
Killed: 96
Wounded: 61
Remaining alive: 122
Loot: 5 Irons (which had been looted in the first battle) + 2 Irons battle loot.
Victory
The Cost of Amathine
Of the 178 Yenvarians who began the day at Amathine, only 6 escaped alive and free.

The Blood Dragons captured the beach, but paid an enormous price: 96 of their 218 warriors were killed, and another 61 wounded.

Victory Has a Price

Initial Attack

King Leofric had promised that the beaches of Amathine would hold.
And they did.

Lord Nerezar's soldiers had barely established themselves when the Yenvarian army struck. Then came the dragons.

Two great beasts swept over the battlefield, their shadows passing across Nerezar's ranks. Arrows were loosed desperately toward the sky, but it changed nothing. One dragon crashed into the flank while the second descended upon the archers.

Then King Leofric ordered the advance.

“FORWARD!”

The Yenvarian line surged across the beach. Nerezar's men fought bravely, but they were outnumbered, attacked from the ground and hunted from above. Their formation collapsed beneath the assault.

What began as a battle quickly became a rout. Some fled toward the sea. Others threw down their weapons. Those who continued fighting were surrounded and cut down.

By late afternoon, it was over.

Lord Nerezar's army had been utterly defeated.

Yenvar had won.

King Leo walked among the dead as his soldiers searched the battlefield. Weapons, armor and valuables were gathered from the fallen. Among the spoils were five Iron.

A fine prize for a victorious king.

Yet the victory had not been free. Men sat exhausted among the dead. Healers moved between the wounded. Armor was broken, shields splintered, and blood covered the sand.

Then one of Leofric's captains looked toward the sea.

“My King…”

Leofric followed his gaze.

Five ships had appeared on the horizon.

Dark red sails.

The laughter among the Yenvarians stopped.
The Blood Dragons were coming.

More than two hundred fresh warriors were approaching Amathine, accompanied by cannons and ballistas.

King Leofric looked at his exhausted army, then at the five Iron taken from the dead, and finally toward the approaching fleet.

There would be no escape by sea. The Blood Dragon fleet controlled the waters.

If Leo wanted to save his army and his treasure, he would have to retreat over land. He could order his men to gather the wounded, abandon anything that slowed them down and march inland before the Blood Dragons landed.

But where would he go?

Perhaps Leo could reach friendly territory. Perhaps another lord would grant him shelter. Perhaps the Blood Dragons would be satisfied with taking Amathine.
Perhaps.

Or he could stay.

He could order his exhausted soldiers back into formation, turn his two dragons toward the sea and prepare the blood-soaked beaches for another battle.

One of his captains stepped beside him.

“My King… what are your orders?”

Leofric remained silent.

The red sails grew larger.

Behind him, the survivors of Yenvar waited.

Does King Leofric take his five Iron and retreat over land, hoping to find safety elsewhere?
Or does he stay and fight like a true hero … 

Battle of Amathine
King Leofric — Yenvar
Deployed: 178 soldiers 
Dragons: 2 
Killed: 31 
Wounded: 44 
Loot: 5 Iron
Lord Nerezar
Deployed: 79 soldiers 
Killed: 51 
Wounded/Captured: 19 
Escaped: 9
Army decisively defeated

Blood Dragons Approaching
Soldiers: 218
Warships: 5
Portable cannons: 2
Heavy ballistas: 5
Smaller ballistas: 3

King Leofric must choose: retreat over land with his treasure and hope someone offers him shelter - or stand and fight.

Initial Attack

The sea was silent. Fog was everywhere.

Twenty Northmen sat in three small rowing boats, their oars dipping carefully into the black water.

Ahead of them lay Volkarad, heartland of the Ancient Kingdom. Nowhere were the dead more numerous. Nowhere was their power greater.
And twenty-four men were rowing straight toward it.

Their orders were simple: land unseen. Make enough noise to convince the enemy that a larger force had come ashore. Draw the defenders away.

At the bow sat Hakon Seaborn, staring into the mist. Behind him, one of the younger warriors leaned toward his companion.

“I volunteered for this.”
“Aye.”
“I actually fucking volunteered for this.”
His companion grinned. “Bit late to regret it.”
“I’m not regretting it.”
A pause. “I’m sober now.”

Hakon glanced back. “If the gods wanted cowards, they wouldn’t have made Northmen.”

The young warrior frowned. “Did the gods also provide a plan for getting home?”

A few quiet laughs passed through the boats.

Then…

Sand scraped beneath the hull.
They had arrived.

The twenty men jumped into the shallow water and dragged their boats onto the beach. Weapons, oil, torches, and supplies followed.
Everything remained silent. Too silent.

Hakon stared into the fog. Something moved.

He raised his fist. Every man froze.

A shape emerged. Then another. Then ten. Then dozens. The dead walked from the mist.

Some were little more than yellowed skeletons wrapped in rusted armor. Others were fresher. Blackened flesh still clung to their skulls. Torn strips of skin hung from jaws and ribs. One still wore half a beard upon a face that no longer existed.

And behind them, more shapes moved through the fog. There was no battle cry. No roar. Only the clicking of bones.

Then, as one, the skeletons raised their bows.

Hakon’s eyes widened.

“BOATS!”

The Northmen ran.

The volley hissed through the fog.

Men threw themselves into the boats and pushed desperately away from shore.

“ROW!”

Arrows hammered into wood, shields and flesh. The boats shuddered beneath the impacts. Men screamed. Oars slipped from dying hands. 

On the shore, the dead lowered their bows. They did not fire again. They simply watched as all three little vessels disappeared into the fog.
No one was rowing anymore.

Much later, Hakon Seaborn opened his eyes.
His head throbbed. A dead man lay across him.
Another was slumped against the side of the boat. Blood covered the boards beneath them.

Hakon slowly pushed himself upright and looked around. Across the dark water, he could barely make out the other two boats drifting nearby.
They were just as silent.

Twenty-four men had volunteered to save an army.
Hakon was the only one left alive.

The current carried all three boats farther out to sea. He stared back toward Volkarad, but its shores had already vanished behind the fog.
The diversion had begun.

Attacking Force: 23/24 killed.
Defending Force: 0/104

Hello everyone,

in just a few hours, we will begin implementing a major new update to LEGO Minifigure Realms.
To make this transition as smooth as possible, there will be a seven-day pause on all new attacks starting with the implementation of the update.

This pause only applies to attacks. Everything else in Rutland continues as usual. You can write Lore, conduct diplomacy, move troops, trade, build, scheme, negotiate, and continue your stories normally.

During these seven days, we will also finish the battles that are currently still unresolved. After that, we should have a clean starting point for the new system.

📜 A Proper Rulebook

Over time, Rutland has grown enormously. Many of the rules we use today were never formally written down. They developed naturally through precedent, discussions, Narrator decisions, and simply because “this is how we have always handled it.”

That worked surprisingly well for a long time, but the game has now reached a point where we need something more permanent.

We have therefore written a comprehensive Rulebook.

Much of it will probably feel familiar. A large part simply puts into writing rules and conventions that already exist.

However, there will also be new changes, particularly concerning the economy, territorial income, the War Economy, and attacks.

The Rulebook will become the central reference for how the game is played and will continue to develop together with the game.
But this update is about more than rules.

📖 A New Narrator

With this update, u/Silvertree will step down as Narrator, and I will take over the position.
Before anything else, I want to thank him wholeheartedly for the outstanding work he has done.

Narrating battles, keeping track of countless factions and storylines, answering questions, resolving disputes, remembering precedents and trying to keep an entire collaborative world moving is an enormous amount of work.

Rutland would not be where it is today without the time and effort he has put into it.

Thank you, Silvertree.

And his decision to step down leads directly to perhaps the most important change we are going to make.

🏛️No More All-Powerful Narrator

The position of Narrator has a fundamental problem:

Eventually, it burns people out.

Too many responsibilities have gradually accumulated around a single person.

The Narrator has been expected to understand the rules, resolve battles, make Lore decisions, deal with disputes, follow the map, keep track of the economy, answer questions, help new players and somehow still find the time and motivation to actually narrate.

That is not sustainable.

So one of my main goals as Narrator will actually be to reduce the power and responsibilities of the Narrator.

Instead of replacing one all-powerful Narrator with another, we want to create a new administrative structure inspired loosely by the Roman Cursus Honorum.

Responsibility will be divided between several Offices, each with its own duties, authority and limits.

No single person should have to run Rutland.

🏛️ The Cursus Honorum

The exact structure will continue to develop, but these are the main Offices we currently envision:

📖 Narrator — Lore & the World

The Narrator will primarily be responsible for Lore and in-game reality.

World events, neutral factions and characters, Lore disputes, narrative consequences and the narration of battles belong here.

In simple terms:
What happens within the world? → Narrator

The Narrator will not simultaneously be the person who decides every rule, maintains every system and administers every aspect of the game.

⚔️Battle Generator Officer — Battle Resolution
We have been developing the Battle Generator, and I think it has reached a point where it can become an important part of the game.

A dedicated Officer will eventually be responsible for collecting the relevant information, correctly entering armies, plans, terrain, modifiers and other factors, and generating the mechanical outcome of battles.

The Narrator then takes that result and turns it into a story.

The Battle Officer determines the mechanical result. The Narrator tells us how it happened.
This also means that determining who wins and writing the story of that victory no longer necessarily rest with the same person.

🗺️** Mapmaster — The Map
The Mapmaster maintains the official map of Rutland.

Territorial changes, faction emblems, borders and new versions of the map fall within this Office.
The Mapmaster does not decide who deserves territory. They ensure that changes established through battles, treaties and other legitimate actions are accurately represented on the official map.

💰 Master of the Treasury — The Economy
The Master of the Treasury maintains the official financial records.

Territorial income, War Economy expenses, payments, construction costs, rewards and faction treasuries can therefore be managed transparently without requiring the Narrator to keep track of everyone's finances.

📜 Lawkeeper — The Rulebook

The Lawkeeper maintains and updates the official Rulebook.

When rules are changed or clarified, the Lawkeeper ensures that the Rulebook reflects those decisions, removes outdated wording and keeps the rules understandable and consistent.
The Lawkeeper does not simply invent laws alone.
Their job is to ensure that the laws we agree upon actually exist in one clear and up-to-date document.

🧭 New Player Officer — Newcomers

Another Officer will focus specifically on new players.

Joining a world like Rutland can be intimidating. There are factions, Lore, armies, territories, rules, diplomacy and years of existing history.

This Officer will welcome newcomers, explain the basics, help them establish their faction and direct them to the people responsible for more complicated questions.

🤝 The Support Team

The Support Team will also take on a much more important role.
It will not merely assist the Officers.
Together with the Mods, the Support Team will be responsible for the rules and continued development of the game itself.

This includes:
- developing new rules and mechanics
- improving existing systems
- identifying loopholes and balance problems
- continuing development of the Battle Generator
- testing new Battle Generator mechanics and modifiers
- reviewing how the economy and War Economy work in practice
- helping Officers when necessary

This creates an important separation:

The Narrator develops and governs the world.
The Support Team develops the game.

🛡️Mods & Former Officers

The long-term idea is also that our Mods should increasingly come from former Officers.

Offices should not necessarily be permanent positions. They can rotate every few months.
Someone might serve as Mapmaster, Lawkeeper, Treasury Officer or another Officer for a period, gain experience with the administration of the game, and later become eligible to join the Mod Team.

That creates something Rutland badly needs:
institutional memory.

Knowledge should not disappear because one person becomes inactive.
And authority should not remain permanently concentrated in the same hands.

Ideally, the Cursus Honorum continuously creates new people who understand how to keep Rutland running.

🔄 This Will Be a Process
We are not pretending that this structure will be perfect from day one.

Some responsibilities may need to move between Offices. We may discover that an Office needs more or less authority. Some systems may work brilliantly on paper and terribly in practice.
That's fine.

We will treat the initial structure as provisional, learn from it, and adjust it together.
The important thing is the direction:

Away from one indispensable Narrator and toward a system that can sustain itself.

🐉 The Blood Dragons Will Leave Rutland

Finally, there is one important consequence of me becoming Narrator.

To avoid misunderstandings and obvious conflicts of interest, the Blood Dragons will withdraw from the Southern Alliance and leave Rutland.
I will write the Lore explaining their departure separately.

Only the Skull Dragons and the Crimson Falcons under Red Judas will remain within my former Domains. They will remain as NPC factions, not as my active player factions.

For the duration of my time as Narrator, I will therefore no longer participate in Rutland as an active player with the Blood Dragons.
I hope that after approximately three months, I will be able to step down as Narrator and return to the game as a player.

But three months can be a very long time in Rutland.

Who knows what the map will look like by then, which kingdoms will still exist, which new powers will have risen — or what will be waiting for the Blood Dragons should they ever return.
For now, however, my job will no longer be to expand my own realm.
It will be to help all of you continue building this one.

What happened before 

The Falcon knight was drunk. Very drunk. He sat sprawled across a tavern bench, one boot on the table, buying drinks for anyone willing to listen to him.
“Another round!”

A red-haired serving girl with freckles across her nose stopped beside him. The knight grinned and tossed a gold coin onto her tray.
“Keep it.”
She stared at the coin.
“That’s far too much.”
He raised his cup.
“Doesn't matter.”
“Why?”
His grin widened.
“Waldemar pays.”
He burst out laughing. Another gold coin landed on the table. He leaned toward her.
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“Still true.”
“And you're drunk.”
“Also still true.”

She couldn't help smiling. For the next hour he drank, flirted and scattered coins around the tavern like a minor king. Every expensive bottle produced the same joke.
“Waldemar pays!”
Nobody seemed to understand why he found it so funny.

Then a dark-haired serving girl with a long braid walked past.
The Falcon turned.
“Well now…”
“You have beautiful eyes.”
The dark-haired girl laughed.
Behind him, the redhead's smile vanished.
“You said mine were beautiful.”
The Falcon considered this with drunken seriousness.
“A man can appreciate several beautiful things.”

The redhead stared at him.
Then at the Falcon insignia that had slipped from beneath his cloak.
Then at the ridiculous pile of gold.
A few minutes later, she disappeared through the back door.

The Falcon was halfway through another cup when the tavern door opened.
Four Lion soldiers entered.
“Friends of yours?” the dark-haired girl asked.
The Falcon stared at the Lion insignia.
Swords.
Very unhappy faces.
“Oh.”
He slowly turned toward the redhead.
She smiled sweetly.
“Waldemar pays, doesn't he?”
The knight reached for his sword.

The Lions were upon him immediately. He struggled furiously, but in his condition four Lions might as well have been forty.

Iron shackles snapped around his wrists.
As they dragged him toward the door, the Falcon looked back at the red-haired serving girl.

Then he laughed and raised his shackled hands.
“I meant what I said about your eyes!”

Sing, O halls, of ash and bone,
Of Anvard’s king upon his throne,
Of walls that burned beneath the night,
And Rollo’s grim and final fight.

The dead had gathered, rank on rank,
Their hollow eyes, their banners blank,
With towers tall and engines grim,
A thousand dead now marched with him.

No friendly sails appeared at sea,
No allied host came riding free,
King Rollo watched the endless tide,
And knew no rescue stood beside.

He sent the men of Yenvar home,
To spare their blood and let them roam,
The dead stood back and let them go,
Then turned toward their final foe.

At midnight came the first great blow,
As siege towers crossed the fields below,
The catapults began their song,
And stones struck walls both hard and strong.

The gate gave way beneath the strain,
And skeletons poured through like rain,
The men of Anvard held the square,
With sword and shield they met them there.

The first great level fell that night,
Though every street was bought in fight,
The second followed, then the third,
While steel on bone was all men heard.

Upon the fourth they formed their line,
And there their courage brightly shined,
For hours they held the deathless wave,
Each living man beside the brave.

Then bone-born giants joined the fray,
And smashed the western ranks away,
Though hacked apart by axe and blade,
The breach their brutal charge had made.

The fourth was lost, the fifth was gone,
Still Anvard’s battered men fought on,
Upon the sixth they stood once more,
But death came flooding through the door.

High Rollo watched from walls above,
The burning streets and land he loved,
No victory waited, none could flee,
Only the choice of how to be.

The seventh gate was broken through,
The dead advanced, their numbers grew,
But waiting there with lance held low,
Sat Rollo facing down the foe.

Behind the king, his knights remained,
Their shields were split, their armor stained,
Then Rollo raised his lance and cried:
“For Anvard! Brothers, one last ride!”

The warhorses leapt into the dead,
And shattered bones beneath their tread,
Through narrow streets the riders tore,
Past every level lost before.

Through sixth and fifth their horses flew,
Through fourth and third the charge broke through,
The dead had nowhere left to hide,
From Anvard’s thunderous final ride.

They reached the gate, they reached the plain,
And drove into the dead again,
The knights who thought themselves condemned,
Now saw the host might have an end.

Through half the army Rollo broke,
Through shattered bone and dust and smoke,
Three quarters passed beneath their blades,
And freedom called beyond the shades.

Then wings eclipsed the stars above,
And darkness fell upon the grove,
A dragon crashed before their line,
And crushed brave knights beneath its spine.

It seized another from his steed,
And cast him broken to the field,
Then from its back came Thora down,
To face the king who wore the crown.

With axe in hand and sword held high,
She watched the Anvard riders nigh,
Then bowed before the weary king:
“Too soon to leave such merrymaking.”

A knight charged forth with angry cry,
But Thora struck and sent him flying,
The skeletons formed ring and wall,
While Thora called above them all:

“No others now. This fight is ours.
No walls, no hosts, no castle towers.
Come, Rollo, show me here tonight,
If Anvard’s king still knows to fight.”

King Rollo dropped his battered lance,
And met her cold and mocking glance,
He drew his sword and raised it high,
Prepared to fight, prepared to die.

She struck like storm on winter seas,
With axe and sword in harmony,
The first blow cracked his battered helm,
And cast him down before his realm.

Yet Thora stayed her waiting blade,
No killing stroke upon him laid,
“Stand up,” she called, “and face me right.
No king dies crawling here tonight.”

So Rollo rose and found his sword,
Still king of every fallen ward,
Though blood ran freely from his brow,
He faced the wrath before him now.

“This for my people!” Thora cried,
Her axe came crashing from the side,
“And for the Wolfpack!” steel rang clear,
As Rollo fought without a fear.

“This for the arrogance you showed,
For every needless debt you owed,
And every Viking sent to die,
Beneath your proud and needless cry.”

Her final stroke came fierce and fast,
King Rollo’s sword was broke at last,
One sweep of steel beneath the sky,
And Anvard’s final king did die.

The knights stood silent, ringed by dead,
Their kingless eyes upon his head,
Yet Thora pointed from the fight,
And gave one word into the night:

“Run.”

The dead withdrew and cleared the way,
No spear was thrown, no bow held sway,
The battered knights rode from the plain,
To bear the tale through wind and rain.

“Go tell the kings what happened here,
Let every throne remember fear,
No crown shall make our people kneel,
No emperor commands our steel.”

So sing, O halls, when fires burn low,
Of Anvard’s fall beneath the foe,
Its walls were lost, its banners torn,
Its empire dead before the morn.

Yet when the dead had filled the land,
And none remained to make a stand,
King Rollo did not beg nor hide,
He raised his lance and chose to ride.

So raise the cup and speak his name,
For fallen king and Anvard’s flame,
His crown was lost, his kingdom gone—
But Anvard’s last ride thundered on

Sponsored by an unknown donor

The Blood Dragons march for Björland to relieve Wyrmgaard.
If we arrive in time, we fight beside them.
If we arrive too late we will destroy the Anvardians and Lionne regardless.

For Blood. For Wyrmgaard.

135 men and 4 dragons

Orders of General Blood Eye

The Blood Dragon Fleet is underway.
All warships have set course for Therican.
Maintain formation. Keep weapons ready.

General Blood Eye
Commander of the Crimson Fleet

The crimson sails of the Blood Dragons appeared off the coast of Kosura shortly after dawn.

By midday, General Blood Eye stepped ashore.

Waiting for him at the harbor stood Ivar Goldhaar, surrounded by his warriors. The conquest had been swift. Blood Dragon banners already hung from the towers, and columns of smoke still rose above parts of the city.

Ivar opened his arms.

“General! Welcome to Kosura. I was beginning to think you would leave all the fun to me.”

Blood Eye ignored the greeting.
Two soldiers followed behind him, carrying something between them.

A heavy wooden chest.

It was an absurdly small thing, barely three feet high, reinforced with thick iron bands. Several small holes had been drilled into its sides.

The soldiers carefully lowered it onto the stones.

Thump.

Ivar looked down.

Another thump.

Then the entire chest shook violently.
A muffled voice came from inside. Blood Eye kicked the side of the chest.

Silence.

Ivar stared at it. Then at Blood Eye. From inside came another furious thump.

Blood Eye's expression suddenly became deadly serious.
“You will guard this chest with your life.”
Ivar raised an eyebrow.
“With my life?”
“With your life.”
Blood Eye stepped closer.
“No one opens it. No one takes it. No one even moves it without my command. If this chest disappears, Goldhaar, your soul will be taken by a skull dragon.”

Ivar stared at the box for several seconds. He crouched beside one of the tiny air holes.
“Comfortable in there?”
The chest immediately shook with renewed fury.
Ivar stood again, laughing.
“I’ll guard your precious little box.”
“You will.”

Only then did Blood Eye turn toward the rows of prisoners waiting farther up the harbor.
Dozens of the surviving mages of Kosura knelt there in chains.
Ivar followed his gaze.
“Ah. That reminds me. What are we doing with the wizards?”

Blood Eye answered without hesitation.
“Hand them over to the Blood Mages.”
Ivar nodded.

“And the Soul Stealers.”
Ivar grimaced.
“I don’t like those bastards.”
Blood Eye looked at him.
For a moment there was complete silence.
Then the General shrugged.
“No one here cares who you like!“
Ivar blinked.

Blood Eye walked past him.
“The Blood Mages and the Soul Stealers are preparing the ritual together. Give them every wizard we captured.”
Ivar glanced toward the prisoners.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“What do they need that many for?”

Blood Eye looked toward the ancient towers of Kosura.
Far beyond the harbor, crimson-robed Blood Mages were already gathering around a great circle carved into the stone. Among them moved the dark figures of the Soul Stealers, carrying staffs crowned with bone and strange vessels meant for things no ordinary man could see.
Blood Eye watched them for a moment.

“The veil between the mortal realm and the Beyond has been torn before.”
His eyes settled upon the chained mages.
“Tonight, we tear it again.”
Ivar looked from the ritual site to the prisoners.
“And what comes through?”
Blood Eye smiled.
“An army.”

Behind them, the little chest suddenly shook again.
Blood Eye did not even turn around.
Ivar looked at the chest.
Then toward the distant ritual.
Then back at the chest.
He sighed.
“Somehow, I think I preferred Kosura when it was just full of wizards.”

Proclamation of General Blood Eye

Our purpose here is fulfilled.
We came for what was promised.
We have it.

Lord Falcon is now in our custody, and the agreement between the North and the Blood Dragons has been honored.

Therefore, by command of Queen Blood, our armies shall withdraw.
Our ships turn south.
Our soldiers leave your shores.

We have no further business in the North.
Enjoy your victory.
Enjoy your new order.

The Blood Dragons return to South.

General Blood Eye
Commander of the Crimson Fleet
Servant of the Deified One

The Fallen Falcon

what happened before

Lord Falcon emerged between two northern guards.

His face bruised, and exhaustion had hollowed his eyes. Iron chains bound his wrists. One hand missing.

Yet he did not walk willingly. He tore one arm free for half a heartbeat before three men seized him again.

Across the courtyard waited the Blood Dragons. Crimson armor. Red banners. 
And far too many smiles.
Falcon stopped.

For the first time, something beyond anger crossed his face.
Disbelief.

He slowly turned toward the Lords of the North.
"You cannot be serious."
No answer.

His eyes moved from one familiar face to another.
Men who had once feasted in his hall.
Fought beside him. Called him brother.

"You overthrow me. Besiege my home. Spill Falcon blood..."
He rattled the chains violently.
"...and then sell me to them?"
His voice rose.
"LOOK AT ME!"
The courtyard fell silent.
"Look at the man you once called your ally!"
He spat at their feet.
"Honorless traitors."
"Every last one of you."

One of the Blood Dragons chuckled.
Another joined him.
Soon several were laughing.
Falcon turned furiously.
"What are you laughing at?"
A Blood Dragon stepped forward and inspected him almost curiously.
"This is Lord Falcon?"
More laughter.
"I expected someone taller."
Another called from behind:
"Careful! That's the great Protector of the North!"
The Blood Dragons roared.

Falcon lunged.
His chains snapped taut as the guards dragged him backward.
"I'LL KILL YOU!"
That only made them laugh harder.
One Blood Dragon wiped a tear from his eye.
"Oh, I like him."
Another grinned.
"Now I understand why the Queen wanted him alive."

Falcon froze at those words.
His expression changed.
"She..."
A horrible realization.
"...she arranged this."
The Blood Dragon's grin widened.

The northern guards pushed Falcon forward. He resisted with everything his exhausted body still possessed.

For several humiliating seconds, they practically had to drag him.
Then Blood Dragon hands seized his chains.
The transfer was complete.

Falcon looked back one final time at the Lords of the North.
His hatred was absolute.
"Remember this moment."
His voice had become quiet again.
"You may call yourselves victors today."
"But when the Blood Dragons finally show you what your bargain purchased..."
A cold smile crossed his battered face.
"...remember that you invited them in."

The Blood Dragons dragged him away. One slapped Falcon cheerfully on the shoulder.
"Come along, little bird man."
Another laughed.
"Your sister has been waiting."
Falcon's face went pale.
Then came laughter again.
Loud. Cruel. Relentless.

The former Lord of the Falcons disappeared beneath the crimson banners of the Blood Dragons.