Endgame Approaching

The Siege of Fort Plage

The Templar armies of Narbonne and Aragorn have attacked Corillia. The combined force of 45,000 men, nominally led by Don Artugio Marabazar, consists of three separate armies.

• 15,000 men under the command of Don Amero Ballatana has crossed the River Mauve, and are now laying siege to Fort Plage. The town is defended by a combined force of 5,000 men, made up of Lady Thorne's Enlightened Presbytarians and Wezellians.
• Another army, this one numbering 20,000, is besieging the three fortresses of the Macharian Line, further West along the Mauve. This effort is commanded by Duke Fillip de Artois, and is mostly made up of Narbonnians. The Alliance forces arrayed against it are made up of Corillian Macharites and Pendrellian expeditionary regiments.
• The last force, counting 10,000, and consisting of at least four regiments of Aragonian cuirassiers, has so far not been committed.

Reports say that the Templars have brought the body of Sta. Larena, as well as the reliquaries from three hundred temples to the front. Whether or not this is true has yet to be established, but the Alliance forces who have faced them in battle tell of scores of angels leading the assaults on thir walls. Rumours also tell of other, darker entities prowling the frontlines after dark.

Recently, news of another army being mustered in Narbonne, counting between 15,000 and 30,000, has reached the Norther Alliance. This force, if it does indeed exist, will most likely have to be composed of ill-equipped raw conscripts.
 

A Flood shrine brought before the walls of Bad Gwornak

The Flood has now reached the foothills of the Elfswall Mountains, and are now besieging Bad Gwornak, the last major Templar stronghold between them and the Laernian Pass. The city has been reinforced by a Corinthian army of 8,000, as well as 50 modern artillery-pieces sent as a gift from the Arch Primarch.

Observers can tell of horrible scenes where thousands upon thousands of the savages throw themselves at the walls of the defenders, drenching the ground in blood so that the terrible gods they bring with them can cross into the world. One such observer, Professor Ludwig Abel of Marburg, has written, "I weep for the world that will rise out of the ashes of this war, for the demons now released upon the world will surely demand tribute if we ever see tomorrow. The doors we now open in our hour of need may proove difficult to close."

Master Octavian Arbalestus has promised to secure the the Flood's break-through, but so far the Ordo Hermetica has not taken to the field in this theatre. 

The death of the Emperor

Emperor Constantinus Ada of the Enlightened Skythian Empire died on 30 Decanum, YE 1022 after having suffered mortal wounds during the Battle of Gryffental. There are still at least two Imperial armies in the field, but these are under-strength and poorly led. The Lord Marshal has proclaimed that "the Host of Man will clean out the remaining snakes," and the Livonian army is now turning towards the Corillian front.

The last days of Borgen

On St. Revan's Day, YE 1022, Borgen, the cpital of Cora, fell to the inhuman hordes of the Court of Stars. Nothing now seems to stand between this terrible darkness and the divided lands of man.

[Picture source: 1 Der Viator; 2 Medieval II; 3 Clash of Empires; 4 unknown]

Awakening

"Find her! Find the cursed witch!"



The angry voice of the scarred soldier seems to come from right beside her. The girl presses her small body further into the narrow crawlspace beneath the floor. A sharp rock catches her already tattered dress and she feels the jaws of panic snap at her mind. She has always been afraid of the dark, but she has no choice now. She has to hide.


The soldiers came this morning -- it seemed a lifetime ago that she crossed the virgin snow between the houses to see to the animals. It had seemed like any other day. Still, something was wrong. It had been like an unknown threat gnawing at the back of her consciousness. She had tried to push it away, but in the small of her mind a tiny, urgent voice had kept screaming at her to run. Run, before it was too late. Ignoring it, she had started milking the two cows.


And then it had been too late. She knew it the instant she heard the horses. Too many to be travellers seeking to buy milk or cheese from her father. "Run!" the voice had shouted inside her head. "Run before they see you!"


She had heard his father greet the soldiers. Her father, the infinitely strong man who was never afraid of anything. This time there had been something she had never heard in his voice: fear. That had sparked something new in her. Anger. Anger of the kind that makes the whole world seem small and pitiful. She had understood what her father was afraid of.


He had been afraid of what the soldiers would do to her, his only daughter. Too many stories had made their way across the countryside the last years. Stories of rapine and plunder, of violence and death. The Ironbellies of the Parliamental Army were a law unto their own, some had said. They took what they wanted, and soldiers, she had heard the miller say once when no one thought she was listening, wants nothing more than women and wine.


Her father had waved it off when she had asked him about it. "They're only after the Macharites," he had said. "We're safe here. Most in our village are Presbyterians, my sweet dove." He always called her that.

Outside the barn she had heard a coarse voice ask her father how many people were on the farm. "Only myself and my daughter," her father had answered. The other voice had told him to call for her. Her father had told the soldiers that they were all good people of Reason here, and that they could take what they wanted. He had been pleading. The soldiers had laughed. She never thought laughter could sound so terrifying before. Her anger had grown, bathing her world in a blinding white light. Then the voice had told her father that hindering the will of the Parliament was punishable by death.


The shot had seemed to blank out all other sounds from her world. Without seeing it, she had known her father was dying. She had known that they were mocking the man who, while his life ran red into the fresh snow, begged them to spare his daughter.


When the door to the barn was opened and two of the soldiers had come in, her rage was like a white-hot fire, bathing her vision in sharp, cold light. She saw them laugh and call out to their companions when they laid eyes on her. One of them had made a grotesque face at her, his pale tongue licking the air. She had seen them grab her, as if from outside her body, and drag her out into the snow. The other soldiers had shouted, laughed and made obscene gestures when they saw her. They had groped at her, tearing at her clothes. The soldier who had shot her father, his face disfigured by countless ugly scars, had smiled at her. He had said something to the others that made them roar in laughter.


Then she had seen herself smile. Everything had seemed to slow down, to become clearer in a way. And then she had released all her anger.


It had been like a burst of light that seemed to boil the flesh of the faces and hands of the soldiers closest to her. Their clothes had been shredded, and their breastplates had buckled and cracked. Horses had screamed, throwing their riders, their manes and tails burning. Soldiers farther off, their eyes burst by the light, slipped and fell as they tried to escape.


Then she had fallen to her knees, empty. Her anger spent. The sound had come back into her world. Men and beasts cried in terror and pain, some dying. She had crawled to her father. She had cradled his head in her lap, holding him as his soul left his flesh.


His last words had been, "run, my sweet dove."


As she fled, she had seen the scarred soldier stagger to his feet. He had shouted for someone to kill her, but as she ran across the fields towards the village no shots had been fired. No horses had been spurred in pursuit.


Now she is hiding beneath the floor of an empty house. Its inhabitants has been killed earlier in the day when more soldiers came to find the witch. The little village has been turned on its head. All the women has been gathered on the square in front of the scholae. The men have been been killed or mutilated. The only sounds except the shouting of the soldiers are screams and unanswered cries for mercy.


She is terrified, but deep inside her she feels her anger build again. In the narrow, cold, dark space she starts to smile.

The last two chapters

Storyteller's note: Due to time, computer-SNAFU, and the actions of the last two chapters, I will combine these. Most of the last these were spent in in-character discussions, something that, while it is most interesting when it happens, doesn't necessarily make for a great narrative.



Lying off the coast of Corillia, the Company was faced with a difficult decision, that of where to go, and what to do. After some consideration, three alternatives had been defined, Wezell, Waymar, and Kithay. The pros and cons of each were thoroughly examined, and in the end, Wezell was chosen.


The main problem here was that they would have to sail through waters heavily patrolled by the Pendrellian navy, but here Galan had a solution. He created a magical displacement of the Pius' visual presence, in effect making the ship invisible, while simultaneously creating a red herring any would-be pursuers could follow.


Thus it was that the good ship Pius and her crew arrived in Zaarbrügge, van Zaar's hometown. To expand on the subterfuge the name of the ship was painted over, and the Saviour anchored in port. Further, new names were invented for both Galan and Banzel. Van Zaar, being an old spy, drew upon one of his old aliases, while Aegir limited his cover to a hooded cloak.


They were received with open arms by Jolander's mother, and her brother, Jaap, the head of the house, and one of the Onkels, was summoned. The following days were used to refit the ship, relax, and do various preparations for future adventures. Jolander spent most of his time at home with his mother, drinking fortified wine and telling her all about his life and the state of the world as he sees it. She listened attentively, though most of it was lost on her, while sewing, until her son fell asleep. Then she'd see him carried to bed by two of the servants.


When Onkel Jaap van Zaar arrived three days after the Company came to Wezell; they had a proper sit-down. The fate of Argos, and that of Man, was what was discussed. Jolander believed that in a matter of weeks, the Old One, the giant sea-monster that almost sank the Pius, would attack Eria. This would, he insisted, cause panic, disaster, and the destruction of the Worlds of Man.


The Host of Man was another item of concern. The Elendrine Prophecies say that, "[Caracalla] will defeat the Host." Jaap here raised the question of how to avoid this, and this on turn lead to the Company volunteering to kill him.


Several other issues were also discussed, but as the hour had grown late, the men agreed to continue the talks at the next day's breaking of the fast.


Storyteller's note: Here the chapter ends, and another begins. Jolander's player was not present.


That night, after Jolander had been tucked in, Galan sat in the library, studying, when a servant announced a visitor for him. This proved to be a certain Commander Sir Jasper Colomb, of His Majesty's Royal Guild of Argonauts.


He was at first interested in Galan's role in the Scutino Incident and in the recent murder of captain Ardyke. Galan swore that neither himself, nor any of his companions, had anything to do with the former (being an Adeptus of Mind, he has reorganised his memories of the incident somewhat). By now, Tradesmaster Drake and Prince Aegir had joined the two, while Banzel monitored the exchange from the roof where he'd been watching the stars.


On the matter of the killing of Ardyke, Galan claimed that he had given strict orders not to harm him, and that none of his companions had been involved. In fact, he went as far as to give his word on it.


The visitor then went in to tell of an imminent war between Wezell and Pendrell. This would probably start in Corllia, he said. He then claimed that the Pendrellian king had been isolated and that all power in Pendrell now lay with the Parliament and the Ministerium. The true nature of his visit, he said, was to enlist the help of the Company. The nature of the help was somewhat delicate, and the status of the gentlemen was ideally suited; he asked that they kill a certain Dr Ebeneezer Murdoch.


Dr Murdoch was to be found in a Corillian city right across the border, no more than a dozen miles from their current location. Sir Jasper provided maps of the city, Grasse, and the Palace of Reason, a fortress on a small island in the harbour, where Dr Murdoch resided. The doctor was the most prominent member of the Ministerium in Corillia, and he was the head of the duchy's Tribunal of Pure Thought. Gryff Galan accepted.


Once the Argonaut had left, and armed with the maps, Galan started scrying the location, something that proved to be somewhat difficult. There was a certain resonance about the location that directly opposed the magic. Nevertheless, the good captain managed not only to penetrate the fortress, but also the private quarters of Dr Murdoch. Having made it thus far, Galan was contemplating teleporting into the chambers and killing the sleeping man. As it happened, h contemplated long enough to allow his mark to wake up. Sitting up, he cried, "Witchcraft!" and Galan, sitting bent over the maps, was thrown backwards by a white blast, ending up sprawling on the floor. The map was destroyed, something Banzel (having entered somewhat ungraciously through the closed window a little earlier) fixed through magic.


After the failed assassination, the Company decided to call it a day, and to resume after breakfast.

The Lost Regiment,

and the Third Great War of Argos.


Storyteller's note: The following article was published in the Committee of Correspondence's printsheet 'The Correspondent', in Octavum YE 1021.

Correspondents,

I have studied one of the greatest mysteries of our time, that of the Lost Regiment. Following, I will display the facts as I see them.

During the Corillian War, the Parlamental Army of Pendrell destroyed the Narbonnian supported Macharite uprising. The Pendrellians also crossed the border into Narbonne and conquered a number of contested provinces. Though pourly equipped and incompetently led by their king, Mad Phillyp, Narbonne managed to drag out the war for almost two years of fighting -- mostly by draining the coffers by employing a large numbers of mercenaries.

In the first year of the war, in the Enlightened Scythian Empire, in the Dutchy of Manbach, the first son of baron von Roeder, Friedric, sets out to assemble a regiment of rifled firelocks and take to war. War is considered a step in an Alamanian gentlemans education, and since this was a quiet year in the Empire, the regiment was rented to the Narbonnian Crown.

When the rifles marched out of Roederburg late that year, Oberst Friedric von Roeder was 21 years of age, had a sub-magisterium from the University of Marburg in statesmanship, and had served two years in the Emperor's Dragoons. He had also read the finest tacticians, classical and modern. His second was Otto von Swartmark, the oldest son of the first of the baron's bannermen. The two men had been inseparable since they were boys.

The Regiment, though unblooded, was a fine formation; armed with rifles forged by-, and a gun battery crewed by, the prestigious Masonic Guild of Marburg. The men, 1/3 recruits, 1/3 veterans, and 1/3 convicts had been drilling since late summer.

The mercenaries reached the Narbonnian city of Lielle a week before Nightfall and reported to the Duke of Crèvesse, commander of the army being assembled there for a spring campaign.

When Lord Samuel led ten Parliamental Regiments accross the River Erenbaé two days before Nightfall, Crèvesse's forces were caught in a disarray. Only von Roeder's Regiment managed to slow the Pendrellians down. Marching as soon as the reports came in, and going through the night, the regiment took up possition early the following morning astride the only usable road, two leagues North-West of Lielle. The whole day the Alamanian riflemen held back an enemy that only grew stronger by the hour, until they withdrew from the battlefield in honour under cover of darkness on the eve of Nightfall.

The Regiment was never seen again.

That summer, two gentlemen claiming to be Friedric von Roeder and Otto von Swarmark, purchased passage on a Waymar-trader returning from Freeport to Ipwyth. From there they travelled overland to Crondor where they contacted the Imperial Ambassador to Pendrell. Here they both forswore their blood and birth, shamed by the loss of their entire command.

Not three years later, the Royal Houses of Eria answer a summon by Friedric Roeder to the Altar of the Covenant on Corregidor in the Waymar Archipelago. He had the backing of the Seven Onkels of Wezell, as well as that of the Draccian Wolf Lords. The former in the shape of coins and ships, the latter with a pledge of knights and infantry. Here he was named Marshal of the Assembled Host of Man, and today the Reconquest of the Colonies is close upon us.

This is as far as facts will take us, fellow correspondents. From here we must rely on myth and rumor.

I have heard from one who have spoken with Swartmark. He told of the Lost Regiment passing an old mill after having withdrawn. Here the Oberst and himself met a tall and gaunt gentleman and refused his offer. After they left the mill, the entire column got lost in the darkness and a heavy fog.

When light broke the following day, the regiment found itself in a strange land where Death was revered as a god [Stygia]. Again the tall and gaunt gntleman approached the Oberst and his second. Again he was rejected. That night he came again, and he was turned down.

When the sun rose the following morning, only von Roeder and von Swartmark were left in their camp. Every single one of the soldiers had disappeared.

Swartmark then told of encountering a vast army of Black Bloods when the pair attempted to cross the Dark Continent on foot. He also spoke briefly about men with machines advising the Orc. According again to my report of Swartmark's words, the two gentlemen negotiated a passage with these men, from the deep of the Dark Continent to Freeport, in a flying ship. From this point we again have facts.

The elements of the Legend of the Lost Regiment are hard to believe, example: the transportation of a thousand men from Narbonne to Stygia without any trace. Yet the facts we know support the unbelievable, example: Friedric Roeder has been named Marshal by the Erian kings.

We share the time we have been given with great powers and legacies of ages past; I have presented you with the facts as I see them. The facts say that the Third Age is ending, and that the Great War is soon upon us.


Yours in honesty,


Correspondent CIV