The fall of Elbreth has been attributed to many factors, but time and time again mistakes can be attributed to King Erik, his advisors and the Black Shadow, d'Avistral...
Mopsy stuck her head up out of the hole. No sign of the farmer today! She scurried across the field in search of tasty carrots...
One might imagine the tiger's orange and black stripes a poor choice for remaining hidden in the jungles of deep Aphti, but in fact the shading patterns...
Kyrite, supposed by myth to be found in the bones of the drakes of the distant North, has a real and definite foundation. Deposits are occasionally found throughout the world, but no where more concentrated that in Korlan, where...
The Third Expedition to Weyland, or the Third Crusade as the Weylanders call it, failed utterly with brutal massacres and atrocities commited on both sides...
A cock crowed in the distance, and a red-headed young woman looked up from her books and rubbed bleary green eyes. She yawned and pulled a handful of dry crackers, a piece of cheese and an apple from the leather satchel at her side, returning the books to it in their place. The woman sat on the thick three branch and ate her breakfast, smoothing crumbs off the dull green fabric of her woollen leggings. It was still cold, even with the rays of the dawn sun striking across the rolling hills and sparse forests of southern Weyland, so she pulled the thick woollen cloak close about her shoulders, adjusting her hat to cover her ears. She drew a brass-plated pocket watch from her waistcoat and examined the time; seventeen minutes to six. Given the dawn light, she twisted the tiny wheel on her glass-paned lantern and, starved of oil, its flame went out. The woman returned the watch to its pouch and picked up the rifle she had leant against some branches.
Her rifle's name was Winchester, after her favourite stuffed bear as a child. It had been a gift to her father from some functionary or other on the Storm Coast, and after the tragedy that took him and the rest of her family from her, the woman had taken it for her own. Winchester was beautiful, a testament to the skill and engineering of probably Confederate gunsmiths. She shot further and more accurately than any muskets the woman had ever tried, and she had never managed to lay hands on another like it. On the other hand, Winchester was an absolute pig to clean. The woman settled into a comfortable position, tearing open a paper cartridge of powder and loading it into the rifle's muzzle, followed by a bullet, followed by a bit of straw as wadding, and then pressing the whole lot down with a rod. She set Winchester against her shoulder, taking up a comfortable position on the tree, and waited.
At eight minutes to six, a snipe flew across the sky. The woman took aim, exhaled and -
*BLAM*
"Shit."
Thence followed a furious attempt to reload the rifle, by the end of which the snipe had flown away. At sixteen minutes past six, she got another chance.
*BLAM*
"Better."
The woman clambered down from the tree, stretched out her aching muscles and went to collect the fallen bird.
At a quarter to seven, the woman returned to the camp. 'Camp' did something of a disservice to the impromptu settlement, which was more like a small military city. Hundreds of tents had been erected at this mustering point, about five miles south of Weybridge. Perhaps over a thousand had come to support her cause, some trained soldiers, most hopeful rebels with poor chances of seeing many more sunrises. And to that, the 'camp followers', the actual camp followers as well, the livestock and wives and children. Over an hour since dawn, and the camp had since stirred itself to a great hustle and bustle. Campfires burned merrily away, roasting eggs and frying Weylander sausages, feeding the hungry bellies of the greedy and the patriotic.
As the woman walked through the streets created between the tents, many ignored her, some looked up, and the particularly aware even bowed their heads and murmured 'Princess'. She gave them nods and smiles where she could, but did not break her stride. "Princess" had been Hoffenburg's idea. Now, you're not there yet, so we can't go around calling you King or Queen, but we need to get them used to the idea. Have people look up to you, remember that you're noble. Status counted for so much more in the last two years, more than it had ever done when the woman had simply been known as Erika.
The woman paused before her destination, took in a breath and straightened her posture and bearing. She adjusted her clothing for imperfections and readied herself to deal with the day. Erika tossed the snipe to a servant to deal with and brushed aside the heavy flaps of the 'royal tent'. The royal tent was not dissimilar to the rest of the tents, but larger and someone had managed to stick purple bunting on it. Lovely. Just spell out which one the assassins are supposed to target, why don't we? Why not put a sign saying "PRINCESS HERE, BRING YOUR OWN POISON"?
The main chamber of the tent was a situation room - a war table had been unfolded with a map of Elbreth and its surrounds, and someone had carved wooden tokens to represent the different units in their army. Other papers and ledgers were visible, and stood around the table were the five men (or close enough) in whom she had, by choice or circumstance, placed the hopes of her people in.
A man in ridiculously clean white and grey uniform, mid twenties by appearance, with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes and short-cut hair to match. Despite the foppishness one might infer from his outfit, Erika had never known him to be anything but a professional soldier and nobleman. Sensible. A military man.
A younger man, tall and scrawny, with younger and more idealistic pale-blue eyes than his history belied. Dark, dishevelled hair that clashed with the neatness of his clothing and lack of beard. Simple, common grey and brown clothes, with military boots and a distinctive blue jacket. A speaker, a revolutionary. An idealist and an intellectual, like Erika but not. A man of conscience.
An older man, tall as the younger but with harder grey eyes and sharp features beneath cropped, dirty blonde hair. He wore an officer's uniform, stripped of excess insignia, and less perfectly maintained than those prior. A revolutionary and a man inclined towards dangerous methods, but determined to fight to see his country restored. Dangerous, but charismatic and liked, and he brought popular support to the party. A man of fury and passion.
A woman, shorter than Erika by over half a foot, with long brown hair and ebony eyes, in a red robe slashed through with blue, a silver circlet pushing the hair from her eyes. A devout woman, merciful but driven, her will fuelled by devotion to the Cycle. She and her order were both welcome and useful, but perhaps growing adrift in a progressively less faithful time. A woman of piety.
And finally a creature of indeterminate age, the hatcuri. The hairless figure had layered olive scales, slitted yellow eyes and a whip-like forked red tongue. The hatcuri wore thick black robes, different from the thin and revealing clothing of his homeland but far better to cope with the colder climes of the Mirish Coast. A paranoid creature, driven on by a scarred past, skilled in treachery and poison and possessed of the magic of his kind, at least in some small manner. A truly strange being, but needed for the power and wisdom he might bring. A creature of subtlety.
Erika nodded to each in turn. "Hoffenburg. Norn. Harroway. Abess. Hassir. Let's start with reports, shall we?
"Hoffenburg, what's the status of our army? How many men, what troops, how much support? How long to march, and your recommendations on a course of action.
"Norn, what's the status of our allies? The Weylanders want wealth and plunder, we know that, but who specifically are we dealing with, what do they want, and how much are they really putting towards getting us started?
"Harroway, what's the status of the people? How is sentiment towards us, faith in the cause? How many troublemakers are there? What are people wanting most right now? What resources do we have, and how can we best use them?
"Abbess, what's the status of the faith? What can we do to promote unity amongst the army, and keep everyone in order?
"Hassir, what's the status of security? How many spies do we have amongst the army, how many spies do we have watching us from our enemies? What do we know, what do we not know?"
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Topic: You Are King! - The Steam Age - Chapter I: Liberty [Game Thread] (Read 20322 times)