Gibby
Member
Ah, Estalia. Land of the First Men (as the Estalians tell it).
Off the Western coasts of the Old World, ships belonging to her many independent and quarrelsome realms glide to and fro upon crystal waters. Merchants, adventurers, pirates, or a mix of all, they ply their trade and make Estalia known to all the Kingdoms of men, and beyond. From the New World colonies, ancient treasures and exotic goods alike make their way through the various ports and spread through Estalia.
But Estalia is a disunited place. Its hot, dry lands are not ruled by one crown, but by many independent kingdoms, few of which are known beyond the confines of Estalia itself.
Here, from the South-Western side of the Irana Mountiains, flows the river Guadariz. Half way on the water's journey to the Southern Coast, there sits the small but wealthy free-city of Aguila, and it is here that our story begins.
Aguila, Spring IC 2304.
Lightning forked its way across the sky as the lone scout rode through lashing rain. Mad with fear, he was the last survivor of a party sent to investigate rumours and whispers of strange happenings in the Northern parts of the Miramar Hills. Long had those hills been the source of many fears for local, rural peasantry. Crop failures and any lost cattle were blamed on a supposed evil that eminated from there. It did not help that in sunken valleys and in ancient tunnels there were many old burial places, barrows, and even graveyards more recently built.
Thiago had scoffed at this latest task. Six had ridden out at the behest of the Don, who was tired of petitions these last two moons from scared, superstitious farmers. Only Thiago was now returning. Ahead lay the city, and as the sun set, he rode through the gates unchallenged by startled guards. Thiago was received quickly by the Don Vicente Morales.
The peasants were right, Thiago said, between incoherent and almost contradictory reports about what he had seen. Evil was lurking in the Miramar Hills once again, an evil that slew all but this one man, who had seemingly aged a decade since setting out at dawn. There was talk of barrows emptying themselves of armed and honoured dead, who flocked around a wretched sorceror, who cast black arts under the command of a more terrible master.
“It would be prudent,” said the Don, a short time later to his close advisors, “to send a force into the hills to cleanse them of this evil. Long have those hills been a source of unease for our folk, but never has any tangible threat been reliably reported this far North.”
Among the most trusted of these advisors one Imperial mercenary, one Captain Zacharias Von Zorn, commander of the Crimson Company, who in the last two years had become a permanent force of mercenaries in the Don's employ – bolstering the garrison of the city.
“I'll lead the Company out, aye. Send with me some of your livery and I'll see to it that this fledgling force of old bones is returned to the earth, and I'll bring you the sorceror's head as well.”
Another of the advisors, a Cathayan scholar named Guan-Zhao, stirred in his seat, his substantial black beard shivering with the motion. “Don Vincente, much kindness you have shown me since I arrived in your fair city. I have stayed here so long under your generous hospitality, not least because of your vast array of obscure tomes and scrolls to which you have freely given me access,” the scholar's Estalian was very formal as he rose from his chair and grasped his curiously carved staff from its leaning place near a window. “But it would be remiss of me not to repay your kindness by aiding you and the good Captain as best I can. It has been too long since I put my talents in spellcraft to use.”
So it was that at first light, the Crimson Company marched forth, backed up by two regiments of swords and a regiment of musketeers from the city. Into the hills they marched, to face down a foe that was even now building its strength in the ancient valleys.
The Battle of the Miramar Hills
The Crimson Company and the Aguilan garrison march forth against the nightmares from the grave.
Despite their banner being missing, the Aguilan 2nd Sword Regiment led by Sergeant Diego Pulpo hold the left. The Crimson Halberdiers led by Guan Zhao to their right, bolstering the inexperienced Aguilans
Racing past crumbling grave sites, the Dire Wolves are infused with dark energy, the Dance Macabre!
A fearsome charge! Three men are torn down and ripped apart by tooth and claw, no less sharp for the flesh that rots around them. Diego yells encouragements to his men, and personally slays two of the beasts with the man beside him
"Hold here!" yells Sergeant Miguel of the First Aguilan Swords. They halt to let the musketeers fire. The volley smashes some of the heavily armoured dead across the swampy ground.
Salazar Cuervo, once a proud scholar of Myrmidia, now lives as a raving mad cur among overgrown ruins, practicing the black arts that condemned him many years ago. Here he casts his spells in service of La Sombra, his mistress.
Here, La Sombra, once a woman of the Elder folk, who scholars say cannot be taken by the sangra maldita. The lore has it wrong, for here she stands in her terrible countenance, skilfully wrought arms fused with the terrible gifts of the vampire. None upon this field could know that once she was a proud merchant of the Cantero Clan, whose Dwarven hold is in the mountains near Cartego. Shunned by her folk, and as the evil in her still-heart grew, she fled into the night. Here in the wretched hills she has found her army, to render bitter vengeance on the world that was robbed from her!
The clash of honest steel continues against rotten and terrible beasts whose time should long have passed. The men overcome their revulsion and trust in the strength of their training. More creatures fall, and the evil magic that sustains them begins to fade away.
The crash of musketry heralds more shotte smashing its way through the foe. But Salazar Cuervo has rich pickings in this foul place to refill the ranks and seal up holes made by shotte and cannonball alike. More dead spill from old barrows and lichen-covered graveyards. These were the shieldfolk of ancient Estalia, the first men,who knew their craft in life, and remembered much in death.
Forward they march, the shrieking necromancer and the grimly silent vampire filling them with vigour. As the last of the Dire Wolves are cut down, the Crimson Halberdiers wheel right to support the centre. But is it too late?
The Dance Macabre, a spell that turns a shambling corpse into a spirited Rodolero, is manifested from the winds of Shyish. The Cathayan Scholar Guan-Zhao cannot hold back the dark power of Salazar Cuervo, who has slept in underground tombs and conversed with long dead murderers in forbidden vaults these last decades. The undead race forward at blinding speed, the centre of the living line wavers, and handgunners desperately load their pieces.
The first swords of Aguila buckle under the weight of the dead. Holding as desperately as they can, mighty strikes are swapped between those who can still scream, and those who breathed their last in ancient days.
But fear rules in this shadowy valley, and here fear would be obeyed. The Vampire personally carving a bloody swathe through the ranks, her rotten shieldbearers slowing not at all even as some are returned to the grave. The swords break and rout. Some men fall screaming under the darkly animated foe, some claw past one another to run shrieking back to Aguila with their shields cast into the dirt. Some are never seen again.
The shadow of death falls upon the centre. On the heels of fleeing men, the dead crash into musketeers and harry the crew of the great gun Der Brüller, who in turn rout from the field.
Captain Von Zorn and his bodyguard fall back from the foe, but are able to reform past the Crimson Musketeers.
Regiments of the living march from the left flank, ready to aid their beleaguered allies, but seeking also to not be scattered alone in these unholy hillside burial grounds. Who knows what else yet stirs where the warmth of the sun cannot reach?
Captain Von Zorn leads his bodyguard forth, and as the lines are about the clash, he bellows a challenge to the unholy champion leading these men of olden days.
But behind the glowing eyes of this wretched hearthguard, whose rest has been desecrated forever, there lies no personal will. His lot is to seek no glory, but to serve only the will of his dark master. His ancient shieldmen press forward around him, no word spoken from throats as parched as the Southland deserts.
As the zweihanders rose and fell, old bones being cleft in twain, not least by Captain Von Zorn's own blade, the black heart of Salazar summons forth unholy bolts of that most evil of magicks - the winds of Shyish. The Dark Hand of Death, terrible bolts of energy stream forth.
Fully one third of Von Zorn's men are cast into death by this unholy uttering. But theirs were hearts made of steel, no fear could seek to dominate these men (in game terms I rolled snake eyes on the fear test - insane bravery, they no longer had to test for Fear for the rest of the game... not that there was long left). The Crimson Musketeers fall back as Von Zorn holds the line.
On the other flank, Guan-Zhao along with the Crimson Halberdiers do their best to hold La Sombra and her Grave Guard at bay. The fighting is fiece, but the living give ground in good order – fully aware that more of the dead gather on their flank. Where are Sergeant Diego and the Second Swords?!
Hearts of steel could drive a man so far into danger before cool heads take over. Captain Von Zorn, amidst the fray, many newly-dead piled at his feet, assessed the battle. The sun was weaker now, behind the clouds. The centre was broken, but the men who remained held, despite the push of melee across either flank. The lines parted as the leaders of the cursed foe sought to re-assert their magical control over their forces.
Across the field, living ears heard the call of retreat. In good order, the men marched to their drums, to the rally point set ere this battle began, for such an occasion that the foe was stronger than any reckoned. No mortal can seek to decipher the mind of the vampire, who did not set her forces upon the heels of the living as dusk crept forth. La Sombra had held her ground in the hills, and established her power.
The war had only just begun.
