Reclaiming the City
Gently, oh so gently, you undo the wax and unfold the parchment and see what she has written to you-- for there is only really one thing that might convince her to spend the extra copper to get it sent to you so soon:
Dear Lordly Lion,
Love and greetings from Courrone. I am told by the time you receive this, battle will be upon you, or near enough for my heart, Lionot. I know it might mean nothing coming from a serving wench, king cub, but I have sent, with this letter, a slight token of my favor. It is but a little measure of the whole esteem I hold you dearly in, but it is all I can send you in those cold lands so far from our coast-- that, and my firm desire that your thoughts, when they wander, go not to the cold around you, but to the warmth we shared in long nights.
As to the matter of which we are most afraid, I can report that the Lady smiles upon our efforts.
If it be little bother, perhaps reserve for me a trinket?
xoxo,
Lisanor
Sure enough, inside the letter there was a slip of yellow and green silk-- perhaps an old veil, or handkerchief? Whatever the case, a token of her affections. Taking your sheathed sword, you tie it around the hilt, so that it might guide your blade. As for the earlier matter, well.
You are not to be a father.
In any case you swiftly pull out a sheet of parchment yourself.
Dear Fire-Eye,
A thousand sweet kisses from these Borderlands. They are harsh, and unwell, and cold; it makes me wish for the warmth of your gaze as I head to do battle, in the name of liege and lady; and in the name of a future for us all. I shall bear your tokens, and your honor, as I fight upon the evil that brews here.
Further, you shall have more than a trinket, Fue de Mon Cœur.
xoxo,
Bohort
Warm thoughts turn, then, to strategy, and to what this means. It has long been thought that, to truly take the Border Princes would require strong alliances in blood...alliances you can no longer make; alliances of family-- Khypris, especially, that den of snakes and scoundrels will no doubt have your head on a spike to see nobility abed with "commoners" (Though to name her common is to be a damnable fool). Your heart belongs to another, and you will not suffer a loveless sham of a marriage-- the only color you ever saw was to hear her voice; the only greatness you ever knew, pushed on you by her.
[] You have taken her purity. She has taken yours. You will marry her, and you will do it at once when the battle is over. You made an oath, perhaps not in words-- but in the love you shared, and in the sacrifices the two of you have made, you did swear. (Gain Trait A Pure Prince)
[] Are not you a prince? Did not you battle, and fight, and suffer? Other princes have been vain, or stupid, or even monstrous-- and all you desire is, as all men desire, to marry for love and not for power. Perhaps it is prideful to believe you can have your cake, and eat it too; but, prideful or no, it is yours. You will wed her; and she of all queens will be the most beautiful. (Gain Trait A Prince's Pride)
[] You will not dishonor Lisanor by making her nothing more than a mistress-- but marriage is a large thing. No doubt many will come to you seeking it-- and though they will not find, they will find a strong ally and good land, and so kneel anyway, and work with you to stop the Orcs. And in the end, it will be only a matter of time. (Gain Trait A Wise Prince)
--
You can put your armor on by yourself-- but it is a pain, and one you would rather not deal with if you can avoid it. That is, after all, pretty well what they invented squires for. And so you stand in a small tent, three squires-- the oldest fifteen and a distant cousin-- move your armor into place. The only other person there is Emma, who lightly prays to the Lady.
First your cape. It is a blue and red thing of finest silk, lightly whipping in the distance, with your own golden lion at center and two fleur de lys flanking. A chain of pure silverine connects it. Your head is covered by a maille coif that forces your hair down.
Your trunk is covered with a fine maille hauberk that gleams in the torchlight, covered with a blue and red brigandine that drapes all the way down to the mid-thigh; a supple belt ties it off. Small pauldrons shaped like two snarling lion's heads cover your shoulders, both of blued steel. Articulated gauntlets slide into place with a clink; what is not covered by that is covered by the leather of your brigandine.
Your legs, meanwhile, are too covered in that same articulated plate. The thickest piece, at the calves, could stop dwarf-shot, never mind a goblin blade; the piece at the knee has a lion's head carved into the center. All of it is shiny enough to blind an elf at thirty-paces-- coincidentally, about how far King Charles was from the Dark Elf that shot him in the charge. Your helm is still strapped to Honor, so you can't put it on quiet yet.
And like that, you are dressed. Your squires bow and leave, to let you speak privately with the Damsel. The tent itself has been stripped of near everything as you ready for the march, not that there was overmuch to begin with, and so there is nothing to hide you.
"Where is Sir Robert? I would have all of my officers with me, as we charged."
"He volunteered to lead the infantry. Said if they were going to risk their lives, they might as well have someone risk it with them."
"Stubborn! He'll come around, I think, but I don't see what he hopes to gain-- glory has never been his way."
"He is a knight, it is enough. Perhaps more importantly though, he is trying to prove a point. Much the same as your new subjects will no doubt try, some day. Likely some variant of 'we can protect ourselves' as proved by some no doubt ludicrous effort at some mad thing."
"They have sworn themselves, to me, so long as I can protect them." You look up, to your counsel.
"Yes, they swore themselves to you. When there were goblins at the gate, and they were hungry, and everything seemed damned. But when things are different, when the greenskins are beaten back, then there will questions."
"Am I to believe you think these men all indecent, my lady?"
"Hardly. If they were all indecent, it might be a simpler thing-- but instead you are alike, and as with magnets you will repulse each-other." She grips her staff and readies to head out. "But now is not the time for philosophy anyway."
She exits, and you follow. And you see an army ready for war, as final preparations are made and the men assemble who can.
Seven hours you have marched, and now it is finally time to split apart. The 29,000 Infantry will be going a faster route and an hour before you, to have time to engage the greenskins.
They turn to you, their lord. "Bretonnians! we face a difficult task. Thousands of monstrous goblin scum assail an innocent city. They are too entrenched to be be removed by a simple forward charge-- a more complete stratagem will suffice better. They will be exposed, then cut out, like the surgeon cuts out a tumor.
Glory, honor, and chivalry wait for you-- these vicious things, these horrendous greenskins, they have no honor, no panache, no elan. You will be like the farmer in the wheat-field, scything them down.
Further, I promise gold and glory to the family of the soldier who first makes contact with the foe, and knighthood should he live." And with that, you slide your helm on.
You felt the speech somewhat weak and by the books; but, it did the hob well-enough; the men seem to have accepted the strategy, at least, though you doubt they are truly happy about it.
It strikes you, then, that you will not see a great many of these men alive again.
--
An hour and thirty minutes later, you and the thirteen-hundred cavalry you brought burst through the forest into the clearing where the city waits.
More than that, you enter hell.
You put Honor to charge and let instinct take over.
The fighting has been harsh on your men--broken human bodies litter the field in droves, too damn many wearing Bretonnian colors. Weapons lie shattered on the ground, arrows plunged into the soft dirt. Fires rampage out of control, and even from a hundred feet away, you can feel their intensity. This clearing, hot as a forge, is the only place clear of snow you can see. The stench is like a privy, with moldy meats and too old cheese mixed with sewage and sulfur.
But, for all that Robert and your men have suffered harsh casualties, they did succeed. They have formed an L, pinning the greenskins between the wooden walls of the city and yet still leaving enough space for the charge to come rushing home. More, thousands of Goblin bodies, too, lie on the floor, even more broken than the humans-- for this was not an army, in truth, but a glorified mob, fleeing Grimgor-- a probing attack, at best. They are pinned to the south and to the west, with an army holding-- thought, of course, to the east there is an opening for you.
With Edwige at your right and Emma to your left, you slam into the masses of green flesh like a lightning bolt. They are ground underfoot, into paste, powder, and product. Bones shatter, armor gives, leather parts. Yeomen slam spears home with a deadly vengeance. Distracted by the infantry, only a few scattered arrow shots manage to make their way anywhere near you-- and you hear a few men and horses shout, but none really fall, as far as you can tell.
For the next party trick, Emma casts a spell she's been preparing all day, aided by her Damsels-- it is not one she can do often, you think, essentially a ritual she has prepared for just this occasion. She utters magic words-- and green life flows from her, most blessed damsel, to the bodies of your broken men. Wounds that had seemed mortal are healed, new life flows into what had been seemingly corpses, and cold eyes rekindle. With hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers now in the middle of their lines, chaos is rampant among the greenskins, whose morale had begun to waver.
It shatters when the soldiers of Mortensholm, kept fresh for the moment, open the gate and pour out like a waterfall. Viktoria blows her horn, and they roar, and a thousand maille clad soldiers beat into the North.
This is it-- they are pinned, fearful, broken. It becomes slaughter, really, as the greenskins try to flee-- but it is a grim duty you have set yourself to, and it one you will not fail.
Not one greenskin will return to the forest to threaten the lands bequeathed unto you.
--
Finally, finally, there is only one goblin left. A Boss, who glares defiant. He is surrounded, twenty-thousand men looking only at him. There is no mercy left, in any of you, really. Tired, wounded, and bloody, he glares at you with a venomous hate. He knows his end is come.
"Kill me, umie. Do it. Cause Grimgor's coming-- and ain't non of ya going to live past that."
He spits at your feet.
Wordlessly, your blade falls-- and so ends the Goblin siege of Mortensholm. Lifting up the head, the people cheer.
--
As wagons of supplies enter the city for the first time in months, followed by your soldiers, you are greeted by starved, weary, but now newly hopeful looks on the street. The city is yours now, to act as your base in this new war.
You only get one first declaration, so what will it be:
[] Administer justice. With every single member of the Upperclass dead, and with the stress of being besieged for months, no doubt laws were broken. Hold court, see what wrongs have been done, and attend to them.
[] You are a Knight of the Realm, now, no mere wandering Errant. Speak the words, hold the oath, and make the promise: You will protect this land with your life.
[] Food. The people, need food. You have really quite a lot of it. Distribute it in the most effective way you can-- a feast, a communal meal, where further you will give the people the supplies they need to see out winter.
