Upon the conclusion of productive diplomatic talks between Jorronking Berethor and Queen Helena, the Knights of the Hart provide the following announcement to the realm:

The Knights of the Hart and the Kingdom of Sturgia have agreed to the establishment of a Nonaggression Pact. The Nonaggression Pact includes the following vassals of the Knights of the Hart: The Guardians of the Wildward, the Knights of Grüner Bär, and the Horse Knights Margraviate.

With the continued partnerships between Sturgia and the Knights of the Hart, Queen Helena sends Master Hanuš, Sturgia's master architect and engineer, to assist the stags in the construction of a new castle on the Isle of Everautumn.

Under the skill and leadership of Master Hanuš, the House Blackwood of the Knights of the Hart construct and establish their seat of power, Goldengrove Keep, on the Isle of Everautumn.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/vlZ4GEBP8r

The Cult of the Deep gathers along the coast of the Isle of Storms. The Drowned Priest steps forward and raises his arms towards the sea.
“Lords of the Deep, awaken. We have sacrificed the royal blood you demanded. We have darkened our shores for you. We have sent you our prayers, and we have acted upon your will.
The times in Rutland grow more warlike. We need your aid. Answer us.”

https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/m13C0DYa0O
https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/tRAGgoGw1L

The sea begins to churn and foam. Red tentacles lash against the island’s black rocks as a monstrous shape rises from the depths.
It approaches the Drowned Priest and extends a tentacle towards him. A guttural voice emerges, almost as if the creature is struggling to imitate human speech.
“The... Deep... answers.”
Then the creature sinks back beneath the waves, leaving the sea in silence.

Kraken Clan Forces
34 Creatures of the Deep
2 Sea Abominations
6 Deep-Sea Monsters
These forces join the Kraken Clan. The creatures live underwater and cannot be deployed in land battles, but they do not require ships for transport.

In the battle of harragos the true colors of many warriors were shown 3 in particular stood out the most

1st is the golden knight sir boris he is a member of the iron legions shock cavalry the unit that was formerly led by sir vlad but with his passing shortly after the battle the position of captain is being given to sir boris for his bravery and skill in battle.

2nd is sir rogal ironside is being promoted to feild marashal for his deeds in makeing sure that no one was left behind and that no man broke rank as well as maintaining iron disiplein during the battle and subsequente withdraw from harragos

3rd is garin broadbeam being promoted to general for not only his years of examplry service to the iron legion but also for brilantly commanding and cordinateing his front when the assult began on the blood dragons more than that it is well known throughout the legion that garins mind for strategy is one of the best in the iron legion

Following Harragos We are tired of war, we are tired of bloodshed. Arathril has been burnt, Allor has been taken. Ashada has fallen, all in Haverhal have perished. Enough fighting. Our thirst to wipe clean the lands of 'evil' is quenched. Diplomats will be dispatched to all southern realms.

The lands of Haverhal, Valinvaga, Bjorsland, Arathril, Wrothclaw, Amathine, Orsca, Myyga, Allor, Rentaria, Lathadura, and the Devil's Coals are recognized as belonging to the Southern Realms and their Sovereign claim over it is recognized as well.

We pledge to leave your lands in Therican untouched. In return, we ask for the lands of Renhook, Duskpike, Sternhead, Cyytor and all the rest to be perpetually ours as well.

Let hostilities end. Our fight is finished in Harragos, we want nothing more.

u/medicus_vulneratum

u/Dagiz

u/luniz6178

u/Agreeable-Blood-6804

Edward sends 43 men, 3 warships, and a sea serpent to counter Lionne’s Attack

13 soldiers. Intent is to go quick and clean, striking fast and getting out.

The black sails of the horde fleets hung like torn shrouds against the coal-smoke sky above Devil’s Coals. At the heart of the jagged island rose Grombolar, its basalt towers half-eaten by the sea and by the dead things that still manned its walls. Nagash stood on the highest rampart, one gauntleted hand resting on the cold stone, watching a single longboat cut through the oil-dark water toward the harbor.
The boat carried no colors of the horde. Its single occupant was a living man, pale and sweating, rowing with the desperate care of someone who knew every oar-stroke might be his last. When the boat bumped the rotting pier, the man climbed the steps with a sealed letter held high, as if the wax alone might keep the dead from taking him.
A skeletal captain took the letter and bore it upward. Nagash broke the seal without ceremony.
Brother of the old watch,
The years have been long since I left the fleets. I will not pretend the parting was clean. I ask only that you come to my hall on the northern shore three nights hence. There will be meat and fire and wine enough for any who still remember the old songs. Sit with me. Let the dead hear that two who once shared a banner can still share a table. If you refuse, I will understand, but the invitation stands.
—Garbol
Nagash read it twice. Below him the harbor chains clanked as the tide pulled at the hulks of the undead ships. He could still see, if he chose to look, the night Garbol had taken his own vessel and turned its prow away from the fleet. No blood had been spilled then. Only silence, and the slow shrinking of a sail into the dark.
He folded the letter once, then again, until the paper was small enough to fit in his fist.
“Send the living man back with this answer,” he said to the captain. His voice was dry as bone dust. “Tell Garbol the horde does not feast with those who abandon it. The table he offers is already empty. The only place left for him is beneath the black sails, or under the water they sail upon. He may choose. I will not.”
The captain inclined its bare skull and left. Nagash remained on the rampart. Far out on the coal-black sea, the longboat began its return journey, smaller with every stroke. He watched until the oars vanished into the smoke, then turned back toward the towers of Grombolar, where the dead still kept their watches and the fleets still waited for orders that did not include mercy. Somewhere in the background Nagash could hear a monkey and sheep fighting
u/Capital-Background22

Castellan Cedric of Tirith Rhaw stepped into the throne room, Vladek hunched over a table, poring over a stack of maps.

"Lord," the man said, Vladek looking up from the old, dry parchment to meet the gaze of Cedric.

"What is it that now consumes my time, Cedric?" he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Good news," Cedric paused, "for once," he said with a slight grin.

A small Messenger Drake croaked at Vladek, a small letter wrapped around its bony leg.

"Here," said Cedric, handing the letter to Vladek, curiosity having got the better of him as he strode away from the table and towards Cedric. He unfurled the small letter and began reading it, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud, and sometimes barely a mumble.

He turned to Cedric, saying, "Where is our ink and parchment - never mind, actually," then stooping down to fetch a small bottle of thick black ink, a quill, and a tiny letter.

"Hold that Drake," he told Cedric, the knight just about to let the little winged creature fly out through one of the small windows.

Vladek began:

'To Douglas the Redeemer,

Long have we been outcasts, scorned, hated, and despised by the rest of the world, too. They do not see our true virtues, as I am led to believe the same of you. I accept your oaths and hope that this may be the beginning of an unbreakable bond between our two people, now one united. Stand with Lionne, and we shall do likewise for the 'Redeemer'. We do not consider you outsiders no longer, but one amongst our ranks, one amongst our people. I look forward to meeting you in person if you would be willing to travel to the tower of Tirith Rhaw. There, you may bring your oaths of vassalship before the crown and standard of Lionne - for that is what we all serve, not ourselves, but the realm.

- Lord Vladek the Skull-Taker, Lord of Lionne, Savior of Orsca, Butcher of Sturgia'

Vladek signed the letter, turned to Cedric, and wrapped the letter around the small drake's foot. At the end of the letter was a small tassel attached, at its extremity, a round, red seal with Vladek's sigil and those of Lionne.

Cedric let loose the Drake out of a small window, watching it fly off into the cold skies above the tower.

"Let us hope the letter reaches him," Vladek remarked to Cedric, turning back to his maps

u/Ender_Clone

Marck had been to the court of the trolls of Drakehaven before. He had seen Hannibal, Hamilkar, Babokar and Gorga. But he also had heard that they were savage, that they ate their enemies, that their women were enormous, but he knew their men were also capable of civilized conversation.
He had also been told that the queen was a former trader who had conquered the tribes by manipulating their rivalries and buying the loyalty of their captains. Of all these warnings, the last had interested him most. He had seen her before and had a totally different opinion about her.

He was from the southern border of Ulan, where the roads descended toward Arrada Iru and the winds carried the smells of spices, horse sweat, and desert dust. He had grown up among merchants, diplomats, caravan masters, and men who could recite the price of a camel in six currencies. He had lived under the rule of the horde and knew fear.

He knew how to recognize a dangerous woman. He suspected that Gorga Gorgo would be one. Marck himself was accustomed to being underestimated. His skin was a rich, warm brown, his face strikingly symmetrical, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark eyes framed by long lashes. His black hair fell past his shoulders in glossy waves, tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a strip of embroidered silk.

He possessed the sort of beauty that made strangers glance twice and acquaintances occasionally forget what they had intended to say. He had learned to use it sparingly. A beautiful face could open a door. It could also persuade a suspicious man that you had nothing worth stealing.

He wore a dark brown traveling coat, a narrow belt of silver-worked leather, dark green and dark red cloths and a small dagger concealed beneath the fabric. At his throat hung a pendant bearing the emblem of his family: a crescent moon, hung as a horseshoe.

He had come back to Drakehaven to negotiate a trade agreement. At least, that was the official explanation. He also was still scared of the faith of the humans in the new lands of the troll tribes.

The queen received him in the great hall. Gorga sat beneath the banners of the united tribes, her ceremonial robes draped over a body built for strength rather than ornament. Bronze rings glinted in her braids. Her boots were polished, her eyes a startling yellow-green. She looked at Marck as though he were a particularly interesting shipment of silk whose provenance had not yet been established.

He bowed. "Queen Gorga Gorgo. I don’t know if you remember me."

"Marck of Ulan."

"You have remembered me?"

"I have heard of the southern roads. You came through the Arrada Iru crossings. You also were here before, were you not?”

"I was, that you remembered that." He said astonished.

"Then you know how much a good horse costs after the third day of rain."

"That depends on whether the seller knows the buyer is desperate. Here in our deserts, there isn’t much rain." For a moment, the cave was silent. Then Gorga laughed. It was a deep, rough sound that made two guards turn their heads. "Oh, I shall enjoy you," she said.

Marck straightened. "I had hoped you would enjoy my proposal."

"That remains to be seen. Sit."

He sat in the chair offered to him, acutely aware of the curious eyes surrounding the throne. Troll nobles were not accustomed to humans who behaved as though they belonged in their halls. Gorga leaned forward. "Tell me, Marck of the southern border, why did you return to my court?"

"Because there is still fear under the humans, I know some humans have joined your cause. But still there is fear."

A murmur passed through the hall. Marck continued before anyone could interrupt him. "Your tribes have iron, timber, hides, and warriors. What you lack is a reliable human force. Drakehaven has grain, fine cloth, medicinal herbs, and access to the caravan routes into the rest of Rutland. We could make stronger bonds and an alliance between troll and human. There are a lot of human traders too that want to travel the roads."

"And what do you need from me in return?"

"A treaty guaranteeing safe passage through Drakehaven. Preferential access to your iron markets. And a promise that your armies will not descend upon the humans of Drakehaven. Especially while my human brothers are also helping to rebuild its lands."

Gorga's expression changed slightly. There it was. The real business. "You fear me. You fear us?"

"I would be a fool not to."

"And yet you have come alone."

Marck smiled. "I am not entirely alone. Your guards have been staring at me for the past ten minutes. And Babokar is also there."

Gorga laughed again. She liked his face, certainly. It was difficult not to. But she liked even more that he did not use his beauty as an apology. He looked at her directly, without the nervous deference humans usually showed trolls. For the first time in many months, Gorga felt the curious sensation of being observed rather than evaluated. It was unsettling. She found that she rather liked it.

"Very well," she said. "You will remain in Drakehaven while we negotiate."

"How long do you anticipate that will take?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you are as clever after supper as you are before it."

Marck bowed his head. "Then I shall try not to disappoint you, Majesty."

As he rose, Gorga caught the faint scent of cedarwood and amber on his clothes. She watched him leave. Then she turned to Babokar, who had been seated beside a table covered in maps. "Well?" she demanded. Her left hand adjusted his spectacles.

"He is either an excellent diplomat or a very accomplished liar."

"Which do you prefer?"

"An excellent diplomat. They are cheaper to maintain."

Gorga smiled. "Find him suitable quarters."

"I have already done so."

"Of course you have."

Babokar hesitated. "One more thing, Majesty."

"What?"

"He asked whether our roads are safe for a man traveling alone."

Gorga's ears twitched. "And what did you tell him?"

"That they are safe for a man who does not attempt to steal the queen's silverware."

Gorga burst out laughing. For reasons she could not yet explain, the thought of Marck stealing her silverware delighted her. As she didn’t have any, she never cared for gold or silver, the trading life was more of a way to survive and feel the trill of traveling the world. That is something she now didn’t do anymore, as she needed to lead.

It started as a rumor, it led to a panic and then it ended in despair.

No one was prepared when the news struck, the Shadow Realms were on their way to Worronborg and no help was coming.

Neither the men or Yenvar, or the Knights of the Unicorn could do anything to change what was about to happen, capitulation was now the only option.

The Witan dissolved, where once there were many claimants there were now none. No one would dare to pick up the poisoned chalice that was now the throne of Yenvar. Worronborg would be lost, and the Yenscoast now stood alone.

King Hadrian II was crowned in a private ceremony with little to no fanfare as he watched his father King Leofwic fade away. His kingdom reduced once again, his legacy eroded.

King Hadrian II was not his father, and the Prince once famous for his kindness, would later become known for his reclusiveness.

King Hadrian the Hermit, would spend little time at court, instead prefering the halls of his palace. Wondering just what he could have done differently.

When Yenvar needed heroes, no one arrived. Maybe the future would be kinder to the once proud land of the Eagle.

*The Kingdom of Yenvar loses control of Worronborg, the succession crisis ends, and the page turns on the history of Rutland once again...*

It was Months since Prince Wenceslaus was safely returned to Sturgia and also months since the start of the Great Peace...but he still feels shame for failing to Capture Orsca and ge developed obssesion over the Territory once it was Under the Banners of the Horde.

His obsession led to an Idea to Build Fortifications in the territory and that gained support by the Dominion Lords so he acted on his own with Sturgia's Financial Support he brought some marks and a lot of Men that can start building the same day they arrive in Orsca.

OOC: Sturgia starts Construction in Orsca and will pay for the Fortifications build, more in comments

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Attack

Chapter VII – The Horns in the Mist

The fog was everywhere.

It swallowed the battlefield, the sky, and the ground beneath his feet. The soldier could barely see a few yards ahead. Beyond that, there was nothing but an endless wall of pale grey.

He was running.

His boots slipped on the blood-soaked earth as he stumbled through the mist, desperately trying to find his way.

Somewhere to his left, men were screaming. To his right came the clash of steel, followed by a terrible, inhuman roar.

Then silence. Not true silence. The battlefield was still alive with noise. But the sounds were strangely distant, muffled by the thick mist.

He could hear men shouting orders, horses neighing, and something enormous moving somewhere beyond his sight.

But he could see none of it.

And above everything else, there was the horn. A long, deep call. Then another. Always the same signal. Again and again.

He ran toward it.

He had no idea where he was going. He had lost sight of his captain, his banner, and every man who had marched beside him that morning.

But the horn was still sounding.

And wherever it came from, there had to be soldiers.

There had to be a way out.

He ran faster.

Something crashed through the mist behind him. 

He glanced over his shoulder.

Nothing. Only fog.

He turned forward again, nearly tripping over a body lying across his path. He jumped over it and kept running. Then he heard something.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

A strange, dry rattling. Like small pieces of wood knocking together. 

He slowed.

The sound came again.

Closer.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Something was moving through the fog ahead of him. The soldier stopped. A dark shape appeared. At first, it was little more than a shadow. Then the mist shifted. A massive reptilian head emerged from the whiteness, its long jaws lined with curved, yellowish teeth.

A dinosaur.

Its thick, muscular neck disappeared into the fog behind it, while its powerful legs moved with the slow, deliberate steps of a hunting predator.

Its nostrils widened. A deep breath escaped its jaws, sending a warm cloud of vapor rolling through the cold mist.

And then the soldier saw the rider.

A Skull Dragon.

He sat high upon the creature's back, motionless. His armor was dark, almost black, its surface scratched and battered. Small bones hung from his shoulders, breastplate, and belt, tied together with thin strips of leather.

Finger bones. Small skulls. Fragments of ribs. They knocked against his armor whenever the dinosaur moved.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

A ragged cloak hung from the warrior's shoulders.

It was an unpleasant thing, pale and strangely leathery, with uneven seams running across its surface. Some sections were darker than others, as though pieces of different hides had been stitched together.

For one horrifying moment, the soldier wondered whether it was made from human skin. The thought made his stomach turn. 

Then the smell reached him.

Rotting flesh. Old blood. The sour stench of something that had been left too long among the dead. It was so strong that he could almost taste it.

He gagged.

The Skull Dragon's helmet resembled a human skull, elongated and twisted into something monstrous. Its hollow-looking eye sockets concealed the rider's face, leaving only two narrow black openings beneath the brow.

From one of those openings, a faint stream of breath escaped. The vapor curled into the fog, disturbing the mist around his helmet.

The soldier watched it rise.

The Skull Dragon was breathing slowly.

Calmly.

As though he had all the time in the world. In one hand, he held a long spear with a jagged iron point. From its shaft hung more little bones, tied with blackened cords.

The dinosaur shifted its weight.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The soldier could not move.

The Skull Dragon did not shout. He simply looked down at the soldier. Then he made a small movement with his hand.

The dinosaur lunged.

The soldier barely managed to raise his sword. The enormous jaws opened before him, revealing rows of teeth and a dark, glistening throat.

And then they closed around him. 

The last thing he heard was the rattling of bones.

Somewhere beyond the fog, the horn sounded again.

Chapter VIII – The Price of Command

The arrow struck High King Bormund Bronzebeard directly in the cheek.

“GAAAH! FUCK!”

The dwarf nearly fell from his war boar. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the shaft protruding from his face.

Then the pain arrived.

“BLOODY FUCKING HELL!”

He reached for the arrow, thought better of it, and instead snapped the wooden shaft with an angry grunt. The arrowhead remained lodged in his cheek. Blood ran down into his magnificent beard. It was not a serious wound. A battlefield surgeon would probably have called it minor.

Bormund had a very different opinion.

“SON OF A WHORE!”

His war boar snorted beneath him. “YES, I KNOW!” Bormund shouted at the animal. “I'VE GOT A BLOODY ARROW IN MY FACE!”

Around him, the Iron Legion continued its desperate assault upon the hill. They had been fighting for what felt like an eternity. The slopes were covered in bodies. Broken shields lay among shattered spears, and the earth had turned dark beneath the boots of the dead and dying.

Again and again, the dwarves had advanced. Again and again, the Blood Dragons had thrown them back. Even now, with the Order of the Unicorn and the Phoenix Kingdom pressing against his flanks, Red Judas refused to surrender the position.

Bormund stared toward the summit.

The bastard was still there. His banners still flew. His warriors still fought.

“Your Majesty!”

A dwarf captain hurried toward him.

“We've pushed through the lower defenses, but the enemy is still holding the crest!”

Bormund spat blood onto the ground.

“Then push harder!”

He raised his axe.

“I WANT THAT DAMNED HILL!”

But before the captain could answer, a horse came galloping through the confusion behind the Iron Legion.

Its rider was covered in dust and blood. He pulled hard on the reins.

“HIGH KING BORMUND!”

The dwarf turned. “What now?”

The messenger struggled to catch his breath.

“Your Majesty… the southwestern flank…”

Bormund frowned.

“The line has broken.”

Bormund stared at him. For a moment, he forgot the arrowhead buried in his cheek.

“What?”

“The Skull Dragons, Your Majesty. When they suddenly appeared, we engaged them. It was a terrible fight. Our soldiers held their ground for as long as they could.”

The messenger swallowed.

“But then another army arrived.”

Bormund's eyes narrowed.

“Another army?”

The rider nodded.

“The Krakens, Your Majesty.”

The High King's expression darkened.

“The Krakens?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Of the True North?”

The messenger nodded again. Bormund slowly lowered his axe.

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty.”

The dwarf stared at him.

Then, through clenched teeth, he muttered:

“Those treacherous bastards.”

The messenger swallowed.

“They came from the southwest, Your Majesty. Almost without warning. One moment we were fighting the Skull Dragons, and the next their banners appeared through the dust.”

Bormund's expression darkened.

“Describe them.”

“Dark armor, Your Majesty. Black banners. Their warriors had black markings beneath their eyes, running down their cheeks like tears.”

“The black tears,” Bormund muttered.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And their war crabs. Enormous creatures, taller than horses, with shells thick as fortress walls and great claws that could crush a man in his armor. Some carried wooden fighting platforms upon their backs, with ballistas mounted on top.”

The messenger paused.

“They fired into our formations as they advanced. Our cavalry tried to stop them, but the creatures simply kept coming. Then the Skull Dragons attacked again.”

He looked down.

“We couldn't hold them, Your Majesty. The line broke. The knights of Anvard, the men of Lionne, the Dakkathori... everyone was forced back.”

“And Mordred?”

“I don't know, Your Majesty. The last I saw, his men were still fighting.”

Bormund stared at the messenger.

Then he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

“Those treacherous northern bastards.”

He had hated the Krakens long before Harragos.

The True North had given him enough reasons over the years. Old insults, broken promises, blood that had never been properly avenged.

And now they had chosen to join Queen Blood.

I'll remember this.

He gripped his axe.

By the ancestors, I'll make those bastards regret the day they crossed me.

“Your Majesty?” the captain beside him asked.

Bormund turned his war boar.

“Come with me.”

He rode toward a low rise behind the Iron Legion's position.

It was little more than a gentle swell in the barren ground, but from its crest he could see beyond the smoke and the confusion of the fighting around Judas's hill.

And there, in the distance, he finally saw what the messenger had described.

The southwestern front was collapsing.

Western banners were moving backward across the plain. Some formations were still intact, fighting as they withdrew. Others had broken apart, their soldiers running desperately toward the main army.

Behind them came the Skull Dragons.

Their dark ranks pressed forward relentlessly, cavalry and reptilian beasts pursuing the retreating soldiers.

And farther beyond them, Bormund could make out the unmistakable shapes of the Krakens.

Enormous armored crabs moved across the battlefield, their great legs carrying them over the uneven ground. Ballistas stood upon their backs, firing from above the advancing infantry.

The banners of the True North flew among them.

Bormund watched in silence.

So it was true.

The Krakens had entered the battle. And their arrival had tipped the balance.

“Those sons of whores,” he muttered.

Then he looked toward the hill.

Red Judas was still there.

Still holding.

Still refusing to die.

For hours, the Iron Legion had fought to drive him from that miserable piece of ground.

The slopes were covered with the fallen. Piles of bodies lay among shattered shields and broken pikes. The dwarves had fought their way upward again and again, only to be met by another wall of steel.

And yet they were so close. So damned close. One more assault. Perhaps two. Bormund could almost imagine his banner flying from the summit. He wanted that hill.

More than anything, he wanted to look Red Judas in the eye and tell him that his precious position had finally fallen.

But beyond the hill, General Blood Eye's army was still fighting. And in the southwest, the Skull Dragons and Krakens were advancing.

Queen Blood.

Bormund clenched his teeth, immediately regretting it as pain shot through his wounded cheek.

That cunning whore.

She had prepared a trap. And now the damned Krakens had helped spring it.

Bormund looked back toward his soldiers. His dwarves were exhausted. The Iron Legion had fought magnificently. The Order of the Unicorn and the Phoenix Kingdom had nearly surrounded Judas's position.

They could still take the hill. He was certain of it.

“Your Majesty,” his captain said. “Shall I prepare the next assault?”

Bormund opened his mouth.

“Yes. Tell the men—”

He stopped.

His gaze returned to the southwestern plain. The Skull Dragons were still advancing. The Krakens were following. If they reached the rear of the Western Alliance while Blood Eye held the eastern front, the entire army could be surrounded. 

And there would be no escape. 

Bormund sat motionless upon his war boar. 

He was not merely the king of the Iron Legion. He was the commander of the Western Alliance. Dwarves, men, knights, trolls. Warriors from kingdoms that had set aside their differences to march beneath his command. Their lives were his responsibility.

He could order another assault. He could take that bloody hill. He might even kill Red Judas. But what would it matter if the entire Western Alliance was destroyed in the process?

“Your Majesty?”

The captain was still waiting.

Bormund looked toward the summit one last time.

The Blood Dragon banners were still flying. He hated them. He hated that hill. He hated the Krakens. And most of all, he hated the decision he was about to make.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he lowered his axe.

“Sound the retreat.”

The captain stared at him.

Bormund's jaw tightened.

“Sound the retreat.”

Bormund drew a painful breath.

“We have an army to save.”

A moment later, the deep horns of the Iron Legion sounded across Harragos. One after another, the signals were repeated along the Western lines. The same horns that had called the Alliance forward that morning now carried a very different command.

Retreat.

Bormund remained upon the rise, watching his soldiers begin to withdraw. He touched his wounded cheek and winced.

Enjoy your victory, you damned whore.

His eyes turned toward the distant Kraken banners.

And you bastards of the True North...

This isn't over.

Then he turned his war boar toward the withdrawing Iron Legion.

“Keep the formations together!” he roared. “NO ONE GETS LEFT BEHIND!”

And the High King rode down to join his army.

Chapter IX – The Last Stand of Mordred

Lord Mordred already knew the battle was lost.

He had seen the Skull Dragons break through the southwestern lines, where the soldiers of Anvard, Lionne, and the Dakkathori had fought desperately to hold them back.

And now the Krakens had joined the attack.

His own men were retreating. The entire southwestern flank was collapsing.

But the worst was yet to come.

“MY LORD!”

An Anvard captain stumbled toward him.

“Blood Eye's forces have broken through! We can't hold them!”

Mordred turned.

Blood Dragon infantry were pouring through the gaps in his formations. His soldiers were fighting desperately, but the enemy was pushing them back.

“Oh Gods.”

A Blood Dragon charged him.

Mordred caught the man's sword against his shield and drove his own blade into the attacker's stomach. He kicked him away, just as another warrior lunged forward.

Steel rang against steel.

Mordred ducked beneath a wild swing and struck his opponent across the neck.

“FALL BACK!” he shouted. “BY COMPANIES! KEEP YOUR FORMATIONS!”

But withdrawing was almost impossible.

His men were too deeply entangled in the fighting. Those who tried to break away were attacked from behind. Others were cut down before they could even turn.

And above them, the colossal dragon still circled.

Mordred watched as a group of Anvard soldiers finally escaped the fighting and ran toward the retreating Western banners.

The dragon turned.

Its enormous shadow swept across them.

Then fire poured from the sky.

The soldiers vanished beneath the flames.

Mordred stared in horror.

We're finished.

The Skull Dragons and Krakens were advancing from the southwest. Blood Eye's army was breaking through directly ahead of him.

They were being surrounded.

An Anvard banner fell beside him.

Mordred seized it before it touched the ground and raised it high.

“ANVARD! TO ME!”

His remaining soldiers rallied around him, forming a battered wall of shields.

Beyond them, the Blood Dragons gathered for another assault.

Mordred looked at the exhausted faces of his men.

There was no clever maneuver left. No desperate charge that could turn the battle. No path of escape that he could see.

For the first time, he was certain he would die here.

He tightened his grip on his sword.

Only a miracle could save them now.

And a miracle was about to come.

Chapter X – The Veil of Mist

Captain Gwendolyn had heard the retreat horns.

From her position among the battered knights of the Order of the Unicorn, she could see the Western Alliance beginning to collapse.

The Iron Legion was withdrawing from Judas's hill. Anvard's formations were breaking under Blood Eye's assault. And to the southwest, the Skull Dragons and Krakens were closing in.

There was no longer any question of victory.

Only survival.

“Captain!” one of her knights shouted. “The enemy is coming around our flank!”

Gwendolyn looked across the battlefield. If the enemy completed the encirclement, the retreat would become a massacre. She turned to the white-robed mage standing beside her.

“It's time.”

The old man looked at her.

“The Veil of Mist?”

Gwendolyn nodded.

“Give the order.”

“Captain, you understand what this means? Once the fog rises, no one will be able to distinguish friend from foe. Not even our own soldiers.”

“I know.”

“Even we cannot see through it.”

Gwendolyn looked toward the retreating Western banners.

“Then we'd better hope they remember the horns.”

The mage bowed.

“As you command.”

Across the Western lines, the mages of the Order of the Unicorn raised their staffs.

They had prepared this spell long before the battle, knowing that one day the Alliance might need a way to escape an overwhelming enemy.

The air grew colder. A faint breeze passed across the battlefield. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then thin streams of white mist began creeping across the ground. They slipped between fallen shields and broken spears, spreading silently across the blood-soaked earth.

Soldiers continued fighting. Swords clashed. Men screamed. Horses charged. Few noticed the strange white vapor gathering around their boots.

Slowly, the fog grew thicker.

It reached their ankles. Then their knees. A Blood Dragon drove his spear into an Anvard soldier, neither noticing that the ground beneath them had completely disappeared beneath a pale white blanket.

Nearby, two knights fought back-to-back, their legs already hidden in the rising mist. Still the battle continued. 

The fog climbed higher. To their waists. To their chests. 

Now soldiers began looking around in confusion. A horseman glanced down and realized he could no longer see his horse's legs.

Another warrior stumbled over a body concealed beneath the whiteness. 

The fog rose to their shoulders.

For a strange moment, the battlefield seemed filled with floating heads, helmets, and banners.

Then those, too, began to vanish. 

First the men on foot disappeared. Then the horses and their riders. The great war beasts became enormous, indistinct shapes before fading into the whiteness. Even the colossal dragon circling overhead vanished behind the growing clouds.

Within minutes, the entire battlefield was swallowed.

The fog was so thick that soldiers could barely see a few yards ahead. Friend and enemy had become indistinguishable. The banners were gone. The formations were gone. Even the ground seemed to have vanished.

But the fighting had not stopped. Somewhere in the whiteness, steel still struck steel. Men screamed. Creatures roared.

And then came the horns. Long. Deep. Repeating. The signal of the Western Alliance.

Mordred stood surrounded by white mist. A moment earlier, Blood Dragon warriors had been advancing toward him. Now he could barely see the Anvard soldiers standing beside him.

A shape suddenly emerged from the fog.

Mordred raised his sword.

“WHO GOES THERE?”

The figure hesitated.

“Anvard! Anvard!”

Mordred lowered his weapon. The man stumbled past him and disappeared. Another scream came from somewhere ahead. Then the unmistakable sound of a sword striking armor.

Mordred turned toward the noise. He could see nothing. Not even the direction of the enemy. Then he heard the horns again. The retreat signal.

He understood. 

“ANVARD!” he shouted. “FOLLOW THE HORNS! STAY TOGETHER!”

But even as he gave the order, he knew how difficult that would be. There was no way to distinguish one soldier from another until they were almost face-to-face.

Captain Gwendolyn stood in the mist, listening. The Order of the Unicorn had played its final card. The spell had worked.

The enemy could no longer see the retreating Western army. But neither could the Western soldiers see one another. There were no magical lights to guide them. No way to recognize friend from foe at a distance.

Only the horns.

And the hope that enough men would follow them toward Verendia.

“Keep sounding the signal,” she ordered.

A knight beside her nodded.

“For how long, Captain?”

Gwendolyn looked into the endless whiteness.

“Until there's no one left to follow it.”

The horns sounded again.

And somewhere within the impenetrable fog, the Western Alliance began its desperate escape.

Epilogue – The Price of Victory

Red Judas sat upon the hill.

His sword lay beside him, its blade still stained with blood. Around him, the ground was covered with broken weapons, shattered shields, and the bodies of those who had fought for this miserable piece of earth.

He was weeping. 

General Blood Eye approached quietly. For a moment, he stood beside his old friend, looking out across the battlefield. Then he placed a hand upon Judas's shoulder.

“Your time has not yet come, brother.”

Judas did not answer.

“But I wish it had. For your sake.”

Slowly, Judas raised his head.

Blood Eye looked into his eyes.

They were empty.

And beneath the pale skin of his face, the black veins had already begun to spread again. 

Blood Eye recognized them immediately.

The poison.

Judas's lips trembled. Then a thin stream of foam escaped his mouth. His eyes rolled upward. His body stiffened. And he collapsed onto the blood-soaked ground.

The Blood Mage was already running toward them.

“Move aside, General!”

The mage knelt beside the dying commander and stretched out both hands. Thin, crimson threads began to emerge from his fingers. They twisted through the air like living strands of blood, slipping into Judas's chest, winding around his throat, and disappearing beneath his skin.

The mage closed his eyes. His fingers moved rapidly, weaving the bloody threads together, pulling them tight, joining what the poison had torn apart. 

As though he were stitching the very thread of life back together.

Blood Eye watched for a moment.

Then he rose. He had seen this too many times before.

The fog had finally lifted. From the hill, Blood Eye could see across the plains of Harragos. 

The Western Alliance was gone.

They had escaped toward Verendia, their retreat concealed by the unnatural mist conjured by the Order of the Unicorn. It had been a remarkable spell. And it had saved them. 

But not without a terrible price. The battlefield was littered with Western dead. Their retreat had been chaotic, and many had fallen to pursuing Blood Dragons, Skull Dragons, and the monstrous creatures that hunted them through the fog.

Still, the Alliance had survived.

Most of its army had escaped.

Blood Eye knew they would fight again.

He turned his attention to his own forces. Their losses had been moderate. Many warriors were wounded, and the healers would have their hands full for days, but their armies remained largely intact.

And they had won. They had won a clear victory. Queen Blood's plan had worked.

Blood Eye looked toward the distant mountains.

And now came the next part.

Hell.

He summoned one of his officers.

“Send word to Arkan Dream-Stealer. There are three hundred gravely wounded enemy soldiers still lying upon this battlefield. The Skull Dragons are to collect their souls.”

Blood Eye looked toward the distant bodies scattered across the plain.

“We will need those souls when we descend into Hell. The Skull Mages will bind them into a shield against whatever waits for us below.”

The officer nodded slowly.

“And what about the enemy soldiers who are still alive, General?”

“Those who are only lightly wounded are to be taken prisoner. Keep them alive and bring them with us.”

“For what purpose?”

Blood Eye's expression remained calm.

“Bargaining.”

He glanced toward the horizon.

“We do not know what creatures we will encounter in the Underworld. Demons, lords of the dead, things older than our kingdoms. If we need to negotiate, it may prove useful to have something to offer.”

The officer bowed.

Blood Eye remained upon the hill. Behind him, the Blood Mage continued weaving his crimson threads around the body of Red Judas. 

Before him lay the battlefield of Harragos. The dead. The wounded. The broken banners of the Western Alliance. Victory. And beyond it, a war against an enemy none of them truly understood.

Blood Eye drew a long, slow breath.

Then he turned around and walked away.

THE BATTLE OF HARRAGOS – OFFICIAL BATTLE REPORT

Winner: Blood Dragons
Victory Level: Clear Victory
Battle Loot: 6 Iron awarded to the Blood Dragons u/silvertree99

WESTERN ALLIANCE (ATTACKER)

Starting Army: 1,599
Total Casualties: 464 (29%)

Killed: 121
Wounded: 278
Fled: 53
Captured: 12

Remaining Fit for Battle: 1,135
Leader Outcome: Lightly Wounded (High King Bormund Bronzebeard)

BLOOD DRAGONS, KRAKENS (DEFENDER)

Starting Army: 1,944
Total Casualties: 261 (13%)

Killed: 53
Wounded: 200
Fled: 8
Captured: 0

Remaining Fit for Battle: 1,683
Leader Outcome: Unharmed

BATTLE SUMMARY

The Blood Dragons achieved a clear victory at Harragos, successfully defending their position and forcing the Western Alliance to retreat.

Although the Western Alliance successfully executed its envelopment strategy, the Blood Dragons maintained their defensive lines and ultimately gained the upper hand.

The Order of the Unicorn's successful retreat protection reduced additional pursuit losses by 50%, allowing the majority of the Western army to escape.

The Western Alliance suffered heavy losses but was not destroyed. The Blood Dragons sustained comparatively limited casualties and remained in control of the battlefield.

Final Result: Clear Victory for the Blood Dragons.

Battle Generator Outcome

Battle Roll 42 (provided by clarkarius)

RM: These rules are deemed experimental and not yet a part of the official rules. This is considered a playtest.

The Lions raid on Duskpike was uncontested the day they struck. The garrisons were empty, the patrols absent and the watch fires unlit. Without anyone but a token force of watchmen to resist the oncoming storm.

Some stood firm, most evacuated the civilians inland, whereas many simply fled. With the nearest patrols being too far away and Anvard's best fighting in a distant field, the Lions burned down the watchtowers and outposts claiming every valuable, good or resource they could carry back to their ships.

When the Warriors of Anvard returned, they arrived too burnt down walls and empty coffers, their families mercifully safe, but their lands desolate.

The Lions of Elmhhirm loot 1 marks worth of loot from the province of Duskpike.

Anvards income next round is reduced to 5 iron to account for damages and loss of tax revenue. They also lose 5 irons from their treasury due to raids on administrative centers.

As these are experimental rules, Anvards losses will be cut to only 5 iron.

More raid results to follow...

u/Silvertree99

Now that Worronborg had been claimed, Garbol had started building a tower, a tower just like the one in Kosara. And also the same as he had commanded to be builded in The Arrad and Enterior. Since Garbol had no time and wasn’t looking to start war with the west over this land, all 1000 soldiers helped. Some guarded the perimeter and others carried stone, Garbol also had sent messengers to the capital of this land. Where he promised to leave after a month (so IRL when 5 days are over) had passed. And the land would not be kept after that.

He also had brought with him 8 new mages who had trained on the knowledge Lady Ether had shared with Garbol. She had given Garbol a book with scriptures, magic information and spells. Maybe not all the most powerful, important or useful information but it certainly added to the knowledge of the mages of The Shadow Realm.

As the 8 Garbol had informed were merely human, they were something else. Even Garbol didn’t know what they were yet. They had come through the portal, and shared the plans that Garbol tried to accomplish now.

Because if you didn’t know, Garbol is simply a human. An enhanced human nonetheless, but still human. He was cursed by the first portal that had opened on Kosara, before that he was just a mage of the mages alliance. He had learned a lot from the travellers from the other side, but he wanted to learn more.

The 8 would split into groups of 4 now that this tower was completed and would all take place near one of the 4 towers. They would wait for the command of Garbol, who had prepared a spell that might work to break the boundary between these 2 realms.

But for now they waited, as Garbol had invited guests for a happening. And thinking of that he had also forgotten to invite all guests. He would getter a messenger and send him out towards the Blood Dragon lands.

Sadly Garbol still felt that he wasn’t strong enough for what he would try to accomplish in a few weeks. But luckily there was still time….…..

OOC: wait for Saturday for the continuation of this story, I have also invited all the people who are invited to a GC, please join if you are sending a delegate to my feast.

The Talon Guard

Under the command of my son and heir, Lionel, the Talon Guard shall serve as a peacekeeping force for the members of the True North. Their duty will be to maintain order, protect the peace, and ensure the safety of those under their protection.

The force shall consist of ten companies, each led by a captain and a lieutenant, who will be responsible for the discipline, training, and readiness of their men. Under Lionel’s leadership, the Talon Guard shall stand as a symbol of stability and unity throughout the True North, ready to intervene whenever peace is threatened. Be at rebellion or war. The talent guard will come.
—grand Duke Charles of braccenfoot-

Word travels slowly in Rutland, dead princesses travel even slower. Princess Amelia, shield maiden of Anvard, 3rd born child of King Beornhelm Oakheart, and loyal wife Raynard and good mother of Ragnar of the Holy Order had passed from this life into the next... All of Anvard will mourn her passing and lament the end of line of Beornhelm. A sobering reminder to all, that this life is but temporary, no one, not even a princess can escape the curse of death, however because of her faith in the true God, death has no sting. Even now, she is in paradise worshipping her savior alongside her father and brothers. The is still room at our lords table for all who would repent...

u/OdinsEyeRaven

https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/RJl2kbMDj6

Ooc: I forgot to add it in my original post so I’ll link that and this is my official faction emblem, it’s a record of the emblem found on the knights in knight procession (which Douglas is made from those parts from my first bin of actual Lego and not duplo)

here is the link to my introduction post;

https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/comments/1x687np/the_redeemer_arrives/

Many people call them deserters, cowards and betrayers but they have found someone they can put their sword behind, Douglas the Redeemer. Douglas was once called what all of them are now called, a coward, betrayer, a deserter. Now he seeks to rid himself and all of his men of those foul titles, in order to redeem them. he has his loyal second in command Horatio along with his trusted diplomat Johaner Nitrom. Douglas has decided to pledge allegance to Lionne as its vassal.

Ooc: this is my introductory post, I have 110 minifgures total. 14 archers, 29 heavy infantry, 2 heavy cavalry, 3 scouts, 2 catapults with operators, 37 light infantry, 19 light spearmen, and one standard bearer. plus Douglas the Redeemer, Horatio and Johaner Nitrom.

edit: here is the link to the emblem https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/comments/1x695ao/douglas_the_redeemers_banner/

Due to the increased reports of raids along the Western Coast, the Order of the Unicorn dispatches a patrol force to watch out for further incursions.

The force consists of:

40 Mounted Knights

20 Heavy Knights

40 Crossbowmen

They will patrol the region from the Yenscoast to Verendia, keeping an eye towards the sea.

Gorga Gorgo had always preferred a good bargain to a good battle.

As a trader, she had learned that a man who shouted too loudly was usually hiding a weakness, that a woman who smiled too sweetly was rarely offering anything for free, and that the most dangerous person in any room was the one who listened while everyone else talked.

It was how she had survived the merchant roads of Rutland. It was how she had built her fortune in iron, salt, hides, and weapons. And it was how she had eventually taken control of the troll tribes.

Not through brute strength alone, although she possessed enough of that to make most human knights reconsider their lives. Gorga was a broad-shouldered troll woman with moss-green skin, a powerful jaw, and thick black hair usually braided with bronze rings. Her body bore some scars of a few disputes that had begun as negotiations and ended with somebody bleeding on her merchandise.

She had never intended to become queen.

But the old warchief had grown tired, the tribes couldn’t grow restless, and the Borca brothers had recognized in Gorga something their father had never quite managed to inspire in his followers.

Trust. Wisdom. Peace. And a healthy fear of what she might do to a man who broke his word.

Now the banners of Drakehaven flew beneath her authority.

The troll clans and tribes had sworn allegiance.

And on this morning, Gorga had sent a force of hundered hundred troll warriors into the east under the command of her right hand, Hannibal Borca.

Hannibal was a veteran commander with a scar running from his right ear to almost his chin. He had not inherited his father's patience and also not his father's fondness for sitting beside a fire and explaining why the world had become so foolish.

His younger brother, Babokar Borca, was an entirely different creature.

Babokar was her left hand, her planner, her keeper of ledgers and maps. He could calculate the cost of a campaign, the grain needed to feed an army, and the likely political consequences of a marriage alliance before most men had finished sharpening their quills. He had remained in Drakehaven to help Gorga turn a collection of conquered tribes into a kingdom.

Their father, the old warchief, still occupied a place of honor in the royal hall. He had surrendered the throne, but not his opinions. Especially when it came to the robes.

"The left sleeve is too long," he declared that morning.

Gorga stared at him.

"The sleeve is exactly as long as it was yesterday."

"Yesterday, you were standing incorrectly."

"I was standing in the same place."

"Then the sleeve has offended you twice."

The old warchief's eyes twinkled beneath his bushy white eyebrows while he stroke his beard.

Gorga loved the old fool. She also considered throwing him of a cliff at least once every day.

She tugged at the ceremonial robe, a heavy garment of dark red wool edged with bronze plates and embroidered with the symbols of the united tribes.

"I used to sell these things," she muttered.

"And now you wear one."

"I sold them to people who had the good sense to pay and leave."

"That is the difference between a trader and a ruler."

Gorga looked at him sharply.

"You discover that everyone has a price," the old warchief continued, "and then you discover that some prices are paid by people who have never met you."

She looked toward the tall doors of the hall.

Beyond them lay the lands of Drakehaven, its tents and stone towers nestled among the sandy hills & dunes, its markets bustling beneath the sky. It was hers now. Every road, every forge, every wateringpit. And every hungry mouth.

"I preferred the markets," she admitted.

The old warchief gave a low chuckle.

"Of course you did. In the markets, you only had to worry about what a man wanted. Here, you must worry about what he will do when he gets it."

Gorga sighed.

Then a servant entered and announced that a delegation had arrived from the southern border of Ulan & Arrada Iru.

They had brought a human.

And, according to the servant, he was causing considerable confusion among the guards.

Gorga raised an eyebrow.

"How, why, who?"

"He is very irritating and he is a human, Majesty. And he is very pretty."

She stared at the servant.

"That is a peculiar reason to cause confusion."

"He has long black hair, Majesty. And eyes like dark amber. The guards are arguing about whether he is a nobleman, a spy, or some kind of southern prince."

Gorga rose from her chair.

"Then let us hope he is a spy. I have never found princes particularly useful."

The old warchief laughed so hard that his robe slipped off one shoulder.

Gorga left him to struggle with it.

She had a kingdom to run.

And apparently, a beautiful human to interrogate.

Today, the streets of Harrenberg are livelier than they have been in years. Golden banners bearing the blue lion of House de Meron hang from buildings along the streets leading from the main gate to the cathedral. The sun shines brightly overhead, and many among the townsfolk take it as a sign of divine blessing.

Crowds fill the streets, leaving barely enough room to move. People have arrived from nearby villages and distant towns alike, all eager to witness the historic event. Even the space outside Harrenberg's gates is packed with spectators. The city, vast as it may be, cannot accommodate everyone who has come to see their future Archduke.

Then, from somewhere beyond the city walls, the faint sound of trumpets echoes across the fields.

Once.

Then again, louder this time.

The sound grows steadily closer, accompanied by the unmistakable rumble of hooves. Those gathered outside the gates turn their eyes toward the horizon. There, beneath the bright morning sun, the first banners appear: the blue lion of House de Meron upon a field of gold.

Shortly afterward, the rest of the procession comes into view. A great company of knights rides toward the city, many carrying the banners of their lord. At its centre, dressed in ornate garments and wearing a long cloak embroidered with his house's sigil, rides Lord Conrad de Meron upon a magnificent white steed.

He sits tall in the saddle, his posture regal and his gaze fixed firmly ahead. The crowd erupts into cheers as he approaches. Some reach out in hopes of touching his cloak or even his horse, but the knights riding alongside him ensure that no one comes too close.

The gates of Harrenberg stand wide open.

As the procession approaches, trumpets sound once more. City guards rush from the gatehouse, spreading out along the road and forcing a path through the throng.

"Make way!" they shout. "Make way for the Lord!"

Slowly, the procession advances through the city. The guards struggle to contain the crowds, but the knights press onward, guiding their lord through the sea of cheering townsfolk. Sunlight glimmers upon polished armour and the golden embroidery of the banners, lending the procession an almost divine splendour.

At last, after a lengthy ride through the crowded streets, Conrad and his entourage arrive at the square before Harrenberg's cathedral. The area has already been cleared and secured by the city guard, providing a welcome respite from the chaos outside.

The knights dismount, and attendants lead their horses away. Conrad steps forward, approaching the cathedral's grand entrance. Before ascending the steps, he turns to face the assembled townsfolk.

For a brief moment, he regards the sea of faces before him. Then, raising his hand, he waves to the crowd.

The gesture is small, but the response is immediate. Cheers rise from the square as the Lord turns and enters the cathedral.

Inside, the atmosphere is altogether different.

The cathedral's towering walls rise above rows of benches occupied by the realm's assembled nobility. Guards stand at attention along the walls and beside the central aisle, while monks and clergy gather near the altar at the far end of the building.

There, dressed in richly decorated robes, stands the elderly Archbishop of Harrenberg.

It has been a very long time since anyone was crowned in Rydonius. For many present, this is more than a ceremony. It is the beginning of a new chapter in the realm's history.

Conrad enters and begins his slow walk toward the altar. The nobles watch in silence as he passes, their expressions ranging from solemn reverence to barely concealed anticipation.

At last, he reaches the Archbishop.

"Kneel," the elderly man commands.

Conrad obeys, lowering himself before the altar.

"Do you, Conrad de Meron, accept the responsibility of ruling Rydonius and bearing the burdens of its people?"

"I do," Conrad replies.

The Archbishop inclines his head.

A monk approaches, carrying a golden sceptre upon a velvet pillow. The Archbishop takes it and presents it to the kneeling Lord.

"Conrad de Meron, receive this sceptre as a symbol of your authority over these lands. May you wield that authority with wisdom and resolve."

Conrad accepts the sceptre in his left hand.

Another monk approaches, bearing a crown upon a pillow. The Archbishop takes it carefully and raises it for all assembled to see.

"Conrad de Meron," he proclaims, his voice carrying throughout the cathedral. "Lord of Rydonius, Lord of Harrenberg, and Lord of Meronsburg."

He pauses, allowing the titles to echo through the great hall.

"By the authority vested in me by the Lord, I hereby crown you..."

Slowly, he lowers the crown toward Conrad's head.

"The Archduke of Rydonius!"

The crown settles into place.

For a moment, the cathedral remains silent. The seconds seem to stretch into an eternity, as though everyone present understands that they are witnessing something that will be remembered for generations.

Then the Archbishop speaks once more.

"Rise, Archduke Conrad, of House de Meron!"

Conrad rises to his feet, the crown upon his head and the golden sceptre in his hand. Turning toward the assembled nobility, he watches as the nobles bow their heads and kneel before their newly crowned ruler.

Then, the great doors of the cathedral opened once more.

Lady Anna de Meron entered, accompanied by a monk carrying a golden circlet upon a velvet pillow. She walked toward her husband, who stood waiting for her at the foot of the altar.

When she reached him, Anna knelt.

Conrad took the circlet from the monk and raised it before the assembled nobility.

"Anna de Meron," he proclaimed, "I crown you Archduchess of Rydonius."

He carefully placed the circlet upon her head before offering her his hand.

"Rise, my wife. Whatever burdens this crown may bring, we shall bear them together."

Anna took his hand and rose to stand beside him. For a moment, the two faced one another before turning toward the assembled nobles.

"Rise," Conrad commanded.

The nobles obeyed.

Conrad looked over the assembled lords and ladies, his expression solemn. Beside him stood Anna, composed and dignified beneath her golden circlet. Those who knew the couple well understood that, behind the Archduke's grand ambitions, there was a woman whose counsel he valued more than that of almost anyone else in his court.

Conrad might wear the crown, but he had never been foolish enough to believe that he could govern the realm alone.

"This is a new dawn for Rydonius!"

His voice rings through the cathedral.

"Together, we shall build a realm worthy of our people. A strong realm. A united realm. A realm that shall stand on its own feet and determine its own destiny!"

He lowers his sword slightly, allowing his words to settle before continuing.

"But before we celebrate, there are matters that must be addressed."

His gaze travels across the assembled nobles.

"First, the matter of our sovereignty."

The cathedral grows quiet.

"Though Rydonius has long been considered a vassal of Elhhrim, their armies departed Rutland many years ago. We have paid no tribute in ages, and their authority over our lands exists in little more than name."

He pauses, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"Let us, then, put an end to this pretence."

Conrad raises his sword once more.

"From this day forward, the Archduchy of Rydonius shall be a free and independent realm, in name as well as in deed!"

For a heartbeat, the cathedral is silent.

Then the nobles erupt into applause and cheers. Some raise their hands in approval, while others exchange glances, considering the implications of the Archduke's declaration. Whatever their private thoughts, the proclamation has been made, and Rydonius has taken a decisive step toward determining its own future.

Conrad waits for the commotion to subside before continuing.

"Second, the governance of our realm."

He surveys the assembled nobility once more.

"I shall establish a new archducal council, entrusted with advising the Crown and administering the affairs of Rydonius. A realm such as ours cannot prosper through the efforts of one man alone. We shall need capable minds, loyal servants, and men and women willing to devote themselves to the common good."

His gaze briefly settles upon several individuals among the assembled guests.

"Some of you shall soon receive summons to join this council. I expect those chosen to serve with diligence and honour."

The nobles applaud once more, and whispers begin to spread among them as they speculate about who might be selected.

Conrad smiles faintly before raising his voice for the final announcement.

"And now, my final order of business!"

The cathedral quiets.

"Today marks a historic moment for Rydonius. A new ruler has been crowned, a new chapter has begun, and our realm has taken its first steps toward a future of its own making."

He lowers his sword.

"Such an occasion must not pass without celebration! I therefore invite all of you to join me in Meronsburg, where a great feast shall be held in honour of this day!"

This time, the nobles' cheers are louder than ever.

The Archduke and Archduchess leave the cathedral to the sound of applause and celebration. Outside, the square has filled once more, and the streets beyond are lined with townsfolk eager to catch another glimpse of their new rulers.

The city guards struggle to maintain a clear path through the crowd, but the people press forward, waving banners and calling out their congratulations.

Conrad and Anna mount their horses, and the procession begins its journey back toward Meronsburg.

This time, the newly crowned Archduke rides at the head of his entourage. He waves to the people gathered along the streets, occasionally tossing coins into the crowd, much to the delight of those fortunate enough to catch them.

The procession moves slowly through Harrenberg, carried forward by the cheers of thousands.

"All hail the Archduke!"

"Long live Archduke Conrad!"

"Long live House de Meron!"

The cries echo between the buildings, following the procession toward the city gates and far into the surrounding countryside.

For the people of Rydonius, this is a day that will be remembered for generations.

The coronation of Conrad de Meron has marked the beginning of a new era.

Months had passed since General Vaelor Drakaryn returned from Duskpike, yet the rewards remained evident throughout Lord Nerezar's kingdom. Captured grain sustained the garrisons, stolen weapons armed Legion soldiers, and seized coin strengthened the treasury.

Now, another raid awaited them.

Along the docks, three black-sailed ships prepared for departure. Archers checked their bowstrings while knights and swordsmen carried provisions aboard. Empty crates were lowered into the holds, ready for whatever wealth Cyytor might yield.

Vaelor stood beside his captains, studying a coastal chart.

“Emperor Xalreth of Ashada has recently become leader of Cyytor,” he said. “We must learn how well its shores are defended before choosing our target.”

“And if his soldiers are waiting?” one captain asked.

“Then we keep looking. Duskpike rewarded discipline. Find a vulnerable target, take what strengthens Allor, and withdraw before resistance gathers.”

Nearby, Mordrath stretched his enormous black wings. The dragon would scout ahead, searching for isolated storehouses, merchant depots, and safe landing places.

By late afternoon, the supplies were stowed and every soldier was aboard.

Vaelor mounted Mordrath as sailors moved to release the mooring ropes.

After months ashore, the Legion of the Dragon Lord was ready to raid again.

OOC: Movement and raiding attack of Cyytor once they reach it.

33 swordsmen

16 knights (1 being General Vaelor Drakaryn)

36 archers

1 dragon

u/Clarkarius u/Patrick_Hill_One u/Hot_Plankton6742

90 men aboard 2 ships attempt to raid the blood queen coast. u/clarkarius u/silvertree99 u/Patrick_Hill_One

RAID CANCELED - REASON BELOW

After a successful raid on Renhook - Thora sends the raiders out once more to strike other lands.

After looking at the map, Thora points to Vurren Bay. "Send the ships there, have them raid the coast line and avoid major cities."

****

Raid consists of 86 warriors

12 Archers

74 Shield and Weapons

All light armor.

4 ships, two have heavy ballista to fire on shore if need be or protect the ships as they sail back.

Plans will be sent to mods.

u/bread0407 u/clarkarius u/patrick_hill_one