A CITY RUN RED, AGAIN

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A Knight of Retford and his retinue receive blessings before a campaign during the first war against Tor Ascara
The billowing horns of war blew throughout the land of Calendale and her fiefdoms. Heavy thuds of metal striking the dirt like a drum. The Kingdom of Calendale's armies were on the march to war. A people who sought only the defence of their realm and had sworn themselves to isolation. A most sour blow was dealt when the Vozhd of Vetroy cowardly killed guests in his own home. A reply had to be made, one with fire and one with sword.
First fire came in the face of the Holy Mother Mytra, the sun. It's powerful gaze struck the walls of Tor Ascara and beckoned an omen of victory for Calendale and her armies. Then the sword came in the face of cold hard steel brought upon elven heads and their traitor human allies. The walls were assaulted and quickly taken, only for the horde of Calendale knight's and retainers who quickly took the streets and engaged in small skirmishes with defenders. When the Elven King valiantly charged upon their ranks, he was quickly cut down which was the same story for his men who soon followed after in his footsteps.
When the carrion birds descended upon the city, it was like a royal feast. Entrails and limbs of elven defenders lay ripe for the picking, and their equipment was soon looted by the victorious Calendale army. Trinkets, gold and exquisite elven weapon lay among the spoils for the victors. In jubilation and triump did the armies of Calendale return with extravagant parties and dancing breaking out in the streets. The returning army opted to take off their helmets and throw their arm up in cheer "Hail to King Richard, Hail to Triumph"
 

Milenkhov

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Arrived with his brother young Henry, sweat dripping from his brow, ears still ringing from the fray of battle. Though unlike his brother he saw all (dpm got downed lol), blood and the prowess of the human-folk of Calendale. He knew this was just the beginning of the war, away from the dawn.
 

Ryanark

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Mildþryð valiantly charged into the incoming knife-eared horde, shouting at the top of his lungs with every ounce of his blood full with adrenaline. He felt his ancestors' spirit, those who marched before him unto Aellen and toppled their city. After fierce fighting, cutting down filthy elf after elf, he was struck and injured, though injured he kept on fighting, hoping to die in battle! "DEATH BEFORE GLORY!" he shouted as he toppled an elf with his sword.

As the victorious warriors of Calendale marched and paraded back into Westholm, they were met with flowers and cheers by the citizens of Westholm. Carried by his comrades with a bandaged abdomen, Mildþryð smiled at the flag of Calendale waving in the wind.
 

Jentos

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As Jerom peered into the flames of the Temple, it was almost as if he could glimpse the elves languishing in greats trists, weeping not for the dead but for the triumph of Calendale. He could almost hear them -- as the long-eared folk argued amongst them and shook their fists at the Sun in some great, vain method of cope. "Death before glory." This he murmured into the flames.
 

Haseroth

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Lixis wonders were all the humans came from, clearly they didn't come from enarion.
"Neither did your allies? The Brennans, The Veldenzi, The Fyrmanans all were humans from over seas. Perhaps if you actually cared about them you would know such a basic fact about their culture and history. All your people seek to do is dominate, we are not the ones who proclaim ourselves an Empire. You however most certainly do, your people have constantly enslaved and conquered before the calamity struck, do not act as though you are suddenly martyrs of Freedom." The Inquisitor would scoff
 

TryaxReck

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Jadec squints at the picture, ensuring that his eyes were not deceiving him as he saw four women depicted in the artwork.

"Well, this is most certainly bluster. Calendale only has ever had three women, and I dispatched two.. Meaning only one woman should be left! Perhaps prisoners...?"


He shrugged it off, going back to rest up in his hay bed, ignoring a plate of food out of his reach. The rot of dungeon overpowers it's good smell, anyways.
 

Mumkey

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Eldred had hobbled back to Calendale with a host of injures. Pensively, he regarded the Nurse as she worked on his stitches, and then lay his head back against the cushion as he bit down a rag. The pain was immense but it was worth it. The Elves had been reminded that though they had an Empire of their own that stretched for vast swathes of Enerion, they could be laid down by a foreign force - the force of the good King Richard - with impunity should they attempt to expand into the land of the Wiccans. That brought him what little solace he needed to endure the pain as he almost bit his tongue.

The Sun had smiled upon them today.
 

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