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Post by The Divine Empire of Vessia on Jun 15, 2019 17:37:59 GMT -8
Rikssen is a land full of well-spaced trees centuries old rising to the sky and blotting out the sun, hills interspersed with flat bits of terrain. After the last Eastern Crusade this is one of the new frontiers of the Empire. It is filled with fae folk, greenskins, centaurs, trolls, giants, dragons and of course one must always mention the great tribes of barbaric men. One would be a fool to venture too far away from Imperial patrols and camps, especially alone.
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Post by The Divine Empire of Vessia on Jun 15, 2019 17:38:30 GMT -8
An occasional huff and early sun’s rays upon armour plates were the only thing to announce Jovan as he went along the woods. He was dragging along a Witch Hunter by his collar, the injured man fading in and out of consciousness as he tried to squeeze his wounds shut.
He didn’t have enough hands for all of them.
Worn out, Jovan stopped by a tree. He turned his head to look at the Witch Hunter who was muttering something. Wir sind verloren wir sind verloren wir sind verloren wir sind verloren wir sind verloren…. The Conscript shook his head and grabbed the man by the shoulders. “Where the hell are we?” he demanded, shaking the Witch Hunter awake. The man looked Jovan in the face cluelessly, saying something in Vessisch. “Speak my damn language!” came the frustrated scream as the Witch Hunter received a slap before being dropped. But a month ago Jovan was an ordinary Egyszer pasture hand, until officers of the Reichskomissariat came over and told him he was conscripted. After flailing a pole for a few days he was given a sallet helm, some plate with chainmail and a pollaxe before being thrown into a regiment.
Now he was in the middle of Swavia’s massive nowhere, he saw the Emperor get surrounded by a dozen trolls and his head removed like he was a witch in the town square. All the God-damned scum of the forest seemed to unite to have a go at the Imperials, but that still didn’t explain how they got past all the men at the front and the Witch Hunters and wizards and other lot. The lad knew he was the victim of more political shite from above, that the men here were betrayed. But he didn’t care, all Jovan wanted now was to live. He dropped the pollaxe still held by his belt and took the sword and crossbow that Witch Hunter had instead. A match was struck to light the candle on his helmet, and Jovan was off. The lad sprinted with all his strength back towards civilization, making good ground with the occasional stop to catch his breath. But this stop wasn’t like the others. The tap-tap of little feet was the only thing to announce the greenskin that pounced on him from behind, the lad rolling with the impact. The thing tried to jam a large dagger into his skull but the helmet prevent a quick attempt. Quickly Jovan’s foe tried to push the stone blade into his visor but erratic squirming saved the boy from several such attempts. In a lucky thrash his hand was liberated, and he managed to just about sink his sword into the thing’s ribs. With a grunt of effort he pushed it off, only to have another run at him. In a panic he fired the hand-crossbow, screaming with fright as the axe wielding creature fell at his feet.
But he didn’t relax. Twigs crunched, leaves rustled. Jovan looked left and right, looking for red eyes in the dark. Sweat ran down his face as he spun trying to compensate for his vision now so damnably impaired by his helmet. He took the thing off, only to see dozens of the aforementioned red eyes getting ever closer to him. The Conscript raised his blade defensively, before lowering it upon realizing the futility. With a cry he brought up the hand-crossbow in his other hand to his head and pulled the lever.
Click.... Jovan had a realization more terrifying than death, the realization that the bow had no bolt. Crows flew at the sound of agonized screams; another number in the great tally of war.
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Highlord Arthur Mograine
New
Roleplay posts: 1 
Age: 52
Physical Description: Arthur is an exemplary man, to the common Vessian. Shoulder length gray hair and a somewhat neatly kept beard of the same color, with his stature coming to 6'2". He keeps himself in good shape through regular exercise and training with the Knights of his order.
Clothes and Equipment: His regalia is simple yet elegant, with plate armor and pauldrons of divine flavor. A tabard of the Order is slung over his chest, flowing in the breeze. A blue cape, of superior quality, to be used as impromptu shelter or blanket.
His sword is of a different quality, and to call it a "sword" doesn't do the blade justice. Forged of blessed steel and sporting a disc of pure light, only the most Holy can wield Caliburn.
Allegiances: Vessia
Registered: Jun 20, 2019 9:01:48 GMT -8
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Post by Highlord Arthur Mograine on Jun 21, 2019 17:41:54 GMT -8
Highlord Mograine knelt among the carnage of the ambush. Within his grasp he held what was left of a sallet, caked in gore and dented beyond repair. The Knight contingent that had accompanied him were tasked with searching for the body of the late Emperor, to bring his body home, and to lay him to rest. Lord-Crusader Vertrauen stood behind and to the right, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze settled on nothing in particular.
"Curse these beast-folk." Mograine placed the sallet back onto the grass, standing to his full height, "Vertrauen, expand the search area and keep an eye out for survivors. Send a rider to the Chapel for more men, and begin preparations for a new crusade."
The Lord-Crusader blinked. Then blinked again. "As you wish, Highlord, it will be done."
As Vertrauen busied himself with Mograine's orders, the knights of the Argent Hand were preoccupied with their earlier orders. Some flipped bodies, others kept watch on the outskirts of the area. One knight was knelt over a rather ornately dressed corpse, though the body had no head, so discerning identification was beyond his abilities.
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Post by The Divine Empire of Vessia on Jun 23, 2019 18:31:42 GMT -8
The Rikssen Woodland was a place that did not bring spirit to a man. Trees were well interspersed allowing man some movement, unlike a usual forest. But it made even the slightest flicker of shadow all the more worrisome. The Knights going through the woods would be grateful for their discipline seeing the full extent of what was done. One tree had a man stuck to a tree by virtue of his ribcage split apart to act as nails holding his poor body. Another many was made to hang by the digestive system of a man who's corpse was nearby, bile leaving the slightest burns around his throat.
But ultimately they weren't what the Knights were looking for. While the fellow the first examined the corpse might not instantly recognize the Emperor, Morgraine and others present who had seen the Emperor in person before would be able to recognize the massive man in black Gothic armour.
But there was the matter of the head. To be rewarded for having found the Emperor's body they would need the ultimate proof and that was naught but his face, skull, and brain. Besides, that alone would provide only a civic honour. Bring the head of the Emperor's murderers, now THAT would be something to bring great honours upon the Knights of the Argent Hand.
Enter the Brotherhood of the Broken Blade. They were another Knightly Order, similar to the Order of the Argent Hand. Shouting would be heard, and the approach of heavily armed men. They too had come for their duty to the Empire, and of course they had also come for glory. Several of the Brothers came to view, their fine dress and armour so heavy one would consider it jousting plate all distinctive, as was the lack of swords (which they are forbidden to use).
The Brother at the head of the grouping spotted the Argent Handers, giving them a friendly wave until he noted the corpse they had. Up to him strode another Brother with a box attached to his hip by a chain, a rather head-sized box. Both of them seemed visibly dismayed and this did not change amongst the others that entered the scene. “Well, how shall this be done comrades?” Queried one of the Brothers.
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