Fantasy Diplomacy & Conflict

[BigHippo8]

Okay folks!


Just as we get the last applicant, I want to set some more ground rules for roleplaying.


- Prosperity Posts will not be used for 'meta-roleplaying'. So like, having another nation sign a treaty for them, rather than having the roleplayer think.


Prosperity Posts will mainly be utilized for good things happening to your nation, perhaps to the loss of other ones.


But, that's up to you. Remember, the decline posts must be proportional.


- Conquest of certain lands by war need to be described. So if I wanted both sides of the strait into the Trader's Bay, I'd need to describe the land for the other roleplayer to understand what the war is fought for.


- Please do keep track of your Prosperity and Decline posts. Remember, for every two decline posts, there needs to be two more prosperity posts. The thing is, they can be in any order.


- Roleplay postings are alphabetical. So I'd go first as the 'a' letter nation, then the 'b' letter would post after me.


- DIPLOMACY DIPLOMACY DIPLOMACY. Literally. We're just going to be flexing our muscles at each other throughout the roleplay.


PM me if any of my ambiguity confuzzles you.


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The order:


Lavia


Argonia


Holy Nicene Empire


Vocii


Zairuth


Burasland


The Empire


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Here's the map because who likes to find the old thread.


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[BigHippo8]

Pendel, major military and trading city on the coast of the Trader's Bay


It is morning. Lavian sailors and merchants gather about on the docks, eager to sail off to lands foreign and to trade goods valuable. The Trader’s Bay made for a very unique trading hub between the Nicene Empire and Lavia. As the journey by foot to Nicene would take weeks, the ships get to Nicenean ports in days. The Shimmering Seas were beyond this Bay, waters treacherous and merciless to the average ship and sailor. Nevertheless, the bright orb of light would soon rise from its sleep, and still Lavian explorers and idiots try to find what is beyond the Shimmering ocean. The sun would soon rise from its sleep and the Lavian Armada would stir alongside the saltwater bay.


It is morning, and all is quiet.


Hindered by heavy cloaks and badges, power and expectations, the First Grand Admiral of the Lavian fleet had already arisen from his slumber. He inspects the docks daily, walking of the wood, gazing at the waters with the eyes of one tired and weary.


Yet, it is duty. He is bound by duty.


The triple layered coats and cloaks upon his spent shoulders speak true of his age, old, white hairs springing on his head faster than Lavian warships were built. And boy, were Lavia’s carpenters hard at work, pushing out at least twenty boats each day. Age is no matter, of course, to the responsibilities of the first and grand admiral. There were only three grand admirals, appointed by King and High Priest. The first of the three would be in command of the entire navy.


So, on his shoulders were not the weight of cloaks and metal badges of honor, but decisions and adequate response.


The lapping waters were interrupted due to scurrying footsteps on the dock. The old admiral turns to face the arrival.


“First Grand Admiral,” says a mere cabin boy, bowing deeply as is customary of the rank. “Your breakfast is prepared.”


“Ah, is it?” The admiral wears a drained smile. “Very well. Prepare also a bottle of strawberry wine. Its taste is most excellent.”


“Good Admiral, you have the wine every morning. Should you not be cautious of your health?”


“I am to pass soon anyway. Let me enjoy my last days, boy.”


---------------------------------------------------------------


In the adorned and ornamented manor of the First, the admiral and head of his household sat alone at his breakfast. The breakfast room, or so advertises its purpose, was a simple room. A chair, to which the wizened general is seated on, and a long table. The breakfast was large, enough for three grown men to feast upon. Yet, the venerable man reached for his strawberry wine only. The constant attention and observation of his peers and household servants had him frustrated.


“Even in my grey-haired days and elderly ways, you are what I long for each morning.”


The commander drinks straight out of the bottle and sets it back down. Then, he grabs his heart. He clenches his teeth and slowly lays his head down on the table.


Poison? was his last thought, departing to meet the Ten Gods.


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Decline Post. D1 P2

 

[Tom-Pen]

Argonia, The Town of Argo


Sir Marcus Brent awoke in the early hours of the morning before even the sun birds or bees had. Since becoming king he learned it was quite an ordinary thing to wake so early. Rising to his feet and stretching Sir Marcus released a loud exasperated grunt; after some more stretching, grunting, and of course scratching (as to where I see it best not to say,) he dressed himself for the day and headed to breakfast.


After breakfast Sir Marcus left his home, a beautifully crafted wood and stone manor atop a hill, and made way for the barracks. His walk took him down the small hill upon which his manor was perched and along a dirt path that wound through a thicket of trees and into the center of town.


All in all the town of Argo was rather small; going from the center of town out there was the king's manor to the north and the town's barracks to the west. Both roads, the one to the king's manor and the one to the barracks, only went a half mile or so from the center of town.


Sir Marcus continued towards the barracks and as he did he caught the figure of a woman running towards him from the way he was going. He watched unsure what to make of her somewhat frantic look.


"Sir Marcus!" She screamed once noticing him; sir Marcus quickly realized the woman was Mrs. Wilmont the wife of his First Lieutenant.


"What is it Josephine?" He called her by her first name as the moment seemed beyond that of social formalities.


"The barracks is on fire!"


"On fire!" Sir Marcus was now yelling himself, and running for that matter. He headed for the barracks again however at a much faster pace then before, Mrs. Wilmont followed after him.


Sir Marcus Reached the barracks which was indeed on fire burning with great ferocity. The flames whipped in the smoke filled air and the timber cracked under its own weight. There was already a group of men fighting the fire best they could, running back and forth from a river that passed just a few yards from the barracks with buckets of water. Sir Marcus searched the crowd for his First Lieutenant, Danial Wilmont. It was the First Lieutenant however that found Sir Marcus.


"Sir!" The First Lieutenant called out. Sir Marcus turned round to face the man, he was covered with ash and had some minor burns to his hands and arms.


"What happen?" Marcus demanded.


"Soldiers from Mell, sir." The First Lieutenant was breathing heavily and was obviously tired and beaten from fighting the fire.


"Mell? When did they attack?" He asked. "And how many?" He added before the First Lieutenant answered.


"About an hour ago, sir. Only five or so I think, Walter and Henis were on patrol when they came across them lighting up some brush and kindle they put along the north wall of the barracks."


"Damn, did we lose any men in the fire?"


"Ten are missing, sir. If I had to guess they are probably still inside." Just as the First Lieutenant finished speaking a portion of the barracks collapsed in on itself sending sparks and ash into the air. Sir Marcus watched as the blaze burned away a part of his town and worse yet, some of his men; the barracks could be rebuilt but not the men they were gone, just gone.


"There is one other thing, sir." Sir Marcus turned curious to hear what he had to say. "Walter and Henis, they caught one of the Soldiers from Mell, we got him tied up to a tree by the river, Walter is there watching over him." Sir Marcus was pleased to know that they had a man to hold accountable for the fire and knew of the great importance any information on Mell they might be able to get from the man was, but still his mind was on the fire.


The Fire was eventually put out but the barracks was completely destroyed; on top of losing the barracks the final death toll was 12 men. Along with losing the barracks and men a majority of their weapons had been lost, normally kept inside an armory in the barracks. Sir Marcus found his First Lieutenant after the fire had been put out and spoke with him once more. "After you are done here go and get yourself cleaned up and take care of those burns, tell the men to do the same."


"Yes sir, thank you."


"I want to see that soldier from Mell, bring him to the manor after super, until then I want no one to see him or speak with him."


"Understood, sir." Sir Marcus turned towards the town and began to walk but stopped and turned back towards the First Lieutenant.


"Bring him well after supper, I'd rather not see him on a full stomach." It was then that the First Lieutenant truly understood the meaning of the visit; he nodded in affirmation. Sir Marcus nodded back and then left for town, his people had to be informed of the incident.


Decline Post. D1 P2

 

[ThatGuyWithSouvlaki]

Fairhaven, Holy Capital of Nicene.


It was noon in Fairhaven and the sun glowed bright over the city, particularly over the Grand Temple which towered over all other building in the city. The jewel in the heart of the holy city, it was the largest doom roofed temple in the known world as well as a architectural and engineering marvel. The outside made of red and blue coloured stones. In inside polychromatic marble made its columns and floor, the wall mosaic of intricate images and paintings of the prophet's life and teachings. It was said to house the remains of the prophet so the temple was where major festivals were held and the place the council met.


Today, the temple would hold a special meeting one organized by the council. Its attendants were not just priest but merchants, villagers and soldier hand picked for their devotion to the faith for a special task. The Patriarch himself would address them personally:


"My people. Sons and daughters of Nicene. My kin. Be proud you are the exemplars of our faith, the embodiment of our tenants. Dedication, humility, generosity, sacrifice. You are near to receive the enlightenment you worked for.


However, there are those outside the empire that suffer because the have not seen the light like you do. They are blinded by greed or denied our words by oppressors. You are picked for an important and glorious duty, to spread the prophet words to our unfortunate neighbours by slipping in amongst their ranks. You will guide to the right path whether villager noble or king! You will provide information so you better we can speed the word amongst them!


I won't lie to you...The task is fraught with danger as heretics would be amongst their ranks and will stop at nothing to stop young. Do not dispare let the words of the prophet guide your path for a true believer never dies but gets reborn a new while heretics dies forever! One People! One Faith!"


Prosperity Post. D2 P1

 

[MarkNorbert]

Amako. Ancestral home of the Vocii. A huge city surrounded by dense, beautiful and dark forests, protected by it's massive and amazing wooden fortifications, so tall, that you would need three ladders upon each other to scale it, so thick, that ordinary rocks thrown at it by siege artillery could not ruin it, so terrifying, that you would think twice before climbing it. It was the Vocii ancestors who began building the Great Wall of Amako and it is the duty of every warchief to put his mark on it, to make it even more spectacular.


Within the walls, normal Vocii houses inhabited the city, houses made out of dirt or wood. Other buildings, such as the Mustering Field was made out of wood as well, the temples, the warchief's house was also made out of wood. In front of the warchief's house stood a man, with nothing but a pair of brown pants. His image was rather horrifying. His massive black beard with his long pitch-black hair gave him the look of a forest monster, his scars on his face didn't made him look any better. His muscular chest, his huge and powerful arms, were also covered in black body hair. In his hand, was a wooden short sword and in front of him, was a boy. The boy was barely 10 years old and he already knew how to hold a sword. A wooden sword, to be more precise. His outfit was similar to the giant in front of him, only that he had no body hair, or beard, only short hair.


With one roar, the boy charged the giant, swinging his sword like a mad man, his eyes, closed tight. He felt the air washing his face gently, only to be replaced by the hard, unforgiving ground as his nose hit it. "Fool!" a strong voice yelled. The boy tried to rise up, but he was pulled up as the man grabbed him by the arm. "How many have I told you? Eyes open! You are a disgrace for Urakles and our ancestors! What are you, a farmer!? Even they know that they have to keep their eyes open!" the man yelled some more, the boy, his eyes on the ground, listened carefully and fearfully.


"Warchief!" a new voice came into hearing. The beastly man turned around to face an Elder. Dressed in his old armor, which was composed out of chainmail over his torso and legs, green cloth over his arms, a pair of brown pants and a pair of leather boots, the Elder looked ready for war. "The Elders wish to speak with you." he said. The warchief, turned to the child, his anger, slightly diminished, spoke. "Go to your mother. See if she needs aid in the house.". With no hesitation, the boy ran towards his house, abandoning his wooden shield and sword at the front entrance. "Let us go." the warchief said.


Dressing up, the warchief arrived at the Elder's Forum, the place where decisions regarding the future of the tribe was discussed. The warchief, greeting everyone, sat down at the head of the table. Around the table were every Vocii Elder. "Speak and give me your wisdom and afterwards, let us moist our throats with some ale." the warchief said.


"Warchief, we have a problem. Urakles, our beloved God demands blood! He blocked the entrance to our mines! We are no longer able to enter them and we need to craft our tools and swords." one of the elders spoke. "It will take several years to clear the path and we don't have them!"


The warchief groaned in frustration as he heard the news. "What is your advice?" he asked. "Trade. With the other tribes." one said. "War with them. Let us take their iron and women." another said. "Search Urakles's Wall(Towering Yesti). If we find none, let us go to the soft men." another said. The warchief listened to countless suggestions, one more ridiculous than the other. It was time to make a decision. To silent the tongues of the Elders, the warchief smashed his fist into the table as he rose up. "I have made my decisions. May Urakles lead us towards..."


Decline post. (I am confused about the D2, P1 thingy. Some explain it to me please?)

 

[BigHippo8]

Amako. Ancestral home of the Vocii. A huge city surrounded by dense, beautiful and dark forests, protected by it's massive and amazing wooden fortifications, so tall, that you would need three ladders upon each other to scale it, so thick, that ordinary rocks thrown at it by siege artillery could not ruin it, so terrifying, that you would think twice before climbing it. It was the Vocii ancestors who began building the Great Wall of Amako and it is the duty of every warchief to put his mark on it, to make it even more spectacular.
Within the walls, normal Vocii houses inhabited the city, houses made out of dirt or wood. Other buildings, such as the Mustering Field was made out of wood as well, the temples, the warchief's house was also made out of wood. In front of the warchief's house stood a man, with nothing but a pair of brown pants. His image was rather horrifying. His massive black beard with his long pitch-black hair gave him the look of a forest monster, his scars on his face didn't made him look any better. His muscular chest, his huge and powerful arms, were also covered in black body hair. In his hand, was a wooden short sword and in front of him, was a boy. The boy was barely 10 years old and he already knew how to hold a sword. A wooden sword, to be more precise. His outfit was similar to the giant in front of him, only that he had no body hair, or beard, only short hair.


With one roar, the boy charged the giant, swinging his sword like a mad man, his eyes, closed tight. He felt the air washing his face gently, only to be replaced by the hard, unforgiving ground as his nose hit it. "Fool!" a strong voice yelled. The boy tried to rise up, but he was pulled up as the man grabbed him by the arm. "How many have I told you? Eyes open! You are a disgrace for Urakles and our ancestors! What are you, a farmer!? Even they know that they have to keep their eyes open!" the man yelled some more, the boy, his eyes on the ground, listened carefully and fearfully.


"Warchief!" a new voice came into hearing. The beastly man turned around to face an Elder. Dressed in his old armor, which was composed out of chainmail over his torso and legs, green cloth over his arms, a pair of brown pants and a pair of leather boots, the Elder looked ready for war. "The Elders wish to speak with you." he said. The warchief, turned to the child, his anger, slightly diminished, spoke. "Go to your mother. See if she needs aid in the house.". With no hesitation, the boy ran towards his house, abandoning his wooden shield and sword at the front entrance. "Let us go." the warchief said.


Dressing up, the warchief arrived at the Elder's Forum, the place where decisions regarding the future of the tribe was discussed. The warchief, greeting everyone, sat down at the head of the table. Around the table were every Vocii Elder. "Speak and give me your wisdom and afterwards, let us moist our throats with some ale." the warchief said.


"Warchief, we have a problem. Urakles, our beloved God demands blood! He blocked the entrance to our mines! We are no longer able to enter them and we need to craft our tools and swords." one of the elders spoke. "It will take several years to clear the path and we don't have them!"


The warchief groaned in frustration as he heard the news. "What is your advice?" he asked. "Trade. With the other tribes." one said. "War with them. Let us take their iron and women." another said. "Search Urakles's Wall(Towering Yesti). If we find none, let us go to the soft men." another said. The warchief listened to countless suggestions, one more ridiculous than the other. It was time to make a decision. To silent the tongues of the Elders, the warchief smashed his fist into the table as he rose up. "I have made my decisions. May Urakles lead us towards..."


Decline post. (I am confused about the D2, P1 thingy. Some explain it to me please?)

Yep! D stands for Decline and P for Prosperity.


Since you did a Decline Post, it'd be D1 P2

 

[darkev]

The hunts were becoming plentiful. It seemed to the Zairuth that each new animal brough tin from the hunt was bigger than the last. The local shamans and witch doctors claimed that the gods were happy with them, and was rewarding them. Everyone was happy, so most of the worship for the harvest went to the God of being happy.


Although the people felt that nothing was wrong, the Chiefs thought differently. Each one from every village in the area that was called Zairuth met in the tribe's village that claimed leadership of all the land of Zairuth. Each one coming to talk about expanding their influence. Of course the leader knew what to do, he wasn't sure how to do it. He had sent many traders to trade the Zairuth art for something better. Most went to the other Barbarian nations, but some risked going over the mountains to trade with the 'civilized' nations. The ones that managed to come back usually had something that made the Chief proud of his traders even more, and the ones that didn't come home would leave a mourning widow.


The current leader had made some mistakes though, he refused to have a new ceremony to elect a new chieftain, because he knows that he would lose his power and risk sending the Zairuth empire into turmoil. But the people don't see it that way, and wish for a new chief that worships the gods more. So when the chief left to the meeting, the village of Zairuth started the ceremony, and claim independence from the empire until the new chief is picked


Decline Post (D1, P2) ((The main village is the leader of art, so trading has basically stopped.))

 

[Soviet Panda]

The Council was meeting once more. Some of the members were dressed in military uniforms. Others wore fine cut wool or silk. But one thing they all had in common, they wore a mask. Some were of birds of prey, others creatures from their myths and legends.


A man in a bull mask and wearing a suit of armor banged hard on the table before saying, "This meeting has begun. Let me start it off with something I believe to be important. The Empire has always wanted a war. So far, they have just been squabbling with each other. But as of late, I believe they have been eyeing our country. I suggest building a wall along our border, protecting us from them. All in favor?"


There was a deafening silence. Slowly, one by one, members of the Council began raising there hand. But one, a fellow in silks and a badger mask, said something. "But might they also take as preperations for war? I suggest we send out ambassadors to the Zairuth snd Vocii, requesting an alliance with them to keep the Empire in check All in favor?" At this, hands were quickly raised. The Badger gave sound reasoning to many, but a few remained stead fast with the Bull, no doubt long time supporters.


"That is good reasoning, but what if the others refuse? Then we would have no protection and no allies." Replied the bull before a man in light leather and chainmail armor with a hound mask jumped in.


"Why not both? If the others accept, then great. But if not, we have the wall. All in favor?" At this both the Bull and the Badger raised their hand, quickly followed by their supporters and then the others.


It was settled, the Bull and a fellow with a bear mask and long grey beard woul go to the Vocii. And the Badger and Hound would go to the Zairuth. In the mean time, the rest of the Council would oversee the construction of the massive dirt, wood, and stone layered wall that would stretch across their land border.


Prosperity: D2 P1.

 

[Mason]

The Iron Hills-North East Border with Vocii-Castle Mourner


Dret parried another flurry of blows with ease before stepping into the other mans guard and punching him firmly in the jaw. The man staggered, blood spewing from his mouth as he did. Dret grinned and took a few steps forward twirling his great sword ideally. “Done yet?” The man looked at Dret with pure hatred before straightening and raising his own blade. Dret grinned, this one had brass he’d warrant him that. With a savage cry the man charged only to receive a boot in the groin. The man doubled over gasping and Dret shook his head sadly. It was to bad this one had showed promise. “You know our laws, so choose.” Caked with blood and grim the man was a pitiful sight made all the more pitiful when he turned his tear stained face to the war chief. Dret felt his face harden and steel enter his voice. “Choose!” The man might have begged, he might have made a desperate move, he might have accepted banishment. Instead the man forced himself into a kneeling position and bowed his head exposing his neck. Dret nodded raising his sword so it hovered over the mans neck. “Despite you're failure God accepts you into his domain.” The words were barely a whisper and with a swift fluid movement it was over.


Dret moved away from the crowd and the body of the man. He had ordered it buried but that would not happen until all in the castle had a chance to marvel at the strength of their war chief. Personally he thought the tradition was poor one but that did not change the fact that it was a tradition. “War Chief!” Dret turned in the direction of the breathless cry and smiled. “What news William?” The boy barely 15 stopped a few feet from Dret panting like a dog. “Grave news sir.” Dret smiled at the runner and gave him a moment before continuing. “Its always grave William.” The boy’s head bobbed up and down making it clear he agreed. “Chief Colt and Scifer are dead sir.” Dret felt his smile fade replaced by a frown. “We’re they challenged?” This time the boy shook his head. “Assassin's.” The boy said the word like venom and venom it was. Assassin's had no honor and were cowards who killed from the safety of the shadows. “Think nothing of it William, here in our domain we are safe.” Just as the words left his mouth three crossbow bolts buried themselves in the man’s chest ending the reign of Dret Strong Sword the most prominent candidate for General in The Empire.


(Decline Post)D1 P2

 

[BigHippo8]

The great seat of Lavian power, the capital city, Asair.


There, two grand thrones are positioned in the Temple of the Ten and in the King’s expansive palace. Not that Lavia’s King stopped fighting for influence over the people, he would often times strip nobility of their wealth and deliver the riches to the common folk. To be exact, the High Priest is slowly losing significance amongst the Lavians, save for the occasional religious event to bolster morale.


The capital, in question, has herself a home in the heart of the roads which lead to every Lavian port trade city, major or minor, and the paths which lead away from the Kingdom. In the labyrinth network of dirt highways, Asair is the spider in the web’s center. Truly, because of the tolls from its corresponding position, and that any could purchase a voyage or ship to all Bulara, she has become affluent and bountiful.


Within the Lavian capital, the poor district means a warm meal three times a day and job opportunities about the city. Her streets are stone paved and are worked into clean blocks of rock. Transportation is ordered into a system, having lanes for pedestrians and horse and carriage folk.


Now the King’s palace is where today’s happenings occur, the death of the First warranting numerous audiences.


“I want peace in my palace!” the good King Faris I had demanded. “Men of Lavia, are we simply little children, talking out of place? You shall have your turn, be assured.”


He faces his inquirer. “I have measures in place to ensure security in Pendel, mainly the people’s pick of their most desired and skilled admiral between the two Grand Admirals.” In his kingly wear of a long, silk robe and a jeweled crown, he raises his hands to the assembly, one holding a scepter. “Your son in Pendel will I ensure safety personally.” Faris nods to the overjoyed man and he backs away from the Lavian Throne. The crowd erupts into applause.


The King lowers his arms into a grip onto the metal scepter. Then, he taps twice the marble floor of the gathering hall. Two taps, for the King wishes to propose one thing or another to the Lavian populace. “Men of the Kingdom, what say ye? At this height of our might, we can surely take the entire strait from the Nicenean clowns. As it stands now, we cannot exact price on the entrance into the Trader’s lest we have absolute dominance on both sides.” The ruler of Lavia sneaks a small smile into his proposition, being that the people are captivated by the words. “Once we can tax the Bay, imagine the revenue. There will not be a single man in this Kingdom who will go without a horse carriage.” The Lavians cheer, some jumping in the vast cluster.


“Very well. I shall consult the High Priest on the matter.” The sovereign taps his scepter thrice, declaring the audience over.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Faris, what are you up to?” the High Priest of the Ten interrogates. The two exalted men stand alone in the great Temple, its pillars striving for the skies.


“The annexation of a small piece of Nicenean land. Those buffoons have too much of that anyway.”


“Blood marks the land of the Faithful. Conflict, strife…-”


“We shall also mark their land with our golden blood. The people are in agreement. There is nothing you can do, High Priest Veylor.”


“You ask for my blessing then, King Faris.”


“That I do. Rather, I would advise it. Think of the angry Lavian faces should you not.”


“The Ten have my soul. Mere men have no pull on me.”


“Nor does your daughter in my care, it seems.”


Veylor bites his lip, eyes dark with the fire of vengeance. After a long competition of eyes between King and Priest, Priest gives in. “You have my blessing.”


Faris the First grins. “The rulers beyond the Yesti will do well to join us, you should rest assured. The messengers have been sent to all those land hungry, smelly men. The Argonian ruler too. We won’t be the only ones marking blood on the Faithful lands.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The contents of the letter:


Greetings to the rulers beyond the Yesti,


You tribes are in continuous wars with one another, where nothing is certain. Shall you kings not deem it wise to sally out from your homelands? Shall you kings forsake this opportunity to please your wives and children with sparkling gifts found only in the north? The Lavian Kingdom will provide you with hundreds of warships, to allow you past those wretched mountains.


Come, now is the moment to decide for yourselves whether to stay in the animal skin, or to be in gold and shiny suits and gowns. Decide for yourselves whether to stay in those weary used lands, or forge a new place in the north, where the sun shines bright forever and the moon sings songs at night.


Secure your future,


King of the Shimmering Ocean


Greetings to the dearest ruler of Argonia,


Might you be tired of watching the workings of that Western Empire? Has her wealth and gold appealed to your hearts? Has her bounty won over your eyes? This humble Kingdom of Lavia shall ship your men directly to the capital of the Empire, and all shall be yours then.


Or perhaps the Gods of your own has had enough of the faithless empire? Should you not bow to your Gods and submit to their wills? Come now, our boats will send your good men straight to the Niceneans.


Make your land one of plenty, where wonders would rise day after day,


The King of Lavia





Prosperity Post. P1 D1








Awh shucks.

 

[Tom-Pen]

Argonia, Town of Argo, Kings Manor.


Sir Marcus Brent watched from his window as three men approached the manor, one man bound at the wrists with a bag over his head, the soldier from Mell no doubt. The three men reached the door to the manor and not twenty seconds later sir Brent's butler appeared.


"The First Lieutenant and company have arrived, sir." He said.


"Yes right on time; thank you Mr. Buller." Sir Brent responded.


Downstairs the First Lieutenant and Walter stood with the prisoner waiting for sir Brent.


"Why haven't we killed this dog yet sir?"


"Walter, you will learn in time that sir Brent is a wise man, much wiser then men twice his age; so if he says not to kill someone, then we don't." Said the First Lieutenant to Walter.


"But why don't he want this dog dead already?" Walter persisted. The First Lieutenant was about to answer but just then sir Brent entered the room. Having heard Walter's question as he entered the room he answered it.


"Because this dog may lead us to other dogs Walter."


"Right, sir." Walter now felt ashamed for questioning the kings orders so openly, and in the kings own home at that!


"Come, follow me." Said sir Brent, appearing to shrug off what other kings might see as a great disrespect. The two men followed dragging along the bound prisoner. Sir Brent lead them down several corridors and staircases before they finally arrived at their destination, the cellar. It was dark and the room appeared to be quite empty aside from a chair placed in the center of the room. "Tie him to the chair." Sir Brent said, gesturing to it with his hand; the two men did so without question. Sir Brent stepped close to the bound man and pulled the bag covering his head off. The man seemed confused, unaware of his surroundings. "How did you know where to attack?" Sir Brent asked the man with a strong menacing tone to his voice. The bound man said nothing and only looked at sir Brent defiantly. "Are there more soldiers from Mell camped near by?" Again the bound man said nothing, that same defiant look in his eyes. Sir Brent stood and backed away from the bound man. "First Lieutenant, if you please."


"Yes sir." He responded to his king and then pulled the gloves and ring from his hands before abruptly beating the bound man. Sir Brent then asked him questions again and still the bound man gave nothing but a look of defiance. This happened several times over until the bound man was closer to death than life, and then, only then, did they stop. "I don't think he is going to speak, sir." Said the First Lieutenant as he brushed his sweaty hair hair aside with his forearm, not wanting to use his hands as they were covered with a good deal of blood.


"I think your right... kill him." The First Lieutenant said a quiet prayer to the Argonian God for the sake of the bound man's soul, as is the custom of the Argonians; all the men bowed their heads well he said it, even the king. When the prayer was finished the First Lieutenant pulled his sword from its sheath and stabbed the man through the heart, he was dead.


*


The following morning while the sir Brent ate his breakfast a Lavian messenger arrived at the kings manor with a letter from the Lavian king himself. Sir Brent read the letter and thought over it for some time before drafting his response.


*


To the Lavian King,


Our nation is far too small to help you at this time, are land is broken and we face war with others for control our homeland, everyman we have will be needed in this fight. Perhaps at another time, when Argonia is ruled by one man as one nation, we can speak of such matters but not now. We can not and will not aid you in your conquest.


From Sir Marcus Brent of Argonia.


Decline Post, P2

 

[ThatGuyWithSouvlaki]

(he he. I sense an operation Barbarossa coming and will end just the same.)


Inquisitor Belisarius walked his usual patrol through the military harbor to the port city of Astia, the base of the Nicenean 3rd fleet one of its biggest. It was usually a quite patrol, the military has always kept a good hold of there port and the surrounding area but the Inquisition still needed to make its presence known in the area. It was a token presence to scare the populace into obedience, the worse that Belisarius ever found was a few sailors getting drunk after a long tour of duty. He didn't mind, in an Empire so vast a densely populated the crime tends to much its scale to the point that in some cities there district were even the Inquisition didn't dare enter without the safety of numbers. He was a faithful and dedicated as much as the next guy but he wasnt suicidal.


Near the end end of his shift, Belisarius passed through a warehouse district were much of the empire trade is stored as well as the fuel of the empires secret weapon was kept for potential campaigns. The warehouse there were held in was normally guarded heavily around the clock but when he passed the warehouse no guard was in sight. He moved closer to the warehouse when he noticed somebody step out one of the warehouse windows.


"Hey, who goes there!?" Belisarius called out approaching the man but the man took off at hight speed. Besilarius was about to give chaise when the warehouse exploded in a burst flame, engulfing him in flame. The wind from the sea was strong this night so the flames spread quickly through the port with fire fighters able to do little to stem the flames. Before long even the fleet could escape the ranging inferno.


Decline Post. P1D1

 

[MarkNorbert]

Eider, the closest city to Urakles's Wall. After the warchief gave the order to explore the Towering Yesti for any possible mine, the city has been filled with life. Men walking everywhere, with all sorts of tools, women walking around, with water and food. It was like it was a festival! Only difference was that no one was dancing, singing or drinking, but getting ready to work.


Meanwhile, in Amako, the warchief recently received a letter from what appeared to be the King of the Shimmering Ocean. Reading the letter, as any trained bard would do, the warchief finished the letter with a laugh. He asked a guard for a piece of paper and something to write with before the doors to his hall opened wide. Narrowing his eyes, he immediately recognized the man known as the Bull, alongside with a bear masked man.


Raising from his chair, the warchief opened his arms wide. "Welcome friend!" he smiled. "Let me bring the ale to satisfy the throat and meat to fill your stomach." the warchief said. Leading the two men to the table, the warchief eyed them. "Now, what brings you here?" he said.


After the Bull explained to the warchief, he sighed. "This offer will make a pack of wolves think twice before jumping at the prey. Unfortunately, we cannot accept. Not like this. Let us rest our tongues with this. We will become brothers of arms if you would help us in coin or iron. Otherwise, I must abandon the hunt. Go back to your warchief and speak. I shall await your arrival." he said. After the two men left, the warchief requested the paper he asked for.


*


To the King of the Shimmering King,


Your offer, as generous as it may be, is the same as a tavern without ale, which is an useless tavern for us! We have no need for your warships. We are not sailors! We are warriors! Urakles's breed!


Your demand for us to kill a bear with bare hands is insulting. We have no need for your soft lands. We shall remain here, where real men are born, unlike you, soft men. We seek not gold! We have our own riches! We seek not glory there! Conquest of your lands is equivalent with a successful digestion. Come back with a more reasonable offer.


From the warchief of the Vocii


Prosperity post. D2 P2

 

[darkev]

The village of Zairuth was in a celebration. The challenges to get a new leader were going better than any normal villager could have wanted. Of course, the other villages thought that what they were doing was a waste of time, but the leaders knew it was an important part of their society. Of course, the other villages did the same thing, but thought it could have been held off until the others could also have their celebrations at the same time.


When Burasland sent their representatives to talk to Zairuth as a whole, the Chiefs of the Zairuth nation had to turn down the representatives until a later date, something that made some at the meeting angry, but there was nothing they could do.


Although all the Chiefs and the representatives were cramped in a house, everyone else was in the town square, awaiting for one of the participants to win in a wrestling match. It was to help the people to decide who the next chief would be, but it was just a small step in a long process. But yet, things sat still in the Nation of Zairuth. Although trade had slowed, now everyone was waiting for the new chief, or trying to attend the ceremony, some leaving entire hunting villages abandoned until after the celebration. The only thing that would happen for weeks, would be this celebration and challenges for a new chief in Zairuth.


Decline post (P2)

 

[Soviet Panda]

The Bear pulled off his mask, revealing a rather wisned m, staring at the war chief. "I have been swinging an axe before most of the others in the Council. And I believe that I can make my own decisions. We can supply you with an amount of gold, but I'm not guaranteeing anything." The Bear continued speaking, mostly saying how they could offer a large amount of food and small amounts of everything else accompanied by a "but that's not a guarantee." He also rambled on about when he was younger, about small skirmishes with the Empire and what he could, or more accurately would, do if he was younger before they were ushered out by the servants when the Bull or the war chief got tired of sitting there listening to an old man ramble.


The embassy to Zairuth sat in their accommodations. The Badger was pacing impatiently, not amused in the slightest at having to wait. The Hound, on the other hand, sat patiently in a chair, knowing diplomacy did take time.


The Council was meeting again, odd how many times they had met in such a short amount of time. It was enough to keep the wives and some of the men gossiping about the why. It was about the letter, sent by this King of the Shimmering Ocean. "He insults us to our face and claims we cannot please our women." spoke a man in a rather intricate stag mask and finely cut wool. "They claim to want to bring us to a land ripe with treasures, but say we are little better than animals if we do not send our men to fight them. I say, we reject the offer, unless demands of our own are met. All in favor."


The passion with which the Stag spoke lit a fire under the rest of those seated, and all raised their hand, with little, if any, grumbling. They would insult them as they saw fit.


***


King of the sparkling salt water.


We are offended that you think of us as men who still wear animal skins. Not even the Empire's tribes do it anymore, except for the most remote. But all can be forgiven. We demand a full time guard of naval warships, that will remain under our command.


Yours truly


The barbaric people that wear animal skins.


Decline.(Embassy was turned down the first time and sending back a rather harsh demand.) p1 d1

 

[Mason]

Castle Calt- Plains 50 Miles East of Burasland


The war cleaver lay quivering in the ground next to the bloody form of a man. The three and a half foot blade gleamed wickedly in the last rays of the fading sun. A few feet away a boy, barely 18 stood, his breath coming in short ragged gasps that shook his entire body. The villagers assembled looked on in shock as the boy raised his head revealing eyes clouded with crimson. “Weak!” The single word ripped itself from the boys mouth with such a ferocity that all who were assembled backed up a few paces. The man on the ground spit a combination of phlegm and blood into the sand of the combat ring before looking at the boy with pure loathing. The mans hard eyes begged the simple question that had driven the two to the trial by combat. What would you do? The boys breath was coming more easily now, though his poster remained aggressive. “This tribe is weak!” The words were not as forceful this time, more like an observation rather than an accusation. “When were the days that the Calt stood proud? Are they so far gone that we allow emissaries into our homes to insult us? Was there not a time that we would liberate one's head from their shoulders and send it back to their king for such a transgression? His voice had taken on a calmer tone though it was none the less charismatic. The villagers knew that the boy spoke of the emissary from Zairuth. The one Chief Pilus Stone Spear had allowed to leave unscathed after offering such insults to their tribe. The boy reached into his shredded tunic and removed a small scrap of bloodied paper. Unfolding it he looked onto the congregation in disgust. “Wretched mountains! Animal skins! Weary used lands! With every sentence he stabbed his finger into the flimsy material indicating the location of the words. The boy took a second to compose himself, the rage he had secomed to earlier evident in his face. When he spoke again it was with a bowed head, his voice a raspy whisper carrying on the wind. “My friends, a pompous and ignorant fool rules in the north. They offer us their ships, their shimmering gold, their gleaming gowns, and their insults. They offer these things to us as if we are less than that foolish nation. As if this was not enough we have received reports,....” He looked up at this point glaring accusingly at the congregation his voice raising. “.... to the west Burasland has built a wall! Of all insults to our people is that not the greatest? A challenge, a question of might, an attempt to hold our people back!” The boy looked at the fallen war chief, eyes burning with an intensity that forced the other man to look away. “I tell you it is not just them! The other nations have grown complacent! They forget our power, our might!” “Name yourself boy.” The war chief wheezed the demand through a sizeable spray of blood. “My name is Ryker of Calt.” The boy stated his name firmly, eyes boring into the figure of the fallen war chief. “What would you do, Ryker?” The man had forced himself to his knees reconsidering the tall well muscled boy before him. “I would see the days of old restored! I seek to join our nation under Gods banner!


So rose Ryker Blood Born leader of the Calt. His first order to be carried out was in the form of two messages, one sent to Burasland, the other to Vocci.


-To the Land of the Futile Wall


Insolent Lavia has no doubt sent an emissary to your country with words of honey laced with scorn. You're country is a small one and while you have insulted us we are willing to overlook such a transgression. Despite your size you are a great country that could prove instrumental in the plans of The Empire. What I offer is this, support my tribe and when the armies of The Empire unite we will recognize Burasland as it’s own free nation and leave you in peace. We do not make this offer lightly and we believe you know the repercussions for any further insults to our people.


-The Calt


-To the Rulers of the Yesti


You're nation is one of warriors and in many ways shares bonds with that of our own. Lavian schum have come to our doors degrading our ways of life and offering insults. Yours is a proud people and I find it hard to accept that such a people would allow such transgression without repercussions. If that is the case I send this not to the nation of proud warriors my father knew but rather to cowards hiding in the hills. I speak no hollow promises of glory or power. I simply offer a question regarding the scum that have come to our door. What is to be done?


-The Calt


Prosperity (P1 D1)

 

[BigHippo8]

The High Priest laughs.


His messengers have been swift about the King’s failed patchwork of an alliance. There will be an audience at this midday, for the people are eager and high-spirited to hear the results.


How the High Priest continues to laugh.


In his grand four-horse carriage, Veylor is to be on his way to the King. The hour was nearly right that the King would announce his plan botched. The meticulously cut stone road, as Veylor snook peaks out of his carriage, he could see jubilant faces, not one worried or afraid.


Such is the Lavian wealth, that even failure would be taken lightly.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The King’s Palace.


Some would compare the Highness’s Palace to the Towering Mountains by the southern lands. After all, Lavian architecture stands highest at Faris’s residence. Two massive granite strongholds are beside the palace, large enough for households upon households to settle in. Gardens, green vineyards, overlying flowers and blooming plants entwined against one another; roses and lilies piling on tiny meadow hills, honey spurting fountains banding as one in a crown- shaped formation. And those are the things the King stores in his royal home, that onlookers might just gaze in wonder.


High Priest climbs out of the carriage and bids the driver farewell. He could see now the Lavian common-folk are gathering, and soon the rich nobility. The early ones to the audience were in circles, chatting about their wives and husbands, perhaps discussing bigger and more important news as well.


The nobles were arriving moments behind Veylor’s own arrival. Their carriages were cloaked with metals rare, horses strong and beautiful. They rivaled the high priestly horse and box, much so in fact Veylor would gawk at the extravagance.


Yet, the commons cheered at the noblemen and women’s coming. These aristocrats are not simply rich fat ignorant oafs. They are leaders, fighters, naval officers and military spear soldiers. The good King Faris has been wise in his selection of whom to lavish gold.


Later, when the parade of carriages had ended and the generals and commanders and whatnot have appeared, the King would come out onto the palace balcony and address the masses. In his hand a scepter and on his shoulders a magnificence robe. One tap on the ground, for the audience has begun.


“Good nation of Lavia, your King greets you.”


“King! How has the alliance gone?!” “For that matter, how goes Pendel?!”


Veylor resists an urge to chortle.


The King raises a hand to still the crowd. “My people, I do not lie to you. Pendel is in sound hands under the First Grand Admiral of the Imperial Lavian Navy. As for the attack on the Niceneans, none shall come to our aid it seems.”


Faris dips his head in sorrowful acknowledgement. “The southerners refuse wealth everlasting because of the poorly worded message, and one in particular even demanded compensation. They want to be holed up forever in that wasteland, drinking mud water and hunting goose while we drink from gold cups. They have rejected, and the penalty is upon their own heads. Eternally doomed behind the great walls of the Yesti.” He chuckles then and the assembly exults the same, despite the announcement.


Two taps of the scepter and the King again speaks. “However, the Argonians to the west have been reasonable. They fight a war amongst themselves, and should we intervene, they will be indebted to us. Thus, to seal our alliance, I will have the First marry one of the Argonian women, while we ship our best spearmen to Argonia.”


Faris the First laughs and comments, “I have heard the women are fairer than dew on the morning poppy.”


Lavians take delight in this, cheering, and leap into the air, several already flexing their sword arm.


“It is decided. A messenger will be sent to Argonia.”


The High Priest steps back into the carriage, the gathered never knowing he was among them.


Give up on this already, Faris.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sir Marucs then, ruler of Argonia,


Again, Lavia will extend warm wishes to you, venerable sovereign. Should you give approval to this proposition, twenty, no, one full hundred ships will sail into your docks, the most skilled Lavian swordsmen and spearmen sallying forward from them and will be under your complete command.


In return, we ask for the hand of your highest and fairest daughter of Argonia to wed our Grand Admiral, for such is necessary to make certain our uncertainties. She will be in our finest manors, dressed in great flowing dresses, dining on silver plates and dancing with handsome princes.


Together might we stand stronger,


Lavia’s King


Prosperity Post. D1 P0

 

[ThatGuyWithSouvlaki]

An emergency meeting of the council of archbishops gathered in the Grand Temple. The council room was relatively unadorned compared to the rest of the temple, as supposed statement on the seriousness of its use. Its only furnishing was a round table surrounded by six wooden chairs and throne. Noone sat on the throne being the seat of the emperor Grivas, whose place was held by an icon of him. The one quite hall was alive with activity as the councillors talked amongst themselves, a concern of the recent events.


"Brothers! Brothers please, quieten down!"The patriarch Hrisostomos finally called out and stood up after a discussion with the archbishop next to him. "I know that the loss of the 3rd fleet is heavy in our mind, the thousands of martyrs and materials will,be difficult to replace. however we can avenge them! Brother Paleologos has information of those responsible. Brother?"


The patriarch sat down as the archbishop closest to him stood up and cleared his throat:


"It is no proof of guilt brothers, but even if unrelated this is a matter of great concern: A missionary in Lavia came across a speech by their king to his people...He means to invade our country..."


The other archbishops began to murmur amongst them in concern and worry. One of them stood up:


"Arrogant fool, announces his plans to invade us to everyone! We must strike them before they do to us!"


The other archbishops murmured in agreement.


"Easy brothers! Easy!"Brother Palaologos called out." Military intervention may be necessary but it will take time and our forces are spread thin as it is especially with the loss of our fleet. We have some reprieve though they haven't gained the sufficient alliances they need for their plans, another piece of information gift wrapped to us by the horses mouth itself, but it is only matter of time...Any ideas?"


There was a few minutes of silence.


before the patriarch spoke:


"I will start a dialogue with their king see if i can buy time with a diplomacy. I will play our hand, tell him we know and offer him an non aggression pack an to deal with our issue diplomatically or else... I will so be in contact with their high priest, his a heretic but reasonable. He wouldn't want a war so we will see how he can push our offer to the king. Agreed?


There was silence in the room, a call like that is a near admission to weakness but there was little they could do. They all nodded in a agreement.


Decline post P1

 

[MarkNorbert]

(For some reason, it didn't showed me ANY alerts about this role-play, which is rather confusing. -.-)


"The wolves grow hungry and the nights are longer.". The sentence echoed the hall with great burden on the chests of the elders. When matters of diplomacy and for the tribe were needed, the elders would've talked with some occasional laughs between their words, but now, no one was making a sound. The reason of this silence was the continuous letters the warchief kept receiving from the soft men and the other tribes.


After an immense silence, the warchief cleared his throat after he figured he was done playing with his beard. "We keep getting letters. All use other words in these letters, but all say one word. War. War is coming. And we cannot avoid it." the warchief said as he put down the new letter he received. "Elders! Give me your wisdom.". For the first time in the warchief's life, the elders were silent. None spilled a word out. "Well? Nothing?"


"Perhaps we shoud accept the Lavi-" one elder began murmuring, but was interrupted quickly by the warchief's sudden move, to get up from his chair. "We are the Vocii! Bred of Urakles! Sons of war! Our ancestors spilled their blood so we can be free! We surrender our freedom to no one! We will not be taken as fools! If war comes, then let it come! We are not afraid of war!". The warchief looked at the elder's, searching for an emotion in their faces, but nothing. All but fear, despair and confusion. "Shame on you!" he yelled. "YOU! Elders of the Vocii! Silent as a tree! Say something!"


"We can't go to war, not without iron! We need iron!" one of the elder's yelled. "I'll have a spear thrown at my arse then fear war! We got no swords! We'll use sticks! We got no sticks! We'll use stones! We got no stones! We'll rip em' off with our bare hands! But one thing is certain, we. Will. Not. Fear. War." the warchief smashed his fist into the table, then turned around and left the hall.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"My love, you must rest." a calm and soft voice ran to his ears. The warchief turned his attention from the landscape in front of him, which was composed out of forests, to a beautiful woman, with long pitch-black hair and sea-like eyes with a skin pale as the snow. "What bothers you, hmm?" she said as she wrapped her arms around him. Just like a reflex, he wrapped his arms around her. "Dark times are coming. The elders are cowards, quick to forget our ways." he said. "Then man them up." she quickly replied. "You are our leader. We follow you because we know that which way you point your sword, you will do it with the tribes heart and soul. They are scared. We are surrounded by enemies, but friends as well. You just need to make them feel like a Vocii again." she spoke, her words, sweet as honey. The warchief said nothing, but nodded, as he pulled his wife into their resting place, to rest and prepare for tomorrow.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


To the Holy Nicene Empire,


I bring the words that must have been spoken already. War is coming. For a reason, it seems that we are caught in between, or maybe it is just me. I ask for a non-aggression pact. I do not intend to point my sword towards you and I hope you feel the same. I await your words with patience and hope.


To the Empire,


We care little for the soft men's land. However, war is coming and we must prepare. You called out the warrior part of us and we shall do the same. Bards sing old tails as our people fought together once. Whenever that is true or not, we propose this. A military alliance between our people. If the soft men come, I prefer to not worry about my back being stabbed by a sword. What say you?

 

[darkev]

Celebrations were pulling to an end. It was obvious to all that had stayed long enough to watch all the ceremonies for a new leader who it would be. The man known as Draxar was shown as the perfect person to lead the lands Zairuth had. Each competition he won with little adversity. As all the people returned to their villages, Draxar stood above the people, almost being lifted by his joy at being the new Chief. When all the people were gone, he turns to the other chieftains, all of which were finally glad that a new chief was picked in Zairuth. He first decided to meet with the Burasland representatives. "I'm sorry we had to keep you waiting, as you can probably see, we were busy with ceremony. Of course you know what it's like to have this happen at a crucial moment between nations. I hope we haven't kept you too long, we don't want a war because some people thought we had kidnapped you." The other chieftains mutter something about the wait, but it was in a slang lost to most who didn't know their individual villages. Draxar continued to discuss with the representatives, content enough agree to a possible alliance, with the terms that they would understand that Zairuth would stay out of any raids, but help defend. The letter that was sent before the ceremonies, regrettably, was lost, and no reply was sent because of that.


Prosperity post (p1)

 

[Soviet Panda]

The Hound and the Badger were overjoyed that the Zairuth so easily accepted the alliance, agreed to the terms, and promptly begsn their journey back home.


Meanwhile, in Burasland, the Council was debating on the letter sent by the Empire, demanding they march to war with them. There was a thinly diguised threat in the letter that had most of the members worrying. A few, however, wished to either march with the Empire or send the archers to the Wall and defend Buras to the last. Eventually, however, a decision was reached. They had not yet heard word from either the Zairuth or the Vocii, and needed allost immediate support. They wrote a letter to the King of the Shimmering ocean.


***


The King of the Shimmering Ocean


Words said in haste are often the ones sonnest regreted. We humbly ask an apology, and send a small gift. These lands are dangerous, and we are in troubling times. We shall accept your offer, but we have enemies of our own at our gates. Support from you, navy or soldiers, would be greatly appreciated.


The Council


***


The guft in question was a finely decorated model ship, large enough to hold a dog, or several. They were fine hunting hounds, trained to take down wolves and bears, and had the size to do it. The Council only hoped the apology would be sufficient.


Minutes later, all of the might that Burasland could muster marched for the wall. Whether to answe the call of the Empire in in defense of the Wall was unclear.


Prosperity.

 

[Tom-Pen]

(On it.) 
Argonian War Camp, south of Mell


Sir Marcus walked forward in his leather armor and green fabric to inform his men of the plan. "Men, today we take the next step in building Argonia into a true nation. War is a horrible thing but it is a necessity." The men nodded their heads in silence and tightened their grips unto the weapons they held. Sir Marcus made a sign with his hands and the men headed into the woods toward Mell.


Inside the walls of Mell the people slept sound in the night comfortable and easy. The town was surrounded by a short wooden wall that had, up until this night, been able to hold off any threats that have come before it. A guard walked along the Southern end of the town following the wall as he went. Suddenly a crack, like the sound of a twig being stepped on, sounded behind him and he turned, just as his eyes met those of the bowmen's an arrow was already striking deep into his chest. The guard fell and a silent swarm of Argonian soldiers ran on into the town.


For the first few minutes upon entering Mell the Argonian soldiers ran through killing off guards as they headed towards the mayors without any resistance but eventually someone caught sight of them and was able to alert the rest of the town to their presence. From then on a battle raged in the town of Mell for hours. After some time the Argonians backed the mayor Mell along with a small group of soldiers into the town hall. The Argonians couldn't get into them but for the time being they had them trapped, and it seemed to be no more than a matter of time at this point until they would give way.


The Town Of Argonia


Back home in Argonia Sir Marcus had left his First Lieutenant in charge who, during the same time as the battle was taking place, was just drafting his response to a second letter from Lavia.


To King of Lavia:


We will not be bribed into allegiance with any nation. Your offer of arranged marriage is absolutely distasteful and barbaric! It is not the Argonian way, the women of Argonia are free to marry who they wish and are not subject to our King's, or any King's, personal desire or agenda. Again, we decline your request.


First Luitenant, of the King Sir Marcus Brent...

 

[Mason]

The tide rises, the tide falls.


Sailors batten down hatches, captains call.


The tide rises, the tide falls.


Whispering winds turn to raging squall.


The tide rises the tide falls


Out of the blackness a looming wall.


Ships break, masts fall.


Brigs to twigs, deaths victorious call.


So fall the mighty Shaul... the tide rises.....


Year of the Blood Eye -Dissemination of The Navy by, Marks


Decline Post


(P1)


(Just to clarify. The Empires navy while lacking does or rather did exist. The Shaul, while not as prominent as the three main tribes, control the entirety of The Empires navy. As the poem suggests the Shaul’s entire navy was destroyed in a freak storm and as a result will not be battle ready for many years. This leaves The Empire with only a few select ships possessed by small scattered tribes. In short the Empire now has no navy. )

 

[Soviet Panda]

(Way to alter a classic. Bravo.)

 

[BigHippo8]

“Veylor, what makes the crown of the sea so despicable?”


“Faris, it is your arrogance. And who inked these letters anyway?”


King and High Priest sat at the opposite ends of the table, inside the King’s mighty fortress. Faris laid aside his jeweled wreath, while Veylor his gold emblazoned staff. A window is so ingeniously placed between the two ends of the wood table. The birds rejoice with song and dance outside and the clouds weep not rain, but great beams of sun.


It is day and all is quiet.


Faris banishes the accusation to the distance with a simple wave of his hand. Ah, his youthful hand, life flowing from it. The King might have been a honored spear soldier in the army if not for his crown.


“I did. Are you suggesting something?”


“Have I not always?”


Silence ensues.


On the table between the two, there is a peculiar vase, a glass vase, in which holds a almost sacred appearing flower. A iris, perhaps, by its violet shade, or some other obscure flower plucked from the multitudes of gardens below.


Faris sighs. “I take it messengers have kneeled before you with a unique set of letters?”


“Indeed. How about it, Faris? Take the pact and commit yourself to trade and national growth.”


“Taking the strait is the way I commit to trade and national growth.” The King eases his eyes on the merry birds beyond the window, and then they rest once again on Veylor’s. “I will not accept something I will simply break in due time.”


“I have finally seen honor within you, if only a drop. Very well. The southerners?”


“Those dogs are probably butchered by now.”


“And the ship?”


“It is of crude quality. Burned for the winter.”


“Are you mad?”


“Have the skies fallen to the earth? Therefore I do not believe I am mad.”


High Priest Veylor presses a hand to his forehead. “You baboon. What allies will Lavia have if we strike?”


“Veylor, examine the letter. I had not known the barbarians were clowns until I read that. They send puppies and wood while we send men to die on foreign land.”


“Is that not what you have asked of them?”


“Priest, I wonder about you at times. The skin-wearers can bring their dead back to their homeland and dig graves, since they fight at their borders.


“Our men perish in the south, the ships won’t make the voyages every time. The Lavian banner does rule the sea, but not as much as the sea rules us.”


The Staff of the Ten Gods replies, “What then shall we have done?”


The Crown of the Kingdom allows the pleasure of smiling. “Messengers will again be sent. This time, a chord will be struck in all Bulara.”


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Guardian Nicene Empire,


The Lavian banner dips its silk to you, grand Empire. Might the sentries by the Mountains grow weary of the southern lands, that dry and hostile area? Will your glorious Empire remain content without ever triumphantly defeating those lizards who eat from the very dirt they step on?


We appeal to the Faithful. Surely your gods shall not let this slight slip past? Attack, the Kingdom urges you. Our swords and boats will provide both numbers and a ground beneath the feet of your soldiers when they walk on the ocean.


All we ask in compensation for the lands south is the strait into the Trader’s Bay.


The Kingdom of Lavia





*


Rulers of the South,


This final time will the Crown show its grace to you, men who don skins for robes, and turkeys for horses. Take the offer or risk perishing.


But, we shall not do the deed, the King Past the Mountains will. Come, sally forth and unsheathe your wooden spears. Lest you take the wound first.


Now is not the era to be honorable, but one to fight or suffer as cowards. This good King of the Shimmering Seas shall have ships in gold and silver lay by your waters, then sail out your warriors to do battle, to win the dawn.


Grasp the Victory,


King of the Seas


Decline Post. -- Yet, not really. All I've done is proposed alliances. And, well, burned some stuff.