Auriel_
Lover
Townsday, 13th of Springerise, 2293; The Season of Frost.
Atleast a couple septs after the battle for Rogues Hearth, the Paleblood Order marches home with it's small force. Replenished with wild horses broken with great vitriol and slave-warriors making up lost rank, to be integrated for future use in the wars to come. The red, black and silver flags emblazoning the great air at which accompanied the heroes, atleast- that's what they thought themselves. The march home was oddly soundless, aside from marching- and the calm sabatons falling slack against the ground in the odd chance of banditry, arrows be loosed and men asunder flame.
After Nwalme's orders were granted, the men returned home, awaiting to be called forth again for another holy war- be it short or long, they knew not. The Lord slowly shifted off his horse as he barked off orders, presumed this had been the place that the peoples would begin to set up their life, men and women paid in gold or silver to kill, to capture, to rob and pillage. Tents were affixed and men stripped to doublet and tunic, beginning work on starter housing while the Lord moved for a presumed crucible, ordering the wagon at a halt to start unloading precious cargo.
The shipments came in by hourly time, each carrying something of use from passing villages or the raid from beforehand. The last one- one he needed for a specific project, would bring his longsword out and struck the hinges to the crate that held these up, the idols, looted and forlorn to it's owner of yore. An artifice that would ultimately be dishonored by the Lord. Alas, it was a spoil of war, it was what it was-- and Arike was not beyond fire.
Brought forth amidst the lord and various mint, Arike clasped his hands behind his back and would've ordered them to be brought under immense heat near a sleuth and forge, the idols being held upward in the air as he presumeably brought his chisel over it and cracked simulaneiously on a couple points in the idols structure- iron seeping through with near-uncanny regard, before sighing the Lord set away his chisel as they fell down into the clay morphs that were aside of him.
"So I was correct, twas no honor amongst thieves at all, rather trickery and wolf play. Well, that's unfortunate."
Gold was turned over into silver through the use of trading and mining, trading and mining- and while that were the case, Arike ordered a quarter of the health potions gathered within the raid on Rogue's Hearth to be sent immediately to the Capital of the Fuvurs, moving with a grand pace upon horsedrawn carriage, aswell as the spare gold to be sent in brick form to the Witch King himself, Arike, on the other hand- needed to do other such things, and began the process of melting down great amounts of iron and copper, separating them consistently to be reappropriated into nails and arms or armor.
The South had yet another rising settlement, nay malign nor benevolent in leadership. Fuvur banners raised, and red and black arising.
Atleast a couple septs after the battle for Rogues Hearth, the Paleblood Order marches home with it's small force. Replenished with wild horses broken with great vitriol and slave-warriors making up lost rank, to be integrated for future use in the wars to come. The red, black and silver flags emblazoning the great air at which accompanied the heroes, atleast- that's what they thought themselves. The march home was oddly soundless, aside from marching- and the calm sabatons falling slack against the ground in the odd chance of banditry, arrows be loosed and men asunder flame.
After Nwalme's orders were granted, the men returned home, awaiting to be called forth again for another holy war- be it short or long, they knew not. The Lord slowly shifted off his horse as he barked off orders, presumed this had been the place that the peoples would begin to set up their life, men and women paid in gold or silver to kill, to capture, to rob and pillage. Tents were affixed and men stripped to doublet and tunic, beginning work on starter housing while the Lord moved for a presumed crucible, ordering the wagon at a halt to start unloading precious cargo.
The shipments came in by hourly time, each carrying something of use from passing villages or the raid from beforehand. The last one- one he needed for a specific project, would bring his longsword out and struck the hinges to the crate that held these up, the idols, looted and forlorn to it's owner of yore. An artifice that would ultimately be dishonored by the Lord. Alas, it was a spoil of war, it was what it was-- and Arike was not beyond fire.
Brought forth amidst the lord and various mint, Arike clasped his hands behind his back and would've ordered them to be brought under immense heat near a sleuth and forge, the idols being held upward in the air as he presumeably brought his chisel over it and cracked simulaneiously on a couple points in the idols structure- iron seeping through with near-uncanny regard, before sighing the Lord set away his chisel as they fell down into the clay morphs that were aside of him.
"So I was correct, twas no honor amongst thieves at all, rather trickery and wolf play. Well, that's unfortunate."
Gold was turned over into silver through the use of trading and mining, trading and mining- and while that were the case, Arike ordered a quarter of the health potions gathered within the raid on Rogue's Hearth to be sent immediately to the Capital of the Fuvurs, moving with a grand pace upon horsedrawn carriage, aswell as the spare gold to be sent in brick form to the Witch King himself, Arike, on the other hand- needed to do other such things, and began the process of melting down great amounts of iron and copper, separating them consistently to be reappropriated into nails and arms or armor.
The South had yet another rising settlement, nay malign nor benevolent in leadership. Fuvur banners raised, and red and black arising.