The Kingdom of Vor'ros - The Poin Provinces - The Murray hills/ fields - Year: 23,478 AC - Month: 26th 07
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The first light of dawn creeps over the jagged peaks, casting long shadows across the shattered remnants of the battlefield. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, a grim perfume that lingers like a curse. Scattered weapons lie abandoned among the broken bodies, their once gleaming steel dulled by dirt and rust. The ground is churned to mud, trampled by the desperate feet of men and beast alike. In the king's camp, silence hangs heavy—an oppressive weight that presses down on the battered soldiers and weary lords. Tents sag under the burden of the night's cold, their flaps fluttering listlessly in the chill morning breeze. Fires smolder in blackened pits, casting flickering shadows on faces etched with exhaustion and despair.
King Varrick stands atop a small rise, his regal bearing diminished but unbroken. His once-pristine armour bears the scars of battle—dents, scorches, and streaks of dried blood. He overlooks the horror that was the battle of Murray. Around him, his lords gather, their expressions grim as they survey the ruin of their forces. The victory they hoped for has slipped through their fingers like smoke, replaced by a bitter taste of loss.
"We cannot linger here," the king says, voice steady though edged with fatigue. "The mountain savages hold the field. We must parley, or risk total annihilation."
After the dragon's attack, the savages had stormed attempting to even take their camp. Their number was immense, the attacks by the dragon saw the Vor'rossi ranks battered. The king was left no choice but to engage in battle, with the power of the Four Treasures the savages were forced back. But at great cost, the "Great" army could barely be called that. It laid 50,000 less than it had in it's beginnings.
Lord Denzel, nods solemnly. "They are ruthless, Your Majesty. But, perhaps there is a way to salvage peace."
"Sorriks, pffft. Always the first to surrender" says Welor in contempt.
"Only a fool can believe victory still possible" snaps Denzel. "The army is dead!, we've lost this battle.... We've lost... Sons" his voice breaks. Lord Erys puts a hand on his right shoulder.
"We've all lost something, Sorrik. My condolences to your boys but I will die before I surrender to those heathens." Welor snorts.
"Through some sorcery the savages have tamed a dragon. My eldest, Nerrick died in yesterday's battle. Swallowed by dragonfire. My second, Verdant, died this morning from his burns. Tell me, in what world should a father bury his sons."
Manfred turns from the grieving father to face his king "My king, I too concur with Denzel. If we choose a path of battle then we ride to our end. I hoped a third assault could be made with the war machines but the attack of the mountain horde saw many destroyed. We have less than 14,000 capable and strong soldiers. My true and honest council is to withdraw for now to Deemcastle and nurture our strength. Mayhaps even the empire could still come to our aid. The mountainmen may hold the poin for a time, but not for long."
"And how would we retreat?" Asks the king. "To retreat we would needs turn and march. Our enemies would take us from behind."
"We come to an agreement, one that would stay their hand." Answers Denzel.
The lords murmur agreement, save for Welor Tomard.
"Then let the gods be good." The king says, still looking down upon the battlefield.
By midday, a white flag is raised. The savages reply with a burning bush. A way to signify agreement in their savage culture.
"Here's your horse, uncle" says Trenton Evarlar, only son of the late Prince Edlon Evarlar and Lady Davina Goldway. The young royal is clad in modest yet practical attire befitting a squire—simple tunic and breeches of muted colours, sturdy leather boots, and a belt holding a small dagger. He holds the reins of the king's steed, It's coat gleams with the rich sheen of midnight black, as if woven from the very shadows of the night. Muscular limbs ripples beneath the glossy hide. The mane and tail flows like liquid silk, dark as the boy's hair, yet catching the light with subtle hints of deep chestnut. Adorning the horse's caparison is the Evarlar crest—a golden griffin with wings spread wide, emblazoned boldly upon a field of vivid red. The griffin seems almost alive as it shimmers against the crimson fabric, the embroidery meticulous and radiant. The horse's bridle and saddle are crafted from the finest leather, embossed with intricate patterns that echo the regal emblem, and accented with polished brass fittings that catches the sun's rays with a noble gleam.
"Let me come with you, uncle. So I may bury my dagger into the Skintaker's heart" he says as he hands the king the horse's reins, tapping his dagger.
Varrick chuckles lightly "Enton, young nephew. Your heart is that of a warrior's, the only son of your father I know you will not shame him when the time comes, but this is not that time."
"But Oryn's going, I..."
"Oryn's a knight, a Duke of the kingdom." He settles a heavy hand on the boy's shoulders. "You are my squire, still years shy from knighthood."
"Or manhood." Oryn Evarlar chuckles in mockery of his younger cousin. He's a handsome young man of twenty, with striking dark hair that contrasts vividly against his piercing blue eyes. Clad in gleaming armour that catch the sunlight with every subtle movement, he embodies the very essence of youthful nobility and martial prowess. His horse is a magnificent creature, a towering warhorse bred for both power and elegance. Draped in an exquisite barding of polished steel plates, the armour is meticulously crafted to protect yet allow fluid motion. The head is shielded by a finely wrought chanfron, it's edges etched with delicate filigree, while the articulated crinet guards the neck with overlapping lames that shimmer like liquid silver. The peytral covers the chest, embossed with the royal family crest. He gracefully dismounts his splendid steed.
"Dear cousin, I fear for you. The skintaker would peal your skin while..." He leans closer to his ear and whisper. "...While you are alive and watching." Trenton reels back, angered.
"Leave him be, Oryn. What brings you?." Varrick asks.
"The lords are ready to depart, uncle." His voice now a serious tide.
"I see."
He mounts his horse, peering down at his nephew
"In time, Enton."
Oryn mounts his own horse and they gallop off together.