Eternity RPC Board
Near Orenhold, Kingdom of Phortain
12 Zechyr, 301 BCE
Prince Lyrn was only twenty-three when he first stepped foot in Zanaro. He was still quite baby-faced, albeit tall by the day's standards and certainly built to wear his unblemished bronze cuirass and swing a sword properly. A descendant of the Feryn the Glorious, Lyrn still had Florinthian features, as opposed to the largely ethnic Geinic and Syorid he commanded. His thick black hair, kept short and swept back from face, shined a dark mahogany under the sun, while his green eyes had the softness only one who grew up in the comfort of royal society could have. That would change soon.
On his mother's, Archking Hilfrid, order, he lead the 17th, 18th, and 19th Hosts and their auxiliaries across the Bastion river and into the Zanarite Kingdom of Phortain. His mother had told him much of the Phortainese: they were a vile pagan people, who persecuted and massacred Rune-fearing Messanites. They'd killed his grandfather, Lyrn I, and were obstructing Lanlania's Just Labor: the liberation of Azreae, as decided by Rune and decreed by his great-great-grandfather, Feryn the Glorious. He'd heard of how, after defeating his grandfather, they'd degraded his body and threw it in a ditch with the other Lanlanians they'd massacred. They were truly a barbarian people, and it was his duty, by Rune's Will, to punish them.
"Prince."
Lyrn finishing tying his boots and glanced towards the entrance to his tent. "Ordinskarl?"
"Aye, Prince."
Lyrn's second-in-command was a Syorid man, perhaps three-tens in age, with black, curly hair reaching his neck matted under his bronze officer's helmet. He carried a short sword at his waist, much like Lyrn did as he pushed aside the leather flap and stepped outside. "Scouts report the Phortainese army has exited Orenhold and is marching to meet us. They are reported four leagues away."
"How soon can we march?" Lyrn asked. He walked past his deputy, Doren, and accepted the bowl of breakfast handed to him by an aid near the campfire. The area ahead of him was a sprawling grid of tents, surrounded by hastily erected log walls. It had an unpleasant male smell, though it was somewhat drowned out by the stew the cooks had made. At least until the two smells mixed and it again became disagreeable.
Lyrn could see that the troops had already been roused, many gathered around their fires, sharing jokes and stories over breakfast. A few had donned their armor, but most were still in their tunics. Wasn't it too relaxed?
"Aren't we too leisurely?" He asked as Doren joined him on the log by the campfire. He'd accepted a bowl too.
"Nay, Prince," the man answered, after a spoonful of potato and meat stew. "The Phortainese are still four hours away. It's best to let them do the marching."
Lyrn nodded. It was his first campaign and he had no reason to doubt the judgement of a professional hostmen.
"Even at double time, we've at least three hours to ready up."
"Ah," Lyrn replied, taking a spoonful himself. It was surprisingly good, for marching food. Salt made just about everything edible.
"The vanguard is already in position anyway," Doren continued.
Doren and Lyrn had spent several hours back in Freesna choosing ideal battlegrounds. When they crossed the Bastion river the day before, crushing what meager garrison Phortain called its border guard in a swift battle, they'd noticed that the Phortainese weren't using guerilla tactics as they'd done the last time the Archkingdom attacked. They'd instead attempted to defeat the Lanlanians in a pitched battle, where they were simply massacred by the Lanlanian hostmen, the Archkingdom's elite heavy infantry. He hoped the Phortainese would continue to make it that easy.
"I've heard their current king is a child," Lyrn thought aloud.
"Aye," Doren replied. "Around ten-and-five. Maybe he's let their last victory get to his head."
"That'd be fortunate."
Doren nodded. The hostmen formed the core of the kingdom's army, organized into Hosts of eight hundred men companies. Professional heavy infantrymen who served in the army for a term of twenty years, the hostmen were well-trained and equipped with the best equipment in southern Brigidna. While their auxiliary troops wore mail hauberks, the hostmen used expensive laminar armor which offered exceptional protection against blows, cuts, and even arrows. With their tower shields protecting them from javelins and other heavy missiles and the auxiliaries covering their flanks, the hostmen were the nigh-unstoppable hammer of the kingdom.
Lyrn would not make the same mistakes his grandfather had. His troops were to be well-rested, would not engage after a long march, and he would certainly not recklessly pursue a fleeing enemy into the forest without scouting it first. And if the Phortainese were to throw themselves into the meat-grinder that was his three Hosts, all the better!
12 Zechyr, 301 BCE
Prince Lyrn was only twenty-three when he first stepped foot in Zanaro. He was still quite baby-faced, albeit tall by the day's standards and certainly built to wear his unblemished bronze cuirass and swing a sword properly. A descendant of the Feryn the Glorious, Lyrn still had Florinthian features, as opposed to the largely ethnic Geinic and Syorid he commanded. His thick black hair, kept short and swept back from face, shined a dark mahogany under the sun, while his green eyes had the softness only one who grew up in the comfort of royal society could have. That would change soon.
On his mother's, Archking Hilfrid, order, he lead the 17th, 18th, and 19th Hosts and their auxiliaries across the Bastion river and into the Zanarite Kingdom of Phortain. His mother had told him much of the Phortainese: they were a vile pagan people, who persecuted and massacred Rune-fearing Messanites. They'd killed his grandfather, Lyrn I, and were obstructing Lanlania's Just Labor: the liberation of Azreae, as decided by Rune and decreed by his great-great-grandfather, Feryn the Glorious. He'd heard of how, after defeating his grandfather, they'd degraded his body and threw it in a ditch with the other Lanlanians they'd massacred. They were truly a barbarian people, and it was his duty, by Rune's Will, to punish them.
"Prince."
Lyrn finishing tying his boots and glanced towards the entrance to his tent. "Ordinskarl?"
"Aye, Prince."
Lyrn's second-in-command was a Syorid man, perhaps three-tens in age, with black, curly hair reaching his neck matted under his bronze officer's helmet. He carried a short sword at his waist, much like Lyrn did as he pushed aside the leather flap and stepped outside. "Scouts report the Phortainese army has exited Orenhold and is marching to meet us. They are reported four leagues away."
"How soon can we march?" Lyrn asked. He walked past his deputy, Doren, and accepted the bowl of breakfast handed to him by an aid near the campfire. The area ahead of him was a sprawling grid of tents, surrounded by hastily erected log walls. It had an unpleasant male smell, though it was somewhat drowned out by the stew the cooks had made. At least until the two smells mixed and it again became disagreeable.
Lyrn could see that the troops had already been roused, many gathered around their fires, sharing jokes and stories over breakfast. A few had donned their armor, but most were still in their tunics. Wasn't it too relaxed?
"Aren't we too leisurely?" He asked as Doren joined him on the log by the campfire. He'd accepted a bowl too.
"Nay, Prince," the man answered, after a spoonful of potato and meat stew. "The Phortainese are still four hours away. It's best to let them do the marching."
Lyrn nodded. It was his first campaign and he had no reason to doubt the judgement of a professional hostmen.
"Even at double time, we've at least three hours to ready up."
"Ah," Lyrn replied, taking a spoonful himself. It was surprisingly good, for marching food. Salt made just about everything edible.
"The vanguard is already in position anyway," Doren continued.
Doren and Lyrn had spent several hours back in Freesna choosing ideal battlegrounds. When they crossed the Bastion river the day before, crushing what meager garrison Phortain called its border guard in a swift battle, they'd noticed that the Phortainese weren't using guerilla tactics as they'd done the last time the Archkingdom attacked. They'd instead attempted to defeat the Lanlanians in a pitched battle, where they were simply massacred by the Lanlanian hostmen, the Archkingdom's elite heavy infantry. He hoped the Phortainese would continue to make it that easy.
"I've heard their current king is a child," Lyrn thought aloud.
"Aye," Doren replied. "Around ten-and-five. Maybe he's let their last victory get to his head."
"That'd be fortunate."
Doren nodded. The hostmen formed the core of the kingdom's army, organized into Hosts of eight hundred men companies. Professional heavy infantrymen who served in the army for a term of twenty years, the hostmen were well-trained and equipped with the best equipment in southern Brigidna. While their auxiliary troops wore mail hauberks, the hostmen used expensive laminar armor which offered exceptional protection against blows, cuts, and even arrows. With their tower shields protecting them from javelins and other heavy missiles and the auxiliaries covering their flanks, the hostmen were the nigh-unstoppable hammer of the kingdom.
Lyrn would not make the same mistakes his grandfather had. His troops were to be well-rested, would not engage after a long march, and he would certainly not recklessly pursue a fleeing enemy into the forest without scouting it first. And if the Phortainese were to throw themselves into the meat-grinder that was his three Hosts, all the better!