The #Broken_Dagger Forum

It was the morning of October First, AR 207. The dawn had not yet quite come into being within the province. It threatened to crest the horizon, however, laying in wait like some sleeping dragon. Yet in the darkness a shimmering appeared. A line that slashed brightly in the darkness, a glow that rotated in the night and flared into existence, showing the pale light of an eastern dawn.

The gateway formed into life, large enough for four men abreast to march through it, and tall enough for the wagons that followed the army to move through without touching the sharpened upper edge of contained light. As soon as the last elements of the army stepped into upon the soil of Myrken, two banners were raised up into the growing dawn.

As the sun rose they would alight upon those three banners. One, was the crimson banner of Thessilane, with it's alabaster Hawk spread widely across the bloody field. The second was the azure banner of Orvere, the city once destroyed and now rebuilt by the hands of her people. The dolphin and gulls of the city were proud upon that oceanic flag. These were set to the fore, as the army beneath which they marched stepped further onto the soil of Myrken. Behind them, the gateway would slap shut once four men in cossacks the colour of night moved with them...

Five thousand men in the crimson of Thessilane, one and all looking a smidge confused at their location. They had believed that they would have landed near to the army that already sat besides Wrexham. They had not expected to step out into the soft edge of a murky forest. Yet here they were, on the otherside of Guiscard's Ringwall. Immediately the force partitioned themselves off into a rough square, whilst in the middle the command unit of Marshal Janessa Connors set up a quick camp table to ascertain their location.

That they were in Myrken was of no doubt, the Marshal had served here during the invasion of the Horde a couple of years back. She bore a scar across her left cheek from the fighting then. Finally, it was decided, they were a day's ride to the north of Myrkentown itself. Nearer to the border with Gheru Fenn, than anything else. Again. Not what was expected. Yet, here they were, and it was certain that they would not be able to return to Derry the way they had planned...

An order went out, and the rough square would be tightened. Yet there was no move, as of yet, that would see that force assault anything beyond some of the local game...

A day's ride north of Myrkentown, if one rides at a sensible pace. If one is not riding at a sensible pace, however, the ride is altogether shorter. And when five thousand soldiers in Thessilane colours drop into your back garden, you do not ride sensibly.

A woodsman checking his snares for rabbits is the first to come across them, this rough encampment of crimson-clad soldiers, with swords and spears and banners proud. He is quiet, in subtle forest colours, and stays only long enough for the light of dawn to allow him some rough assay of numbers before he flees back into the trees. He hastens to a farm some few miles hence, the farmer already up and tending to his cattle.

The farmer doubts this man's wild tale for a time, before one of his workers returns from the eastern edge of the property with word of redcoated soldiers in the forest's edge. That finds the woodsman loaned a horse and trap, and he rides with the farmer's man for Foggy Bottom, to the new-founded Constabulary post there. The Constable-Captain listens to the men's news, has them each repeat their story three times to be certain before he'll take action. From Foggy Bottom rides a Constable in mail and steel helm, racing southwards with the news.

Word reaches the Yard in the early afternoon, and the Rememdium very soon after. Governor Calomel, still recuperating from injuries sustained at Snowstill two days previously, nonetheless insists on rising from his sickbed and responding to this threat. The Yard is a scene of barely-organised chaos as Constables run to and fro, and runners are swiftly dispatched with hurriedly-penned messages: a note to Councillor Aldred, informing him of this alarming news and notifying him of the Governor's intent to ride north immediately; orders to the commander of the two thousand Xanth Grange troops still camped on abandoned Pritchite land for the last week or more, instructing them to relocate to the north of Myrkentown and take up defensive positions; a note to Janeiro appraising the Marshal of the situation and ordering the Brotherhood to hold their positions at the Ringwall and await further instructions; a letter to mapmaker Glenn Burnie, requesting that the most accurate charts of the northern Myrken Wood region he has on hand be passed on to a Government runner with all haste.

Some while later, as the clouded skies begin to darken with the dusk, a small group of horsemen crest the rise above the makeshift camp with its small fires and hordes of crimson-clad soldiers; a dozen riders, perhaps, steel helms and pauldrons and breastplates, a crossbow at each saddle, a heavy falchion blade at each him, every one of them bearing the brass shield of the Myrkentown Constabulary at their breast.

A pause, there, a few quiet words exchanged at the sight before them, the banners flying in the chill evening breeze off the mountains; then riders approach the outskirts of the camp, moving openly, no effort made at stealth or concealment as they draw nearer. One of the men, a stout fellow of military bearing but nearing his middle years, gruffly hails the first sentry that makes to challenge them.

"Who's in charge here? Send 'em out, son, we want a word."

They came to the camp thusly, and would see that the place had no sense of permanency. Oh, surely, no war-time camp truly did, but this one held even less than one could suspect. There were no tents staked out, beyond the one that had been erected and was used as a central command posting. The horses for the small force of cavalry alloted a Legion of Foot were hobbled into quickly undone lines. The only show that they were a military force in possibly hostile territory was the sentries that were posted around the perimeter.

It would have been to one of these that the Constables would have arrived to, the first to challenge them, though it was no real challenge and rather a... Greeting? Was a conquering army allowed to simply -greet- armed men who rode towards them? In any case, that was the matter at hand, and how the gruff man would be greeted.

The pair of sentries would listen to the request, then with a wave of a hand the younger of the two would peel off and scurry towards the camp. It wasn't a far run. And soon enough he was returning and handing a note to the elder of the two sentries. A quirk of the lips, then a glance at the Constables.

"Marshal Janessa Connors replies with regret that she cannot come out to you, who have so honourably come to see to our good health, as she is plotting a course that will take us from your Territory. However, if you wish to come to her command tent, yonder." And here the man motioned towards the great crimson tent. "She will receive you will all honour due to your position and to Myrken herself. On her life she promises no ill will, or the spilling of blood. Shall we escort yourselves to her, or perhaps a representative you wish to send instead?"

The soldier held out his hands before him, showing himself free of ill intent. At least that was they way they did it in Almark. Would the Constables agree?

Ah, promises. The somewhat flowery greeting has a few of the riders raising their brows at one another; a couple of muttered comments passed among themselves, fortunately quiet enough to avoid a diplomatic incident. At this invitation the riders confer quietly before the stout man shrugs and nods.

"Representative 'tis, then." A glance along the line, and at some unspoken sign a young man dismounts carefully and steps forward; some junior officer, perhaps, apparently new to horseriding considering the slight awkwardness involved in his descent, perhaps to minimise the loss should the Thessilaneans opt for hostage-taking. The youth hands the horse's reins to the rider beside him, and one of the other riders passes down a leather satchel which the younger man accepts and slings over his shoulder before turning to the sentry, clearing his throat quietly.

"Lead the way." Grey gaze alert, wary, but his manner composed enough that his voice remains steady in spite of the risk involved in such a decision. One man, walking into a camp of thousands? The worst sort of foolishness. The very worst.

The other Constables withdraw a short distance, a half-dozen of them breaking off to return to the ridge; perhaps to run word to their superiors, should their envoy meet with foul play. It's certainly something that's not escaped their thoughts, given the gruff Constable's parting words.

"Best not be playin' silly buggers, now. He comes back in one piece, or I'll be comin' down there to give 'ee a hidin' meself."

"Of course, my good sirs. Would you care for some refreshment while you wait? We do not have much, and most of it crue and water for the march, but there is a little bread made fresh this morning. And some cheese if you so wi..." This said in the wake of the representatives passing, and most likely to the back of the departing Constables. He was joined by the younger of the two sentries. They obviously believed the man was safe even with the force that was arrayed upon that ridge. With four-thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine men behind him, he probably was.

In any case, the young constable and young sentry made their way through the camp. It was a rough square, this thing, with a thousand men to a side and a thousand in the center for a reserve flying company. Roughly a hundred horsemen sat in clusters near their loosely hobbled horses. Those not at post were doing what soldiers did best. Waiting. Which meant sleeping, or writing letters. Some were cleaning kit and gear that needed no obvious cleaning. In short order they would come to that great tent, which was ringed by soldiers in bulky coats of azure trimmed in crimson. The Dolphin and Gull of Overe was proud upon their chests, with the Hawk of Thessilane in gold threading upon their right shoulders.

Under this tent was the cluster of officers that lead this army. One was a woman of middling years, with scars on her face to show that she did more than just lead the army in question. The shoulders of her coat were heavily embroidered with thread of gold, and the sword that rested upon the table before her (it weighed down the side of a map) was an ornately fashioned falchion. She stepped back from the table and turned towards the representative.

"Constable. A pleasure to meet you, please, have a seat. I have some punch available if you wish. Not cold, I fear, but refreshing at least." A glance to the side as she spoke, and a soldier stepped under the tent carrying a wooden bowl carefully between his hands. He bowed and offered it towards the young Constable. Another carefully held a cup and plate out towards him as well.

"I can only guess that you are here because of our... appearance, so please, speak what you must. I promise no harm will come to you because of it. Not from any of my people." And here, as she said these last words, two men in dark coloured cassocks stepped under the tent as well.

The young Constable walks in silence alongside the sentry, quite openly observing the camp around him; the soldiers, the cavalrymen, their numbers, weapons, provisions, how they are arrayed, and so on and so forth. A slight hitch in his stride, a certain stiffness to his posture that is not purely down to drill and discipline.

Still, he keeps pace well enough, and glances briefly around the interior of the Thessilane pavilion as he enters; keen grey eyes fall upon the map and the weapon that weighs it down - an elegantly-wrought rapier hangs at his own belt, briefly visible beneath his cloak, not so much ornate as sleek, sinuous bands of polished steel forming the basket hilt; he notes the smartly-liveried guards posted around the tend, and the embroidery upon Connor's coat, quite in contrast to the charcoal-grey arming jack he wears beneath his breastplate. It's an interesting glimpse into the heart of one of Thessilane's armies, and one which he seems quite keen to make the most of.

After a moment, though, he reaches to unbuckle the chinstrap of his helm and remove the steel carapace, absently running a gloved hand over short-cropped silver-white hair as he tucks his helm under one arm; he accepts the offereed cup from one soldier and dipping a measure of punch from the bowl carried by the other, a polite nod to each in turn. Finally he turns his attention to the army's commander, a brief sip of the drink to wet his throat before he speaks. Each movement careful, considered, and perhaps surprisingly confident for all that he stands here surrounded by thousands of potentially hostile troops.

"Marshal Connors, I presume? Cinnabar Calomel." A gracious incline of his head in greeting, and when he looks up again his gaze is clear and level, unblinking as he glances between those dark-robed figures, then back to the Marshal. Aha.

"Why are you here?"

"Cinnabar Calomel. Brave of you to come here like this, Governor." There was a wave of her hand here and the soldiers moved back a step. The punch was placed upon the the table, and the map partially rolled up to allow it. The weapon remained, as did the channelers.

"Very brave. You know. I fought alongside a man from Derry once, when the Horde marched across Amasynia and tried to force it's way into Myrken. Stalwart that one, though always looking for a good way out if things got bad. He was very brave too. I have fewer scars because of him. I would have bedded him if he had survived that war, yet such is life." She paused here, her hand touching the falchion for a moment. Almost... fondly.

"Yet. As for why we are here... Perhaps you should ask one of them." And here the Marshal turned towards the two men. One stood to either side of her, which was fitting. Connors looked back towards the Governor and smiled. "I... truly know nothing of this."

A noncommittal shrug at the Marshal's faint praise, and another sip of that punch in the meanwhile. Pale brows raise in polite interest at the Marshal's anecdote, though perhaps the smallest flicker of... hm. Anger, maybe? Some small vexation there, but covered smoothly enough. His speech bears the distinctive lilt of a mountain-born Derryman, certainly, so her deduction is no great surprise. That or his reputation, perhaps. In any case this information is, in some part, good.

"I see. If you are not here as some vanguard of Duke Burel's aspirations of conquest, then I suppose that at least is heartening." A nod, at that, and grey eyes flick to the men who flank the Marshal. Their dark garb is already the stuff of fearful rumour among the refugees who have fled Derry, and it takes little imagination to realise their role here. Channellers of the Ducal Aegis. Burel's war-sorcerors. He has heard tell of Orvere, and of Golben, of madness and destruction beyond imagining. And yet for all that, he refuses to quail before these men. Instead there is a cool formality to his tone, a firm and impassive cast to his features.

"So, some accident of sorcery. Good news for the border guards." A humourless smile at that, the implication clear enough. No matter, though, a side-point to the main issue.

"If you did not mean to come here, why are you here still? I apologise for any ignorance of how your... talents work, but if you Travelled here, then can you not simply Travel away again?" A certain emphasis on that word, regarding each man keenly in turn.

"Because with all due respect, under current circumstances you are not welcome here."

Channelers of the Ducal Aegis. Burel's war-sorcerers.

They were garbed in black from the high collars of their long coats to the soles of their polished leather boots, and they stood like statues, not moving, barely seeming to breathe or blink. Their arms were folded in exactly the same manner; their gloved hands were just visible in the crooks of their elbows. They did not stand at attention, but instead seemed like lions at ease, or serpents slowly coiling -- relaxed on the surface, capable of immediate violence; a deliberate deception, one the Governor of Myrken Wood would see through with ease, but they did not care.

On the Marshal's left was Bernard Amherst. Bernard was a solid fellow, tall and barrel-chested and heavy-shouldered, with upper arms as thick as Beltane hams and large hands that looked like they could each wrap around Calomel's whole head -- twice. Yet there was a lightness to him, as if he concealed a beguiling grace in his movements and was inherently gentle; and while his bluff bearded face was serious, it was not stern. Bernard had curly brown hair that rested loose about his neck and shoulders and dark brown eyes, and those eyes regarded the Governor with a kind of curiosity.

On the Marshal's right was Jasper Diotrephes, the leader of Sixth Squad -- the channelers attached to Connors' legion. Jasper wore no ornamentation announcing his rank, however, so it was unlikely Calomel would be aware of the fact. Jasper was of average height and lean in build, olive-skinned and dark of hair and eye -- so dark that they very nearly matched his uniform in color. He was clean shaven, and his close-cropped hair was oiled and carefully parted on the left, giving him an angular appearance; his vulpine features also contributed to this. Too, Jasper's face was serious -- except for his dark eyes, which gleamed with barely hidden amusement. Other than that he regarded the Governor with a cool, calm demeanor, and glanced away from him only when the Marshal suggested Calomel talk to them.

Then:

"Yes, Governor Calomel," said Jasper in his liquid tenor, having a strange accent as well -- certain short vowels were clipped even further or said in a different manner entirely, and the longer vowels more pronounced, as though being savored. "Your border guards are safe. Your province is safe."

On the other side, Bernard actually looked somewhat embarrassed. "It was not an accident so much as a failed experiment," the larger channeler explained in his deep, gruff voice, glancing at Jasper and Marshal Connors as he did. Ensuring he had not crossed a line, perhaps?

"My friend, he states it correctly," said Jasper, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "What we were trying to do is, of course, none of your business -- no offense intended, Governor, I simply speak honestly. What you will be glad to know, however, is that we will be departing very soon, likely in the morning. The Squad and I, we have to walk around, familiarize ourselves with the nearby area, memorize it. So that we may leave, mm? Otherwise, alas," he said, shrugging his shoulders as if it did not matter either way to him, "we cannot leave, and we all of us will be -- hm -- very, very uncomfortable, I think."

Jasper smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

"So you see? All is well," he said, still smiling. "We will be gone as soon as we are able, and the sooner the better -- for everyone, mm?"

Safe, the man says, and that brings a grin of genuine amusement to the Governor's lips, quite at odds with the restrained, formal demeanour he has worn so far. Obviously this man isn't familiar with Myrken Wood at all. Still, he accepts the man's assurances in the spirit they're given, then glances to the burly man as he speaks, brows raising curiously. Ah. Interesting. But his face returns to its previous polite mien, and he inclines his head to the channeller Diotrephes.

"No offence taken. I would suggest that you do not range too far from here, lest there be, hm, regrettable misunderstandings. As I say, you are not welcome here. The presence of such a force of men - belonging to a man who is in the process of staging a bloody invasion, I beg your pardon, a non-consensual liberation of a neighbouring territory - makes people uneasy. Nerves become frayed, mistakes happen, people die. You understand." Jasper's smile finds its reflection in young Calomel's, small silver flecks in that mirthless gaze. An interesting mirror, this young man of pale grey briefly locking eyes with the man of deep black. The moment passes, however; he drains his cup and sets it carefully on the table before looking back to Janessa Connors.

"If you are unable to remove yourselves by noon tomorrow, it would be my pleasure to arrange an escort to take you to Myrken's border. To avoid any uncomfortable encounters, obviously." A brief glance to Diotrephes at that, before his gaze returns to the commander. "In the meantime, my thanks for your hospitality, Marshal. I hope you find your stay in Myrken as pleasant as I have found my time in this small piece of Thessilane."

"Of course, Governor Calomel. We will leave when we can leave. If it is the morning, then it is the morning. If it is later, then it is later. Believe me, I promise that we shall not harm your forces, as long as you stay well clear of mine." Connors wasn't known for being the best at negotiation. But she knew a threat when she saw one. And the Governor of this... quaint place had just made one quite clear.

"Please. Take a scone with you when you leave. I do not think you and I will be talking again."

Some small lofting of brows at that, a slight quirk of his lips as if mildly hurt by her brusqueness. Still, a shrug, and he accepts the offered scone with a nod before donning his helm once more.

"If you find that you need that escort after all, there'll be a few of my men posted by the road a half-mile or so west of here. One or two men to bring the message would be sufficient." A glance for the war-sorcerors, and a thin smile. "One or two soldiers, rather. No offence."

A polite bow to the commander then, and a touch of fingertips to the rim of his helm in salute to the two men beside her.

"Swift travels. Mind how you go."

With that he turns and makes his way out of the tent, and back towards his waiting Constables. No need for an escort, thank you. He knows his way home.

Dawn arrived, and with it the wind; and in the wake of the wind banners flew, displaying their colors -- sharp white on a field of bright crimson, the Hawk of Thessilane descending; leaping and flying gold on a field of vivid azure, the dolphin and gulls of Orvere caught in mid-motion.

Marshal Connors' legion was arranged into four columns, with four men forming one row in a column; and the columns were spaced out -- though for what purpose was not immediately known, at least to the observing Constables. In front was the cavalry, a mixture of light and heavy, their armor gleaming, their steel-tipped lances glinting; and then the foot, who were swordsmen of a variety of styles, men wielding hammers large and heavy enough to make a blacksmith envious, men carrying axes in their belt loops, and women too, just as fierce-eyed and grim as the men beside them, all of them standing beneath a deadly forest of pikes; and then the archers, their quivers full but their bows unstrung -- or in the cases of those with crossbows, unwound; and lastly the wagons, carts and drays laden with equipment and supplies, their drivers looking bored at the moment.

The whip-crack of the banners, the creak of hundreds of saddles -- these were the only sounds to emanate from the Thesil legion, five thousand strong and proud. They bathed in the blood of the rising sun as it spilled over the peaks of the Sikasoons and across the land, and they stood shining and ready.



The Thesil legion had spent the majority of the previous day training, sparring amongst themselves with wooden weapons and, on occasion, live steel, conversing with one another on topics various and sundry, playing games such as dice and Kings of the Land, a betting game played with painted cards; but mostly they relaxed, writing letters and in their journals; and they slept, conserving their energy. Meanwhile Marshal Connors and her commanding officers conferred in the hastily erected central tent, and the four channelers of Sixth Squad wandered the area around the body of the legion, venturing no further than fifty paces from it at any given time. They seldom did anything but stare at the ground, at trees and rocks while they explored the warp and woof of the land, familiarizing themselves with it. It took some time: when the channelers seemed satisfied and finally disappeared into the milling mass of men and women, the sky was already darkening.

Shortly after that, however, orders apparently rippled through the legion, for they began to clean up after themselves and their horses, organize and store equipment and supplies, dismantle the central tent -- as if they intended to leave at that very moment. This might be heartening to the Constables observing the legion, but it was a feeling that would not last: a rider approached them bearing a message, and after delivering it promptly returned to the legion, there being no need for a reply. The message was simple, straightforward -- much as the Marshal herself had been in dealing with the Governor. It stated that the legion would depart first thing in the morning.

So after completing its various tasks, Marshal Connors' legion settled. They bedded down on the earth and their shields, and they slept soundly, not knowing when they would be able to do so again.



"Ready," called out Jasper Diotrephes, the leader of Sixth Squad, resplendent in black. He stood at the head of the first column, and raised a hand to signal to the other channelers at their respective columns.

"Ready," responded three voices in unison.

And then they channeled.

Four enormous gateways opened. First they manifested as a silvery twinkle in mid-air; then they lengthened vertically and expanded into rectangular portals with shimmering edges, and the grass beneath them was sliced as if by a giant razor, carving a line no thicker than a few human hairs into the field. The gateways had appeared approximately ten paces ahead of each column, and the channelers moved aside so they could proceed. The cavalry charged through, thundering; the foot marched in and on, shouting wordless cries in time with their steps; the archers moved at a steady lope, spreading out once they were on the other side; and slowly but steadily the wagons, carts and drays rolled forward, their oxen lowing, their drivers' whips cracking in the air. Last were the channelers themselves, seeming almost inconsequential compared to the forces that had preceded them; and once they were through the gateways closed without a sound, leaving only memory and cut grass.

Thus departed the Thesil legion under the command of Marshal Janessa Connors.



Lieutenant-Captain Dunstan Alvord threw back the flap to the channelers' tent and entered without preamble. He was greeted by four glittering pairs of eyes and a sudden, inexplicable feeling of growing menace. Alvord swallowed thickly, and after a moment said: "Greetings, gentlemen. The Marshal would like a report."

Silence. Then, Jasper, their leader, rose from his chair and approached the Lieutenant-Captain. "We have arrived, mm? At our intended destination, yes?"

"Yes," confirmed Alvord, meeting the channelers' eyes and forcing himself not to glare. He was not exactly afraid of these men, but knowing what they were capable of and how quickly they could accomplish it...

"Very well then," said Jasper, smiling. "You have your report. Unless the Marshal actually requires us for something, please do not bother us again, mm? And learn some manners, Lieutenant-Captain. I would not recommend, hm, barging in here like it is your own tent." And then he turned and resumed his chair, and all four of the black-coated men dismissed him without a word or another glance.

His face betrayed nothing, but inside Alvord was boiling. He left the tent quietly and then headed for the Marshal's at an easy trot, keeping one hand on the hilt of his saber so it did not move around too much.

Already the sun waned, and while it had not fully disappeared the moon was visible in the deepening, darkling blue sky, a ghostly half-formed pearl; low fires had sprung up around the camp, and clusters of men and women sat around them talking, laughing, eating and drinking. As he passed one soldier's tent Alvord heard a hushed moan; he normally would have stopped such activity, but his current errand outweighed his desire to maintain his forces' vigor. Eventually he arrived at Marshal Connors' tent, to which he did extend the courtesy of announcing his presence, and at her word entered it.

Connors was seated at a light, cleverly constructed table that could fold for easy transport, poring over a map. One end was, as it had been when Calomel met her, weighed down by her sheathed sword; the other in one corner by the base of her helmet, and the corner closest to her by an oil lamp, its shutters opened just wide enough to provide ample lighting. After a moment she looked up at her visitor, bid him welcome, and then gestured for him to be seated on the opposite end of the table. Alvord did so, and then cleared his throat and spoke.

"Sixth Squad says we have arrived in the correct location, Marshal. There was no issue with the gateways. Our scouts have verified it: currently we are less than two leagues away. Here."

Alvord placed a finger on the map of Amasynia, indicating an area just under two weeks' ride from where they had been earlier in the day. It was a large marker on the map, meaning it was likely a city or a town of some distinction, and its name was written beside the marker in a small but legible script:

Collingford.

"Very good," murmured Connors. "Send word to the Duke via one of the Sixth. Tell him we are in position at our alternate destination, and that we stand ready."

Lieutenant-Captain Dunstan Alvord, not happy about having to go right back to the channelers' tent, said nothing; he stood, saluted, and then departed to obey.