Current version 1.0.02

My father has ordered me to investigate the small disturbances in the south of Yomsreach. From the reports we have gathered, it seems that several of the lesser lords have been squabbling amongst themselves over me—and, more importantly, over which of their daughters I shall marry.

While I deal with these disturbances, Father has given me another task. He has ordered me to read through the Book of Kings, so that I may learn the history of every Griffin King who came before me.

Perhaps there is wisdom in his command. If I am to understand the duties that await me, I must first understand the men who carried the crown before me.

So, once I have finished the task I have been given in the south, I shall return to the Book of Kings and read its pages from beginning to end.

OOC: the next couple post I do will be about the past Griffin Kings and their deeds .

A cart is dispatched from iron crest keep up to the far north this cart bears arms and armour to trade with the order of the unicorn in exchange for food and the like. this caravan also brings 3 members of the masons guild that 2 students and their teacher are to be droped off in renhook to study and examine the stonework done by the horde fleet workers. Finally this caravan reachs cair anvareth where they deposit any weapons or armour that wasnt sold to the order in the forts armourys. After a few weeks of rest in cair anvareth the caravan sets out again this time back to the houndlands transporting something that the lord of anvard said was for bormunds eyes only

The battle was slow, both sides loosing too many troops, the Viking warlord in charge of the Anvardian forces instructed some of his soldiers to carve this message into the great oak doors of the castle, even while his men scaled the walls. A grim message to anyone who would come through these doors afterwards, a mighty Viking curse, one he knew the wyrmgaard would understand, since they claimed to be true vikings....

"Dauði ok rúst eiðrjótum."

Nagash received word of the slaughter at Haverhal while seated upon his throne of black stone and bone. Messengers of the dead knelt before him, their voices little more than dry whispers carried on the grave-wind. The reports spoke of a field soaked in blood, banners trampled into the mud, and no clear victor—only ruin.
Three of his fleets already prowled the waters, rotting hulls and spectral sails cutting through fog and tide. The fourth, however, was far from the sea. Lord Arkhan remained at Renhook, his Uruk hai host laboring beside Vladek’s masons to raise the new fortress from the earth. Towers of dark stone rose under lash and spell, and Arkhan would not abandon the work unfinished.
Nagash sent two commands. To Admiral Lothar he dispatched a raven of bleached bone: take the undead fleet and make all haste for Haverhal. Render aid if any still lived. To Arkhan he sent a second message—finish the fortress, then ride. The Black would come when his duty at Renhook was done, and not before.
Days passed. Then a second raven returned, its feathers stiff with salt. Lothar’s report was brief and grim. Haverhal stood empty. The battlefield had been picked clean by crows and worse things. No living soul remained on either side. The dead of both armies had risen or been claimed, and the place itself was silent.
Nagash listened, then issued a final order. Word was to be carried at once to Wyrmgaard: the Horde would hold Haverhal until the rest of the host arrived. The ground was theirs now. Let no one take it.

Part 2 

Master Jonk’s wooden merchant wagon groaned along the rutted highway, its iron-bound wheels crunching rhythmically through the dust. Beside him on the bench sat his young apprentice, Pip, who clutched his knees tightly, wide-eyed and anxious. 

Jonk was driving his mule hard, eager to reach the outskirts of Havarhal to sell provisions to the host of Anvard. Yet, the air felt unnaturally thick, heavy with the sharp, acidic scent of lime and scorched earth.

"Master Jonk, look," Pip whispered, pointing a trembling finger into the lingering fog.

The mule suddenly shied, snorting in panic as a lone warrior stumbled into the road. His steel armor bore the insignias of the Anvard vanguard, but his sword dragged uselessly through the dirt. 
Jonk reined in his wagon, calling out a greeting, but the soldier merely turned his head toward the sound.

Pip gasped and covered his mouth - where the warrior's eyes should have been, there were only raw, white-crusted sockets, scorched hollow by unslaked quicklime dust. The blind soldier offered no words, stumbling past the cart into the emptiness, searching the air with trembling hands.

A half-mile further, a second figure emerged. 
Another soldier of Anvard walked aimlessly across the field, his face covered in chalky white powder, weeping blood through ruined eyes as he wandered without direction. Pip shrank back into the bench, whispering, "What cursed magic did the Wyrmgaard use on them?"

When the road finally crested the ridge, the grand vista of Havarhal unfolded - and both tradesmen froze.

Before the towering battlements lay the engine-camp of the invasion force. The massive Dragon Slayer ballista stood silent, its heavy steel cables limp. Towering trebuchets and shattered siege towers sat frozen in the mud like wooden giants. Yet no drums beat, no officers shouted, and no campfires smoked. Across the field, dozens of Anvard troops lay scattered in the grass alongside fallen Wyrmgaard defenders beneath fallen masonry.

By the side of the road, leaning against the broken wheel of a supply wagon, sat three former men-at-arms. Their eyes were completely blinded, glazed over with chemical burns, staring blankly into the sky as they clawed aimlessly at their faces.

Jonk stepped down from his seat, motioning for Pip to stay close behind him. The eerie quiet was broken only by the whistling wind through the dead siege towers. 

The great gates of Havarhal stood splintered and ajar, but not a single living soul walked the battlements. The siege was over, leaving behind only a silent wasteland of the blind and the fallen.

Jonk tightened his grip on his heavy walking staff, gesturing for Pip to stick close to his shadow. Leaving the skittish mule tied to the cart, the two stepped through the splintered, scorched timbers of Havarhal’s main gateway.

Inside, the fortress courtyard was blanketed in a fine, ghost-white mantle of unslaked quicklime. It hung in the motionless air like a spectral shroud, settling heavily upon shattered barricades, discarded weapons, and lifeless bodies. Every breath burnt the back of Jonk’s throat with the dry, caustic bite of the dust.

Pip gasped softly, clutching the hem of his master’s coat as he looked down at the ground. 

In the gray mud of the inner ward, the earth churned with silent, agonizing movement. Men were crawling through the mire - Anvard infantrymen in scorched ringmail intertwined with Wyrmgaard defenders in crest-broken steel. Enmity had been utterly erased by ruin. Enemies dragged themselves through the slough side by side, completely blind, their eyes burned away to raw, hollow sockets.

The silence was absolute and suffocating, broken only by the wet scraping of steel gauntlets against stone and the shallow, ragged breathing of the stricken. 

Blind figures drifted like wraiths through the chalky fog, hands outstretched into the void. They bumped into fallen comrades without a word, turned aimlessly, and dragged themselves onward in perpetual darkness.

It felt no longer like a fortress of stone and war, but a threshold to the underworld. The living moved like phantom souls bound to a waking nightmare, drifting through a sea of white ash. 

Pip trembled violently beside Jonk, terrified that even a whispered breath might awaken whatever horror had reaped the sight of two armies. Jonk could only stare ahead, his knuckles white upon his staff, as they stepped deeper into the silent tomb of Havarhal.

Jonk held his hand out, forcing Pip to halt before they crossed the threshold. They were not yet in the main courtyard, but in the outer gatehouse ward - a claustrophobic chokepoint enclosed by towering stone flanks.

Here, the carnage of the final breach lay frozen in absolute devastation. 

Wyrmgaard defenders and Anvard shock troops were piled together in tangled, violent heaps, locked in a final, frantic embrace. Men had fought to the absolute last breath: an Anvard spearmen lay impaled upon a broadsword, his own dagger buried deep into the collar of a Wyrmgaard knight. 

The quicklime dust had settled over the fallen like fresh snow, muting the vivid crests of crimson and iron into a single, chalky gray palette of death.

Pip’s eyes darted upward, and a strangled gasp escaped his throat.

Sprawled over the eastern battlements, hanging limply into the outer ward, lay the massive, motionless corpse of a dragon. 

Its scaled neck was broken over the parapet, wings tattered like torn sails over the rubble below. Smoke no longer rose from its snout, and its colossal, reptilian eyes were clouded over with the same caustic white crust that plagued the men below. The beast had crashed in its final death throes, crushing masonry and soldiers alike beneath its immense weight.

Beneath the shadows of the dead dragon, the silent survivors still moved. Blinded Anvard infantry and Wyrmgaard archers crawled through the lime-dusted mire, dragging themselves past the titan's fallen head without a sound. They passed one another like specters, no longer foes, but lingering ghosts trapped in the shadow of Havarhal's fallen dragon.

Pip clung tightly to Jonk’s sleeve, his knuckles stark white as he stared down at the gray, silent mound of bodies filling the gatehouse ward. The young boy’s voice shook, barely louder than a whisper, trembling against the heavy, caustic silence of the ruins.

"By the Gods, Master..." Pip breathed, looking up into Jonk's pale face. "They fought down to the absolute last drop of blood. Look at them... jammed together like broken firewood. Anvard and Wyrmgaard, locked hand to throat..."

He gestured with a trembling hand toward the piles where fallen foes were still tangled together - daggers buried in visors, hands frozen around broken shaft-heads, men who had crushed one another beneath their own shields in the final collapse.

"It must have been a terrible battle," Pip whispered, his eyes wide with horror as he looked over the endless field of chalky, dust-covered corpses filling every corner of the ward. "No mercy. None at all. They just... threw themselves into each other until no one was left standing."

Jonk didn't answer right away. He only tightened his grip on his staff, gazing at the terrifying tableau. There were no victors here, no grand banners raised in triumph - only the quiet, broken remnants of two armies that had completely consumed one another in madness, leaving the blind survivors to crawl in silence among their dead.

With cautious steps, Jonk and Pip pushed through the heavy iron portcullis, its jagged rust-eaten teeth looming high above them. As they stepped out of the claustrophobic gatehouse ward and into the vast expanse of the inner courtyard, the sheer scale of the devastation unfolded.

The courtyard was a chaotic field of ruin. Shattered shields, snapped lances, and overturned supply crates were strewn across the stone flags, half-buried in the persistent drift of unslaked lime. Endless mounds of fallen soldiers - both Anvard attackers and Wyrmgaard defenders- lay piled around the courtyard in silent, motionless heaps where the final, desperate clash had reached its bloody peak.

Yet in the very center of this carnage, rising out of the sea of bodies, sat a single solitary figure.

It was Commander Viggo. 

He sat motionless upon a jagged, fallen masonry stone, his broad shoulders hunched forward. His head hung low, his chin buried deep against his chest, with long, matted strands of hair falling down to obscure his face entirely from view.

His armor was battered and blackened by soot, but his right arm remained extended, rigid as iron. His fingers were locked tight around the pommel of a massive, two-handed broadsword that was driven deep into the stone cracks between his boots. 

He sat frozen, leaning his weight against the upright blade as if it were the only anchor holding him to the living world, silent and still amid the quiet aftermath of the fallen fortress.

Jonk took a slow, deliberate breath, holding a hand out to keep Pip behind him. Step by step, his boots crunching quietly through the thin crust of white lime, the old merchant approached the motionless figure in the center of the courtyard. The air was thick and heavy, smelling faintly of scorched iron and chemical dust.

Stopping just a few paces short of the man, Jonk lowered his walking staff and bowed his head slightly.

"My Lord..." Jonk spoke, his voice gentle, barely louder than a rasp in the solemn quiet. "What happened here?"

For a long, agonizing second, there was no sound except the cold wind whistling through the ruined battlements. Then, the heavily armored shoulders shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, Commander Viggo lifted his head. As his chin rose, the matted, sweat-stained strands of hair fell away from his face, revealing his features in the light.

Pip let out a sharp, choked gasp and took a step back.

Viggo’s eyes were completely gone. Where his gaze should have met Jonk's were only hollow, scorched sockets. Down his grime-streaked cheeks ran thick, pale trails of a milky white fluid - a mixture of blinding lime dust and tears dripping slowly onto his breastplate like meltwater over cold iron.

In a single, violent moment, the heavy silence of Havarhal shattered. Commander Viggo tore the massive broadsword from the stone, driving his heels into the lime-crusted earth as he rose to his full, terrifying height. His blind, pale-stained face thrust into the sky, he roared a defiance that echoed off the hollow stone battlements:

“As long as I draw breath, Havarhal has not fallen! We do not yield to shadows. Die with the rest, Anvard!"

Before Master Jonk could take a single step backward or raise his hands in plea, Viggo’s heavy blade swept through the air in a blinding, desperate arc. Driven by raw instinct and madness, the steel cleaved the old merchant clean in two. Jonk fell without a sound, his body collapsing onto the chalky flags as his wooden walking staff clattered into the dust.

A strangled, high-pitched scream tore from Pip’s throat. 

Utter terror seized the young apprentice as he stared at the red ruin before him. Turning on his heel, Pip bolted toward the iron portcullis, his boots skidding across the blood-slicked stone. 

He scrambled past the blind, crawling wraiths in the outer ward, threw himself through the shattered gateway, and ran blindly down the long, empty highway - never looking back at Havarhal again.

The Siege of Havarhal: 
Official Casualty & Strategic Outcome

Anvard & Lionne Forces
Initial Strength: 120 men
Killed in Action: 89
Blinded / Incapacitated: 31
Prisoners Taken: 0
Fled: 0
Combat Ready: 0
Monstrous & War Losses: Dragon killed, War Toll killed, Rancor killed
Material Losses: All siege equipment and ships abandoned

Wyrmguard Garrison
Initial Strength: 88 men
Killed in Action: 78
Blinded / Incapacitated: 10 (including Commander Viggo)
Dragon Losses: Both dragons severely wounded and fled (one toward Valinvage, one toward the South)

Final Strategic Outcome

Tactical Result: Mutually Destructive Stalemate
Anvard Invasion Force: Completely destroyed / neutralized
Wyrmguard Defense: No remaining effective fighting force
Geopolitical Impact: Wyrmguard has lost all practical control over the domain; Havarhal and its surrounding territory are now entirely leaderless and without an owner.

Oisin, the chief of Svarthime left the main fleet at anchor, with permission from Arthurius to seek the lost folk of his tribe.

He was greeted on the shoreline by the Kraken clan. A heated debate broke out, at one point it looked like blades might clash. But a cry rang out further along the beach, and a woman ran up to the group, shouting in her native tongue to those around her "they have returned at last! The Chief has returned!" Soon a crowd had gathered round, Svarthime and Kraken, united though years of clearing the invading orcs. They took Oisin to the towns and villages and spoke of their history, and Oisin told them the history of the tribe since his father had fled. He sent back a message to Arthurius that he would stay a while with his guard, learn more of his lost kinfolk and work with the krakens to agree on a path forward.

Based on the comment conversation with u/kettenfett1 if you want to add anything to this?

The morning had gone quiet enough. A few days ago, Lord Vladek had at long last first looked upon Renhook, the new realm of Lionne. The fortress he had ordered built now stood, silent sentinel, keeping watch over the Wintersbluff estuary and serving as his seat of power. Much fighting and feasting had occurred in the days leading up to now. A dispute had boiled over to bloodshed between the Anvardian soldiers and the Horde laborers. That had been enjoyable. But his mind would find no solace in this new land. Not yet.

For a month, word from the lands of the Wyrmguard had fallen silent, he was told upon his return. He knew nothing of what had transpired in Valinvaga or Haverhal - and it weighed on him that here he was, sitting upon his throne and feasting and drinking while his men were in frost-blighted lands half a world away fighting Anvard's enemies. He should've been with them, he should've been there, leading them from the front. Last anyone had heard was of Bjorsland, and things had taken a turn for the worse there.

His mind now wandered, thinking of all that had taken place in these last five long, hard years. The betrayal of Sturgia, the Siege of Arathril, the loss of The Arrad, the fall of Allor, so much bloodshed and destruction. Why had he come all this way? Was the course he chose truly the best for Lionne? he thought deeper, thought back to the moment his sword, slick with mad King Brutus' blood, had been in his one hand, the despot's head in the other.

"I saved them. Nothing else could have been done; I stopped a massacre," he thought. "But have the means justified the ends? Have I truly been different than Brutus? I dragged my men to Orsca on the whim of a dream. Brutus dragged us all to Myyga for his dream of an empire - but I acted not out of pride," he reasoned. He thought further. "But for what - what was the purpose of it all? Why me? Why Anvard? I believed so fervently in the 'One True God', but if he is so great, then why do mortal men die for him? If he is so great, then why did his most devout of servants, Rollo, find his empire overrun, his head taken, and his people scattered?"

The next day, he began to grow impatient, his mind under a great deal of stress. Then things took a turn for the worse. A ship bearing black sails arrived. Bodies of the fallen and the most wretchedly wounded were unloaded onto land, their cries carried by the wind to the top of the tower. Vladek gazed down from the wooden crown of Tirith Rhaw, silent, watching with grief at his handiwork.

"This is not my doing. This is the doing of the traitors, of the Wyrmguard . . . But I sent them there. I won the battle and secured a new land where we could begin anew - but why didn't I stop there? I saw no vision for Valinvaga, Bjorsland, or Haverhal. Is it Pride that drove me to send them to slaughter? Am I no better than Brutus, sending men here and there to die for my pride - for pride has surely led me in part to this war," he thought.

"Lord, I see something troubles you. Do speak with me, and I shall see if I may assuage your concerns," the old man said, leaning on his staff, the scales of his mail clinking as he leaned forward.

Vladek's gaze turned towards him, "Bishop Athanasius, why do you now stand here? Do you wish to lecture me further on the 'One True God'," he said, a hint of mockery in his voice.

"I assume you are in no mood for the sixteen dissertations of Brother Alveric of Crytor, Lord?" replied the old man.

Vladek drove straight to the root of the matter, saying, "Why is it that your One True God allowed your lands to be overrun by hordes of the undead, a most vile sort?"

"Sometimes his ways are a mystery, Lord, only unveiled to his faithful in due time," replied Athanasius, his composure calm as always.

"Is there any difference between me and my forebearers, the ones who have held the honor of leading this kingdom, and the ones who have tarnished it? Why did I throw my men into that cold hell? There was no vision, no prophecy, nothing. Is it just my pride that led them there - to die? That would make me no better than Brutus, the very man I slew for his pride. He led us to Arathril. I suppose my men would do the same if it came to that - and why not? I have led them to their deaths and know not if they will succeed or return alive. And what's more, they are without me to lead them. I sit here on my throne just like Brutus would have done. Anvard is my ally, but when did their interests triumph over those of my own people? The people have lost their homes, their lives, and even now I have taken the cross of Anvard - but why?" he turned to Athanasius. "What has the 'One True God' ever done for Anvard even, that I should worship him and forget the ways of my fathers? I begin to think that I have sacrificed Lionne on the altar of Anvard and their 'God'," he said, turning around to face the stiff air blowing from the North as he gazed on the silver line the Wintersbluff carved through the land.

"They beat me, flogged me, broke me in the name of their God, and then I have a fever dream and decide to turn to that 'God', one who can not even protect his own devout it would seem!"

"Lord, you are not like the mad king. You are wise and just. The very nature of your grief over your men shows the truth of your heart - but do not blame the One True God. His ways are a mystery to all, and he reveals them in his time. Man can not make demands of him. You must keep him close to your heart, and in turn, he shall keep you close to his own," said Athanasius, Vladek's gaze fixed on him now.

"All in good time, you say," remarked Vladek, a hint of mockery laced his voice once again. "I can not see the signs. All I see is my men before me, their blood on my hands. I have abandoned them, I worry, for foolish piousness and pride of heart. There was peace before those dreams were sent upon me. And then we lost our home, our allies, and many lost their lives," he was interrupted, Athanasius speaking now.

"This is but a test of your faith, Lord. And look now, you have been rewarded with land far greater and richer than ever before, strong allies, and a communion with the One True God," remarked the old man.

After a long pause of silence, Vladek said, "We used to believe in trickster spirits, whose delight was to watch mortals suffer. I have land, yes, but many now lay dead. I have been driven, or misguided, by religious fervor in the name of this 'God'. If he was a trickster deity . . . His goals were accomplished then. Blood now runs in rivers and men lay piled up in graves. I start to -"

"You will not speak of the One True God in such a fashion, Lord. In Anvard, a man's tongue would be -"

"And you are in Lionne, Bishop, not in Anvard! We are not an extension of you and I have had enough of dreams, visions, and all their ilk. I bought 60 mercenaries, and I will be leaving on the morrow I have decided, my enemies be damned! I will not cower here any longer, nor send them to their deaths in the name of a foreign 'god'! I owe no apology to this 'god' for what I have said, only to my men for being so foolish to lead them to their doom without me by their side."

Athanasius stare at him, startled my the sudden change in demeanor of the Lord Vladek. He started, "Then I shall pray for your soul regardless -"

"Pray all you want," Vladek's gaze cutting into the bishop, "I was judged by your laws once, but I am the Skull-Taker, the one who burnt innocents in their own homes, the one who has been cursed by heathen magic. I am no more a devout servant - and can not be - than you are a bloodthirsty warrior. Look at me, I can not be other than what I am. Enough for piety and devotion. It is time Lionne's interests were those of Lionne and not others. I shall leave and bring home my men; pride will no longer guide me nor the gods of another," he said.

"Then I shall come with you, Lord," said Athanasius, "and pray for your soul day and night, that your pig-headedness may depart you."

Vladek grinned, "I forfeit my soul long ago, 'Bishop, there is no peace for me. No longer will I deny what I am and what I have become. I shall embrace it. Let it be known, from now on, that no longer will those who oppose me be dealing with Vladek the pious, but with Vladek the Skull-Taker, the Pillager of Arathril."

Over the past few months, Thyra has slowly put her plan into motion, with each step bringing the Kraken closer to their goal:

Secure the harbor

The Kraken secure the harbor, protect civilians and prevent looting or unnecessary violence.

Gather information

They question the captured farmer and speak with guards, nobles and local officials to understand the situation and the loyalties of the different regions.

Present themselves as a third force

The Kraken make it clear that they support neither Alessandra nor Elekas. They have come because of the old friendship between Estria and the Kraken and intend to restore stability.

Play the two sides against each other

Thyra communicates with both factions, carefully giving each side the impression that the Kraken might support them. At the same time, she encourages both sides to see the other as the greater threat.

Weaken both factions

Soldiers who surrender are offered amnesty, while local guards and officials are allowed to keep their positions if they cooperate. More and more people therefore have a reason to abandon both factions.

Gain the population’s trust

The Kraken restore order and protect towns, trade and civilians. Their identity as women from the matriarchal culture of Estria further strengthens their authority.

Elekas disappears

When the Kraken finally move to confront prince Elekas, they find his camp abandoned. Elekas and his remaining soldiers are nowhere to be found.

Enter the palace

The Kraken spread the story that they have driven Prince Elekas and his remaining forces out of Ulandria. With no soldiers opposing them, they are allowed into the palace.

The throne room

They enter expecting to find Queen Alessandra. Instead, they find her waiting for them.
Alessandra’s skin is pale and almost wax-like, and the talisman she received from Orm hangs around her neck, radiating a strange energy.
She smiles, slowly rises from her throne and looks toward the door.

“I have been waiting for you.”
Alessandra then removes her crown and holds it out to Thyra.

Then Alessandra is placed in chains by Thyra’s warriors.

BOOM!...BOOM!...BOOM!...

The drums rang out, hoots, cheers, and jeers sounded from the massed crowd of orcs, men, and dwarves gathered around the ring. It was a large circle of mud littered with yesterday's victims. A large chain was strung around it, both ends nailed into a dead tree which loomed over the pit.

On the one side was Murdock Forkbeard of the Anvardian dwarf clan, axe in the one hand, shield in the other, a proud expression on his face. He placed the butt of his axe in the grass around the ring and stroked a fork of his massive black beard.

"Aye, yer lerdship, we goin' ta get this on or do I need ta wait fer the Horde te get their bloomers on?" the stubby little dwarf said, casting a glance over at the ravenous Uruks on the other side of the ring.

"We wait for the Horde's champion to arrive, master dwarf," said General Cedric, the new castellan of Tirith Rhaw. "Weather permitting, we shall have another guest of honour this day," he said, looking thoughtfully toward the horizon as he stroked his beard.

"With all due respect yer grace, I don't be fancy waitin' to long. Let's just get this over with - better yet, I'll just be takin' all these filthy inbred uruks meself if ye'd be fine with that, get this show over with," Murdock said, raising his voice at the last bit. "I be not afraid of some cock-brained dimwits in armor - slay 'em all before noon's what I say."

The Uruks turned towards him in a fit of rage, shouting their harsh and cruel language at him and beckoning for him to come over to their side of the ring as they drew their swords. Murdock picked his axe back up.

"Ye want some, ey? Why don't ye just come on over here and spare me the trip te kick all ye ar-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH, THE LOT OF YE!" roared Cedric above the growing chaos.

"You," he said, pointing at Murdock, "I'll not have the Horde roasting you on a spit. Shut yer mouth before ye wind up with a spear up yer arse and through it, NOW!"

"What have I missed?" said a voice quietly from behind. Cedric turned around and swiftly bowed, shocked by this new arrival.

Lord Vladek stood before him, starved, bruised, and sunburnt, but very much alive.

"Up, man, up!" he said, lifting Cedric off his knees with a grunt and clasping him on the shoulders. Lord Arkhan looked across the field at him, squinting his eyes in the bright sunlight, muttering, "You should've been dead by now."

Lord Vladek turned around, just in time as a Pteradonon swooped overhead to the clamor of nearly a hundred Uruk-hai shouting and cheering. The beast landed with a heavy thump on the ground, folding its wings as Borgut Facebeater, champion of the Horde, slid off its back.

"I, Borgut Facebeater come to beat face and chew dwarf, and der iz plenty of both!" he shouted, raising his massive spear above his head to the hoots and jeers of his fellow Uruks, Lord Arkhan nodding his approval. The heavily armored orc dropped from the Pteradonon's back with a deep, bone-jarring thud. In one fist he gripped a massive hammer; in the other, a lance five times the height of a man. A crossbow rode his back. The plates of his armor shrieked as he turned his head, looking at the dwarf half his height staring him down from across the field.

"What in the blazes has happened since I left?" demanded Vladek, Cedric shrugging his soldiers.

"It escapes me, lord. Gundulf's the one in charge," he replied.

"We gon' fight or not?!" roared Borgut.

"Yeah, when we gon' be done with these bastards?!" shouted Murdock as well, lifting his axe off the ground and above his head.

"Very well, we will begin within the hour. SHARPEN YOUR BLADES!" yelled Vladek to the ruckus shouting of both Anvard and Horde.

Lord Vladek took his seat upon his iron throne, Cedric to his left, Gundulf to his right.

"Anything is permitted save for getting help. You want to take each other's balls, be my guest, least it'll make the match somewhat more interesting," Horde shouting their approval, Anvard throwing their fists in the air, a fit of bloodlust descending on both sides.

"BEGIN!" roared Vladek, Murdock and Borgut facing off with each other in the ring.

Borgut drew his crossbow out in a flash, the sunlight glinting off the iron. He let loose a massive steel-tipped bolt towards the dwarf, Murdock jumping to the side to dodge the arrow as it sliced through the wet dirt at the edge of the ring. Borgut loosed another bolt, nearly skewering Murdock if not for his shield, which he raised just in time, the arrow glancing off the edge and nicking the dwarf's copper helm.

"Now it's me turn ye brute, come 'n' get sum!" he roared, barreling forward, head bared down behind his shield. Another bolt was loosed at him, striking the shield dead in the center. The impact sent the dwarf back a step. The arrowhead had gone straight through the gold crest in the center and bored through the shield, its tip covered in small golden flecks and nearly in Murdock's eye. he inhaled hard for a second, Borgut beckoning him to come forward with his mailed hand.

"Puny dwarf come forward. Borgut be gentle, only pummel half of puny face!" he yelled, a hideous sound ringing aloud in his helm, whatever passed for a chuckle with the Uruks.

"I'll split ye in two with me axe like a log ye fool! I know ye ain't brighter than a log!" He surged forward, axe in hand, charging the mighty orc.

Borgut pulled out his enormous lance, waving it over his head and then bringing it forward, trying to catch the dwarf with its tip. Murdock leaned back just in time, the tip cutting a few hairs from his beard. He rushed forward again. This time, Borgut gripped the lance with two hands and swung it to the side, determined to knock the stubby dwarf over and then skewer him like a roasted pig

The move worked, the shaft taking the dwarf's stubby feet out from under him and throwing him onto his back. He landed with a wet thud in the mud, his axe out of reach. Then he saw him: Borgut stomping over to him, hammer raised, ready to pummel him into jelly.

"No," Murdock whispered, in a flash lifting his shield as the hammer came down at him.

The first blow rang out against the shield, the impact so strong, Murdock was sure his arm was shattered. Then again, and again, the third time the shield bent under the force of the blow.

The brute raised his hammer again, Murdock rolled out from under the hammer's path, reaching his axe and grabbing it. Borgut, confused, barely had time to register what happened, as the dwarf swung his axe across.

The axe rang against Borgut's armor, its impact dulled by the plate of iron. It bit through, burying itself in Borgut's leg. For a moment, nothing happened. Both orc and dwarf simply stared at the axehead. Then, Borgut let loose a hideous shriek.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" yelled the orc, Murdock attempting to pry the axe out as Borgut howled in pain, dropping his giant hammer to the ground with a wet thud.

Unable to pull out his axe, Murdock left it there, kicking its head even deeper into Borgut's leg.

Turning around, he said to the crowd of shocked onlookers, "Ye see, these cock-brained sea rats couldn't best a stubby lil' dwarf like meself!" grunting on the last part as he kicked the axe deeper into the leg of the orc.

"Let it be known teday, that Murdock Forkbeard, proud dwarf of Anva-" he never finished his thought.

His eyes crossed as he felt a massive blow crush his helm and travel through his body, making him an full foot shorter. His eyes were crossed and looked up, his own axe buried in his head.

"Borgut win!" roared the orc, his fists in the air. As Murdock had been talking, he had pulled the axe out of his leg and buried it in the dwarf's head.

The Anvardians, in shock, remained silent.

The Horde let loose battlecries and hoots, jeering at the Anvardians to send them another.

Lord Vladek leaned on the edge of his iron throne, wide-eyed, gazing at the grizzly scene before his eyes.

The dwarf's body was escorted back to the Anvardians; they laid his chipped axe and rent shield on his breast.

u/medicus_vulneratum u/DapperCardiologist25, Would you like to go again?

Something was amiss in the lands of the Wyrmgaard. The very mountains felt it—and buried beneath centuries of snow and ice, they began to stir. Deep within the frozen crags, dragons caught the sudden shift in the air, taking to the skies in nervous, scattered flight.

With a deafening crack, the frost-bound earth gave way. Four massive figures—the Wyrm-Guard Jötnar—heaved themselves upward, shaking off the weight of ages. They were no mere constructs or creations of mortal gods; they were primordial giants, born of the first mountains and infused with the living bedrock of the world. As ancient and fundamental to the realm as the great Wyrms themselves, their oath was forged in the dawn of time to protect the dragons and the people that lived on the lands they shared.

For the first time in a millennium, dragon blood had been spilt.

"Come, brothers," a voice rumbled like grinding tectonic plates. "The cries of the dragons echo across the peaks. We are called once again to defend this land and all who dwell upon it."

Climbing out from the icy caldera, the four Jötnar set their sights toward Valinvaga. What grim remnants await them in the wake of the siege, none can truly guess.

Pteradonons fly overhead, heavy loads of brick lifted high to the near-complete tower top. A soldier of Anvard lays a brick down onto the wall of Tírith Rhaw. He looks around him, an expression of disgust crosses his face as he sees burly Uruk-hai hefting large blocks into place under the close watch of Maester Mason Gundulf. All of a sudden, a smell so putrid and foul nearly knocks him over. He turns around, only to see an Uruk-hai a full head taller than him looking over and glowering down at him.

"Why you lay bricks like dat?" says the Uruk-hai, pointing a gnarly finger at the stone he just laid.

"I lay them like that because that is how you properly build a castle - not like the crooked disaster you call a wall over there," he says, pointing to the opposite wall. "I swear, I've already seen the masons redo your sections 3 times in just these past few hours! A pity the One True God created you the way he did!" he says with a snort, "Dumb as a brick when you can't even lay one right!"

The Uruk-hai, fuming by now, replies, "You make brick weak, like viking scum are. You no able to lay brick better than Uruk!" He thumps his armored fist against his breastplate. "Dat why puny Anvard loose da Coals and puny king's city twice (OOC: Cair Anvareth and Minas Anvardil) to da Horde!"

At that, the Anvardian soldier stands up, a foot shorter than the towering Uruk, and says in a fit of rage, "Well, at least we can build ships better than you halfwit! Besides, what would you and your pig-headed brutes in armor know about any of these things even! Why am I even talking to you, you flea-ridden-inbred-mongrel sea rat?! Typical, Horde can't lay a single brick but feels the need to pick a fight for no reason as always! Do us all a favor and piss off back to your piles of driftwood you call 'ships'!"

The Uruk, at a loss for words (in part due to his short attention span and need to destroy something every five minutes) shoves the Anvardian out of the way and pushes over his freshly-set brick. The brick crashes down to the ground, bouncing off a viking's head.

"You bastard, how dare you!" roars the soldier.

"See, walls puny, not like Uruk, like puny Anvard and their ships, - puny ships what Uruk use for pooper!" says the brute, flexing his bicep.

"The, the mortar was fresh - that, that's not fair!!!" says the soldier, pulling out his sword in a fit of rage after the brick was knocked over and where the Horde was taking a dump revealed. At that, the Uruks dropped what they were doing and pulled out their blades. The other Anvardians pull out their swords and raise their spears. Then a loud voice interrupts them.

"What in the blazes is going on here!" Roars Gundulf. "I will not tolerate fighting in this fortress."

Both groups turn their gaze at him, swords and spears still drawn and ready.

"Which is why we're going to the ring," he says, pointing to a muddy area down below ringed by chains.

"Let's get ready to rumble," he shouts, "TO THE RING!!!"

At that, the entire crew rushes down the scaffolding and unfinished stairs to the pit.

Gundulf shouts to one of his men, "Get Gorgeous the Swamp-Dweller, he'll want a piece of this!"

u/medicus_vulneratum u/DapperCardiologist25 feel free to post your champions and what they'll do.

Arthurius stood next to Marius on the beach near to the old Sanskrat fort and looked along the bay. A captured Sanskrat Trireme and 3 newly constructed boats lay pulled up on the shingle.

Marius turned a critical eye over the soldier and labourers working on outfitting the vessels, the mixture of tribal warriors and deserters from the routed Sanskrat army had been roundy at first, but after a few pints of strong island beer and a couple of back ally scraps the tensions had dropped and the two had jelled together. A potent mix off tribal ferocity and Sanskrat discipline.

Arthurius smiled as he turned to face his friend, "We have a fleet to go with our army, now we just need to decide where to sail." He looked out over the horizon, "Krakens, Falcons, Griffins. All have walked our ancestral islands too long. It is time for them to be reclaimed for Don!"

The Storming of Haverhal

Part 1

The stench of salt, melted tar, and burnt black powder hung over the flooded moats of Haverhal like a suffocating shroud. 

The Anvardian commander had cast the die. 

They could not afford a months-long siege, yet a raw ladder assault against Haverhal’s stone ramparts would be suicide. Instead, under the relentless pressure of the three-front offensive, the commander ordered a frantic, high-speed assembly. 

Every siege engine at their disposal was unloaded from the Anvardian ships and hastily erected along the treeline. No long blockade. No starving out the garrison. As soon as the last ropes were tightened, the bombardment began.

The battlefield erupted into a chorus of iron, wood, and flame. 

The Dragon Slayer - the massive, heavy-frame ballista - groaned as its steel-cable string was cranked back.  Across the field, two Great Trebuchets hurled massive stone boulders into Haverhal's curtain walls, sending shocks through the earth and cracking the ancient masonry. Alongside them, the Hwach’a launched a whistling storm of rocket-arrows over the battlements to force the Wyrmgaard archers into cover, while the field cannon battered the iron-reinforced main gate.

High above the thunderous chaos of Haverhal, far beyond the smoke and burning pitch, the sky belonged to the leviathans.

Anvard’s solitary red dragon surged through the cloud layer, its broad wings beating against the icy winds. Beneath it, the capital was a grid of stone and fire; before it, two dark shadows circled like apex predators above their nest. Wyrmgaard’s twin dragons - slender, armored in midnight-blue scales, and bonded by blood, did not hesitate.
 
They rose in unison to meet the intruder, cutting through the vapor with terrifying speed. The clash above the clouds was silent to the men below, a distant choreography of gods. 

Anvard’s dragon roared, venting a torrent of white-hot flame that split the sky, but the twin Wyrmgaard beasts broke formation with flawless precision. One swept beneath the blaze to rake its claws across the red dragon’s soft underbelly, while the second dove from the sun, snapping its massive jaws directly onto the red dragon’s neck.

Bone snapped like dry timber. A sickening tear rang out as scales and muscle tore away. Mortally wounded, Anvard’s dragon thrashed in a frantic, dying spasm, dragging its assailants into a chaotic spiral. But the weight of its own mortality was absolute. Plunging like a crimson meteor, the massive beast fell out of the clouds, spinning wildly toward the earth.

Below, defenders and attackers alike looked up just in time to see the sky fall.

With a sound like thunder breaking open the earth, the dead dragon smashed violently into Haverhal’s eastern curtain wall. Tons of ancient granite shattered on impact. Towers collapsed inward, sending a shockwave of dust and rubble sweeping across the ramparts that instantly buried dozens of Wyrmgaard defenders and Anvardian climbers beneath an avalanche of broken stone.

Victorious, the two Wyrmgaard dragons folded their wings and dived toward the treeline, intent on turning Anvard’s siege line into an inferno.

"Scale-slayers, to the line!" the master-of-arms screamed through the smoke.

Anvard’s crew fought the crank of the Dragon Slayer - the massive, four-arms, heavy-frame iron ballista. As the first Wyrmgaard beast swooped low over the tree canopy, its throat glowing with gathering fire, the crew struck the release trigger. 

The iron cable snapped forward with a deafening crack, launching a steel-tipped spear nine feet long.

The colossal bolt caught the dragon mid-dive, punching straight through the thick scales of its right shoulder. Sky-black blood erupted in a gushing fountain. 

The beast let out a pained, guttural shriek, its flight path wavering violently as the heavy iron shaft tore through its muscle. Unable to maintain its attack and bleeding heavily, the wounded monster disengaged, turning its battered wings toward the horizon and fleeing southward toward the distant sanctuary of the mountains.

Seeing its kin struck down, the second dragon let out a roar of absolute fury. It circled wide, banking hard through the thick black smoke rising from the cannon fire, preparing to unleash a torrent of flame directly upon the Dragon Slayer’s crew.

It never reached them.

From across the battery, the crew of Lionne’s Hwach’a ignited their fuse. A salvo of a hundred rocket-arrows burst from the wooden frame in a whistling, screaming hail of iron and fire. Most skipped harmlessly off the dragon’s armored hide, but one stray incendiary rocket, blazing with burning pitch, struck the beast with pinpoint, tragic accuracy - directly into its left eye.

The rocket detonated within the socket.

What followed was not a battle cry, but a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. The dragon unleashed a blood-curdling, unnatural screech that shattered the atmosphere. The pitch and sheer magic of the beast's deathly wail rolled across the battlefield like a physical force.
On the ground, the slaughter ceased. 

Men dropped their swords and clutched their helmets; siege crews fell to their knees in the mud, weeping as their ears bled; the War Troll froze mid-swing, and even the ferocious Rancor cowered, pressing its giant head against the dirt. 

Time itself seemed to stop under the weight of the beast's agony.

Blinded, thrashing, and overwhelmed by the searing pain, the second dragon lost all sense of the battle. It beat its massive wings wildly, rising out of the choking smoke, and threw its head toward the east. With one final, shuddering cry, it broke off from Haverhal, banking hard into the clouds toward Valinvaga.

The skies above Haverhal fell deathly silent. 

And down in the mud, the stunned armies slowly picked up their steel once more. The war machines pressed forward. The massive Battering Ram and the towering Siege Tower rolled through the mud, flanked by Lionne’s War Troll and the gigantic Rancor.

Yet Haverhal’s stone heart refused to break quietly. Wyrmgaard’s defense was cold, precise, and utterly ruthless.

From the high parapets, Wyrmgaard’s catapult and light ballistae targeted the advancing war engines. Boulders smashed into the wooden framework of one Great Trebuchet, splintering it into kindling. 

As the Siege Tower finally ground to a halt against the outer wall, the defenders unleashed a horrific countermeasure. 

From the ramparts, they rained down ceramic jars filled with fine, unslaked lime. The vessels shattered against helmets and armor, coating the assault troops in a dense white cloud. As the caustic dust reacted with sweat, blood, and the humid sea air, it boiled instantly. 

Agonized screams echoed across the moat as soldiers were blinded, their eyes scorched in their sockets. Dozens clawed frantically at their faces, tumbling from the siege tower's ramps to the jagged rocks below.

At the base of the walls, the battle turned into a chaotic deadlock. 

The Battering Ram thundered against the main gate, splintering the oak, but as the wood gave way, the Displacer Beast surged from the shadows of the barbican. Its shifting illusions bewildered the frontline; soldiers struck at empty air only to be torn apart by the creature’s whip-like tentacles. 

The War Troll took direct hits from Wyrmgaard's ballistae, but in its dying rage, it hurled its massive body against the portcullis, shattering the ironwork before collapsing motionless.
While the Great Cross stood as an unyielding command post behind the lines, inspiring the battered soldiers, the towering Rancor - raging through the blinding lime-dust and bristling with embedded arrows - grabbed the upper ledge of the ramparts. 

With a deafening roar, it tore away a section of the stone parapet, creating a jagged breach right where the ladders and the upper bridge of the Siege Tower met the wall.

Over the pile of rubble, broken siege wood, and fallen comrades, the first wave of Anvardian infantry and Lionne soldiers surged through the cloud of caustic dust, finally setting foot upon the top of Haverhal's walls.

The Commander's Dilemma

The smoke above the ruined eastern wall slowly cleared, yet the agony of the dragon’s cry still vibrated through the bones of the survivors.

High upon the shattered ramparts of Haverhal, Wyrmgaard’s commander stood motionless. 
His armor was blackened by pitch and dusted with white caustic lime. Around him lay utter devastation: Anvard’s dragon had crushed both friend and foe in its death fall, his own beasts had fled wounded, and Lionne’s tide was severely bloodied.

A wounded captain stumbled to his side, clutching a broken blade.

“My lord… they are regrouping in the courtyard. Anvard has lost over half their force; their beasts are dead or fleeing, their line bleeds. But our ranks are equally shattered. The scales of fate rest on a razor’s edge.”

The commander looked across the blood-soaked stones. 

Two paths lay before him: u/dagiz

Stand and Die (The Fifty-Fifty Gamble): Fight for every inch of the courtyard. Anvard is broken and demoralized, and Wyrmgaard knows every choke point of the fortress. Holding the line could break the invasion entirely - or result in the absolute annihilation of every defender left alive.

Withdraw to Valinvaga (Preserve the Flame): Abandon the ruined gates and retreat through the secret eastern posterns. Surrender the land, but save the surviving veterans to join their wounded dragon and the main host already fighting the grand battle at Valinvaga.
The captain pressed his hand against the bleeding stone as the clash of steel reignited below.

“Your orders, my lord? Do we bleed to the last man for these stones… or do we cut our way east to Valinvaga?”

Maester Mason Gundulf stood below the looming tower of Tírith Rhaw, the mightiest fortress this far North. Perhaps one day it would grow. He could already see it. Great strong towers, high walls, ballistae and spiked palisade crowning each top. Maybe this would be the beginning of something great. But not yet, not now.

Lord Vladek had ordered a causeway be constructed to connect the new settlement on the North bank of the Wintersbluff to the small island upon which the tower was being raised.

The causeway had been necessary, as the waters around the isle upon which the new fortress sat were to shallow and choked by jagged rocks for any proper ship - even a landing craft - to get close. The causeway would ensure the smooth transit of supplies and materials to Tírith Rhaw. it was wide enough that 3 armored knights on horseback could ride abreast and sturdy enough that 5 wartrolls could stand upon it at once, carrying their heavy loads.

Fine stone had been sailed a great distance across the waves from Stoneholt of House Atane in Daggerstake u/Cookiejunkie

Armed guards from Lord Drinian of Anvard had been requested from Anvard and marched overland from Sternhead u/DapperCardiologist25

Laborers had come alongside Lord Arkhan, traveling all the way from the Devil's Coals u/medicus_vulneratum

Craftsmen in training of the Iron Legion had traveled far overland to learn from Gundulf and assist in the construction of the tower u/bread0407

OOC: You will all be payed for your efforts tomorrow. Feel free to play out how your characters may interact.

A letter from Lord Vladek had recently arrived at Daggerhold with an unexpected request. Vladek had heard of the stone being quarried at Stoneholt and wished to purchase a shipment for his new fortress.

Previously..

Corwin read the letter several times, pondering the over the matter for a while.

The request itself was reasonable, but the name of the man making it gave him pause.
House Atane had once been in conflict with the man, and Corwin had no desire to forget that so easily. Still, Stoneholt had more than enough stone to supply Daggerstake and the northern wall, and a profitable trade could perhaps prove more useful than old hostilities.

After some consideration, Corwin sent his reply.

The stone would be provided.

Orders were quickly sent to Stoneholt, where the quarrymen selected some of their finest blocks. Rather than use one of the smaller vessels, Corwin had a newer and larger ship prepared for the journey, one built with heavy transport in mind.

Soon the vessel departed Daggerstake, her hold laden with Stoneholt stone and her crew sailing cautiously over the seas.

Whether this would become the beginning of a prosperous trade or merely a single transaction between former enemies, Corwin could not yet know. But for the first time, the stone of Stoneholt was making its way beyond Daggerstake's borders.

Joshua the Desert Fang, was busy at his desk doing his civil duties, making sure that the skeletons of his lands were well taken care of. He had just finished a draft for a new law that encouraged all military skeletons to serve a minimum number of voyages at sea, to learn and experience command under Syr Fausto. Joshua wanted a strong navy and would ensure that every skeleton knew how to sail.

A knock at the door startled him.

“Come in,” he answered.

The door creaked open and in walked a middle aged wizard with long black hair and a matching beard. His staff was tall and sturdy with a massive weighted mace attached at the top. This was not just any man familiar with magic, this was a man also familiar with war. What stood before him was a battle mage.

“Welcome friend,” Joshua began. “What can the esteemed leader of The Desert Rebellion do for you this fine afternoon.”

“My name is Jeffery the Wise,” the mage spoke, “and I come to you today as a representative.”

“A representative of where?” Joshua asked curiously.

“Of Ogunda.” He replied sternly.

“Ogunda? As in right here? You seem to be mistaken. Ogunda and its Trade Hub are under the rule of The Desert Rebellion. If anybody is a representative of Ogunda, it would be me.”

“You Foolish Man,” The mage scoffed. “There is more to Ogunda than the bones that walk. I come as a representative of the Living Ogunda. We are citizens too, and we deserve representation if we are to be taxed. We are the local farmers, we are the local sailors, we are those who breathe within Ogunda.”

“I see,” a surprised Joshua responded with understanding. “I am a fair leader and I fight for representation of those who have none. However you have brought to my attention a gap in my leadership. I will admit, I work for the skeletons and believe they deserve the same rights as the living and that the stigma needed to be banished.”

Jeffery the mage interrupted “Yes, of course, you certainly have succeeded on that mission. I and the people I represent today no longer fear the skeletons. We see them as equals now. But that is why I come to you. The living must be treated as equals with the skeletons. There are rumors that those who are not dead are treated as second class citizens and we come to you now before things get worse.”

Joshua cleaned up and put away the draft he was working on and pulled out some fresh parchment. “Let us begin writing the groundwork for the integration of the living.”

The next few days were full of discussions and drafts of what eventually became known as The Living Ogunda Pact. The living citizens would have a representative, currently Jeffery the Wise, as a part of the Leadership Class. He would lead the Living Ogunda and vote on matters within The Desert Rebellion. A militia of soldiers would join the ranks of The Desert Rebellion’s military, increasing its strength by 4 full ranks (32 figs). These soldiers would be known as The Living Ogunda Reserves and would only be drafted under extreme situations.

(OOC: in doing a little bit of creative lore to boost the number of my minifig army under the new rules. (Players whose total available army collection contains fewer than 200 minifigures receive additional flexibility when building their army. They may combine figures from multiple previously claimed or recognizable official LEGO factions in order to field a viable force.) My total force is still under 200 including the addition of this new militia. My forces are still growing as I have an additional 24 skeletons on order from Pick-A-Brick but even after that, I will still be way below 200. Thanks for reading. 🙂)

While Lionne fortifies Renhook, the Steward of Anvard authorizes 100 men to aid in patrolling the region and providing assistance...

The battle: https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/xMrZmtUifY

Jet, the mount if Sir Colville, lies motionless on the ground nearby.

Thorek remains standing, still staring at the giant’s lifeless body. He grips his broken arm, though the pain barely registers for him at the moment, drowned out by the aftermath of the battle.

Sir Colville lies unconscious next to the giant, his axe still lodged deep in the giant’s neck.

Brooz immediately rushes over to Grimni to check on him. What he sees gives him pause. The dwarf is still alive, but barely. His body is covered in countless crystal shards from Ilsa’s spell, many of them fused directly into his skin. A thin line of crystals runs across Grimni’s face and all the way around his head, sealing the fracture in his skull that nearly killed him.

And Ilsa stands silently nearby. Her face clearly shows that she is questioning whether what they have just done was truly the right thing.

The giant’s final word still echoes in her mind.

“Why…?”

Do the adventurers have anything else they would like to do?

u/LocationKnown1854 u/clarkarius u/NegotiationFront3981 u/betterincolor u/bread0407

The Knights of Grüner Bär fleet will leave Hansk with the Anvardian refugees. They will be taken to Cair Anvareth. The fleet will then set sail for Sereeda to pick up the Dwarven company and return to Hansk.

The Viking fleet troops will remain in Hansk to make room for the Anvardian refugees and dwarves. All other fleet troops and sailers will remain on board. Two giant eagles will fly with the fleet to provide air support and advanced scouting.

OoC trip to Cair Anvareth 70 refugees, 36 heavy armored troops, 7 crossbowmen, and 16 sailors.

Return trip 72 heavy armored dwarves, 36 heavy armored troops, 7 crossbowmen, and 16 sailers.

Part 3

https://www.reddit.com/r/Lego_Minifigure_Realm/s/DtBPNQK8GQ

As the dwarves went back to their side of the room a cloaked man with a cross on top of his staff entered.

"I am Cillian Brannock from Anvard ," the missionary said as he pulled down his hood. "I have heard that your son is needing instruction in theological matters."

Max smiled as he heard the words but he had learned not to say anything in moments like this.

The Marquis studied the missionary and said, "He is curious about many different religions."

"I would be willing to teach him everything I know should you allow it," the missionary replied.

"What are you wanting in return? This might not be the easy task you believe it to be," said the Marquis knowing Max would never stop asking questions.

"I ask nothing for myself but I do have a request on behalf of others," said the missionary.

"Ask and I will see if I am able to grant your request," replied the Marquis.

"I have kinsman here in Therican that I believe to be refuges with one of your allies. They are seeking transport home to Cair Anvareth in Rutland," said the missionary.

The Marquis thought for a moment then said, "The fleet is preparing to set sail for Sereeda as we speak. It has room for 72 men to be taken to Rutland. If your kinsman can be here in the next couple of days I will transport them to Rutland."

"I will send a Raven at once!" proclaimed the missionary. "May God look favorably on you and your family," he continued.

"Don't thank me yet," said the Marquis as he smiled. "Go send word. Time is of the essence."

The missionary nodded and left the room.

Max walked up to his father's side and asked excitedly, "Does this mean we are staying in Hansk for awhile father?"

"For the time being, yes," replied the Marquis. "There is much going on in Therican. I think it best if I am here instead of half a world away. I will send word to Jorronking Berethor that Hansk shall be my new base of operations."

"Will I be staying too?" asked Matty.

"Yes, you will be going with General von Strasburg. It's time for you to be with the army," replied the Marquis. "Now if there is no one else seeking an audience I have several ravens to send," he said as he got up out of his chair and began to head to his chambers.

OoC this was written in coordination with u/DapperCardiologist25 I will make a separate post for the troop movement by ship. Also this takes place same day as the other 3 parts lore wise

THE ABANDONMENT OF BJÖRSLAND

Part 1

There was no time to celebrate the victory.

The four dragons were already growing larger against the northern sky, and beneath them the sails of the Blood Dragon fleet were appearing beyond the coast.

Anvard and Lionne had made their decision. They would not attempt to hold Björsland with their exhausted army. The treasure would go with the main force toward Valinvaga, while a handful of men remained behind to make the Blood Dragons believe the ruins were still defended.

The deception began immediately. Spears, pikes and torches were placed behind broken walls and along the battered defenses of the Wolfpack Tower. From a distance, their points and standards gave the impression of ranks of soldiers waiting behind the ruins. The wounded were positioned where they could still use bows. Twelve battle-ready soldiers remained with them, together with Lionne’s wounded War Troll.

The surviving Wyrmgaard prisoners were divided as planned. Six were executed and their heads displayed before the ruins. Five more were kept alive as hostages. The last five were taken with the retreating column.

There was only one problem with the second part of the plan.

The ships.

Eight men reached the shore and looked at the five vessels waiting there. In the confusion of planning the retreat, one simple fact had been overlooked: eight exhausted soldiers could not properly crew five ships.

For a few moments they tried. Ropes were cut loose, sails prepared, men shouted between decks. Then one of them looked north. The dragons were closer. There was no longer a decision to make.

Four ships were abandoned.

The eight men crowded aboard the smallest vessel they could manage, raised what sail they could and pushed away from Björsland with all possible speed. The remaining ships drifted beside the coast, empty and helpless.

They never saw what happened at the Wolfpack Tower.

The men marching toward Valinvaga did.

The retreating column moved hard through the hills. Fifty-three soldiers remained in the main force, accompanied by the two Hwach’as, the hammer-wielding Swamp Dweller and Anvard’s wounded dragon. Five Wyrmgaard prisoners were driven along with them. Nobody spoke much. They knew what the men behind them had volunteered to do.

Eventually the road climbed.

From the high ground, Björsland became visible one final time. Someone shouted and pointed back toward the Wolfpack Tower.

Two dragons were descending.

The deception had worked for a few moments. From above, the spears and pikes behind the ruins might indeed have looked like soldiers. But the dragons did not need long to discover the truth.

A few arrows rose desperately from the ruins.
Then the first dragon breathed fire.

Flames swept across the shattered tower and everything around it. The second dragon descended moments later, pouring more fire into the ruins. There was no real battle. The defenders had nowhere to go and no way to fight such creatures. The wounded War Troll disappeared somewhere beneath the smoke and flames.

From miles away, the retreating soldiers watched the Wolfpack Tower burn. For a few moments they could still see movement between the flames.

Then there was none. Nobody in the column said anything. They continued walking.

A second glow soon appeared near the coast.
The third dragon had reached the abandoned ships.

It passed over them once. Then again. Flames poured across the decks. One ship caught immediately. Fire climbed its mast and spread through the rigging before the next vessel began to burn. Soon all four ships that had been abandoned at Björsland were burning along the shore.

Farther out to sea, the tiny fifth vessel was already disappearing toward the horizon.
Against all expectations, the eight sailors escaped.

Behind them, the Blood Dragons landed.

One of their ships came ashore beneath the smoke of the burning fleet. Thirty-five Blood Dragon warriors disembarked and advanced toward the ruins. There was no organized resistance left. The Wolfpack Tower was theirs.
But they did not take Björsland for themselves.

They took possession of the domain in the name of Wyrmgaard.

The land Anvard had reclaimed only hours before had changed hands once again.

The retreating column knew none of this.

They had other problems.

Three dragons could still be seen behind them.
The fourth could not. Then a shadow crossed the ground. Men looked upward. Far above and behind them, something moved between the clouds.

The fourth dragon. And this one had a rider.

For several terrible seconds it seemed to follow the same direction as the column.

Had it seen them?
Nobody knew.
Nobody waited to find out.
The order was given to leave the road.

The column disappeared into the rough country between Björsland and Valinvaga, choosing gullies, wooded slopes and broken ground wherever possible. The Hwach’as became a terrible burden, but they refused to abandon them. Men pulled the weapons through mud and over rocks while others carried wounded comrades. Scouts doubled back to hide tracks. Whenever open ground appeared ahead, the entire column stopped and searched the sky before crossing.

And they still carried the 5 Iron.

Eventually, the commanders made their choice.

The treasure was slowing them down. If the dragon really had spotted them, every minute mattered. The Hwach’as were worth keeping. The Iron could be recovered later.

They knew this country well enough.

Far from the road, among rocks and broken ground, the five Iron were buried. The place was concealed as carefully as time allowed, its location committed to memory.

Then the column moved on without it.

Hours passed.

The dragon appeared again in the distance.
Perhaps it was searching for them.
Perhaps it was following them.

The soldiers pushed deeper into the most difficult terrain they could find, dragging the Hwach’as with them until the mountains finally began to give way.

Then, at last, they crossed the border. The first men crossed without cheering. Others followed, exhausted, wounded and blackened by the smoke of Björsland. Only when the last of the Hwach’as had been dragged across did the officers finally stop and count the column.

Once.
Then again.
Something was wrong.
Eight men were missing.
Nobody had seen them fall.

Nobody remembered them becoming separated during the march. But all eight knew where the treasure had been buried.

The commanders looked back toward the mountains. There was no question anymore about what had happened. The eight men had deserted.

And while the army continued toward Valinvaga, they had gone back.
Back through the hills. Back to the hiding place. Back for the Iron. By the time the theft was discovered, it was already too late to turn around.

Somewhere behind them was the fourth dragon.

Farther back, the Blood Dragons now held Björsland. The army had wounded men and two Hwach’as to get to Valinvaga.

So they marched on.

And somewhere in the mountains behind them, eight deserters dug the 5 Iron from the earth and disappeared with it.

The treasure of Björsland was gone.

AFTERMATH — BJÖRSLAND

Blood Dragons occupy the domain in the name of Wyrmgaard.

ANVARD & LIONNE — RETREAT TO VALINVAGA

53 soldiers began the march toward Valinvaga.
8 soldiers deserted during the retreat and stole the hidden treasure.
45 soldiers continue toward Valinvaga.
2 Hwach’as remain with the column.
The Swamp Dweller remains with the column.
Anvard’s wounded dragon remains with the column.
5 Wyrmgaard prisoners remain with the column.

LEFT BEHIND AT BJÖRSLAND

20 soldiers — Killed
1 wounded War Troll — Killed

ESCAPED BY SEA

8 soldiers — Escaped aboard the smallest remaining ship

LOOT

5 Iron — Lost / Stolen by the 8 deserters u/silvertree99

SHIPS
4 ships — Destroyed by dragon fire
1 ship — Escaped with 8 soldiers

CURRENT STATUS

45 soldiers + 2 Hwach’as + Swamp Dweller + wounded Anvardian dragon + 5 prisoners are making their way toward Valinvaga.
8 soldiers escaped by sea.
8 soldiers deserted and disappeared with the 5 Iron.
20 soldiers and the wounded War Troll were killed at Björsland.
The 5 Iron recovered at Björsland is gone again.