Wilhelm spent the first 12 years of his life in an orphanage. He had started having visions very early in life, and he had heard the monks murmur that his parents probably abandoned him because they thought he was possessed by evil spirits.
When he turned 12, a wandering ascetic Monk, Brother Barton Kelvin came to the orphanage. Recognizing young Wilhelm's potential, Brother Kelvin took the boy on as an apprentice. Using the boy's visions Brother Barton was able to travel to the places in the Kingdom where he was needed most. Wherever there was sickness, war, or famine, Brother Kelvin and Wilhelm were there to lend their assistance, even if it was often just to bury the dead.
When Wilhelm was 15 years old, he first foresaw the rise of a power that would change the face of Camlyn. So it was that he was one of the first to come into the camps of Cyrus Avallon.
The moment Wilhelm first saw the man who would become High King was forever etched in his mind. Then in the prime of his life, the smith Avallon was tall and strong. The Kingsword at his side seemed to glow with its own inner light, and to the young prophet, it was as if he was seeing the very Will of God in a tangible form. Overcome by the moment, the boy fell on his knees and swore allegiance immediately.
Wilhelm was at Cyrus's side from that day forward, always guiding him with the visions he received from on high. Together, they were the Voice and the Hand of the Creator on earth, and together, they forged a kingdom.
* * * * * * * * * *
High King Cyrus Avallon the First looked over the bloody battlefield that had finally cemented his total victory. As he had long dreamed, Camlyn was now a single united kingdom. He looked down wearily at the brown blood flaked on his sword and caked in his beard.
"Was it worth it, Reverend Kelvin. Was it really worth all of this blood and death? I made the sword, but I never thought that I would be called upon to use it. I was nothing more than a smith."
The short, (some might call 'dumpy') middle-aged clergymen paused to consider his answer. Standing in robes that were once white, but were now stained red with the blood of the fallen, Wilhelm looked beyond the field of the dead and dying to the beautiful contrast of the setting sun.
"It is the Creator's Will, my King. The Creator's Will is worth any price. We have attained peace. Our children will know prosperity of a kind our fathers only dreamed of. It is because you do not lust after the power that you now hold that you are worthy of it."
"I envy your ability to see things so clearly in black and white, my friend. Sometimes, I am not so sure. You are right about one thing for certain: it does my heart good to know that I can get back to building things instead of destroying them."
* * * * * * * * * *
Nearly twenty years passed and it seemed that the now Lorded Reverend Wilhelm Kelvin seldom got to have such conversations with his king as he would have liked. King Avallon did indeed know peace the rest of his days and he did spend those days building. He constructed the greatest city the world had ever known and in it he constructed a vast temple to the Creator that had made him King. King Cyrus built roads, aqueducts, and schools, but to the woe of the kingdom, he did not have children to inherit what he had built and now the great King was dead with no heir.
To Lord Reverend Kelvin, the prophet who had guided the great King on his journey, none of these things were a surprise. Reverend Wilhelm had seen from the beginning that King Cyrus was merely a tool in the hands of the Creator, like the weapon God had helped Cyrus forge. Avallon was a tool to unite the land so that the Creator's true, intended ruler could step in and guide His flock. Why else, had the King never been blessed with an heir?
Now was the time of God's church and Lord Reverend Wilhelm Kelvin was poised to step into the chaos and bring peace and healing. It would not take the people long to realize that the squabbling nobles that had turned upon one another almost before the king's body had turned cold, did not have the best interests of the citizens in mind. There would be pain and suffering. Wilhelm had almost asked that the future he had been shown could be changed when he had foreseen the suffering that would ensue; but just as he had told the king so long ago...
********
"It is the Creator's Will. The Creator's Will is worth any price. The people will turn to the church when they see the suffering that is in store for them at the hands of these other 'sovereigns' who care nothing for the Will of God and seek only to further their own selfish gain. They will cry out to the church and they will join together in crowning a new king; a new king that serves the Will of God. I will be the hand of the Creator among men. I will be the next High King of Camlyn."
"As you say, Lord Reverend."
Wilhelm gave a start at the response. He had not realized that he was speaking aloud, but it was often like that when he experienced a vision.
"It is not I that say it, Brother Cooper. I am but the mouthpiece of the Creator. I must say, I was wrong about one thing, back then, with Cyrus. The sword was never intended for him."
With that, the Reverend withdrew the item that had, until then, been concealed within a wrapping. Glittering in his hands was none other than the Kingsword. "Of course, I do not need such a tool to authenticate the Will of God, but this will go far to ensure the masses who have come to see it as a symbol of Divine Appointment. It will surely smooth the process and hopefully ease some of the suffering I have foreseen."
Friday, May 28, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Strategy Post - 5/25/2010
Barony Specialization
In Kingsword, you have several different 'options' for game play - depending on your personal style and choice. Specialization allows a baron to be very, very good at one particular aspect of the game, while choosing to be less good at others and is most effectively done as a member of an alliance who will offer protection for those areas of weakness.
We thought we'd list a few of the most popular build types:
1) Warmonger.
It wouldn't be a war game without war and warmongers keep things interesting. These barons specialize in large numbers of barracks (soldiers) often partnered with markets (gold) and farms (food). Since attacking another player costs a great deal of food and gold, the warmonger will often try to be self sufficient in that regard. Warmongers will normally have very few weapon smiths, iron mines, temples, and resource production buildings - electing instead to build only what is needed for military strength.
Strengths: You need Warmongers to break defending armies and alliance armies. Having 4-5 Warmongers in an alliance gives you powerful attacking options as well as a nice alliance army defense - protecting the non-warmonger barons.
Weakness: Warmongers are vulnerable to spies and, with some work, can be substantially weakened and even defeated by a Spy Master without any fighting whatsoever.
2) Spy Master.
If combat isn't your "thing", another more subtle option is the Spy Master. Instead of being focused on barracks and armies, the Spy Master works to keep his influence as low as possible - staying out of range of the larger armies. The Spy Master normally focuses on a strong defensive army/walls/stronghold and, instead, builds tons of Spy Academies. The Spy Master accumulates espionage points in order to devastate an enemy baron either by killing his general or poisoning his peasantry. Going into a raid or a kingdom war, it is always a good idea to have 1-2 Spy Masters available to help.
Strengths: Powerful spy actions that can cripple an attacking or defending baron and his/her army. Easily has the ability to "drain" opposing barons of espionage points. Can "steal" (or borrow) weapons and gold to help his alliance mates.
Weaknesses: Vulnerable to attacks. If a War Monger can get within range and the Spy Master isn't online - it's usually going to be a rough day for the Spy Master.
3) Weapons Master.
In Kingsword, all army units (except the guard) need weapons provided for them. These weapons have to be built by the players. At high influence levels, it takes longer to build these weapons, so the Weapons Master often will forgo the barracks and armies and focus mainly on iron mines, blacksmiths, and keeping his/her influence as low as possible. A good Weapons Master can make upwards of 1500 weapons a day, which can be traded to friendly War Mongers or sold at high gold prices on the market. Every alliance needs 2-3 Weapons Masters that are actively producing large quantities of weapons for the alliance.
Strengths: Weapons are always in demand and providing weapons can be very lucrative. A Weapons Master can usually keep his/her influence very low - thus staying out of range of the War Mongers and Spy Masters.
Weaknesses: Weapons Masters are vulnerable to both War Mongers and Spy Masters. Most of their acreage is allocated towards weapon production and not spy defense or armies. Weapons Masters need War Mongers to offer them alliance army protection.
4) Farmer.
Food is required for attacking. You have to feed your troops or they just won't do what they're told. War Mongers are constantly stockpiling food and farmers can provide a valuable service to the alliance by making it so that the other specializations don't need to waste acreage by building farms.
Strengths: A good farmer will make it so that alliance mates don't need to build as many farms, thus making everyone around them more economical in their specialization. Food is easy to trade in large quantities. Everyone loves a farmer.
Weaknesses: Vulnerable to pretty much everyone. A support specialization. Farms take up a lot of acreage.
5) Merchant.
Gold is also required for attacking. Much like the Farmer specialization, the Merchant can be a valuable contributor to an active alliance. Money makes the world go around, and in Camlyn, it is also true. The Merchant will often utilize the Black Market - buying huge quantities of weapons or resources and then distributing those to his/her alliance members. It's nice to have at least 1 Merchant in an alliance.
Strengths: Having the ability to buy large quantities of weapons instantly can make a difference in a raid or a kingdom war. The Merchant makes everyone around them a bit better.
Weaknesses: Like the Farmer, is vulnerable to the other specializations - not having a strong army or powerful spy infrastructure. A support specialization.
Most players play with a combination of 2 or more of these specializations. Play around with them and find what best suits your personality and play style. Each one plays a key part in the success of a strong alliance.
In Kingsword, you have several different 'options' for game play - depending on your personal style and choice. Specialization allows a baron to be very, very good at one particular aspect of the game, while choosing to be less good at others and is most effectively done as a member of an alliance who will offer protection for those areas of weakness.
We thought we'd list a few of the most popular build types:
1) Warmonger.
It wouldn't be a war game without war and warmongers keep things interesting. These barons specialize in large numbers of barracks (soldiers) often partnered with markets (gold) and farms (food). Since attacking another player costs a great deal of food and gold, the warmonger will often try to be self sufficient in that regard. Warmongers will normally have very few weapon smiths, iron mines, temples, and resource production buildings - electing instead to build only what is needed for military strength.
Strengths: You need Warmongers to break defending armies and alliance armies. Having 4-5 Warmongers in an alliance gives you powerful attacking options as well as a nice alliance army defense - protecting the non-warmonger barons.
Weakness: Warmongers are vulnerable to spies and, with some work, can be substantially weakened and even defeated by a Spy Master without any fighting whatsoever.
2) Spy Master.
If combat isn't your "thing", another more subtle option is the Spy Master. Instead of being focused on barracks and armies, the Spy Master works to keep his influence as low as possible - staying out of range of the larger armies. The Spy Master normally focuses on a strong defensive army/walls/stronghold and, instead, builds tons of Spy Academies. The Spy Master accumulates espionage points in order to devastate an enemy baron either by killing his general or poisoning his peasantry. Going into a raid or a kingdom war, it is always a good idea to have 1-2 Spy Masters available to help.
Strengths: Powerful spy actions that can cripple an attacking or defending baron and his/her army. Easily has the ability to "drain" opposing barons of espionage points. Can "steal" (or borrow) weapons and gold to help his alliance mates.
Weaknesses: Vulnerable to attacks. If a War Monger can get within range and the Spy Master isn't online - it's usually going to be a rough day for the Spy Master.
3) Weapons Master.
In Kingsword, all army units (except the guard) need weapons provided for them. These weapons have to be built by the players. At high influence levels, it takes longer to build these weapons, so the Weapons Master often will forgo the barracks and armies and focus mainly on iron mines, blacksmiths, and keeping his/her influence as low as possible. A good Weapons Master can make upwards of 1500 weapons a day, which can be traded to friendly War Mongers or sold at high gold prices on the market. Every alliance needs 2-3 Weapons Masters that are actively producing large quantities of weapons for the alliance.
Strengths: Weapons are always in demand and providing weapons can be very lucrative. A Weapons Master can usually keep his/her influence very low - thus staying out of range of the War Mongers and Spy Masters.
Weaknesses: Weapons Masters are vulnerable to both War Mongers and Spy Masters. Most of their acreage is allocated towards weapon production and not spy defense or armies. Weapons Masters need War Mongers to offer them alliance army protection.
4) Farmer.
Food is required for attacking. You have to feed your troops or they just won't do what they're told. War Mongers are constantly stockpiling food and farmers can provide a valuable service to the alliance by making it so that the other specializations don't need to waste acreage by building farms.
Strengths: A good farmer will make it so that alliance mates don't need to build as many farms, thus making everyone around them more economical in their specialization. Food is easy to trade in large quantities. Everyone loves a farmer.
Weaknesses: Vulnerable to pretty much everyone. A support specialization. Farms take up a lot of acreage.
5) Merchant.
Gold is also required for attacking. Much like the Farmer specialization, the Merchant can be a valuable contributor to an active alliance. Money makes the world go around, and in Camlyn, it is also true. The Merchant will often utilize the Black Market - buying huge quantities of weapons or resources and then distributing those to his/her alliance members. It's nice to have at least 1 Merchant in an alliance.
Strengths: Having the ability to buy large quantities of weapons instantly can make a difference in a raid or a kingdom war. The Merchant makes everyone around them a bit better.
Weaknesses: Like the Farmer, is vulnerable to the other specializations - not having a strong army or powerful spy infrastructure. A support specialization.
Most players play with a combination of 2 or more of these specializations. Play around with them and find what best suits your personality and play style. Each one plays a key part in the success of a strong alliance.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Fiction #2 - Lord Marshal Ulysses Tennyson
"in that moment knew I despair, for the Strength of Heaven had been given over unto the will of Man..."
Conflict and turmoil surrounded Lord Marshal Tennyson, as they had for most of his adult life. Voices cried out in terrible cacophony, strident and angry in their battle to be heard. Tempers flared, fists shook, expressions darkened, threats were made and more, yet the aged general sat amid it all, seemingly oblivious. Ulysses Tennyson, Lord Marshal of Camlyn's armies and Duke of the Eastern Marchlands, knew intimately the indicators of war.
For more than fifty years he'd trained, studied, practiced and perfected the arts of war. His eyes had seen countless battlefields, studied endless maps and terrains, observed thousands of training exercises, and beheld innumerable deaths of young men. Riots, secessions, invasions, civil disputes, attempted mutinies, hostile expeditions - Tennyson had witnessed, orchestrated, executed and reviewed all these and more for decades. Yes, he and war were intimately familiar; close as lovers, one might say. War was in the air, no doubt about it. He could feel her in the heated exchanges all around him, smell her in the rancor all about, hear her in the vindictive accusations being thrown throughout the room, and see her savage gleam in the hateful glares of the various lords. No mistake, battle would soon descend on this beautiful land the late king had created. Still, for all he saw around him, his mind and heart were drawn to another fateful battle, long ago...
* * * * * * * * * *
"Is there no man willing to accept my challenge?" cried the young warrior to the massed army before him. Ranks of soldiers faced each other across the banks of the Keldron River, all silent as they focused on Crimson Ford. A single man stood at the center of the ford, unarmed but for the staff of parley clutched in his right hand. On the east bank, nearly three thousand men held disciplined, orderly ranks, each bearing the standard of the House of Tennyson, Kings of Agaris. To the west stood a mere one thousand troops; a motley collection of standards, insignia, and associations spread among them. None of the emblems represented were known by the heralds of Agaris, let alone their young king Ulysses. The unknown warrior holding the ford had come from their number. He stood confidently, expectantly, waiting for an answer from the larger army. Such a bold proposition for one outnumbered; such a strong claim for one unknown as he.
Ulysses guided his horse forward, the sea of men parting before him as he progressed toward the ford. A student of combat and battle since his first steps, Ulysses studied the anonymous warrior as he approached. The man stood tall and strong, deep in the chest and well-muscled for one so young. Handsome, though not overly so, his presence commanded attention like no other on the field, save Ulysses alone. His armor was plain, though well-made; a sign of practical craftsmanship and experience in battle. His expression bore no eagerness for the challenge, nor cowardice at the prospect of being accepted; simply a calm assurance. The crest, a sword grasped in hand over a blue field with five stars overhead, spoke simply of purity, strength, and divinity. This man believed Heaven itself had declared his strength to rule. An audacious claim, for one unknown.
"I accept your challenge, good sir," answered Ulysses Tennyson, as he reached the near edge of the ford. "We shall face each other on the morrow, at dawn, for a duel. I will bring any and all weapons I so desire to bear against you and your one sword. Can I but manage to break your sword, you and your armies will surrender to my authority and swear fealty to Agaris. Failing that, I and mine will surrender ourselves to your mercy, swearing fealty to your house and your right to rule. This I promise you upon my name, Ulysses of House Tennyson, King and Protector of the realm of Agaris. I ask but one thing, good sir; the honor of your name."
"I am grateful to hear you accept my challenge, my lord Tennyson. I am Cyrus Avallon, High King of Camlyn," replied the young warrior. "You will find me here at first light, awaiting your good pleasure to see this test to its completion." His challenge accepted, Cyrus Avallon bowed and turned back toward his troops, walking proud and tall. Ulysses Tennyson likewise turned his horse about and returned to his command tents to discuss strategies with his advisors.
The dawn broke clean and clear, the beginning of a fine summer day. Lord Tennyson emerged from his tent clad in simple armor, laden with a multitude of weapons: mace, sword, dagger, flail, axe, bow, arrows, and spear. His advisors and captains all followed at a respectful distance, marching confidently to their victory over this upstart army. True to his word, Lord Avallon awaited Tennyson at the center of the ford, also clad in simple armor and bearing a single sword. No other attendants were nearby, though the whole of his army stood at the far bank, watching silently.
"I bid you good and blessed morning, my lord Avallon," said the King of Agaris. "I pray God grant you strength and courage this morning."
"My thanks to you, my lord Tennyson," replied the King of Camlyn. "I pray God grant you wisdom in the wake of this morning. Shall we begin?"
Puzzled by the cryptic blessing, Ulysses shrugged away his curiosity, settling his focus on his opponent's stance. Eyes narrowing in concentration, Tennyson set string to his bow and nocked an arrow.
"My lord Avallon, you challenged my army yesterday to a simple test," began the King of Agaris. "You have allowed me to bring any number of weapons to bear against you in attempt to either pierce your skin or destroy your sword. Your emergence from this test unscathed and armed demonstrates the favor of Heaven on your reign. I ask you this but once: will you not accept that I will emerge the victor and spare yourself the humiliation of defeat and possibly the ignominy of death?"
"My good lord Tennyson," answered the King of Camlyn, "I am but a humble servant of God. Should he desire to see me cast down so, then I accept without question. If you are ready, then let us begin your test of faith."
In answer to this statement, Tennyson quickly drew the arrow to bear and let fly. The arrow whistled through the air as it sped toward Avallon's heart. Just as swiftly, Avallon's sword cleared the scabbard, ringing clearly across the waters. The polished blade caught the morning sun and fairly pulsed with the bright, pure light of the heavens. Startled by the flash of light, Tennyson looked away, trading his bow for the spear. The whistle of the arrow cut short and both armies gasped as Avallon cut the arrow in half and waited for the next attack.
Ulysses stood stunned for a brief moment, amazed at the speed of this young warrior. No man had ever cut an arrow in two, certainly not at that short a distance! Deciding the flash of the sun must have thrown his aim, he set the spear low and half ran toward his opponent. Avallon stood casually, almost carelessly awaiting Tennyson's approach. Within range, the spear lashed out high, feinting and circling low for a sweep. Avallon danced in rhythm with the spear assault, flicking the blade about to deflect the spear's point. Within moments, the spear fell beneath the waters of the ford, discarded and useless in three pieces.
Tennyson stepped back quickly, suspecting a quick counter from Avallon as he worked a new weapon to hand. The moment was lost as Tennyson loosed the flail, circling all the while. Twice he had attempted to pierce his opponents skin, and twice he had been handily defeated; a new tactic was required. His feet working quickly in arrhythmic patterns, he spun the flail in attempt to wrest the sword from Avallon's grasp. Barely shifting from his place, Avallon spun aside and languidly flicked the blade across the flail's trajectory. Sparks flew as the blade cut through the chains of the flail, rendering it as useless as the two weapons before.
Temper rising, Tennyson whirled about, drawing the axe from its holder. His face set in a deadly grimace, he set toward Avallon at a hard pace, darting the blade high, then low, rushing from the side to throw the man off his stance. Avallon met the pace in stride, whirling about and keeping the blade ever at his center. The explosion of metal clashing shattered the early morning air. Fog began curling up from the surface of the ford as the sun crawled into the sky. The two figures continued to circle each other, blades flashing and sparking. With a tremendous screech, the blade of the axe split and fell into the water, just as ruined as its predecessors.
Seething with rage, Tennyson swept his leg in a wide circle, trying to trip Avallon. At the same time, he withdrew his own sword and began a complicated series of lunges, feints, and jabs. The two men circled each other faster and faster, locked in a fatal dance of destiny. Men watched with bated breath as the two kings spun about, blades flashing, sparks flying, water splashing all around. No words were exchanged, only savage grunts and barks. Jab, spin, feint, lunge, sweep, spin, cut, spin, reverse cut, jab, lunge, sweep... blow after blow fell brutally against Avallon. Still, nothing broke through his defenses. Finally, in fury, Tennyson leapt toward Avallon, bringing all his energy down upon the man in a terrible overhead strike. Avallon raised his sword and the last moment, holding the flat of his blade against the strike.
The morning, promising peace and tranquility at the first, was riven with the sound of a shattering sword. Body heaving with ire and exertion, Tennyson stood to his feet before Avallon, clutching the remains of his family's sword, broken just above the hilt. Cyrus Avallon, High King of Camlyn, stood still, armed and unscathed, just as he had challenged. His sword remained intact, whole and unblemished, glowing with the morning sun. Ulysses Tennyson, defeated king of Agaris, fell to his knees before his liege, bared his dagger, and offered it in supplication to the victor.
"As I have sworn, so do I offer my life, crown, lands, and people to you, your Majesty," he said. "Surely, Heaven has declared its favor in you, my lord, and seeks to appoint you the new King of Agaris. Do with me as you please, my lord." Three thousand knees followed his example, bowing to their new lord and crying out, "Hail to the King! Long live King Avallon!"
"Arise, good sir," replied Cyrus, "for I accept your offer. As it so happens, I find myself in need of a good general to oversee my growing armies. Weep no more for your people. They are welcome and gladly accepted within my realm. Ulysses Tennyson of Agaris, I hereby appoint you General of Camlyn's armies, to serve in said position in perpetuity until either your retirement or demise. Serve me well and faithfully, and you shall be rewarded."
"Until my death will I serve you," swore Tennyson, "faithfully and well, discharging all duties assigned me as best I can. This do I swear by my name, Ulysses of House Tennyson, former Protector of Agaris."
* * * * * * * * * *
Yes, he and war were intimately familiar... War was in the air, no doubt about it. He could feel her in the heated exchanges all around him, smell her in the rancor all about, hear her in the vindictive accusations being thrown throughout the room, and see her savage gleam in the hateful glares of the various lords... No mistake, battle would soon descend on this beautiful land the late king had created. Camlyn, lost to a house of dogs...
"ENOUGH!"
Tennyson stood suddenly, crying out in a commander's voice, cutting through the petty arguments, pointless accusations, needling and wheedling of the court's councilors, advisors, and pretenders to the throne. The strength and violence of his cry seated a good many of the men surrounding the council table. The few still standing quailed at the ferocity of his gaze, dropping into their seats with stunned expressions. Never before had the Lord Marshal given voice in the council chambers, let alone halted all attempts at negotiation.
"You petty children, squabbling over scraps and leavings off the table!" he railed. "You insolent, ignorant cowards! You each conspire to usurp the throne of a great man, or worse, seek to destroy his legacy and splinter his kingdom. There are too many potential threats, both outside and within these borders, to allow you all to continue this charade of leadership. Each of your lands has known subjugation at the hands of King Avallon; more specifically, at the tip of the Kingsword. None of you are strong enough to hold this kingdom together, much less lead it effectively. His Majesty, the late king, presented me with a gift shortly before his passing from this world; a gift that bestows a tremendous responsibility upon its bearer. Behold, I present the Kingsword, as given to me by Cyrus Avallon, the Craftsman King, himself! I bear the Kingsword, as his Majesty intended. I call upon each of you to acknowledge the truth of my claim and pay me homage. What say you?"
Conflict and turmoil surrounded Lord Marshal Tennyson, as they had for most of his adult life. Voices cried out in terrible cacophony, strident and angry in their battle to be heard. Tempers flared, fists shook, expressions darkened, threats were made and more, yet the aged general sat amid it all, seemingly oblivious. Ulysses Tennyson, Lord Marshal of Camlyn's armies and Duke of the Eastern Marchlands, knew intimately the indicators of war.
For more than fifty years he'd trained, studied, practiced and perfected the arts of war. His eyes had seen countless battlefields, studied endless maps and terrains, observed thousands of training exercises, and beheld innumerable deaths of young men. Riots, secessions, invasions, civil disputes, attempted mutinies, hostile expeditions - Tennyson had witnessed, orchestrated, executed and reviewed all these and more for decades. Yes, he and war were intimately familiar; close as lovers, one might say. War was in the air, no doubt about it. He could feel her in the heated exchanges all around him, smell her in the rancor all about, hear her in the vindictive accusations being thrown throughout the room, and see her savage gleam in the hateful glares of the various lords. No mistake, battle would soon descend on this beautiful land the late king had created. Still, for all he saw around him, his mind and heart were drawn to another fateful battle, long ago...
* * * * * * * * * *
"Is there no man willing to accept my challenge?" cried the young warrior to the massed army before him. Ranks of soldiers faced each other across the banks of the Keldron River, all silent as they focused on Crimson Ford. A single man stood at the center of the ford, unarmed but for the staff of parley clutched in his right hand. On the east bank, nearly three thousand men held disciplined, orderly ranks, each bearing the standard of the House of Tennyson, Kings of Agaris. To the west stood a mere one thousand troops; a motley collection of standards, insignia, and associations spread among them. None of the emblems represented were known by the heralds of Agaris, let alone their young king Ulysses. The unknown warrior holding the ford had come from their number. He stood confidently, expectantly, waiting for an answer from the larger army. Such a bold proposition for one outnumbered; such a strong claim for one unknown as he.
Ulysses guided his horse forward, the sea of men parting before him as he progressed toward the ford. A student of combat and battle since his first steps, Ulysses studied the anonymous warrior as he approached. The man stood tall and strong, deep in the chest and well-muscled for one so young. Handsome, though not overly so, his presence commanded attention like no other on the field, save Ulysses alone. His armor was plain, though well-made; a sign of practical craftsmanship and experience in battle. His expression bore no eagerness for the challenge, nor cowardice at the prospect of being accepted; simply a calm assurance. The crest, a sword grasped in hand over a blue field with five stars overhead, spoke simply of purity, strength, and divinity. This man believed Heaven itself had declared his strength to rule. An audacious claim, for one unknown.
"I accept your challenge, good sir," answered Ulysses Tennyson, as he reached the near edge of the ford. "We shall face each other on the morrow, at dawn, for a duel. I will bring any and all weapons I so desire to bear against you and your one sword. Can I but manage to break your sword, you and your armies will surrender to my authority and swear fealty to Agaris. Failing that, I and mine will surrender ourselves to your mercy, swearing fealty to your house and your right to rule. This I promise you upon my name, Ulysses of House Tennyson, King and Protector of the realm of Agaris. I ask but one thing, good sir; the honor of your name."
"I am grateful to hear you accept my challenge, my lord Tennyson. I am Cyrus Avallon, High King of Camlyn," replied the young warrior. "You will find me here at first light, awaiting your good pleasure to see this test to its completion." His challenge accepted, Cyrus Avallon bowed and turned back toward his troops, walking proud and tall. Ulysses Tennyson likewise turned his horse about and returned to his command tents to discuss strategies with his advisors.
The dawn broke clean and clear, the beginning of a fine summer day. Lord Tennyson emerged from his tent clad in simple armor, laden with a multitude of weapons: mace, sword, dagger, flail, axe, bow, arrows, and spear. His advisors and captains all followed at a respectful distance, marching confidently to their victory over this upstart army. True to his word, Lord Avallon awaited Tennyson at the center of the ford, also clad in simple armor and bearing a single sword. No other attendants were nearby, though the whole of his army stood at the far bank, watching silently.
"I bid you good and blessed morning, my lord Avallon," said the King of Agaris. "I pray God grant you strength and courage this morning."
"My thanks to you, my lord Tennyson," replied the King of Camlyn. "I pray God grant you wisdom in the wake of this morning. Shall we begin?"
Puzzled by the cryptic blessing, Ulysses shrugged away his curiosity, settling his focus on his opponent's stance. Eyes narrowing in concentration, Tennyson set string to his bow and nocked an arrow.
"My lord Avallon, you challenged my army yesterday to a simple test," began the King of Agaris. "You have allowed me to bring any number of weapons to bear against you in attempt to either pierce your skin or destroy your sword. Your emergence from this test unscathed and armed demonstrates the favor of Heaven on your reign. I ask you this but once: will you not accept that I will emerge the victor and spare yourself the humiliation of defeat and possibly the ignominy of death?"
"My good lord Tennyson," answered the King of Camlyn, "I am but a humble servant of God. Should he desire to see me cast down so, then I accept without question. If you are ready, then let us begin your test of faith."
In answer to this statement, Tennyson quickly drew the arrow to bear and let fly. The arrow whistled through the air as it sped toward Avallon's heart. Just as swiftly, Avallon's sword cleared the scabbard, ringing clearly across the waters. The polished blade caught the morning sun and fairly pulsed with the bright, pure light of the heavens. Startled by the flash of light, Tennyson looked away, trading his bow for the spear. The whistle of the arrow cut short and both armies gasped as Avallon cut the arrow in half and waited for the next attack.
Ulysses stood stunned for a brief moment, amazed at the speed of this young warrior. No man had ever cut an arrow in two, certainly not at that short a distance! Deciding the flash of the sun must have thrown his aim, he set the spear low and half ran toward his opponent. Avallon stood casually, almost carelessly awaiting Tennyson's approach. Within range, the spear lashed out high, feinting and circling low for a sweep. Avallon danced in rhythm with the spear assault, flicking the blade about to deflect the spear's point. Within moments, the spear fell beneath the waters of the ford, discarded and useless in three pieces.
Tennyson stepped back quickly, suspecting a quick counter from Avallon as he worked a new weapon to hand. The moment was lost as Tennyson loosed the flail, circling all the while. Twice he had attempted to pierce his opponents skin, and twice he had been handily defeated; a new tactic was required. His feet working quickly in arrhythmic patterns, he spun the flail in attempt to wrest the sword from Avallon's grasp. Barely shifting from his place, Avallon spun aside and languidly flicked the blade across the flail's trajectory. Sparks flew as the blade cut through the chains of the flail, rendering it as useless as the two weapons before.
Temper rising, Tennyson whirled about, drawing the axe from its holder. His face set in a deadly grimace, he set toward Avallon at a hard pace, darting the blade high, then low, rushing from the side to throw the man off his stance. Avallon met the pace in stride, whirling about and keeping the blade ever at his center. The explosion of metal clashing shattered the early morning air. Fog began curling up from the surface of the ford as the sun crawled into the sky. The two figures continued to circle each other, blades flashing and sparking. With a tremendous screech, the blade of the axe split and fell into the water, just as ruined as its predecessors.
Seething with rage, Tennyson swept his leg in a wide circle, trying to trip Avallon. At the same time, he withdrew his own sword and began a complicated series of lunges, feints, and jabs. The two men circled each other faster and faster, locked in a fatal dance of destiny. Men watched with bated breath as the two kings spun about, blades flashing, sparks flying, water splashing all around. No words were exchanged, only savage grunts and barks. Jab, spin, feint, lunge, sweep, spin, cut, spin, reverse cut, jab, lunge, sweep... blow after blow fell brutally against Avallon. Still, nothing broke through his defenses. Finally, in fury, Tennyson leapt toward Avallon, bringing all his energy down upon the man in a terrible overhead strike. Avallon raised his sword and the last moment, holding the flat of his blade against the strike.
The morning, promising peace and tranquility at the first, was riven with the sound of a shattering sword. Body heaving with ire and exertion, Tennyson stood to his feet before Avallon, clutching the remains of his family's sword, broken just above the hilt. Cyrus Avallon, High King of Camlyn, stood still, armed and unscathed, just as he had challenged. His sword remained intact, whole and unblemished, glowing with the morning sun. Ulysses Tennyson, defeated king of Agaris, fell to his knees before his liege, bared his dagger, and offered it in supplication to the victor.
"As I have sworn, so do I offer my life, crown, lands, and people to you, your Majesty," he said. "Surely, Heaven has declared its favor in you, my lord, and seeks to appoint you the new King of Agaris. Do with me as you please, my lord." Three thousand knees followed his example, bowing to their new lord and crying out, "Hail to the King! Long live King Avallon!"
"Arise, good sir," replied Cyrus, "for I accept your offer. As it so happens, I find myself in need of a good general to oversee my growing armies. Weep no more for your people. They are welcome and gladly accepted within my realm. Ulysses Tennyson of Agaris, I hereby appoint you General of Camlyn's armies, to serve in said position in perpetuity until either your retirement or demise. Serve me well and faithfully, and you shall be rewarded."
"Until my death will I serve you," swore Tennyson, "faithfully and well, discharging all duties assigned me as best I can. This do I swear by my name, Ulysses of House Tennyson, former Protector of Agaris."
* * * * * * * * * *
Yes, he and war were intimately familiar... War was in the air, no doubt about it. He could feel her in the heated exchanges all around him, smell her in the rancor all about, hear her in the vindictive accusations being thrown throughout the room, and see her savage gleam in the hateful glares of the various lords... No mistake, battle would soon descend on this beautiful land the late king had created. Camlyn, lost to a house of dogs...
"ENOUGH!"
Tennyson stood suddenly, crying out in a commander's voice, cutting through the petty arguments, pointless accusations, needling and wheedling of the court's councilors, advisors, and pretenders to the throne. The strength and violence of his cry seated a good many of the men surrounding the council table. The few still standing quailed at the ferocity of his gaze, dropping into their seats with stunned expressions. Never before had the Lord Marshal given voice in the council chambers, let alone halted all attempts at negotiation.
"You petty children, squabbling over scraps and leavings off the table!" he railed. "You insolent, ignorant cowards! You each conspire to usurp the throne of a great man, or worse, seek to destroy his legacy and splinter his kingdom. There are too many potential threats, both outside and within these borders, to allow you all to continue this charade of leadership. Each of your lands has known subjugation at the hands of King Avallon; more specifically, at the tip of the Kingsword. None of you are strong enough to hold this kingdom together, much less lead it effectively. His Majesty, the late king, presented me with a gift shortly before his passing from this world; a gift that bestows a tremendous responsibility upon its bearer. Behold, I present the Kingsword, as given to me by Cyrus Avallon, the Craftsman King, himself! I bear the Kingsword, as his Majesty intended. I call upon each of you to acknowledge the truth of my claim and pay me homage. What say you?"
Friday, May 14, 2010
Fiction #1 - The Craftsman King
The following post is the start of the Kingsword Story. An epic plot spanning many destinies, this is no mere fiction. The path of this is decided by the players, by those who weave their own bloody path to achieve their aims . Do you want to join a faction? Do you want to see the entire story as it stands? Do you feel like joining the politics and the roleplay? Register on www.kingswordonline.com and prepare to be drawn into a world more rich than you could have possibly imagined...
...and lo, I saw before me a great city consumed in flame...
BONG... BONG... BONG... BONG... The bells of the city tolled mournfully, lamenting the death of the High King. Cyrus Avallon, known far and wide as the Craftsman King, had ruled well and wisely for thirty years, as far as most folk were concerned. Under his governance, trade had flourished, the common people had found voice in the courts, and the lands of Camlyn had known peace and unity. The Church had been blessed with an attentive and conscientious patron, dedicated to furthering the arts and enlightening the masses. Universities and colleges blossomed under such a benefactor, advancing the sciences and discovering new technologies regularly. Noble and commoner alike knew all manner of comfort, luxury, and respite as the lands thrived under Cyrus' careful supervision.
Still, all great men and women suffer their shortcomings, and the great king was no different. Cyrus' devotion to building his legacy often distracted from more domestic matters, and no heir was ever born. Adopted children, fostered wards of state, and god sworn beneficiaries both Cyrus and the queen, Priscilla, had aplenty. Yet, none had ever been officially recognized as the heir apparent. Cyrus took great pride in the strength of his accomplishments, and that pride would prove Camlyn's undoing.
The great king had been ailing for months, and many had attempted to curry his favor. Councilors sought private audience only to be rebuffed by the Royal Surgeon. Noble petitioners requested personal audiences only to be turned away by the Chancellor. As the king's health continued to deteriorate, more and more sought his attention, hoping to be named the successor to the throne.
In the few weeks before his death, King Cyrus began calling individual members of the Lord's Council to his private chambers, speaking with them at length. Reports shared by those summoned spoke of the king reclining in his bed, the queen sitting close beside and various family members in attendance. The Craftsman King, once robust and the picture of great health, sat hunched in his bed, much reduced by age and sickness. His legs were covered, concealing lesions caused by the leeching of the doctors. His arms, once renowned for their great strength, moved shakily and slowly, as though no longer willing to obey their master. Only his eyes gave hint to the man that forged a kingdom, fairly shining with determination and force of will. And, sheathed in its beautiful scabbard and close to his right hand lay the Kingsword, Cyrus' greatest work and the legendary claim to Camlyn's throne. The details of each meeting differed, as did the names of some of the other attendants; but the sword and its location were ever and always the same.
Each meeting ended with the summoned council members' exit from the royal chambers, bearing a final personal gift on behalf of the king. When asked to reveal what was given, most were only too happy to share. Drinking horns, goblets, chalices, rings, belts, brooches, and more were revealed, as these crafts most appealed to the king's personal hobbies. A few received pieces of armor, each crafted by the hand of the king, beautiful to behold and valued beyond measure for their extravagance. Rarer still were those to whom the king had gifted some of his crafted weapons; daggers, knives, maces, axes, and swords. No council member left without a gift, just as no member left without a story to tell.
Soon, the royal city of Avallon was awash with rumors and outlandish stories of the meetings in the Craftsman King's chambers. Duke Appleway had been named successor to the throne, banished from the realm, reduced to a lowly hedge knight, and been betrothed to seven of Cyrus' adopted daughters all in the space of an hour. Baron Chartres had been promoted to Royal Treasurer, stripped of rank and lands, imprisoned for treason, beheaded by the midnight court, resurrected by the Lord Reverend and converted to the Faith through the first week, only for it to be revealed there was no Baron Chartres. Story after story snaked its way through the many homes and businesses of the capital city, neither confirmed nor denied by the royal family. Uncertainty and confusion grew as the king's health waned.
The fateful morning of Cyrus Avallon's death dawned much like any other. Early in the morning, Cyrus' will to live could no longer resist the specter of death, and his spirit passed from this realm. Per the request of his queen, the Lords Council announced to the populace the bells would toll in mourning, one day for each year of the Craftsman Kings reign; thirty years of peace and prosperity, thirty days of mourning and grief.
The Lords Council continued to meet, as the lands still required governance. Outside, the common folk mourned and cried out their condolences to the royal family. Nobles commissioned works of art and literature in memory of their sovereign. Within the halls of the Council, plots and ploys were hatched and exploited. After the first week of mourning, several tragedies had struck both the kingdom and its council. The Royal Treasurer had been accused of embezzlement by the Chamberlain, arrested, found guilty by the Council, and executed for his crimes. Lesser advisors and those with little clout in the courts found themselves removed from power for a variety of reasons: failing health, criminal insinuations, increased bandit activity in their home provinces, and more. The Chamberlain and many others had fallen victim to a strange malady that struck suddenly and violently throughout the city. None so afflicted survived, including the queen and the whole of the royal family, and yet more chaos descended on the once peaceful kingdom of Camlyn.
The thirty days of mourning declared by the Lords Council lasted not more than twenty. Riots broke out among the common folk, as disease and looting overwhelmed the streets. Bandits and thieves swarmed the outlying roads, assaulting commoner and noble alike. The Lords Council, once more than thirty members strong, dwindled to just four: Lord Marshal Ulysses Tennyson, General of the King's armies and Duke of the Eastern Marchlands; High Lord Niccolo Florenti, Guild Master and Duke of the Southern Marchlands; Lord Chancellor Jean-Luc Gregoire, Speaker of the Assembly and Duke of the Western Marchlands; and Lord Reverend Wilhelm Kelvin, High Priest of the Church and Duke of the Northern Marchlands.
Just as the prophecy declared, Avallon, the capital city of Camlyn and its crown jewel, was consumed in the flames of chaos and uncertainty following the death of its creator and architect, Cyrus Avallon, the Craftsman King. As it was foretold, so it came to pass...
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