The Siege of Castle Caldwell: Make Them Burn. (Attackers: IC)

[Hattish Thing]

Make Them Burn:

The First Night, 11:30 PM.

The sun went down hours ago, and the night that followed was a cold one, a dark one. The small but still quite impressive Urdovan fleet glides down the incredibly wide and bitterly cold River Shivershriek, the cool water making hardly even a splash as the proud bows of the wooden longships pushed forward through the deep. Torches line the vessel's railings, the only sources of warmth for many of the soldiers that stand at the ready, freezing away in the cold as they await what was to come. The full moon shines down unfeelingly, it's alien rays of dim light providing little comfort to the men below as they stand, or sit, or polish their weapons in anticipation, with nothing but the creaking sound of the ship to keep them company.

Several days ago, the official order came, and the ships had been loaded up and prepared for war. These were no simple boats, however. These were longships. Urdovan Longships, four of them, loaded with a very special kind of cargo. Men, armed men, by the hundreds, greatly outnumbering the men stationed at the castle. It's been about two hours since the ships began the long journey down the river from the fortress they were built at, a while away. The wind blows with great force as the billowing sails and proud flags flap in the wind. The sails and flags boast the sigil of their country, a fiery Urdovan symbol that meant war. The men were ready, and within one more hours time, the ships would reach the Castle.

Now there was nothing to do but wait, and prepare.

---

The Group - Deck of the Rallying Ripper:

Suddenly, a woman steps out from the Captain's Cabin. It's Sansara, the Commander of the fleet, a mature but strong woman clad in leather, hide, and iron. She steps out and glares towards several of the more belligerent seeming Urdovan warriors before nodding slowly as they back away. She slowly makes her way onto one of the stairs leading up to the quartedeck, before resting a hand upon the railing and speaking out to the others. Her voice is harsh but warm as well, a welcome change from the nervous silence from before. "Urdovans! Killers, heathens, barbarians, monsters... These are the titles the Castibarians have forced upon us. For Centuries our king, our mighty King Geormand has been forced to accept these harsh words."

She continues, passion in her voice. "We have been forced to accept this abuse for far too long... And now, the order has been given to take their Castle, and burn it straight to the ground. We are to make a showing of our power here. We will break down their walls, burn their gates, and leave none alive! Many of year are here to simply take, and crush, and kill, not of a a great feeling of duty, but simply to enjoy destruction. And so. I dare you, men. I dare you to really show us, all of us, what you can do, how far you can go."

"Make a name for yourselves out there, and think about it...."

"How far will you go? ANSWER ME, MEN!"

Spoiler: Sansara:

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[Hamste]

Wouldn't it be more efficient once we are winning enough to just dismember them or take them as prisoners rather than kill them all? Dismemberment means they either die or the enemy has to spend resources keeping them alive. Plus it would make us look more fearsome when we attack the next castle if one of the dismembered survives. If we take them as prisoners we could use it to get more to surrender by showing we do accept it or drive them before us to take arrows from the next castle.

[Desril]

Saren

Joining the men in a guttural cheer, Saren cries out and looks at his companions.

Putting a hand on Shog's shoulder, Saren shakes his head. "Maybe, but it's not our place to question the commander. Let's just get in there and have fun, eh? What happens, happens." Lowering his voice, he continues, "Though I do agree, it couldn't hurt to take some prisoners, if you know what I mean. They might be scrawny, but these Castbarians tend to put up less of a fight if ya know what I mean."

[Hamste]

I think I get you. They are a too weak to be good miners but they are really easy to keep under control. Maybe farmers or as arrow fodder. Nice and economical. Shog whispers back.

[Drekkle]

As the rest of the men rallied to war, in the dark hold of the ship, Torel Ironbrow finds a secluded spot, setting up a small brazier filled with coals, with a bronze figure of Mother Flametongue at the rim. Chanting the prayer in a low voice as the embers flicker with heat and warmth, casting shadows in the dim corner, Torel slowly removed one of his leather gloves, stoically plunging his hand into the coals, as he has done many times before. With the coals sizzling around his hand, Torel closed his eyes, praying to the Ember Mistress.

'Everlight, give me the strength for the coming battle. Let my words inspire and protect my men, let my shield and armor take the strongest of blows, and let our forces burn the castle in tribute to the eternal glory of Akhardohkt. Let your will be done through me, your eternally humble servant and vessel.'

[Hattish Thing]

Wouldn't it be more efficient once we are winning enough to just dismember them or take them as prisoners rather than kill them all? Dismemberment means they either die or the enemy has to spend resources keeping them alive. Plus it would make us look more fearsome when we attack the next castle if one of the dismembered survives. If we take them as prisoners we could use it to get more to surrender by showing we do accept it or drive them before us to take arrows from the next castle.

Sansara glares towards the one questioning her orders before stepping upwards once more, past the steps leading up to the top deck. Once she arrives there, she'll reply, a fairly sour expression on her face. "King Geormand has ordered the complete destruction of Castle Caldwell, and everyone there. It's neither of our places to question his authority, soldier. You'll do as yer told, as will I, or you'll lose yer head for it. It's the way it's always been." She nods quietly here before looking out and forward, wondering when the torchlight of the Castle will be visible.

The Commander speaks once more. "Take no prisoners, defile them, litter the grounds with their broken and battered bodies. These people are filth, dishonorable the lot of them."

"Three weeks ago, some of their troops killed our King's grandson, and they mercilessly tore apart his body after he had fallen. After they murdered him as he was defending his hunting partners, they placed his head on a pike and fed the rest of him to his own dogs. They did so without mercy, without a care in the world. We will show them what we do to those who harm our Brothers."

"This is our revenge."

As the rest of the men rallied to war, in the dark hold of the ship, Torel Ironbrow finds a secluded spot, setting up a small brazier filled with coals, with a bronze figure of Mother Flametongue at the rim. Chanting the prayer in a low voice as the embers flicker with heat and warmth, casting shadows in the dim corner, Torel slowly removed one of his leather gloves, stoically plunging his hand into the coals, as he has done many times before. With the coals sizzling around his hand, Torel closed his eyes, praying to the Ember Mistress.

'Everlight, give me the strength for the coming battle. Let my words inspire and protect my men, let my shield and armor take the strongest of blows, and let our forces burn the castle in tribute to the eternal glory of Akhardohkt. Let your will be done through me, your eternally humble servant and vessel.'

It was best that the secretive rituals to Her were done below, away from the harsh eyes of the warriors above. They wouldn't understand the importance of the ritual, the need to sacrifice a little bit of self for a greater power. As Torel chants quietly and places his hand into the coals, the familiar pain will jolt through him, the smell of burning flesh rising up from the small brazier.

However, as always happens, the burns begin to quickly fade away, and as his blood is mixed in with the dark coal and ash, the smoke that comes off the brazier turns a brilliant orange color, and as he was instructed to do by his Teacher's long ago, Torel breathes in, the smoke vanishes into his throat, but does so as smoothly as one would breath in a fog, or a bit of mist. As he does so, the wound on his hand begins to slowly heal up, a physical sign that She had blessed him this day. Now, divine power whispers through his veins...

He was ready for battle.

[Drekkle]

Torel slowly removes his hand from the flames, pink, new skin marking the blessing of his Goddess. "Thank you, Mother Flametongue," he mutters to the bronze figure, prostrating himself one last time in front of Her, before replacing the leather glove over his hand. He straightens, gripping the holy symbol which hangs at his side as he returns to the deck of the ship above, his face a mask of grim and stoic determination for the task that lies ahead.

[Hamste]

If you say so. Though it does seem like we are letting them off easily...and uneconomically. There are many fates worse than death. Though an order is an order.

[Kingsfall]

Kyras stand off to the side of the ship. He gazes out over the water while his mind dances with thoughts of the battle to come.

Spoiler: eh kinda

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"Urdovans! Killers, heathens, barbarians, monsters...

Kyras peeks his head over and focuses on the Commander.

These are the titles the Castibarians have forced upon us. For Centuries our king, our mighty King Geormand has been forced to accept these harsh words."

Kyras tries to keep his focus, but something plays at the corner of his vision. Teasing him.
He grits his teeth trying to focus.

"We have been forced to accept this abuse for far too long... And now, the order

This was the last Kyras heard before his attention was stolen away completely.

His head now tilted toward the torch on the side of the boar. There he looks longingly into the flames. Its been this way ever since he was a boy. Fire has its hold over him. Easily stealing away his attention.

The way the wind caressed it to dance.
The way it drove away the darkness of night
The way it warmed him from the harsh cold of the north.
..... the way it burned and punished his enemies.

A warm smile appears on Kyras's face.

He raises his own blackened hand toward the flame of the torch, as if to caress the cheek of a lover.
Seeing his own hand he snaps back to reality. The rest of the men might not understand the rituals of the Ember Mistress.
Best not to peek any curiosity before the battle. Kyras instead briefly bring his holy symbol to his lips and kisses it gently.

He whispers to the flame. "Guide me my lady. Give me the strength to destroy our enemies so that the burning remains of their castle you and the King's grandson can dance in the ashes of our fallen foe."