"Darkness what is it truly? The absence of light? Then what makes a person dark? The absence of empathy, the absence of happiness? Hmm. Maybe a person is born dark? What if darkness is gained over a lifetime and culminates into something greater than man can understand? Is it truly the absence of light in the end? Light. It makes man flourish, truly a sacred majesty of the new age. " - Hemrick Of The Graal Vol 1: 15

O'er the edge of a dimly lit keep in the morn time, the sun rises over the edge of a dark barren plane devoid of grass, upturned soil of clay and rock mashed together with blood and bone of man, flesh, and metal of fallen. Yet the White Keep stands still, silently defying the bloodied land with its spotless stones uncrept by the viscosities of the human body. White mortar of a smooth texture akin to a fine wine, untested by a battle, or perhaps no battle has been enough to test it. Stacks of these stones evenly span the height of a dozen men, wrapping along themselves into a large palisade-like structure with many valiant watch towers attached, slits carved into the stones along every half man's length or so, the towers are topped with a dark wood with a tight-knit grain, carved so that they spin around and curve into each other like a spiral, fine nails struck upon their tops to fit into the ceilings of each and every tower. Atop the white fortress, 100s of men at arms stare longingly, their red banners billowing in the wind, upon the banners, the embossed black symbol of a dragon curled on top of a bleeding sword shows true as the sun shines its radiance upon them. Warriors in plate armor, chain mail, simple hauberks, and aketons, all bruised and battered, bloodied and tired. But still they stand, sword, mace, and polearm still held straight as if to say to the world that despite their sorry state nothing will break them. The engines of war are alight, cresting the hill are banners of yellow, engraved with a simple thorned rose made with a black yarn that has quite a grainy look about it, almost spider webb-ish.

The soldiers atop the fortress stir in fear, their legs and arms shaking in a steady pattern. A short man dressed in fruitfully colored cloth rushes among them, gliding up steps and ladders his puffed clothing billowing in the wind.

"Sir. Argahn Sir. Arghan! The Flowers have arrived!"

The man shouts out up the ramparts as he goes, sliding through the mass of metal and flesh.

Sir. Arghan, the titular commander of the white keeps garrison. With gloriously embossed plate armor and a sword, no normal man could wield, longer than that of a man and wider than that of a bearded axe. He slowly lifts the sallet off his head, another man-at-arms assisting him with the straps. his long golden hair glitters lightly as it meets the morning air.

"Yes Sir. Crimly, I see them, they have come indeed as the seeress prophesized." The man now known as Crimly gasps in horror as the full enemy armor crests the hill, thousands of men armed with pikes and crossbows, within their ranks men with large kite shields and flanged maces in heavy lamellar armor, a ghastly helm of chainmail and plate depicting a tortured man atop their heads. Their numbers are so great not a spec of dirt underfoot can be seen.

"Sir. Arghan we are lost!"

"Crimly my boy, Sclavena is lost only when all her people are dead, and then there shall no longer be a kingdom. The enemy will take from us nothing, as they will take from us everything, let this day be shed upon glorious blood, tell the serjeants to load the onagers. With haste!"

Crimlys colors cascade wonderfully as he dashes among the ramparts, the voulgiers and billmen clash their polearms against the brick of the wall, shouting a mighty battle cry. 

"Serjeants load the onagers!'

"Serjeants load the onagers!"

He rushes among the men, yelling at those with a small yellow feather plume upon their helms, the serjeants under the garrison commander, any serjeant at arms is ordered no matter their position, the weapons specialist loads onagers, the archer commander loads onagers, all together they shall rain hell upon the army of the Flowers.

Now as the men sing in unison their cries reach across the fortress.

"Aut Nihil, Aut Nihil!"

"Aut Nihil!"

Their thunderous roar collides with the clashing of ropes and smashing of anvils, the sharpening of swords, axes, and arrows.

Sir. Arghan straps his helmet on tightly and as he breathes his chest tightens and his muscles tense, he raises his sword mightily with one hand.

"SERJEANTS! FIRE AT WILL!"

Flaming pots of quick-dust, and boulders of jagged and smooth shape are launched throughout the sky, blotting the cloudy sky. They crash upon the ground and screams of agony and labored breath take to the battlefield as men are burned alive and crushed in a moment, but the Flowers continue their paced march.

"REMEMBER BROTHERS, THE DRAGON IS ETERNAL AUT NIHIL!"

Archers and crossbowmen begin their clash, the army of the Flowers has ladders raised in perfect formations, quickly their foe's crossbows outclass the fortresses longbowmen and they begin falling like blades of grass. 

Sir. Arghan grits his teeth as the heavy piercing bolts quickly shut down his archer formations,

"TARGET THE CROSSBOWS!"

The ranged Serjeant cries out in response,

"WE CAN'T THEY HAVE PAVISES!"

Damn it all to hell! How did these bastards get so many mercenaries?

Sir. Arghans mind races as he tries to think up a way to get around the elite forces of the Flowers. 

"Good Sers of the White Fortress and the bloodshed shall be quenched!"

A woman in shining gold mail and plate pauldrons reveals herself atop the hill, watching her forces converge on the towers. Her mighty but soft voice booms over the plane, carried by the cavernous terrain.

"Princess Petrovna is here commander! She is leading the enemy forces!"

Crimly runs up the stairs to the main guard tower.

"I see Crimly, she shows herself at last, a damned woman taking my fortress, today I die without dignity!"

Sir. Arghan clenches his gauntlet, the straps straining and the metal bending under his will.

Across the way Petrovna unveils herself, the goggled and adorned mail helm she wears coming off with ease. Her ash burnt hair glowed a dull grey. 

"Ser commanders I implore you! Surrender and this blood shall cease!"

"Crimly tell the serjeants to aim their onagers at the hill!"

"Immediately commander!"

The princess's words fall upon null ears, the garrison commander issues his command, a challenge to the woman.

If she wants to be among the warriors on the battlefield I will show her war!

"Today brothers the nectar of the Flowers will be shed!"

Argahn grips his blade and jumps down to the nearest rampart, the hacking and bashing of 2 sides is a terrible sight, heavily armored warriors climb the ladders, flanked by covered crossbowmen who hail projectiles at any chance they can, not even attempting to aim anymore instead opting to fire into the blurry mass.

The garrison commander's blade smashes into the soft parts of gambeson and aketon, cutting shoulders asunder and thighs so wide that may the man never have a bloodline that continues hence from this day of bloody battle.

"COME ON BASTARDS I CAN TAKE YOU ALL!"

He swings with grace and might, his 2 handed cleaver becomes the bane of men, but still, they are advancing atop the eastern wall, their defenses already breached by the army of Corin mercenaries whose helms strike fear anywhere they are seen.

"Commander the Demon Faces have annihilated the right side of our fortress!"

Crimly stammers, blood runs down his shoulder, a large bolt stuck steeply into his arm, making it fall limp.

Argahn cringes and falls back, kicking a ladder down as he steps.

"Men we are routed! Turn to me and we shall make our stand atop the great crest!"

The princess trots forward, now in front of the castle among the ranks of crossbowmen.

"Retinue, come forth!"

She raises her hand straight, her fingers facing the sky and over the hill, 100s of armored men in heavily caprisioned horses stride forth, their dark bascinet helms adorned by red crests of horse hair shining under the moist dew.

"Take down the gate Ser. Sicard, then raze this ragged fortress to the ground!"

The tallest man atop a great destrier closes the face of his helmet with a slam and as he charges forth he draws a mighty halberd wich he couches under his arm. With his right arm he draws out a small throwing axe from his saddlebag, the rest of the retinue follow in his steps and charge into the gate, wich at this point is nothing but scrap wood after being assaulted by so many projectiles. The gate comes down under the weight of the heavily chainmailed unit, the screams of the remaining garrison ring out as their bodies are crushed by the large horses and sliced into bits by the countless hurled axes. After the axes are depleted the retinue of the princess dismounts and join the clash, storming the great crest which has but only a few dozen men inside fending it. The great Crest as it is known is an ancient keep held for generations from the line of the Garent, today it is all but fallen, the garrison holding it nothing but ruffians and former brigands charged to guard it with their lives or be executed by the great lord of Sclavena.

Now the true massacre of the White Fortress begins, the mercenaries retreat to rest and the retinue begin hacking down the keep, soon they breach the walls and trot inside, the poor weapons of the garrison can hardly pierce of bludgeon their armor wich would cost a peasants life salary. The lord commander Argahn is all but a husk, his armor dented and his sword broken, rivers of blood flow from his body as he waves his sword foolishly, axes are embedded among his body and restrict his movement greatly. A well timed thrust from a halberd brings him to his knees.

"I WILL NEVER DIE, MAY MY FACE HAUNT Y-"

His death thralls are cut off by one of the retinue,

"Die you filthy brigand!"

An arming sword breaches the eye visor of his helmet and slices clear through the commanders eye, and into his brain, his mouth lies open and paralyzed as his body shuts down, remaining still.

"Well then what will it be, garrison of the white keep!"

A huscarl, a man of rank even among the retinue cries out, his bearded axe shining red with the blood of the last company of the defenders of the White Fortress.

The remaining defenders throw down their weapons and helmets, dropping to their knees with their hands raised. The clomping of a horse resounds and the princess enters through a large hole in the wall

"Sequester these men and fetter them with chains, we shall sell them off at a trading post along the river."

"Yes milady"

Ser Sicard and his troop of huscarls bind the remaining dozen men and chain them to the back of horses. Now the only thing remaining of the fortress is thick smokestacks, the grain stores are burned and the ramparts are chopped to bits so that no one shall inhabit the fortress in the future.

The army marches into the distance, treading over the corpses of fallen warriors, blood splashes upon their armor and mail.

Deep below the surface, miles underground the blood seeps and drips. A large cave of complete darkness, a cacophonous catacomb. The blood soaks the dusty tile stone floor, wretches and dregs lick it up, their emaciated flesh regaining some semblance of life.

Curiously a skeleton lies untouched, blood drips upon it slowly, creeping over its bones, brittle and cracked.

But as the blood is absorbed by the remains a light tumble occurs, scaring away the dregs who haven't even gotten their fill. A light creaking echoes against the tight walls of the cave.

"Ah - ah"

The skeleton wretches jaw clacks lightly

{Welcome To The World Of Lowborne}

{Good Luck}