As the war raged on in Tarsh, life in Boldhome continued its steady rhythm, marked by the whispers of distant battles.
Money Matters
With the summer campaign in full swing, the fruits of war began to trickle back to Boldhome. Hundred-thane Baroness Ivarenna and Warlord Garoor each sent a bag of silver to the moneylenders, their contributions a testament to their victories. Hundred-thane Torben sent several bags, ensuring the coffers of Boldhome remained plentiful.
In the heart of the city, Brystan found solace and camaraderie at The Red Beaver, becoming a familiar face among its patrons.
Appointments
Despite his valor on the battlefield, Warchief Fionn was not appointed brigadier of the Magical Union. Backed by the influence of Bvt Warchief Fionn and Lt Warlord Grumbold, Torben skillfully persuaded Lt Warlord Tok of the Free Philosophers to resign, seizing the opportunity to purchase the rank for himself.
Titles
Messengers arrived at the front lines bearing news of honor and recognition. Warchief Fionn received an invitation to the royal autumn feast in 1632 - 7 (Early Earth Season), where he would be bestowed the title of baron. However, there was no mention of Warlord Afur or Lt Warlord Grumbold, their deeds yet to be acknowledged.
Week 2
In the second week, Brystan sought the blessings of Uleria, the goddess of love, at her temple, finding peace and spiritual renewal.
Weeks 3-4
The following weeks saw Brystan honing his martial skills at the temple of Storm Bull, training with the spear and preparing for the battles that lay ahead.
Thus, life in Boldhome continued in the ever-present shadow of war.
War
The herald, draped in the colors of Sartar, stood tall before the gathered crowd in Boldhome. His voice, clear and resonant, carried the weight of the summer's battles as he began his tale.
"People of Boldhome, hear now the tidings from the war front! Our brave armies have clashed with the forces of the Lunar Empire on the contested grounds of Kordros Island, within the troubled province of Tarsh.
First, let me speak of the 1st Army, led by General Esrolvale. With the wise counsel of her adjutant, Brevet Warchief Fionn, they stormed and seized the Heruvernalda temple complex, a sacred site of Ernalda. Though victory was ours, it came at a great cost, with many officers falling in the fray. Yet, Fionn's valor did not go unnoticed; he looted 2000 Lunars, was immortalized in battlesongs, and shall be considered for a noble title.
In the 1st Division, Lt General Hofist led his men to a bloody triumph, sacrificing his own life for the cause. The 1st Brigade, despite the resignation of their brigade-thane, emerged victorious. Lt Warlord Torben of the Free Philosophers will be considered for a title for his deeds and the spoils of nearly a thousand Lunars.
The 3rd Brigade, though victorious, paid dearly for their success. Their brigadier and brigade-thane were both promoted for their bravery. Warlord Garoor of the Thieves’ Arm regiment distinguished himself, looting over a thousand Lunars and earning a mention in battlesongs, which may lead to a second title attempt.
The Tribal Division's efforts were inconclusive, yet the Locaem Tribal Levy achieved victory at a high price, with their warlord falling in battle. Warrior Erinestra, however, claimed 1500 Lunars in the chaos.
The 2nd Army, conducting field operations around Kordros Island, crushed the enemy, leading to the promotion of the army adjutant. The Cavalry Brigade's outcome was less decisive, with the brigade-thane killed in action. Warlord Afur of the Colymar Cavalry regiment saw his efforts yield inconclusive results, but he was promoted to Brevet Warchief, and Lt Warlord Harold found 50 Lunars and will be considered for a title.
Lastly, the 3rd Army, tasked with defending the 1st and 2nd Armies, faced inconclusive results. Yet, Brigadier Ernalna of the Guards Brigade led a counter-attack that shattered the enemy. Lt Warlord Grumbold of the Royal Foot Guards regiment displayed tactical brilliance, crushing the foe and looting a thousand Lunars. Though no vacancy for promotion exists, he will be considered for a noble title.
In Mularik’s Company, Lt Warlord Drighten Erik did not falter, crushing the enemy and earning mentions in battlesongs. He will be considered for a title, having looted several hundred Lunars worth of equipment. Hundred-thane Baroness Ivarenna led the 1st battalion in a counter-attack, scattering the enemy and claiming nearly 500 Lunars. Ten-thane Ararg, though brave, saw inconclusive results for the 3rd battalion, yet he too will be considered for a title, having looted a couple of hundred Lunars.
These are the tales of our valor and sacrifice. Let the songs of our heroes echo through the halls of Boldhome, and may their deeds inspire us all!"
The armies remain at the front, but their deployment will change.
1632 - 5 (Middle Fire) - Turn Report
Re: 1632 - 5 (Middle Fire) - Turn Report
Baron Rufus' Cult Mission
The tale of Baron Rufus’s mission to Prax spreads through the streets of Boldhome like wildfire, carried by the voices of merchants in the markets, whispered in the smoky halls of the great mead houses, and debated with fervor in the temple courtyards.
The first stories come from the temple scribes, those who listen at the foot of the High Priest of Orlanth and transcribe the words of those who return from distant lands. They tell of a journey across the vast, barren lands of Prax, of dust-laden winds and sun-scorched plains, where the nomadic tribes roam in eternal struggle against both the elements and each other. They speak of Baron Rufus’s encounters with the mighty Bison Riders and the High Llama People, of his words of wisdom and diplomacy, and of his attempt to bring unity to a land fractured by war, hunger, and old grudges.
They also speak of the journey’s beginning. The wind was at Baron Rufus’s back as he left Boldhome, the city fading into the green and golden haze of the early summer hills. The weight of King Argrath’s words rested heavy on his shoulders, but the sense of purpose that burned within him was brighter. Prax called, vast and untamed, and he knew Orlanth’s storm would carry him through.
The journey south was swift, carried on the wings of his horse and the strength of his companions. He rode with a small retinue, handpicked for loyalty and skill—warriors, a scribe to record the deeds for the cult, and a single priest of Orlanth to act as a spiritual anchor. The trails were clear, the skies wide and endless. Yet the road through the foothills of Dragon Pass carried its own dangers. A group of bandits—desperate men with more courage than sense—ambushed them on a narrow path, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, their shouts echoing against the cliffs.
He met them without hesitation, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The storm surged within him as he called Orlanth’s name, his blade flashing like lightning. The fight was swift and brutal, the bandits no match for his skill or the fury of his warriors. As the last of them fled into the rocks, his scribe recorded the encounter, ensuring the tale of Orlanth’s justice would be preserved.
When he reached the borders of Prax, the land changed beneath him. The rolling hills gave way to an arid expanse, the air hotter and drier, the skies harsher. He passed through the Paps, a sacred site to many Praxian tribes, and paid respects at the holy ground. The priest performed a ritual of appeasement, asking for the cooperation of the tribal spirits and the blessing of the storm god. The wind shifted subtly, as if Orlanth himself acknowledged the prayer.
Yet it is not the vastness of the journey nor the dangers of the wilds that seize the hearts of Boldhome’s people—it is the whisper of something greater stirring in the east. It is the rise of the White Bull Society.
The rumors spread with embellishment, as all such tales do. Some say the White Bull Society is nothing less than a prophecy made flesh, that Argrath has risen as the chosen champion of the White Bull spirit, destined to unify the Praxian tribes and drive the Lunar Empire from the face of Glorantha. Others claim it is a cult of dangerous fanatics, bound not by wisdom but by the fevered dreams of conquest, ready to spill the blood of any who do not swear fealty to their cause.
There are those who speak of the warrior who approached Baron Rufus, a man so consumed by belief that his very words trembled with the force of his conviction. They say he carried the fire of the White Bull in his eyes and that his voice rang with the promise of war—a war not just against the Lunars, but against any who stood in Argrath’s path. Some say Baron Rufus felt the weight of an unstoppable force in that moment, that he glimpsed a future where faith and ambition would clash like thunder upon the world.
And then there are the skeptics, those who call for caution. The warlords of Boldhome murmur among themselves, weighing the consequences of these revelations. The tribes of Prax have always been a tempestuous people, and if they now rally behind Argrath as more than just a war-leader, if they believe him to be the living vessel of the White Bull’s power, what does that mean for Sartar? Will they stand beside the free peoples of Dragon Pass when the final reckoning with the Lunars comes, or will they demand fealty to their own vision of unity?
Even among the faithful, the news brings unease. Leaders argue in the halls of power, debating whether Argrath is truly the savior of Prax or if he is merely a man swept up in the passions of his followers. Some warn of the dangers of a force too wild to be tamed, a movement that, once unleashed, may not only drive back the Lunars but consume all in its path. Others see in Argrath the answer to long-held prayers, the hero who will finally fulfill the destiny of the Praxian tribes.
The streets hum with questions, with fear and hope interwoven like threads in a tapestry. The name of Argrath is no longer just that of a war-leader—it is becoming something greater, something more dangerous. The people of Boldhome listen to the storm rolling from the east, and they wonder: Is this the storm that will bring them victory, or the storm that will sweep them away?
The tale of Baron Rufus’s mission to Prax spreads through the streets of Boldhome like wildfire, carried by the voices of merchants in the markets, whispered in the smoky halls of the great mead houses, and debated with fervor in the temple courtyards.
The first stories come from the temple scribes, those who listen at the foot of the High Priest of Orlanth and transcribe the words of those who return from distant lands. They tell of a journey across the vast, barren lands of Prax, of dust-laden winds and sun-scorched plains, where the nomadic tribes roam in eternal struggle against both the elements and each other. They speak of Baron Rufus’s encounters with the mighty Bison Riders and the High Llama People, of his words of wisdom and diplomacy, and of his attempt to bring unity to a land fractured by war, hunger, and old grudges.
They also speak of the journey’s beginning. The wind was at Baron Rufus’s back as he left Boldhome, the city fading into the green and golden haze of the early summer hills. The weight of King Argrath’s words rested heavy on his shoulders, but the sense of purpose that burned within him was brighter. Prax called, vast and untamed, and he knew Orlanth’s storm would carry him through.
The journey south was swift, carried on the wings of his horse and the strength of his companions. He rode with a small retinue, handpicked for loyalty and skill—warriors, a scribe to record the deeds for the cult, and a single priest of Orlanth to act as a spiritual anchor. The trails were clear, the skies wide and endless. Yet the road through the foothills of Dragon Pass carried its own dangers. A group of bandits—desperate men with more courage than sense—ambushed them on a narrow path, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, their shouts echoing against the cliffs.
He met them without hesitation, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The storm surged within him as he called Orlanth’s name, his blade flashing like lightning. The fight was swift and brutal, the bandits no match for his skill or the fury of his warriors. As the last of them fled into the rocks, his scribe recorded the encounter, ensuring the tale of Orlanth’s justice would be preserved.
When he reached the borders of Prax, the land changed beneath him. The rolling hills gave way to an arid expanse, the air hotter and drier, the skies harsher. He passed through the Paps, a sacred site to many Praxian tribes, and paid respects at the holy ground. The priest performed a ritual of appeasement, asking for the cooperation of the tribal spirits and the blessing of the storm god. The wind shifted subtly, as if Orlanth himself acknowledged the prayer.
Yet it is not the vastness of the journey nor the dangers of the wilds that seize the hearts of Boldhome’s people—it is the whisper of something greater stirring in the east. It is the rise of the White Bull Society.
The rumors spread with embellishment, as all such tales do. Some say the White Bull Society is nothing less than a prophecy made flesh, that Argrath has risen as the chosen champion of the White Bull spirit, destined to unify the Praxian tribes and drive the Lunar Empire from the face of Glorantha. Others claim it is a cult of dangerous fanatics, bound not by wisdom but by the fevered dreams of conquest, ready to spill the blood of any who do not swear fealty to their cause.
There are those who speak of the warrior who approached Baron Rufus, a man so consumed by belief that his very words trembled with the force of his conviction. They say he carried the fire of the White Bull in his eyes and that his voice rang with the promise of war—a war not just against the Lunars, but against any who stood in Argrath’s path. Some say Baron Rufus felt the weight of an unstoppable force in that moment, that he glimpsed a future where faith and ambition would clash like thunder upon the world.
And then there are the skeptics, those who call for caution. The warlords of Boldhome murmur among themselves, weighing the consequences of these revelations. The tribes of Prax have always been a tempestuous people, and if they now rally behind Argrath as more than just a war-leader, if they believe him to be the living vessel of the White Bull’s power, what does that mean for Sartar? Will they stand beside the free peoples of Dragon Pass when the final reckoning with the Lunars comes, or will they demand fealty to their own vision of unity?
Even among the faithful, the news brings unease. Leaders argue in the halls of power, debating whether Argrath is truly the savior of Prax or if he is merely a man swept up in the passions of his followers. Some warn of the dangers of a force too wild to be tamed, a movement that, once unleashed, may not only drive back the Lunars but consume all in its path. Others see in Argrath the answer to long-held prayers, the hero who will finally fulfill the destiny of the Praxian tribes.
The streets hum with questions, with fear and hope interwoven like threads in a tapestry. The name of Argrath is no longer just that of a war-leader—it is becoming something greater, something more dangerous. The people of Boldhome listen to the storm rolling from the east, and they wonder: Is this the storm that will bring them victory, or the storm that will sweep them away?