That Lucky Old Sun [Anbennar] [Complete]

[Crushric]

That Lucky Old Sun

Introduction: What?​

This is the flag of the Kingdom of Dartaxȃgerdim. The first human kingdom the lands of Bulwar have had in centuries, the sundrenched birthplace of the human race.

Slaves no more to the elves and their false faith, we shall be free men as the holy sun Himself, Surakel, intended. But the tree of freedom must be watered with the blood of elves.

What?​

I'm here to show off the mod Anbennar, which is criminally underplayed. Take EU4 and put all of these mechanics into a Dungeons & Dragons fantasy world. Witness the rise of states and empires and technology like never before! Enslave the elves, rebuild the dwarven kingdom under the mountains, shoot an orc with a magitek rifle!

If you don't know anything about this game, no worries. This AAR will try to explain things in ways that are clear enough, even if you don't really know what EU4 is. Doubly so for Anbennar’s unique races, faiths, and world. I’ll keep it simple and fairly narrative for you to understand! [Stuff in brackets is my own OOC player thoughts and opinions.] Everything else will be broadly from an in-character soap opera narrative POV.

[In other words, I posted this to some other places and the AAR is written with those audiences in mind, who don't know EU4 or Anbennar]

What?​

Instead of playing a mighty nation destined to rule the world in Cannor (this world’s version of Europe), I’ll be playing in the fantasy Middle East, a place called Bulwar. Namely, the Kingdom of Dartaxȃgerdim. It’s a new state in the region formed from a human rebellion against the elves, and it is in a terribly precarious position. We have a terrible economy, very little land, and no bitches. Bulwar is basically one giant battle royale after elf Alexander the Great died, and I am a very small, very tempting target.

In short, I’m fucked.

I’ll be trying to unfuck myself and save the human race from elves, goblins, gnolls, orcs, and harpies, but it’s going to be one hell of an uphill battle.

Wish me luck and join the adventure, why don’t you?

 

[Crushric]

Chapter 1: I, Dartaxes​

I was born a slave.

I will die a king.

I am Dartaxes.

And when I go to meet God, Surakel, I intend to bring Him a million dead elves as tribute.

You get a group discount that way.

Dartaxȃgerdim. Bahari for “The Followers of Dartaxes.” The only free realm in all the lands of Bulwar.

She is called Bulwar, the sundrenched birthplace of humanity. And for as long as memory and stories serve, we have been denied our freedom. Surakel—the Sun Himself—could watch and burn from afar as His people were subjugated time and time again. The elves are merely the latest incarnation of a tale as old as humanity.

Desperate to be saved from slavery from the gnolls four centuries ago, we sold ourselves to the elven king Jaher.

His Phoenix Empire was just a new form of slavery. That of our souls. As our priests proclaimed him as Surakel’s chosen. After his death, the wise men decided that the Sun Elves themselves were Surakel’s chosen race. We humans existed to serve his avatars, his chosen. This was the New Sun Cult.

In those days, there was no human king in Bulwar. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.

Until I, Dartaxes, of no house but my own, strangled my master with my bare hands and led my people to freedom.

Dartaxȃgerdim.

Home.

The realms, faiths, and cultures of Bulwar on 11 Nerement, 1444 After Ash. [It’s a gif!]

“Precious Bulwar is humanity’s home,” I once told my son Tailmaz after his mother died. “When the Phoenix Emperor Jaher died and his heirs failed to rule, his realm slowly sundered. Now all that’s left of an empire that spread across the world two centuries ago are successor states fighting over the scraps. There are those that dream, and those that suffer for their dreams. That is why the elves fight. That is why we must fight.”

Reality is no fairy tale.

Sun Elven kings rule over human servants through military force and false faith: realms like Sareyand, Elizna, and the hated Birzartanšes. To the south, the dog-headed gnolls have returned under Zokka the Devourer-of-Suns. To the east, the harpies come from the mountains to take human males as slaves to breed with and dispose of. To the north, greenskinned goblins emerge from the ruins of the dwarven empire in the Serpentsreach Mountains.

And then there’s me. Dartaxes. We rebelled from Birzartanšes and swore ourselves to the Old Sun Cult, those who see through the lies of the priests and elves. Surrounded on all sides by hostile nations and ravenous monsters, we know that high above us Surakel watches and smiles upon the first human king in Bulwar.

For now, there is peace.

But peace is little more than a beautiful lie. And it will forever be until we purge the elves from our land and drive out the monsters.

Bulwar will be human.

People of different faiths value different things. New and Old Sun Cult worship the same god, hold to many of the same tenants, but we hold to the true, older ways. We are few, however, and they are many. We must enlighten them through works and violent deeds.
[Mechanically, the New Sun Cult is a stronger religion, as all faiths in this game provide unique buffs and mechanics. But the Old Sun Cult doesn’t simp for elves, so…]

For centuries, the true faithful have been kept in chains. Holding to our truth in secret. We know the elves are not the chosen of Surakel, whom the elves call Surael. But only now is there a free realm to worship openly. I will protect and expand it at all costs.

So long as the cost is dead elves.

Did I mention I really hate elves? I feel like I’m not being clear enough on that point. Like, if I was trapped in a room with an elf, a genie, and I only had one javelin, I would throw it at the genie first and then beat the elf to death with my bare hands.

I hate elves. You hate elves. The Best Friend Squad (AKA my 9,000 soldiers) hate elves. Really, elves just suck.

But if we are to save Bulwar, first we must construct an army. We must build a nation from my rebellion. And then ride south from the mountains with the force of the Holy Sun at our backs, because it’ll blind those elven kingdoms. Or maybe we could just hold up a giant mirror as we charge. The elves will be too busy admiring themselves to notice we’re killing them.

To even get that far, I must work with my weak authority as king. I rule by consent of the people who followed me. And local humans of power who were willing to support me for their own gain.

I am king, but my authority is weak. Split between myself, nobility, the merchants, and the Church. And, as of recently, the first free human mages in all Bulwar.

In Bulwar, it is illegal for humans to use magic. A sin against the elves, for whom magic is a birthright. Any human who dares possess mage-blood and is discovered by the Jaherian Inquisition is deemed a heretic. Another gift the elves have stolen from us, and keep at bay through violence and religious subjugation. But here in Dartaxȃgerdim, human magic will flourish.

Magic, like Bulwar, is humanity’s birthright.

[Anbennar has unique estates, which are mechanics representing powerful landowners and other factions within your nation’s court. Adventurers solve quests, and Mages let you cast spells. This is Dungeons & Dragons, after all.]

The suppression of human magic-use in Bulwar began during the reign of Phoenix Empress Jexis, a foul bitch with a burned face. Ugly in person, she took out her rage on those beneath her. Afraid that humans would wise up to elves if we had our own magic and upset Sun Elven dominance, teaching magic to humans was universally forbidden among the successor Akalates by the 1200s AA (After Ash). Those humans caught practicing magic and deemed a threat to the status quo were imprisoned within the Fortress of Azkabar, whose black walls became synonymous with the Sun Elven monopoly on magic.

If we are to reignite the fires of human magic in Bulwar, we must prove to the fearful and oppressed that we are strong. That we alone are the protectors of humanity.

The elves are too strong to face openly. I barely managed to hold my rebellion together, mostly because I served as a soldier in the court of Birzartanšes, and was able to pull men to my cause when I forswore my oaths.

Our first step will not be to strike the elves, much as it pains me. Instead, we must go north, to face the goblin invaders.

[SHORTSTACKS NOT WELCOME!]

In the chaos of the elven successor states, goblin tribes emerged from the ruined tunnels of the Dwarovar, the destroyed home and roads of the dwarves. They spoke of fleeing oppression from the orcs. These “Exodus Goblins” ate at the peripheries of Bulwar and settled down, ruling elves and humans in their little clans.

The tribes of Marblehead, Mountainshark, and Greysheep are still a settling tribal people. They are savages. Better than elves, but invaders nonetheless. Elven inability to combat them is what spurred me to rebel. That, and conscripting humans en masse to fight their wars for them.

Greysheep must be dealt and its lands liberated by the army of humanity.

Me and the Boys go killin’ greenskins

As a slave in Birzartanšes, I was a soldier. An officer, yes, but no more free than chattel. And I lead the invasion into the Greysheep tribe personally.

Goblins are monsters, plain and simple. They don’t understand what it’s like to be civilized, to be a person.

We don’t even bother with a formal declaration of war, as is custom among proper nations. It’s not like the greenskins can read.

I sometimes wonder how a four-foot-tall race even managed to win any victories and establish themselves in Bulwar in the first place.
[Different races have different army modifiers and technology. At the very start of the game, monstrous races like orcs and goblins are just far enough behind other races that you can very quickly wipe them out before they catch up and can destroy you.]

It is a devastating victory for the army of humanity. Our first attack breaks their lines. And when I led my cavalry to catch them on the retreat, their army utterly shattered for the hills. They’ll be a problem rounding up and exterminating later. But for now, this marks the end of organized Greysheep resistance.

The only one who stands his ground is the goblin’s commander, Zyt “the Death-Bringer.” He was the warrior who organized his people’s invasion into Bulwar from the Serpentsreach mountains. He is green, ugly-faced, and half my size.

But even I can’t help but respect his tenacity.

I step from my horse and take him in personal combat. He is given a warrior’s death.

Which is more than we’ll give the rest of his wretched kind.

And so, on the 30th of the month of Suren (6), 1446, two years after we won our independence, the Army of Humanity wins its first true foreign victory.

[In EU4, individual provinces have a culture and religion, with the red names indicating these are not of an accepted culture nor my state religion. Anbennar has unique racial population mechanics, represented by the little faces. Blue indicates a race is integrated, green as “coexisting,” and red like the goblins here represents an oppressed racial group. This is further divided into “majority race,” “large minority,” and “minority” groups. Racial minorities give various benefits/maluses]

The goblin fortress in the ruins of the Akalate of Azkašad. Humans have been all but driven from the land, surviving as small minorities within the former realm. They are quickly given their rightful position as the free masters of this land, where humans may rule themselves for the first time in an age. But the humans here are hesitant about our new rule. Our new world order is an alien concept to these people, but we shall teach them.

We sack the goblin city of all their stolen riches, mopping up any bit of Goblin resistance.

The Goblin clanboss, named Greysheep, attempts to plead for the lives of his people. At least I think that’s what his squawking and mewling is supposed to mean. I don’t understand the tongue of monsters, but I recognize fear. I recognize tears.

Fittingly, as a nonhuman enemy of the human race, he and his immediate family are put to the sword. No different than his cousin general, Zyt. But at least Zyt had the good sense to die standing, instead of begging on his knees.

Beginning with Clan Greysheep, this entire region shall be purged of greenskin filth, and settled only by its rightful human inheritors.

[Anbennar allows you to commit prolonged and continuous heated Gamer moments against other species. You may purge or expel other races. Both will forcibly convert the culture and religion of their provinces to your culture/faith. Expelling is better mechanically of the two as it causes less damage to the land. Strictly speaking, the best choice is racial integration and harmony. But where’s the fun in that?]

The time for peace came and went. Bulwar is Humanity’s Home. It shall belong to men and men alone. Until then, it is time to rebuild our forces, and to bring out the true faithful from hiding. And to show those under our care that the elves are frauds who have lied to them their whole lives.

But it is easier to fool a man than to convince him he has been fooled. We have our work cut out for us.

This is just the first step of many. Suffer not the elf-apologist to live.
[EU4 has mission trees for some nations, which are lists of objectives to complete in order, broadly to guide your nation down a specific path. Upon completion, they give you a bonus—sometimes modest, sometimes massive, sometimes temporary, sometimes permanent—and unlock your nation’s next task. Anbennar has a lot of mission trees and they are massive. Dartaxȃgerdim’s tree, fittingly, encourages you to defeat the New Sun Cult and unite Bulwar under human home rule]

“Come out, ye faithful. For the elves no longer hold your chains. We shall be freemen, as our fathers could only dream!” At least that’s what our representative of the clergy, Ariatra Urzuir, says. While I was warring against the goblins, he’s taking hold of the state, inviting faithful converts to come home where they will be free from the elven sun cult.

His work is quick. In months, formerly faithful elf-worshippers see the truth. The Army of Humanity is here to stay, not as conquerors, but as liberators.

“Man is created free, and is free,
Though he be born in chains”
[Faith is a big mechanic in EU4. Here, I have temporarily hired an Inquisitor Advisor I can’t really afford to help speed up conversion. Religion Unity, shown here as a very low 58%, needs to be kept high to avoid crippling internal stability issues. You can later invest into tolerance ideas to make this less of an issue, but in 1444 almost every nation has a state religion and one tolerated faith]

And as we convert and spread Surakel’s light, to the south, my old masters in Birzartanšes begin to fear. The success of the Army of Humanity, in defending our rebellion, and in pushing out the Greysheep goblins, has created tensions with the elven realm. In most of Bulwar, elves are a minority where humans do their dirty work, such as serving as their soldiers.

I shamefully acknowledge I was once one such soldier. I killed humans for my elven masters.

And then I killed my master and broke free.

Our success rattles the human chains in Birzartanšes. Human beings are made free as Surakel intended, but are born into chains.

The elves can’t keep humanity down forever and they know it.

My homecoming is long in the making, but inevitable.

Distrust ferments among the elven realms. Instead of uniting to keep us at bay, they keep fighting amongst themselves for the crown of a dead empire. The longer they leave us be, let us live, the stronger we will grow.

Until one day, we will sweep through like the tides to eradicate mankind’s enemies.

But that day is far from now. We must build a kingdom in the deserts and mountains of Bulwar. A bastion, a fortress, that not even the mighty armies of legendary Castanor could break. Then we shall ride out and claim Bulwar for humanity.

[Nothing Happened in Akal-Uak Square, 12 Truefrost 1448]

Stripped of their rights as the master class and forced to work like everyone else, the elves still left in our kingdom protest. They’re not used to being bereft of servants. To being treated as commoners. They attempted to protest in the capital city of Akal-Uak.

We send in the Best Friend Squad to eradicate them with prejudice.

Aided by the best in military technology and innovation!

[Technology is very important. Military tech (4) here is a game-changer if you get it first, due to the combat buffs. If the game catches you lackin’ in tech, you will die]

The Army of Humanity is well-stocked, well-staffed, and equipped with the finest tactics and training in Bulwar. We have come far from a ragtag militia of freedom fighters and can now rightly call ourselves a true state.

A true kingdom.

My kingdom.

And faith in Surakel is slowly restored, as we expand the Old Sun Cult and purge the goblins

For a moment, we allow ourselves to hope. That our children may grow old. That humanity may be free one day, to follow our own path, our own future.

It is a dream of peace. One that must be purchased with the blood of elves and monsters. But with recent victories, it almost seems doable.

Like we can have a future again.

But hope is our mistake. In the world of Halann, it too is another beautiful lie.

To the east, across the deserts in Far Bulwar, dark tidings come.

[This isn’t supposed to happen. Gnolls just killed Elf Mohammed! Never seen this happen before, oh god oh fuck]

In Far Bulwar, a war raged between the desert elves led by a former legionary of the Phoenix Empire, Jaddar Jexiszuir, and the Zokka gnoll pack, led by Zokka Devourer-of-Suns. The desert elves forsook their sun elven kindred in favor of some prophetic, messiannic cult. Another corruption of Surakel’s light, not even the long-lived soldiers of an empire that fell over a century ago could withstand the ferocity of the gnolls.

Those dog-headed beasts once enslaved mankind. They invented the idea of slavery even, calling it Krah in their gutteral dog language. It is the nature of their race, of their demon-worshiping faith of the Xhazobkult.

And without any opponents in Far Bulwar to stop them, their dog-heads turn our direction, ears twitching, jowls slavering.

But wait, there’s more!

[BIRD GIRLS, NOOO!]

Harpy raiders from the mountains attack our eastern provinces, scouring the land for riches and able-bodied men. They do as monsters do. And there’s little the Army of Humanity can do to stop an aerial raid from those winged women.

The lost men are the worst part. Harpies, being an all-female race, are prone to attacking humans and elves alike to take men they fancy. Any child born of a pairing between harpy and other results in a harpy chick. The men are then, typically, murdered or forced into a life of manual slavery.

The Army of Humanity is dealt a blow to its prestige and credibility. How can we defend mankind if we can’t keep the monsters at bay?

But wait, there’s fucking more!

As we push the goblins out of our lands and into the Serpentsreach mountains, the mountains push back.

News from the west. The great city of Aqatbar and its library has fallen to black orcs, who poured from the Serpentsreach mountains. They sacked the city, pillaged the land, and slaughtered indiscriminately human, elf, and goblin alike.

They call themselves the Masked Butcher tribe, led by an fearsome orc named Vrarrik Beardbutcher, a black orc towering at nearly seven feet tall with dreams of something great and terrible for his people. He transformed a ragtag tribe into a disciplined army that allegedly even uses proper formations and warg cavalry. After exterminating the last dwarven holdouts beneath the Serpentsreach, they came searching for more loot and plunder. Until they found the gates of an ancient dwarven hold, opened the gates, and came into the light of the sun for the first time.

The black orcs hated the sun and those who lived beneath it, and spread forth like a tide to extinguish the light one and for all. Orcs were a legend from the far forth, to the lands of Escann where green orcs devastated and destroyed the entire region only a decade ago. Against the disciplined, organized legions of the masked butcher tribes, the local goblins and humans couldn’t hold the line.

Harpies raid our borders and enslave our men, and we are nigh helpless.

Zokka Devourer-of-Suns is master of the East, eager to reclaim his race’s ancient dominion over Bulwar.

And now from the West, the Blacktide sweeps over Bulwar and crashes against our borders, our patrols.

The doom of Bulwar is at hand.

In a world where peace is but a beautiful lie, the Army of Humanity must stand alone against elf and monster both. Outnumbered, outmanned, and out-everything’d.

But we have the light of the sun behind us. We are the true faithful or Surakel.

We don’t have a chance but to fight and survive. I, Dartaxes, King of Dartaxȃgerdim, first of his name and of no house but my own, shall guide my people into the light, and take down as many orcs, gnolls, harpies, and elves as Surakel may bless me with.

That Lucky Old Sun is about to get front row seats to the greatest showdown in Halann’s history.

 

[Warlord Skorr]

They call themselves the Masked Butcher tribe, led by an fearsome orc named Vrarrik Beardbutcher, a black orc towering at nearly seven feet tall with dreams of something great and terrible for his people.

Dartaxes finds a mirror, and does not like what he sees. Vrarrik even hates shortstacks too!

I eagerly await the triumphs of humanity to come.

 

[HistoryDude]

Dartaxȃgerdim will rise.

This scenario actually looks really interesting.

Did the elves do anything personal to Dartaxes, or does he just hate them for no reason?

 

[Crushric]

Dartaxȃgerdim will rise.

This scenario actually looks really interesting.

Did the elves do anything personal to Dartaxes, or does he just hate them for no reason?

"For no reason" is wrong.

You'll see some of it things Dartaxes mentions, and some screenshots of mission flavor text, but Dartaxes was a knight/officer in the Akalate of Birzartanses, the purple-pink nation to the very south on my border. The lore goes after years of mismanagement and abuse, Dartaxes' eyes were finally opened to what the elves were doing, what they had done to humans like him.

Dartaxes more or less allies with religious fundamentalists of the Old Sun Cult for support, alongside rebellious officers and merchants and soldiers he charms, into following him into rebellion.

The missions and events of Dartaxȃgerdim are pure venom, a bloody desire for revenge against the elves for destroying their religion, for falsely proclaiming themselves god's chosen people, and brutally hunting humans like Dartaxes down over the years. As in, the writing is really good, the lore fascinating, and the events you do are almost despicable on your jihadi quest for revenge. But that's the theme of Dartaxȃgerdim.

In a very real sense, the relation between the 3 suns of Bulwar, Old Sun Cult, New Sun Cult, and the Jadd, is comparable to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. All of them believe that Surakel/Surael is god, all believe in hope and optimism and truth and joy, but all argue over the chosen race. The Old Sun Cult believes you become Chosen if you lead a godly life. New Sun Cult says elves are the chosen race, and actively persecute those who don't believe. The Jadd, which has died in this playthrough somehow, believes everyone may equally be Chosen in Surael's eyes.

Dartaxes finds a mirror, and does not like what he sees. Vrarrik even hates shortstacks too!

I eagerly await the triumphs of humanity to come.

It's about to be a really bloody job. An uphill battle to be sure.

I'm hoping folks can enjoy the story I weave around all the little pictures. I like pictures, because I am smoothbrain. Half of the reason I wrote/posted this was to show of Anbennar, because more people should play and experience the mod. It's just awesome. The stories, lore, missions, it's all amazing.

 

[Thousandflowers]

I know nothing about the lore of this universe but your post now has me hooked! Excellent start!

 

[Crushric]

I know nothing about the lore of this universe but your post now has me hooked! Excellent start!

Perfect! You're the ideal audience. The lore will be interwoven as it relates to what the characters do and think, but otherwise, this is a fresh, very simple start.

My hope is people see this and give Anbennar a try because I'm interested them enough!

 

[Crushric]

Chapter 2: Monstergirl Mayhem​

The Malevolent Dark surrounds us all. I don’t need the priests to tell me that fact. I am forty-eight years of age, and I have spent it fighting. In those days, I have gazed into the heart of darkness, and decided the only course of action was to thrust my spear into it.

Surakel is merciful. But the war between light and dark will not be decided in a single day.

It will be a war of inches.

As much as it pains me to say, we must belay castigating the elves and Blacktide in favor of pushing the harpies from their hills. Start with the small problems and work your way up. We must build the Army of Humanity into a true liberation force for Bulwar first.

We’re building an army to make the nation proud.​

As the army grows, the Best Friend Squad is reorganized into my personal guard, my elite retinue of shock cavalry.

Fourteen thousand men march into the Harpy Hills, to strike at their nests in retaliation for their crimes against mankind. All who resist shall be slaughtered. We will drive the bird women from the cradle of humanity.

Monsters do as monsters do. And we will punish their race in accordance with the sins of their brood.​

The Army of Humanity outnumbers their entire army, if our spies are to be believed. And the harpies utterly lack for cavalry, as flying women apparently have no need of horse and saddle. Our goal is to break their armies quickly, and take Haryplen itself, their central roost, where we may drive out their chicks, smash their eggs, and put the bird women to the sword one and all.

It will be far from easy to take down the mountainous harpy roost.​

Harpylen sits high atop a mountain in the Harpy Hills. Their flyers can easy resupply from the air in ways we can’t readily cope with. While our forces can lay siege and attempt to climb up the rocks, going straight there in is likely suicide.

Needs must, however.

So instead we’re going to attempt to pick off their armies and destroy their countryside around Harpylen, until there is nothing left for the harpies to resupply their roost with, and they starve out and surrender.

But the biggest problem soon reveals itself. Our kingdom’s meager finances cannot support our armies in the mountains, and I am forced to ask our merchants for loans.

Interests rates are generous, but this increases the power the merchants have over our fledgling state.​

But with our finances secured, we continue our siege of the Harpy roost. Breaking down the walls and building ramps up into the city with rocks and rubble. The Harpy army, if it even has one, is too busy attempting to pull back raiding parties into a coherent force to be able to mount a decisive resistance.

After a year of raiding the countryside, slaughtering harpy women and freeing their human slaves, the Roost of Harpylen falls.

Far faster and easier than it had any right to be. But the motivated Army of Humanity, the liberators of Bulwar, were ready for anything.​

Like a storm, I tore them down. Like a plague, I made no distinction between innocent and guilty. And like a human, I overcame all who opposed me.

I enter the city and find it a starved, decrepit mess. Our archers had done wonders in shooting down any woman who flew to the city to try to relieve and resupply the siege. The men were given free reign to sack the city, to plunder it of the valuables the harpies had stolen from us, and to reap their vengeance for brothers, fathers, and sons these women had absconded with.

More than once, I find a soldier break down crying, throwing his arms wide open to embrace some long relative, whose eyes were pale and glassy from servitude to the harpy matriarchy.

They may not be elves, these harpies, but we are the liberators of all mankind. And today, we have proven it.

All that is left is to climb up into the matriarch’s roost itself and destroy the royal nursery.

Queen Ishatara of the Firanyakin tribe managed to escape. One of the many harpies our looting and pillaging archers must have let slip when she fled her city.

So imagine my surprise, when we find the nest of the royal court and nobility of the harpy race, defended by a lone harpy. A girl barely more than a child, with fire in her eyes, wings erect, and a spear in her hands.

Depending on ancestry and subrace, some harpies can appear more human than others. Those most like us are an abomination, a mockery of our form.​

She wears an almost comical sort of hat made from stolen knicknacks. And when my son and second-in-command, Tailmaz, steps forwards, she screeches and thrusts her spear in our direction. It doesn’t even come close. Her eyes move every which way as she growls in her throat.

“Stay away from my sisters!” she shouts, bearing her all-too-human teeth.

I ready my spear in return. It’s all I can do to keep from snorting at her. “Do you really think you can stop me, little girl?”

Although I can’t say why I’m trying to talk to her. Maybe some sense of pity for the petite, starving thing. I doubt anyone in this city has eaten much in months due to my actions.

“No, I don’t. Everyone’s gone. It’s just me left; I’m not stupid enough to think I can win,” she says grimly, poorly trying to shift her weight from talon to talon in some imitation of a warrior’s stance. “But, meh, I can take you. You’d take me prisoner and maybe smash a few eggs, but if I can save just one or two of my unborn sisters, I’ll consider it a win.”

I lean on my spear, staring the girl down. “You seem to misunderstand your situation, girl. It doesn’t matter if you can speak our language and pretend to dress like people. You are a harpy. You are a monster.” I laugh. “You don’t get taken prisoner. You and the rest of your kind get put to the sword to face Surakel’s justice. It is what you and every other invader to Bulwar deserves.”

“This is my home,” she says.

“One even your queen abandoned.”

“This is my home,” she repeats. “I don’t care what my cowardly mother does. I’m not leaving.”

“Your mother?”

She makes a motion with her head I think is a harpy nod. “I am Ettu Firanyakin, daughter of the queen, and this is my home.”

I reappraise the fiery-eyed girl. “Do harpies care for their own young?”

Ettu swallows. “I do. My sisters and cousins yet to be born. I care.”

“Does your mother?”

She averts her eyes, but then they’re back to me, clutching her spear tighter. “She needed to flee her people. A queen has responsibilities to all her people.”

I look at the eggs about the warm nursery in this mountain cave, and consider.

Ettu clicks her talons. “Don’t look away from me, human!”

My eyes narrow. “I am Dartaxes, first of his name, of no house but his own, the liberator of humanity in Bulwar. And if you want your sisters to live, you will lay down your arms and surrender. As of this moment, you are my property and hostage.”

I expected her to fight on this, reasonable as it was. Instead, her eyes harden, teeth grit, and she nods. I imagine harpies are used to hostage and kidnappings, given the rapacious nature of their race.

I order the Best Friend Squad to lock her in irons and, even though it pains me, to secure the roost here from further danger. And then it’s off to liberate the rest of the hills and kill the Harpy Queen.

The entire Harpy Queendom is looted and pillaged before the queen descends from the skies to attempt to rescue her daughter.​

“Is this really how slow humans move?” Ettu groans, flexing her chained wings. She frowns as she tries in vain to flap them. It causes her to nearly lose her sitting upon the horse we’ve put her on.

She screams as she totters, only for my grandson, Asur, to lunge off his own horse to catch her. Her chained wings flail and hit him in the face.

“Watch the feathers, human!” she says.

“You were going to fall,” Asur says. Until he spits out a little feather and hands it back to her. “Pretty sure this is yours, by the way.”

She eyes him suspiciously, before snagging it away. Then doesn’t seem to know what to do with the returned feather. “Thanks?” she hesitantly says.

Asur smiles, until he catches a sharp look from myself.

“Falling from a horse can be deadly, Ettu, y’know?” Asur says, and feigns a cough.

Ettu frowns. “I wouldn’t know, no.”

“And,” he says slowly, casting furtive glances my way, “you are of more value alive than a corpse.”

I grunt. “There’ll be plenty of time for harpy corpses after tonight. Look there, Ettu. Your mother is failing to storm her own roost.”

Our two armies meet on the field of battle, in the rugged terrain around Harpylen she and her brood have been failing to take. She leads a delegation to meet with me and the Best Friend Squad. And in person, Queen Ishtara is an imposing example of her race. Her daughter is her spitting image.

Free from elven regulation, the harpies are allowed to express their magic, and Ishtara is a rare terror known as a War Wizard.
[Stats for a general in EU4 cap at 6. In Anbennar, “Powerful mage” rulers can become war wizards, who have frankly absurd generalship stats representing using war magic in the battlefield. Ishtara here is fucking terrifying]​

I sit atop my horse, arms folded, but Queen Ishtara has eyes only for her captive daughter behind me.

“I want her back, human,” Ishtara demands without preamble, speaking in plain Bahari. A dark, magical aura surrounds her, a feeling like knowing someone is looking at you from behind your back, but over my whole body.

Ettu tries not to look excited. Chained as they are, she holds onto her horse’s mane as her wings give little helpless flutters of hope.

“Tell you what, lady,” I say with a toothy smile. “Your roosts are mine. Your flocks are in ruins. You have been trying and failing to take your home back. And powerful as you are, you haven’t attacked us to take Ettu back. That tells me you know as well as I that you can’t beat me.

“Here’s how this is going to work. Chasing your girls around for months has been more trouble than it’s worth. But thanks to Ettu, we preserved the entirety of the royal roost, eggs and all.”

Ishtara’s royal guards all seem to shift visibly. They hadn’t expected them. How many of the eggs we had are their sisters and daughters?

“You’ve lost, but you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” I say. “Your monsters will leave these hills and mountains and retreat from the lands the Army of Humanity holds control of. In exchange, you may leave with your lives and I shall return your eggs to you.”

“And my daughter?” she hisses, talons flexing, feathers of her wings ruffling out.

“She’s mine now, unfortunately,” I say, tsking my tongue. “The risks of you beasts reneging on your deal is too great. She will come with me to Akal-Uak to ensure your good behavior.”

Ettu’s wings sag. “What?”

Ishtara barks a laugh. “You can’t expect me to do that.”

I spread my hands in a what can you do? gesture. “This is the deal. You can take it, or I can kill Ettu, break your eggs, and then exterminate the rest of you. The choice is yours. If it makes you feel better, once you die, I’ll release Ettu to lead whatever’s left of your people.”

And one way or the other, Queen Ishtara knows she’s in no position to argue or bargain.

Honestly, I didn’t have much faith in winning a battle against a harpy War Wizard. I bluffed and Ishtara blinked first, praise the sun!​

The peace is signed with harpy quill ink pens. It’s better than the monsters deserve, but if we overextend ourselves pursuing total victory, we’ll destroy ourselves by winning. What matters is we freed the humans under harpy control and banished those creatures back to the mountains where they came from.

Ishtara’s eggs are returned, and Ettu can’t stop crying. It warms my bones to see the warrior princess broken and despairing as we march our spoils back to Akal-Uak. Gold for us, returned loot to those it was stolen from, and freed slaves to their families alike.

I weep for Surakel’s mercy. From a provincial rebellion to one of the largest realms in Bulwar!​

Dartaxȃgerdim now stretches from Tremo’Enkost in the west to the Invader’s Pass in the east. While we may look large and imposing, the stark reality remains that much of these lands are the backwater of Bulwar. A plague of monsters has rendered much of the land barren; harpies do not farm. It will take great effort to properly settle these lands with free humans.

The Akalates of Irrliam, Sareyand, and Birzartanšes remain larger than us in population and economic output. We have stretched ourselves thin.

Perhaps too thin.

The war has left our coffers little more than credit, and we have run out of men to field the armies.​

To make these lands safe for humans, we must bunker down, and I must build my kingdom.

And that begins by enforcing our treaty with the harpies and removing them from our land by force.

By order of myself, King Dartaxes, the harpies are hereby expelled from the kingdom, their valuables and wealth to be confiscated, their land redistributed to humans.​

They get a better deal than the goblins, who have all been exterminated like you would any other kind of pest or vermin. Forced to leave as paupers, but with their lives.

The time comes to turn to managing the realm. Building a kingdom for humanity in the north. And preparing my army to march again. We must tighten our belts and prepare for the coming storm with the elves, orcs, and gnolls.

They may call me strict. I call myself an efficient operator.​

Ettu mostly mopes around. I don’t rule from a great city like the elves or a castle like the Cannorians. Akal-Uak is more like a military camp that a city was built around, here in the forests at the foot of the Harpy Hills. In many ways, it’s far from the luxury of boy-slaves she must have been used to being attended by.

Surakel abhors slavery. Humans spent so long as slaves to other races that we won’t conscious it in any form. Even the Sun Elves need to find creative ways of applying slavery, such as insisting humans must listen to and obey elves. Her suffering for lack of servants is almost a mark of pride for me. It means I am doing humanity proud.

I spend most of my time these days drilling the soldiers on how to fight in formation. How to prepare for battle. Ways to maneuver with my junior officers. And when not tending to my soldiers, handling the day to day policy and choices that make a kingdom work. Land disputes, taxation policy, the ongoing removal of the harpies from our land.

“Why do you do this, that boxy square thing?” Ettu asks as I prepare my soldiers for battle drills. Her chained wings have lost feathers, but eating a normal diet after months of starvation has her looking more human.

I scowl at her, but my grandson Asur answers for me. “That’s a pike square. It’s a way to prepare for a cavalry charge. They can’t break formations that deep easily, and our spears let us tear them apart if they try.”

She flexes her wing, bringing the tip to her mouth and chewing on it thoughtfully. “What if your enemy flies?”

But we were drilling for just such a purpose. “Let us show you, Ettu.”

Harpies opposed to being dispossessed of their land are instead dispossessed of their lives.​

“In the chaos of battle, you can’t control your men,” I explain, walking through the battlefield, the dead harpies in the streets of their former roost. “A general’s job is to build a playbook. A set of drills and actions your soldiers can execute on their own without thinking, or by the command of my junior nobles.”

Asur walks beside Ettu, who only looks sick. Her fingers flex for something to hold. She can’t keep from shutting her eyes.

I find a wounded harpy on the ground and drive my spear through her heart. “I have soldiered all my life. I am a soldier first, a king somewhere down the line. An army is nothing more than a vaguely organized crowd or mob. You need to break them to reengineer the human masses into a machine that can overcome its foes. Turn a mob into a fighting force. Target practice like this helps.”

Asur pipes up. “Drill must be a bloodless battle. And battle merely a bloody drill.”

I pat the boy on the head and give a rare smile.

Ettu looks green behind the gills. “How is that less monstrous than what you accuse my people of?”

I give her an even look. “Because we are people, and you are not.”

My son and heir. The last thing I have from a woman I loved once upon a time.​

My son, Tailmaz, comes to me one day in Akal-Uak and hands me more paperwork. His eyes are red and tired, but he carries himself like a soldier.

“What’s this?” I ask, frowning at the reports of damaged farmlands and lost property.

“Magi,” he says with a tired groan. “Human magi.”

Human magi are still rare in Bulwar. Meaning our attempts to harness this power are bound to end in failures before they have the success the professional and trained elves have.​

I lean back in my chair and sigh, rubbing my eyes. “We can’t arrest our newblooded magi. They made an honest mistake, destructive as it was. Pardon them and ensure they learn from this error. We’ll have to compensate the people and rebuild the land out of pocket.”

“We are in dire need of pockets,” Tailmaz scoffs.

“We can tighten our belts.”

He gives me a dubious look. “Father, this is your goat-fuck. I am just helping you hold its legs.”

All I can do is rub my eyes. I’m getting too old for this shit.

From the far end of the hall, Asur and Ettu stop talking about something outside the window and look our way. She looks so un-harpy being forced to wear a shirt and cover her modesty, and I’m pretty sure she’s been stealing kitchen silverware lately. Ettu tugs on the boy’s sleeve. They’re about the same age, really. He gives her a look, before putting his hand on her back and pushing her forwards.

Ettu stumbles forward awkwardly, trying to spread her wings for balance. The chains keep them from fully extending, so she just flails her arms out and wobbles for balance.

I look up at her. “Yes, girl?”

“You have problems with magi, Mr. King Man,” she says, chewing on the tip of her wing.

I gesture for her to get to the point.

“My mother knew magic. I…” She compresses a breath and stands up taller. Almost defiant, which doesn’t suit a borderline animal such as herself. “If you humans know magic, I know of rituals they can perform which may help your nation. You simply need to know the right questions to ask of them.”

I admit, I would have never thought to ask the magi to help with cotton and cereals. Which helps. Because I don’t have an economy at this point. I have a giant money fire.​

It’s an interesting idea, and soon the magically increased crop yields help to put our budget in the green. It’s not much, but with more cotton for clothes and grains for food, our nation begins to stabilize after our recent conquests.

Ettu can’t stop looking smug about me taking her advice, lowly monstrous hostage though she is. I’m tempted to smack her across the face to rid myself of that expression, but I don’t want to risk breaking her royal cheek and setting the harpies off on us.

Besides, her and Asur seem to be getting along well enough. It’s kept her from more than a handful of escape attempts. The more Asur tells me of the role of magic in harpy society, the more it occurs to me that the reason for human misery in Bulwar is because we have been denied magic for so long.

It’s only logical to extend the roles of the landed elite to those with magic, offering them free land if they settle and move to the countryside. I am no mage myself, nor will I ever be, but anything which can result in the victory of humanity over the oppressor races must be seized.

With these land and privilege grants, it is hoped that human magi will be able to topple the elven monopoly.​

Meanwhile, from our western borderlands, human refugees arrive more and more by the day, telling of the butchery of the orcs. Naturally, as the defenders of humanity, we let them in, and provide them with free land to settle. The stories they tell of orcish horrors rival only the gnolls of Zokka.

“It really doesn’t look pretty out there beyond the hills and mountains,” Ettu says as I assist in providing food and administrative support to the starved, filthy, and impoverished refugees.

I give her a sharp look. “Stop that, girl.”

Ettu quickly puts back the fork she was trying to steal from a random table. She smiles wide and tries to pretend she wasn’t just doing that. “Look, nevermind that, what I’m trying to say is—”

Asur puts a hand on her arm to stop her, but she shrugs him off.

She has an almost giddy, childish look behind her harpy eyes. I don’t like her tone or expression, and scowl harder.

“But take it from a girl who was enslaved after having her entire kingdom destroyed,” she says chipperly. “It may look bad right now, Mr. King Man, but it’s gonna get way worse.”

 

[HistoryDude]

These humans are looking pretty unsympathetic. When will we get to the elf killing? Since they apparently deserve it and all.

 

[Crushric]

These humans are looking pretty unsympathetic. When will we get to the elf killing? Since they apparently deserve it and all.

It takes a hot minute of building up before I feel confident to attack any of the elf-lead states. In Anbenner, you are free to attack monsterous nations, like they are free to attack you with the casus belli you have on each other by default. Most of my waiting, which results in me sort of doing the mission tree backwards in places, is due to the elven network of alliances.

Bulwar is a bit of a battle royale, but it takes a moment for that to really set in. New Sun Cult uses Shinto incident mechanics, one of which destroys all trust and relations between the New Sun Cult nations, allowing a nation like Dartaxes or the desert elves to attack without fear of alliance networks. When that incident does fir, you best believe I explot elven division, and do the missions/events that lead to some horrible outcomes for the New Sun Cult

For now, I spend the early early game fighting monsters, removing them to get my culture/religion in them, and working to build favors to break alliances in order to diplomatically isolate the nation with a gold mine. The Old Sun Cult, which uses Coptic mechanics, is in a pretty bad spot, all their "easy" expansion being hills and mountains, so it's expensive to develop anything.

Taking out Harpylen was actually pretty huge. In the hands of a player or even just an aggressive AI, harpy military + their starting War Wizard general gives them the ability to just stomp everyone around them.

I'm playing hyper aggressive to get a beachhead, but the results is that I basically never have any admin points this entire run.

 

[Black Watch]

This has officially gotten me interested in playing Anbennar! I'll follow this.

Also, is it just me or does Ettu sound a bit happy about the predicament you're in?

The harpies have been mostly crushed, but you've still got the orcs rampaging from the west, the divided but still formidable elven successor kingdoms to the south, and if I read correctly, gnolls coming from the east?

 

[Crushric]

This has officially gotten me interested in playing Anbennar! I'll follow this.

Also, is it just me or does Ettu sound a bit happy about the predicament you're in?

The harpies have been mostly crushed, but you've still got the orcs rampaging from the west, the divided but still formidable elven successor kingdoms to the south, and if I read correctly, gnolls coming from the east?

Anbenner needs more time in the light. There's a truly staggering amount of work into the mechanics and nations in the world of Anbennar. It's criminal how few people seem to have spent much time with it.

And Ettu is in a surprisingly good position. You'll see Dartaxes realizes it next chapter, but Ettu has literally been stealing hundreds of crowns (ducats) worth of silverware from Akal-Uak and has been making insane bank, because she is a little gremlin taking advantage of her situation as a hostage. Plus she's got a friend in Asur who's made life pretty okay. She winds up being treated more like a little grelim daughter after her years with house Szel-Forramaz.

The situation in Bulwar is really that terrible, yes. Monsterous nations all around us. The elves are at this point still unified before their Shinto incident mechanics tear hem apart. With one exception I quickly exploit, followed by Dartaxagerdim just doing normal Interstate Anarchy, red queen nation predation that is the life's blood of a good EU4 early game.

New Sun Cult is actually really fun to play. Lots of flavor. But I just really like the vengeance and venom of Dartaxagerdim.

 

[Crushric]

Chapter 3: Heavy is the Crown​

People like to say “the fact of the matter” as if there’s only one fact, one truth, one point of contention that you’re obviously wrong and I am right about. It’s the end-all, be-all of a conversation or plan.

And it never sat well with me. In over a decade of rulership, first a rebel, then a king, I’ve been forced to confront the fact of the matter again and again.

The matter keeps changing and facts are mutable things. The fact of the matter is, our nation is merely king of the ashes. The fact of the matter is, we’re running out of warm bodies and the means to supply them. The fact of the matter is, Ettu keeps stealing silverware from the kitchen and I can’t catch her and that’s legitimately becoming a financial burden on the court.

You can go with this stuff forever. The truth doesn’t really mean anything if you can’t act on it. It may be nice to know. Better that than sticking our heads in the Sarhal sand like an ostrich. But the facts don’t always mean anything, just more useless information to jumble around in your head.

The fact of the matter is, I’m an old man in his fifties now. My son Tailmaz is getting on in years. My grandson Asur is a man. And there’s a harpy princess wandering around my court unsupervised because people have just gotten used to her at this point.

I am Dartaxes, and I am a soldier. I sometimes wonder if I have spent more time with my spear than my son. I wonder if I know my horse better than my grandson.

I wonder what history will say of me.

Perhaps they will say he was the First Human King in Bulwar. Perhaps they will say he did what no one else could do. Perhaps they will say he was a brief spark of light in a dark era, snuffed out after his death.

I’d like to think they’ll say I was a warrior and politician. They’re the same thing, when you think about it.

Politics is just war by other means.

The Republic of Re’uyel. The last free state in the region. And our only ally, if mostly theoretical.​

“So you’ve tamed one of the wild women of the hills,” Re’uyeli ambassador Išelos Szel-Azka tells me, reaching out to grab Ettu’s wing. “Do you clip her?”

Ettu’s face goes red and she flaps her wing out of his reach, backing up quickly. “Don’t you mess with me, Bahari! I will cry. And then rip your face off. In that order!”

I lean forwards, elbows on my table. “Ettu, be nice.”

She flaps her wings angrily. “He touched my feathers!”

“Ettu,” Asur says, leaning against the wall. It’s surreal seeing him as a young adult, with a neatly trimmed beard and never far from a weapon. “We talked about this.”

“Yes, we talked about how my wings are like your dick!” she huffs. “How would you like it if some wrinkly old Bahari started fondling your balls?”

“I might die a happy man if my dick was big enough I could use it to fly,” Asur says musingly.

Ettu just lets out a long, loud groan. She knows she isn’t winning this one. With a mix of sulking and angry scowling, she folds her wings in a harpy gesture of pardon. But the moment Išelos looks back at me, she sticks her tongue out at him and swipes her talons at the air towards him.

Išelos almost looks respectful, in a weird sort of way that almost feels judgemental. “In Re’uyel, we have a saying. ‘Say what you will of me, at least I am free.’ I did not know that extended to other nations in Bulwar. A free harpy. Imagine that. She still has the mannerisms of a monster, at least.”

I make a noise that’s more a rumbling in my chest. “We’re not here to talk about my Ettu. We’re here to talk business, Išelos.”

At the far end of the room, Ettu mouths the word my and gags. Asur tries not to laugh.

Išelos takes a goblet of Dartaxi wine from the table. “No. This was about Azka-Evran. And the fact of the matter is, I don’t know if I can accept what I know you’re going to propose.”

Azka-Evran. A Sun Elven rump state between myself and the Blacktide. Which just so happens to be sitting on the largest deposits of gold and Damestear in Bulwar.​

The realm was shattered when the Masked Butchers invaded, leaving it isolated politically and geographically. The opportunistic Re’uyeli offered them protection in exchange of favorable trade of gold and of Damestear, the divine mineral from the sky that mages salivate over.

The fact of the matter is, with those resources in our hands, we could solve the kingdom’s financial woes in a single action. The problem was convincing our mutual allies to betray Azka-Evran.

“We freemen are not in the habit of turning our backs on our allies,” Išelos says, swishing his goblet. “Especially not ones that are so profitable to the republic. We need all we can get to hold off orcish raids.”

I nod. “True, but it is not as if the elves can trade to you directly. Nor can they travel the Bahari coast and all of its orcs. They have to trade through us, and we impose our tariffs on what we send downriver to the gulf.”

He arches an eyebrow pointedly. “You could remove barriers to that trade. If we could arrange a deal that profited the republic, the Republic would have the means to better support and assist Dartaxȃgerdim.”

“Don’t make me laugh, dear Išelos,” I say with a sudden snort. Leaning forwards, I continue with, “They are isolated peoples in a mountain fortress, barely able to survive orcish border raids. Their only trade comes through my kingdom, and we punish them for it to recoup our losses. They are a middle man. If that gold and Damestear was in our hands, then Re’uyel would receive favorable terms. Think of the support we’ve given you. The fear of a united Dartaxi-Re’uyeli front is the only thing keeping the black orcs from a proper invasion of your little city. We have the reach and manpower, but not the funds. They have the means to fund, but not the manpower or reach. Ours is the best army in northern Bulwar, and you need us at our best or all of us shall surely die.”

Being a soldier first and a king somewhere down the line has benefits when the Army of Humanity is the state.​

Išelos folds his hands on the table. “Isn’t it strange how that table turns? It feels like only a decade ago I came to Akal-Uak to take a merchant’s gamble on some little rebellion.”

I can but smile. “If you want a gamble to pay off, you need to be willing to go big, or go home. You can either back our efforts and hold onto a powerful ally, or you can refuse us and lack ally and Damestear both.”

Išelos takes a very deep breath and gazes into his wine in bitter silence.

Peace is but a beautiful lie. And Surakel says we must burn the liars.​

The Army of Humanity is put to march, and we are besieging the fortress of Azka-Evran in a lone month. The last elven Akalate in northern Bulwar will fall before us, and its resources will go to the very same humans they have mining the gold and Damestear.

I remember a time when I was fragile and alone. Now we swing our weight to make others the victim.​

In Bulwar, there’s an old saying I’m fond of. Man is wolf to man. It’s from an old story. One I think about a lot.

In the early days of humanity, the tribes of men fought over Bulwar. For land, wives, water—anything. Until one king made a deal with a genie, a djinn, a primordial creature from the deserts of Sarhal. “Make my tribe the strongest and you may have anything from me. That is my wish.”

The djinn accepted the wish. In exchange, he took the king’s throne and realm as his own, and proclaimed himself a god. Other tribes saw the terror, the horror, of the genie reign. They saw how it made the tribe into a state that conquered its brothers.

Rather than unite against the djinn, the kings instead sought out their own genies. Yes, the djinn was terrible, but they wanted to be terrible back to them. This djinn granted the wish, and became both king and god of the tribe. The next tribe found another magic lamp and made the same wish.

Until every human in Bulwar was a servant to a genie, but at least our djinn-king oppresses our rival tribe worse than it. “It is a good deal,” they said.

No man is an island, but hell is other people.

That was what made us weak in the past. And it is what makes the successor elven states weak now, allowing us to grow while they infight. They repeat our mistakes; I shall learn from them.

The dominion of man is united. The realms of the elves are broken and shattered. This is our strength. That is their flaw.​

Akal Deggarion Evranzuir of Azka-Evran is a Sun Elf. He has held this post for centuries of his unnaturally long life. I was going to execute him as an enemy of mankind, before, on his knees before a man a third his age but thrice as old, he promises the location of the realm’s hidden treasury in exchange for his life.

We need the money.

He gives the information and asks for what’s left of his house guard.

I run him through with my spear. If there’s one thing I hate more than an elf, it’s a coward.

Watching from nearby, Asur and Ettu are silent. And I can’t help but think the girl has grown so well accustomed to riding a horse, just like a human might, despite her wings and talons. I can’t remember the last time she tried to run away. Must have been years.

I order the city not be sacked, as it is a human city. We are liberators, not conquerors. I free the slaves from the local mines and offer anyone who would return a fair wage in exchange for their work.

We now have the resources to feed not only a kingdom, but to fuel a war machine.

A war machine that continues in fits and stops, expanding to the point of internal collapse, consolidating, and then repeating. I begin to wonder if we can really continue this. Before my kingdom ends up in a death spiral from its successes.

The tools and treasures of Azka-Evran will now inspire the Army of Humanity.​

I need only look south to the elven realms to wonder if we can win. If we can keep this holy war up. No, that’s wrong. The Army of humanity can beat any one Akalate. But as with the victory over the harpies, we destroy my soldier’s administration and overtax it to try to incorporate people and land.

We could right now, with gold and Damestear behind us, march south into Irrliam and proclaim true human liberation. Our coffers would empty. The land is efficiently run by entrenched elven bureaucrats who have held office for centuries, and we’d need to start from the ground up just to put us on the path to administering an empire.

I fear I may be growing more timid in my old age. The other fear is that as I get older, as I kill more people, as I become a king, the reality of my role in life is more and more apparent.

The other day I broke out coughing and my grandson Asur had to smack my back to help it pass. I got a headache squinting with eyes that are slowly fading as I trained my men in cavalry tactics. But it’s not like I can really stop.

Born a slave, to die a king.

Upon my shoulders rest the hopes of my people in Bulwar. Upon my head is a crown from the gutter forged from iron nails and my old slave shackles.

And heavy is the crown.

Magi would kill for this. And now with control of Našru-ean, we have Bulwar’s only potent source.​

When the Damestear meteorite fell on Našru-ean, the akal must have thought himself a lucky man. All it did was make him a target. Rarer than gold or dwarven mithril, it is crystalized magic. After arresting the elven taskmasters, I go to examine the free workers mining the meteor’s landing site. It won’t last forever. The nature of Damstear’s rarity is that it falls to Halaan rarely, and then once it’s gone, it’s gone.

“You don’t have to come everywhere I do, Ettu,” I overhear Asur saying as he surveys a vein of the mineral.

Ettu is leaning over to gaze at her blue reflection, standing next to the man my son has become. “My mother would kill for this stuff.”

Asur arches an eyebrow. “If you try to take any back with you, may I remind you the punishment for theft is losing a hand.”

The harpy stands up sharply, folding her wings primly. “Me, steal? That is the least likely thing I would do.”

“And my favorite fork?”

Ettu hisses. “Proof or it didn’t happen, boy!”

He chuckles and elbows the girl, who just pouts. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to use magic. To be able to do more with Damestear than watch more gifted men consume it.”

“You wonder too much,” Ettu says, flopping a hand over. “Thinking and preparing has its uses, but it has to be practical concerns. What’s the point in fantasy, of imagining the impossible?”

“My grandfather did the impossible,” he says reproachfully. “You imagine the impossible to figure out how to make it a reality. There’s nothing you can’t do with sufficient will and thought.”

Ettu shrugs her wings. “Don’t jerk other men off, Asur. It’s weird.”

“He’s not just another man. He’s my grandfather.”

The harpy gives him a look like he’s stupid. “Incest is also messed up.”

“You’re impossible, Ettu.”

The harpy winks and does a little spin, ending in some strange winged imitation of a curtsy. “Thanks. I get off on being difficult. It’s basically my thing.”

I shake my head at the two and ask the foreman for reports on product output, the wages needed to make work fair for the miners, and how long we think we can expect this operation to continue with current output.

Until a messenger appears, running into the mines where I’d been setting up shop. “My lords,” he says. And then, more hesitantly: “And lady. A delegation from Harpylen has arrived.”

What’s left of the harpy rump state after we cut off their head, banished to the valley of Nephvi’s Tears.​

“Oooh!” Ettu squeaks, grabbing Asur’s arm. “You hear that? I’m a lady now! You gotta be nice to be from now on.”

Asur snakes out of her talons. “Lady? You don’t even know how to wear a dress.”

“That is a conscious choice!” Ettu protests with a huff.

I hold up a hand for them to shut-up. “Speak, boy. Why are there harpies in my country?”

“The delegation is here to return Princess Ettu home to their roost in Hystara,” he says with a boy.

“Why?”

“Queen Ishtara is dead,” says an entering harpy in clipped Bahari, covering her modesty with armor on body and talons both. Like just anyone can walk into here where I’m working. “And now Queen Ettu is to be ruler, as per our treaty.”

And instantly, all the teasing amusement of Ettu’s face dies in a way I can’t help but find oddly satisfying. “What?”

We tried to civilize her, but Ettu is still a monster. You can’t make a woman from a harpy.​

It’s odd to see Ettu leave. The capital feels a little emptier without her. Her occasional singing. Her conversation with courtiers and my grandson. Even if the halls are a lot cleaner. You don’t realize how many feathers harpies shed until you’ve got one living with you. Asur goes with the harpy royal guard, to escort her home, and ensure the harpies don’t get any ideas about taking human men with them on their trip back.

We did find all the lost silverware, though. It just appeared in the kitchen one day, a small horde of fine dining in a pile in the kitchen one day. Maybe it’s a parting gift. Maybe whatever she was doing to hide them fell apart.

I walk around until I find my son. Tailmaz. He looks up at me from the infantryman’s fit on his worktable. “Father.”

“Son.”

He looks at me for a long time, before shaking his head. He goes back to examining the gear, taking notes in a little book.

“What are you doing?” I ask hopefully.

He glances at me and mutters, “Newest kit. Advancement on pike formation. Calling it a phalanx. Not real one. More mobile. Flexible. Ancients didn’t know how to fight.”

While Cannorians praise the sword, in Bulwar, we still know the spear is the superior weapon.​

“Is working on soldiers all you’re doing?”

Tailmaz manages to look annoyed. “Work to be done, Father. Exporting gold and Damestear. Modernizing army. Removing harpies from the hills. Much to be done.”

I hesitate. “How are our finances then, if you’ve been keeping track?”

“Good.”

“Anything else of interest?”

Tailmaz jots down something in his book before looking up at me. “Saw an elf. Ruined my day.”

Maybe I do miss Ettu and Asur. Tailmaz is… Tailmaz. Raised a soldier, it’s all he knows.

I wonder if this is my fault.

I turn to leave.

“Message, too,” Tailmaz says. “City in Irrliam asking for help. Kalib. Seeking our protection.

“More?”

He nods. “They have an army. Asking for allies. We have men. They wish to overthrow the elves.”

I swallow. “What’s another war, then?”

“Sticks it to the elves; I’ll send a runner with the details,” he says agreeably, and then goes back to his work.

Our successes are breathtaking to Bulwar. More and more people come to Akal-Uak seeking help from the elves.​

We prepare our forces, building up again. The new resources help, but despite my kingdom’s great size on paper, that’s just it. We remain sparsely populated mountains, with a need to bring in colonists and those seeking freedom. The Blacktide owns greater land. The Sun Elven states are more urban. We are a paper lion and know it. All we can do is muster what resources we have and prepare for the next storm.

One, we suspect, will come from the east along the Bahar coast, the black orcs, defending against whom so much of our budget goes. That, and providing for the refugees.

Why does one of the refugees look six and a half feet tall and have tusks?​

Among the humans fleeing the coast and evading orcish raiding parties is himself a black orc. With Asur gone and acting as our liaison to Harpylen and working with the eastern army to secure it from harpy raids, I’ve taken more and more time to soldiering on the Bahari coast. The men take heart to see their king in the mud and dust with them, and it endears me to my new citizens.

Except for this man. Even if he wasn’t a black orc, anyone crossing the border with a swagger in his step and head up high would be suspicious. People forced from their homes aren’t happy.

This orc, however, is alone. With a group of humans, terrified as they look yes, but an orc nevertheless. I would know. I’ve dealt with border skirmishes from the Masked Butcher tribe for nearly two decades.

My cavalry sallies to meet him and save the humans with him. But as soon as sees me, his face twists into what orcs must think a smile looks like. It is all teeth, all tusk. The painted mask over his face is proof he is with their foul tribe.

“You are the warrior who repels the raids,” he calls out in roughly accented Bahari. “The human warchief, yes? You killed one of my battle brothers years ago. Very fierce! I bring gifts of slaves I freed. You like other humans, yes?”

“Who are you?” I ask, leveling my lance at him. My horse eyes the orc uneasily.

“Borgu Armorhide,” he says with a guttural laugh. Orcs make the language sound somehow foul. “You have the magic sky rock in your clan. I need the magic sky rock. I have this idea, you are to be seeing. You will let me in and I may help and study, yes?”

“Are you some orcish attempt at a spy?” I ask.

Borgu shrugs. “This I am not. But I may tell you what I know of the Masked Butchers. For example, this one is a spy!” With that, the massive orc grabbed a spindly refugee by the arm and hoists him into the air. “Do look at his objects. It will prove I am of good faith, warchief!”

Unthinkable that humans would betray us for orcs. We found so many stolen documents on the man. He attempted to use the refugees as cover to sneak back across the border!​

And with further information, in exchange for not executing him on the spot and access to Našrau-ean’s Damestrear mines, Borgu gives us more information.

The Masked Butcher’s new Warchief Drok Beardbutcher is building an army up. They are amassing on our borders, to sweep over Re’uyel and Dartaxȃgerdim both.

The Blacktide rises. And after a lifetime of war, I worry for my people, for my kingdom. For my grandson.​

The information cannot come too soon. As Borgu begins his strange orcish work with some extra Damestear we have lying around, his worst predictions come to pass.

As I am preparing the men one evening in Halament, the Re’uyeli ambassador Išelos szel-Akal storms into my warcamp, panting and sweating, eyes red and wide.

“King Dartaxes!” he cries as my bodyguard attempts to keep him back. “I bring a message from Re’uyel directly!”

I stand, reaching for my spear. I can tell by his tone and body language that I’ll need them.

“Speak, Išelos,” I say calmly. More calm than I have any right to feel.

Re’uyel is under siege.

The Blacktide has come for us.

 

[HistoryDude]

The elves are falling.

It's a shame that Ettu had to leave, though. Her stealing and trolling was funny.

 

[Crushric]

The elves are falling.

It's a shame that Ettu had to leave, though. Her stealing and trolling was funny.

See is, without a doubt, best girl. And a monster, but details, details.

Don't worry, she'll be back.

We have story to tell through gameplay, after all!

 

[Black Watch]

“Saw an elf. Ruined my day.”

This part in particular made me laugh, but you have a talent for writing in general.

That last part though...oof. Although war with the Masked Butcher was going to come sooner or later. I hope that this AAR doesn't end here.

 

[Crushric]

Chapter 4: Lambs to the Slaughter​

Twenty-eight thousand orcs lay siege to Re’uyel.

The seventeen thousand men of the Army of Humanity move to relieve them.

I am an old man. But I saddle my horse and ride out at the head of my men. Once upon a time, I defeated the odds and proclaimed freedom from the elves.

Now I stand as humanity’s last, best hope against the orcs.

My son Tailmaz handles the administration of the realm in Akal-Uak, ensuring our supply lines are kept, that we have enough food and water to support the army. We’ll need it. Because the deeper we advance towards the once great city of Aqatbar, the more ruin and devastation we find.

The Masked Butchers have plundered and pillaged this land clean.

Fifty thousand people used to live here when I was a child. Now it’s a ghost town.​

The orcish fortress is poorly guarded and maintained. Orcs are a race of attackers, not defenders. We break through via an old aqueduct and open the gates, liberating the slaves the orcs had used to service the city for their dark masters.

Which is what leads me somewhere I’d heard of in stories since I was but a boy.

The Great Library of Aqatbar.

Once a hallowed hall of knowledge and learning, now little more than a ruin.​

The Sun Elves corrupted our faith and knowledge. The orcs? They’ll destroy it. They have no regard for it, no love. All they want is to loot and enslave. Like harpies or gnolls. More monsters at the edges of civilization.

Wolves that will snatch up any lambs that stray too far from the shepherd.

“Amazing, is it not, yes?” Borgu says and I nearly jump at the black-orc. He gives me a lopsided grin. “Once I lived and works here. No longer. They did not understand. No sky rock, you see, yes?”

“Did you follow us here? How have my honor guard not killed you by mistake?”

Again, Borgu gives a tusked smile. “They have been lacking, warchief.”

I just stare at him.

“Come, warchief,” he says, brushing past the ruined entrance, over a slain orc and an old goblin skeleton. “I had workshop here once. I have sky rocks now. You will see. Come, come with.”

I whistle, calling for my battle companions, and follow Borgu within.

Re’uyel has fallen to the Blacktide. We have no hope of liberating them. All we can do is fortify Aqatbar and prepare.​

Borgu leads me into the basement, where, to my amazement, most of the books have been preserved. Ancient knowledge from before the time of Jaher and the arrival of his Sun Elves, and everything afterwards that his scribes and propagandists published.

Eventually, we come to what looks like a mage’s workshop. Borgu cleans it up, blows off dust, and frowns at a stain of blood on the ground. “That orc tried to kill me. I caved in his skull. He did not understand my work. But now I am to finish it!”

He takes out a stone of Damestear, more valuable than its weight in gold, and mixes it into a cauldron in the room. “Goblin shaman lived here once,” he says, adding ingredients and liquids to the cauldron. “Good work. Smart creatures. Taste terrible.”

The orc dips a ladle into the concoction. My honor guard look nervously at each other as the spoon fizzles and melts. Borgu only grins. “It is working! Magic sky rocks do anything!”

He bottles up some in an expensive glass flask. The liquid is amber and almost glowing with latent magic.

“Ashen skies, orc, what is this?” I ask

Borgu laughs. “My finest work yet. Test it for me on my warchief. He did not approve.”

The earth itself shakes, like a quake. Borgu keeps his footing, grinning like he does. “That would be Drok now! Orc shamans very hateful of walls. Give battle, yes? Test my work.”

Warchief Drok Beardbutcher himself approaches.​

I scramble to leave the Great Library, with the magical potion in hand. I can’t tell if it’s meant to heal me, or damage my foes. Likely the latter. There’s no time to think. All we can do is draw battle lines against the unstoppable Blacktide.

Marching forwards, they are everything the legends told of. They do not run like monsters. They do not come as a massive swarm like harpies, or the rabble of the goblins. I almost wish Tailmaz or Asur were here to see it.

Sixteen thousand orcs march down the Bahari coast, over the old bricks of the Golden Highway that Jaher once built. They march. I can’t tell if they march to the beat of the war drums, or if the drums are in sync to their footsteps. Uniform black orcs in dark armor, in distinct ranks and rows, assisted by orcs riding massive wolf-like beasts. They move with the kind of discipline I’d spent a lifetime drilling into my men that almost seem natural to the orcs.

And when the beat of the drums change, the orcs move like Phoenix Legionnaires, spreading out into formation, with clearly marked officers.

They are silent but for the beat. No talking. No war cries. No babble.

And instead of attacking directly, they make the smart play. They make camp instead of going straight to battle after a long march down the coast. Too far away to effectively attack without exposing ourselves, but close enough that we can’t help but see them on the ridge of a hill across the river.

It gives us time to scramble better defenses. But it gives them time to attack us fresh and well-slept in the morning.

I whistle and make signals, bringing my cavalry and some extra helpers with me, as an armed scouting party.

And the orcs fall for the trap.​

Mistaking us for a foraging and scouting party, the orcs send a screen of warg-riders to attack my cavalry. Only for, at the last second, my horsemen to pull back to reveal the veteran phalanx that my son Tailmaz had spent so long equipping. Soldiers we had been hiding behind the bodies of our horses. The warg-riders are in too far to pull back as they crash directly into my spearmen. I lead the cavalry back and around to cut off their retreat.

Orcish horns sound, and the orcs that had been building camp run to form lines and advance to relieve their cavalry.

I pull my men back and let their bloodied cavalry go. The retreat is the most dangerous part of battle, but we’ve trained for this. My horsemen grab a spearman each and ride back to our lines. And the orcs foolishly come after us, marching to the beat of their drums, eager for blood and vengeance.

I raise Jaher’s spear, my spear into the air. As Dinatoldir catches the blinding sun, my officers and NCOs recognize the signal and press forwards.

Orcish axe- and swordsmen in heavy armor crash into my spearmen, but we hold the line. We drop our rescued phalanges and circle back around to hit the orcs from the side with heavy Bulwari cavalry.

Only for a surprise unit of orcish reinforcements to emerge from hiding.

And now we are properly outnumbered.​

Surakel preaches hope. We are those who believe in the light. Who dedicate our lives to fighting the Malevolent Dark. And with shouts and screams in the name of the holy sun, who shines above us this day in Aqatbar, we hold the line. No matter how many of the black orcs crash against our lines.

Bulwar belongs to mankind.

Well and truly outnumbered, but the Sun is with us!​

The orcish reserve crashes into the side of a unit that had moved too far, pressing against their flanks and breaking into them. By my count, as we charge and pull back again and again into the orcish rear, of the seventeen thousand men who came with me to Aqatbar, seven thousand have killed or fled.

But we. Will. Hold!

Until hidden archers in the center of the Masked Butcher’s lines open fire on us, over the heads of their comrades, shooting anyone in our strong center. Raining death from above. We were not prepared.

It’s a desperate gamble. But in turning our shields to the sun, we block Surakel’s vision, and the orcs suddenly charge forwards.​

Drok Beardbutcher suddenly rallies his orcs with this sudden change in the ebb of battle. But in so doing, he reveals himself. The biggest orc, the one with the largest and most well-equipped soldiers, fighting from the back of a warg.

I can see him now. I may be an old man, but you don’t need to be a young bull to ride a horse and aim a lance.

I call for my honor guard. His forces moving forwards have exposed him. If only I can get in quick, get in now, I can end the Blacktide and save Bulwar with one final push!

Both sides are collapsing at the edges. The center cannot hold. Who breaks first shall decide the fate of Bulwar.​

We push forwards. A junior officer orders his men to push forwards, pinning an orcish formation and letting my honor guard charge around them. Our horses pant beneath Surakel’s light, nearly foaming. Riding hard enough that even if we do win, we may likely lose the animals.

We have one shot at this.

Which is when I remember the chemical that Borgus had created. It’s still with me.

The Warchief is right there, and his orcs scramble into position to counter our charge.

It’s not enough. Not at first.

Until the orcish greataxe chops my horse’s head clean off, and I go flying into the dusty ground.

And before me stands the horse-blood covered body of the largest creature I have ever seen.

The Warchief himself. Drok Beardbutcher.​

I land in a heap and feel something breaking in my leg. Something snaps I can barely register. I cough, trying to find my hands, find the ground. I expect the orc to say something. Maybe gloat. But instead, he is silent, almost disgusted in expression. He tries to pull his axe from my dead horse and, when he can’t even with his massive frame, he reaches for a single handaxe and turns back to him.

Spitting out blood, I have enough time to grab a shield and spear from the remains of my horse.

I thrust the spear at him. It hits the thickest part of his black armor. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t mock. He is just dead silent, staring me down. Him and everyone else on the fields outside of Aqatbar.

It’s the eye of the storm. Surrounded by the screams and dying men and orc, the old king and the orcish warlord.

He raises his ax, and all I can think to do is charge and tackle the giant. I’m nowhere near big and strong enough to push him over, even in my armor, even with my force. But it’s enough to take him off guard.

I drop my spear and reach for the potion Borgus had brewed, to slam it into his face and melt the fucker.

The sun shines brightly overhead.

And Drok elbows me in the face hard enough to shatter my jaw and make me drop the potion.

I can feel the world explode.​

The glowing liquid lands upon me. The glass shatters.

And I feel nothing but fire. As my clothes, beard, body, bursts into flames. So hot I can’t even really feel it but for the feeling of this is burning. An abstract feeling I almost can’t comprehend.

And neither can Drok, who steps backwards and shields his eyes.

Mage-fire licks at my flesh, burning bone from skin. It is the perfect distraction.

With a strange feeling of detachment, an out of body experience from behind my own eyes, I grab my spear.

Thought itself is ponderous with effort, and I am mesmerized by the color of the fire on my body. It’s almost clear, as it spikes into the air. I should be panicking. But I can’t even really feel it.

The orc pulls his hands from his eyes just enough to stare directly into mine. His eyes go wide.

I drive Dinatoldir through a joint in his armor, straight into his heart.

Time stands still.

The orcs turn and run.​

May Surakel lift me into paradise, and drag the orcs into hell with the elves.

Who will protect us now?

 

[HistoryDude]

The orcs are defeated, but the king is dead.

I wonder how that would've gain without the aid of that one orc that disliked Drok?

 

[Crushric]

This part in particular made me laugh, but you have a talent for writing in general.

That last part though...oof. Although war with the Masked Butcher was going to come sooner or later. I hope that this AAR doesn't end here.

Man, wild that you actually replied 5 minutes before I posted.

And as you can see, nah. This ain't the end. We got a whole nother character's life to go through!

After that? Maybe. There's only so far in writing I can really take an EU4 AAR, I feel, before I run out of worthwhile things to say. Gameplay, sure, probably, but context and character? Dunno. I'm toying with a far future idea, but it'd basically be me breaking the world with console stuff to make a story that is divorced from anything you could do with normal gameplay, and then playing it out to try to survive my own actions, and i don't know how i feel about that.

The orcs are defeated, but the king is dead.

I wonder how that would've gain without the aid of that one orc that disliked Drok?

Borgu is a treasure of an orc. He doesn't go away here. But Borgu's biggest contribution is more the symbolic side of things. Dartaxes the mighty felled the orc king, while his head was a pillar of fire. Burning in Surakel's light, he slew the orc warchief with Jaher's spear. Symbols, symbols, symbols. It'll be a mildly recurring thing, because why not add a bit of historical in-game stuff to create continuity?

 

[Crushric]

Chapter 5: The Road Ahead​

Father killed Drok Beardbutcher. Day improved.

Father died in battle. Day worsened.

Orcs conquered Re’uyel. Day terrible.

Orcs retreated from our border and haven’t come back. Day looking better.

Saw an elf today. Day ruined.

—From the Journal of King Tailmaz of Dartaxȃgerdim, 12 Halament 1470 After Ash​

I throw my dad’s journal across the room and bury my face in my hands. While I was escorting Ettu out and securing the eastern army, the orcs invaded. I should have been there. Instead, grandfather went ahead and got himself killed.

They say in his final moments, the sun shone bright, and his head became a towering pillar of fire, and he killed the orcish chief. Not that anyone knows what really happened. Just rumors and legends from the survivors pouring back from Aqatbar.

Dartaxes died as he lived: with a spear in his hand, and defiance upon his hip.

The orcs didn’t chase us. They retreated and let the men come back.

They did nothing for grandfather, and I was busy in the backwater of the realm. Useless, useless, just fucking useless.

And this is all my father had to say about his own father?! Just—“Yeah, it’s bad dad died, but I saw an elf and hardy-hardy, that ruined my day. Not dad’s death. Just some random elf.”

Pathetic.

My fingers dig into my face. I scream alone in my room in Akal-Uak. No one hears. No one comes for me.

Because I’m so fucking useless. Why would they bother?

I scream until my throat is raw. Then I find my armor and leave the room.

Only to run straight into a black orc, here in Akal-Uak.

I scramble for a weapon, but find myself unarmed. He just smiles at me, an expression with too many tusks and not enough lip. Like he’s only heard of smiles in stories passed down around a campfire and is doing his best imitation. He doesn’t move to attack me.

“You are jumpy and angry!” he says with a laugh. “Are you coming to kill your father to claim his throne? I must come with. I did not know humans could do this too and wish to see it in person!”

“Who the fuck are you!” I snap.

He looks around, then points to himself.

“Yes, you!” I say, lowering my center of gravity. “How do you know Bahari?”

“Haha!” he says. “I am Borgu. I have been in this fort for several days now and no one has been able to best me in an arm-wrestling challenge!”

“What?”

“I live here now by right of the arm wrestle,” he says, arms folded. He nods to himself as if that’s a rational explanation. “It is custom. Warchief Dartaxes brought me in. Who are you?”

“I am Prince Asur, son of Tailmaz, and this is my home!”

Good enough to be king one day. Not good enough to make any difference now.​

“Haha, that is wonderful!” he says, clasping me on the shoulder hard enough that I nearly fall to the ground. “I have always wanted to be housemates with a human! Where do you keep the Damestear? Humans share stuff between those under the same roof. It is called hospitality.”

“That’s not—what!?”

Borgu gives me a serious look, then holds his hand out as if to shake. I simply stare at it. He grunts, a guttural noise, before grabbing my hand and just throwing me to the ground.

“I have arm-wrestled you too,” he says as I roll back up to my feet. “Now we are battle brothers. Where do you keep the silverware, while we’re at it?”

Gold production increasing. Very good.

Rooting out heathens. Excellent.

Gold increases inflation. Subpar.

Spending money on infrastructure. Results pending.

Court advisors require salaries. Who are these people?

—Journal of King Tailmaz

“What’s with non-humans and silverware?” I ask, watching Borgu rummage through the kitchen.

“Silver good against actual monsters. Bloodsuckers and orcwolves.”

I scowl. “Werewolves, you mean.”

He looks up in surprise from the pile of forks that Ettu once squirreled away. “Humans may also become wolves? Fascinating.”

“Your breadth of knowledge is incoherent, Borgu.”

The orc shrugs. “I have learned as could be learned from the old library in Aqatbar.”

“You can read?” I ask, eyebrows raising.

Borgu pauses for a moment, before very carefully answering, “I ate several books and just guessed the context by taste.”

“That… that’s not how that works. That’s not how any of this works!”

He sighs. “My methods are too advanced for this time period. I am limited by the technology of my time.”

I groan, rubbing my eyes. It’s going to be a long day.

Sareyand, home to the elven Ash Legions. She is Bulwar’s brutal, militarized border against the horrors of the desert.​

“Boy,” Father says, not even looking up from his desk. After all this time as a proper kingdom, you’d think the king might look the part. But Father is a mild man who rules from behind a desk in the warcamp-turned-city that we call home. The Iron Crown of Dartaxes, burned from how Grandfather died and only barely cleaned of blood, doesn’t fit on his head.

“Father, you called me.”

He doesn’t say anything, just squints at his paperwork, before writing something down. He folds it up and hands it to a retainer to deliver.

I clear my throat. “Father?”

He frowns up at me. “You stated the obvious. It did not warrant a response.”

Yeah, I don’t know what I was expecting. I try to hide my exasperation and just wait him out. It takes several minutes before he finishes his paperwork and acknowledges me.

“We have opened official channels with Sareyand,” he says.

I blink. “The Sun Elven kingdom?”

“Yes.”

“Father, you hate elves.”

“This is known,” he says sagely. “What have I told you about saying things everyone knows?”

I shake my head. “There’s an orc wandering the fort and now we’re treating with Sun Elves?”

“As allies.”

I cough.

He folds his hands. “They are under threat by the gnoll clans. They see us as a threat, too, and their coward king thinks he can rely on us. I intend to be friends on paper, and use that to undermine Sareyand. Take Jaher’s spear and a division out east to secure our border with them.”

My mind boggles. “Father, I just got back from Arkašul out east. I haven’t even had time to fully grieve grandfather!”

“Take two divisions,” he suggests uncaringly. “One for business, and one as an Emotional Support Army.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I choose to be this way,” he says with a shrug, and there’s no arguing with the man.

Arkašul can best be described as a “backwater.” Liberated from the harpies, it and a few of the lands in the surrounding “Invader’s Pass” were majority human, if following the elf-cult. While the mountain remains majority harpy, the lowlands are more and more human. It sits at the crossroads between what’s left of Harpylen, Sareyand, and whatever the hell is beyond the Invader’s Pass, into the endless steppes of the Forbidden Plain.

No one goes into the Forbidden Plain. Not because it’s illegal or anything, more that it’s just endless flat land of no farming value. Could be monsters, if old legends about half-horse, half-human people mean anything.

I read a book once that suggested the land beyond got its name from an old king attempting to entice settlers out that way, because humans inherently like going to places with names like Forbidden Plain or the Land of Killing You Now. I don’t know why.

I spend my days mostly ensuring the reopening trade routes with Sareyand are secure. Working with local missionaries to dissuade the locals from their faith in the New Sun Cult. It almost feels like I’m being punished. Like I’ve done something wrong.

The only excitement comes when I organize a local militia to repel a raid from the harpies in Shrillek, which is our land, but barely controlled. I don’t like it. Ettu proved you could talk to them, but these lands have been managed with at best incompetence, and at worst active malevolence towards the harpies.

There’s rumors these internal raids and rebellions are funded by Harpylen itself to cause trouble. And given the frosty relations between our nations—we did make a hostage of their princess, after all—I can believe it.

Worst part is, I think I really do still miss her even after all these years.​

Politically speaking, Harpylen could not hate us more, and the border tension is high. The region is poor and unstable. It’s why it’s so hard to settle and rest control over. Whenever we strayed too close to the harpy’s valley, we’d find the flocks of their actual army waiting for us, watching us cautiously from the sky.

Last time this happened, I was on my horse, and I looked up and waved.

The flock scattered.

I really do think the new generations of harpy chicks have grown up to fear humans, in a way.

Maybe they’re right to. In the month of Bloomsdawn, orders come from my father.

“Boy, Sareyand will look the other way. Liberate Akalšes.”

That’s it. That’s all he says. Invade the small friendless Akalate to my south.​

I wonder what Grandfather would have done. How he would have handled this. Whatever the case, orders are orders. I was raised for this after a fashion. And if we can snag more land to liberate, I’ll take the eastern Army of Humanity and push south.

I feel… dirty, somehow. Here I am, trying to build trade and peace, being ordered to invade. To act the predator to weaker states than ourselves.

It doesn’t feel like liberation. It feels like bullying. Empire building.

News from my garrison in Arkašul.​

As we invade a New Sun Cult nation, the elf-worshippers holding firm in Arkašul begin a civil war over it. We’re using their city to base our invasion. In the end, the bloody internal conflict sees the elf-worshippers pushed out, their priests killed, and the denial of Jaher’s divinity.

Much of the bloodletting was done by the Šebhuliam, the “Green Helmets,” who are the most militant, fanatic sect of Surakel’s faithful. They flocked to Dartaxes’ banner, and so to mine by extension. Jaher’s Sun Cult claims Surakel chose the elves to perform His duties on Halann. To them, humanity exists to serve the Chosen. I’ve listened enough to Father and to the Šebhuliam’s street preaching to know that if anyone asks, my official position is that humanity is the Favored of Surakel, and the Sun Elves are the evil, corrupting manifestation of the Malevolent Dark, no different than gnolls or other monsters.

In the end, the Šebhuliam won the battle in Arkašul. We disproved elven favor with steel and fire.

It’s a bittersweet victory. Brother and neighbor killed each other. Humans almost all. And our faith won. It’ll look good in the reports to send back to father, but I can’t help but feel responsible for it. I wonder if it’s possible the harpies may one day join humanity in Surakel’s favor, or if men like Father and the Šebhuliam will destroy them before that.

If they’ll destroy Ettu, one day.

I shiver at the thought.

I wonder what Borgu would say of this.​

While the Sun Elves war with each other, and we prey on the sheep that strayed from the flock, the Blacktide moves back in. Still avoiding us entirely, for some reason. I won’t complain, but doubtlessly after we’re done here, the Army of Humanity is moving in to exploit this problem too.

Overall, it’s an almost bloodless war. Their armies weren’t prepared for us.​

I send the report back to Father and get to work administering the new realm into the kingdom. Figuring out how to incorporate its taxes and social networks into the system of the realm.

It’s another boost to our national prestige. Dartaxȃgerdim, no longer the wolf hiding in the mountains. Now we are the monsters ourselves. We are hunters of men, scalpers of men, and the other innumerable abominations men are to be proud of.

Conquered elves. Good.

Boy-child did it. I will award him a firm handshake.

Other nations regard us as a true threat and power. I should use this power for good, but will not.

—Journal of King Tailmaz, 3rd of Halament, 1474

Akalšes is a larger city. If not for the mountain separating it from Arkalšul, I’d say it’d make for a better regional capital. The people here are morose, more than likely because no one is happy after an invasion. Still, making use of its roads and infrastructure makes the region easy to incorporate into the kingdom.

Far from harpies or orcs, there’re only elves and humans here. Or so I thought.

A pair of my soldiers drags a young harpy girl into my office one day, as I was fixing up old regional tax codes and bringing them more in line with national policy.

I look up and frown. “Another raider, this far from the hills?”

The soldier shakes his head. “We were gonna just off her, but she had this.” He takes a letter from his robes.

The harpy squawks indignantly. “Mine mine! Here as peace. Peace peace! Letter! Words! Very much of price.”

Her Bahari is very bad. Still, I accept the letter. It’s not really formatted right, no wax seals or anything. And the penmanship is truly atrocious. Some of the letters are outdated, no longer in use, or actually backwards.

I recognize it as Ettu’s handwriting.

“Hiiiiii heard you got nice stuff down there. I want nice stuff, Asur boy. I hate you and everything, but want to trade? I have thiiiiiings and you can move thiiiiings safely. Meet here at…”

I look up at the harpy girl. “Did your matriarch send you?”

She flaps her wings, only for one of the soldiers to kick her for the sudden motion. She goes sprawling to the floor, and it’s all I can do not to wince as she whines in pain.

“Queen, queen, pretty wings, stuff for trade!” she says, giving bitter eyes at the offending soldier. “Give letter back. Will deliver, yep yep.”

I feel my heart skip a beat. A chance to write to Ettu. To see her again. I wonder if she still has a sense of humor, if she really is bitter about being a hostage. If being a Queen has changed her. Or… if she’s done as matriarchs do and have a score of daughters already. I feel my mouth drying for some reason as I reach into my desk for quill and paper.

Until a messenger knocks on my doors, with a letter bearing my father’s seal.

Why am I not surprised? I am angry, but not surprised.​

“Boy, Birzartanšes collapses. Its allies abandon them. Enclosed within are maps and spy networks of the realm. Liberate the city of Birzartansbar at all costs. Destroy Akali Kaladora. Show no mercy.”

I scream and knock the papers off my desk. It’s always something. Always another task, another job, another war!

“Sir-sir?” the harpy asks, looking nervous. You can tell by the feathers. If you know what the feathers mean, the positions of the wings, harpies wear their hearts on their sleeves.

I bare my teeth at her, until I realize where I am, what I’m doing. I remind myself how to breathe. “Miss, tell your matriarch we shall meet and I am eager to talk terms. Problem is, I am currently indisposed. But I will be there for her.”

I grab my armor from a stand in the office. “Captain,” I say to one of the soldiers, “tell the men we march for Birzartansbar. Have them ready to march by morning.”

A pause.

“And miss harpy, you may leave freely. Ensure she leaves unmolested, men. And that she molests no one on the way out, too.”

There is nothing left in Birzartanšes. Just orcs and dead men​

We march hard over the hills and mountains, following the old roads. Birzartanšes is filled with orcs, and we expect a hard fight to dislodge them.

But the strangest thing happens. The orcs do seem willing to fight us. But as soon as we unfurl our banners—Surakel’s sun—and as soon as I hold up Jaher’s spear to inspire the men, the orcs always turn the other way and march away. It’s like they don’t want to fight. I’ve seen them slaughter Birzartanšes and her allies no problem. Us, however, they avoid. They don’t break running. They simply form up and make haste away in some other direction.

I am almost glad. Leading the Army of Humanity in the land of our oldest rival is time-consuming enough without needing to wipe out an army of orcs. These bastards killed my grandfather, and I wonder if they are the only people I wouldn’t mind fighting.

My father would probably say something clipped about them. Maybe order us to pursue the orcs.

Instead, indirectly, the Bulwari Army of Liberation are just another facet of the Blacktide. It’s an unsettling idea, that I am just as much a monster to the Sun Elves as I am to the orcs.

When you think about it, for all my grandfather hated elves, after his rebellion, he only once engaged an elven state. I’ve now attacked two, and will have destroyed two nations.

Why doesn’t victory taste good?​

In the end, I feel… nothing. Our ancient enemy, who enslaved my grandfather, is defeated not with a climactic battle. More a series of opportunistic skirmishes. We did not come as liberators, merely predators. Hyenas taking a bite out of a dying animal.

Birzartanšes is over. Partitioned between ourselves, the elven state of Irrliam, and the Masked Butcher tribe.

The orcs avoided us at every opportunity, taking the coastline to keep us landlocked. There’s something wrong with the tribe.​

I feel like I am a pawn. I am hardly a prince. Merely my father’s errand boy. I thought war would be glorious. I trained for it all my life, to join my grandfather and father. But Father keeps to his desk, running the nation, sending me on his wars.

The successor states of the Phoenix Empire consolidate Bulwar beneath their talons. And here Dartaxȃgerdim is, a wolf at the elves’ door.

Some day, I will be king. That’s simply a fact. I have no brothers, no sisters. I don’t even really have a wife; I’ve been a soldier and a prince all my life.

When I am king, who will I be? What will they remember me for? I am thirty years old today, and I don’t know what I’ve done with my life, where it’s been, and what lies on the road ahead.

Will I sit behind a desk, or will I rule from the city of Bulwar as King of a continent? Will I simply be a warlord, a human version of the orcs or gnolls? Yet another monster for the elves and Jaher-worshippers to tell their misbehaving children stories about to make them go to bed?

Right now, however? There is work to be done cleansing Birzartanšes and ensuring they can never again threaten humanity. Humanity, the favored of Surakel, has triumphed.

The elves are forever broken in Bahar.​

Then there is a matter of what to do with Queen Kaladora, the elf girl who ruled over Birzartanšes, whose father so ruined the realm that it allowed Dartaxes his chance to rise up. Her bloodline is the reason humanity once again has a kingdom.

Between her and the orcs, she fell into our clutches.

She handles it well. She can’t escape. Her royal guard is slain. And my soldiers storm her palace.

Once noble Kaladora is brought before me in chains. She is all but silent. My men and the Šebhuliam auxiliary bay for her blood. All their lives they’ve heard stories of her evil, her and her late father. She won’t even look me in the eyes and try to apologize.

Part of me wants to respect that.

Another part of me realizes she’s not giving me a choice in how this plays out.

In the end, my options are clear. There isn’t really a choice. I can’t let her live after her sins. Somewhere, I know my Father is grinning to himself.

All I can do is limit the vengeance of the human race to the woman most responsible.

Burning her and her alone alive at the holy stake is the only mercy I can finesse from my position as conqueror.​

When it’s over, I just sit outside my army camp, on a hill overlooking the city of Birzartanbar. Letting my officers and bureaucrats from Akal-Uak handle incorporation of the city’s humans and elves into the Kingdom of Mankind. Šebhuliam comb the city, hunting and killing Jaherian Exemplars and priests.

I try to tell myself what I did was right.

What I did was necessary. My soldiers wouldn’t have allowed me to show mercy. And it ensures Birzartanšes will never rise again to threaten Surakel. And I… I think…

And I think I’m drunk off this wine.

The wind rustles behind me, through trees and bushes, and I take another pull of the Dartaxi red. There’s a certain bitterness to the drink.

Something lands behind me with another swoop of wind. And belatedly, through the drunken haze, I realize it’s the sound of wings and not the wind.

“Hiya, Asur!” the Queen of all harpies says, in the same bubbly tone she had as a little girl. When we were both children in grandfather’s court. When she was little more than a slave we took to keep her mother in line.

The harpy spreads her wings out and twirls in place. “You didn’t come to me when I wrote to you about a forever ago, so I decided to come to you. How ya been?”

She pauses for effect, before sitting down on the cliff beside me, wrapping her wing around my shoulder.

“Also I’m totally going to steal all of your forks and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”