The Call for Blood
I was wandering the seas on my dream quest (I was on vacation) when the Wheel of Strategus greeted it's Second Era. I had left the Bridgeburners in the capable hands of Corporals Cyranule, Keshian, and Matey, and decided that I would let them continue leading the clan. They, of course, refused. I returned to my post, albeit affected by a wickedly strong ('twas actually pharyngitis) case of the scurvy.
Informed that we had decided to take the fiefs surrounding Dhirim in Calradia's heartlands, I was a little surprised, since my personal inclination is similar to the then-Emperor Ecko's: hold land in a corner and poke at distant factions through deniable forces. It became quickly apparent that the Mercenaries, too, wanted the area, so we talked in an effort to maintain peace.
I knew the Mercenaries of old- Calradia's elite soldiers for hire, disciplined in matters of war (if not peace) and, as the talks revealed, fully aware of their status. They offered us a deal involving re-location. Now, this seemed reasonable to me individually, but I had to confirm that the clan wanted the same. Telling the Mercenaries I'd get back to them later, I left the talks to see what the Bridgeburners and Cavalieres thought.
The reaction was strong. You see, I'd forgotten who we were. I'd lost my way, and the story of the Bridgeburners of the Second Era, is, at it's heart, the story of a juvenile clan growing into adulthood and finding it's place in the world. At any rate, the men of the Free Companies reminded me. The Mercenaries essentially gave us an ultimatum, and to us, that was a brazen threat.
In reply, we launched the ugliest war of the Second Era.
The first battle showed how undisciplined we had become, and it was a surprise that it didn't break the morale of our untested recruits. This was probably thanks to the fact that we were attacking the Europeans, and there's no greater excuse for one's personal shortcomings than fighting on unfamiliar (EU ping) territory. Most of our leaders were veterans of the First Era, but that didn't mean we weren't new to this- to leading this many men. We were just ten, then, and we fought battles for others, using others. So our natural inclination was to find European mercenaries to fight our battles.
How wrong we were. The mercenaries we'd hired were even more undisciplined than we were. They did not heed our commands, and the enemy won a decisive victory by taking us in the (capturing our spawn) rear, routing our army. Their superior archers rained hell upon our own, and balanced with their heavy cavalry and experienced infantry, we were crushed. Still, the men of the Free Companies weren't daunted. Each loss added fuel to the flame that burned in every free man's heart.
Ferocity was something that we had plenty of, but discipline was not. Squadron Commander Flawless (we stepped up training sessions) whipped us into fighting shape, forcing us to burn away the complacency of peace. Learning to rely only on ourselves and allies we trusted with our lives, we fought the Mercenaries at every turn. Their battle prowess and tactical awareness (they did better in battles, we did better on the Strat map) was superior to ours, but the ingenuity and tenacity of our men allowed us to win some battles.
The war wasn't just fought on the battlefield- it was also fought in the hearts and minds (flamewars) of the peasants that peopled the land. As our recon teams discovered the movements of other factions vying for power supporting our enemies, we, too, searched for allies. We called to the Kingdom of Veluca for aid, and they came, joining the fight with a fervor we embraced. As the war raged on, we were joined by the Knights of the Black Rose, too, and others who supported our side or the enemy's. Even so, we were losing ground.
Soured by the vitriol in the hearts of both sides, the war took a turn for the worst. We had become men who didn't care for lofty ideas like honor, glory, and justice. We became men who only cared for blood- and the gods didn't protect the innocents who came between us and blood. The more we lost, the harder we fought- for we had less to lose. At our darkest hour, the Chosen Hands of the Ascended Order of Stratia stepped in to negotiate a diplomatic miracle.
The miracle? We accepted peace, relinquished all claims to the area, and went elsewhere. Where, you might ask? I'll tell you the story some other time.
Next: The Hammer That Shattered an Empire
