The Price of Honor (Post-Battle)

Agea’s Drake Hunt (Dweghom) vs. Campaign Albion (Hundred Kingdoms)


Post-Battle Narrative.

Artur opens his eyes. Above him, angry, dark clouds deliver a torrent of dust and water, the sedimentary seeping into the Wasteland. The drops are cold, harsh, chilling him to the bone. He kneels atop a deep altar made of steel and flesh, the pieces of those who paid the price for his honor. And paid until the last drop of blood so their King wouldn’t lie there with them.But a small part of him will forever rest here with their noble sacrifice.
Artur takes his favored poleaxe, removing the tip but keeping the blade, and begins to dull the edge by striking it upon the savannah earth. Deeper and wider, with progress made primarily due to the rain softening the soil, Artur prepares the burial for these young men and women – his peers, some even he recognizes from his time in the War College – who will never see their home again.
A deep voice grumbles at him. The Prince thinks it was a man, at first, until he turns to glance at the speaker – a Dweghom with brown hair and a relatively smooth complexion compared to the males he had met on occasion. ”It will be Remembered,” starts the female Elder, her eyes grim yet focused on the survivor before her as she speaks in an older dialect of the human tongue, “that a team of humans refused to remove themselves from the path of War. It will be Remembered that, for their insolence, many were slain, the rest scattered, and Aghm claimed from the weak in the form of rare ivory. One human lives to bear witness and Memory for the defeated.”
  ”Where is your Aghm, human?”
  “…My weight is in the crest over my heart: the emblem of Albion Hold, shield of Clan Drakequill. I am a Thane.”
Her eyes ignite with blue flame for a moment at the mention of the word, before then scoffing.
“A Thane? Is that all that will be Remembered of you? Hah! Hiding behind trinkets and Clan – how little Aghm your name holds, that you should claim the strong title Thane yet shame yourself, manling!”

Artur grips his makeshift shovel and furiously glares at the Sorceress. ”What do I care about your Memories?! You want a name to ‘Remember’? Fine! Artur Drakequill!”
”A name that bears with it so little weight, it might as well be helium. But, at least, some Aghm is better than none. And so it will be Remembered, Artur Drakequill, the naive manling Thane.”
Artur clenches his teeth, pulling back his arm, and striking the earth once more. Unfortunately, in the time that he had taken to converse with his enemy, the hole had mostly been inundated with muddy water and more sedimentary.
At this point, his rage-fueled energy has expired, and the exhausted Prince sinks to his knees, head lowered, wallowing. After a moment, he feels a warmth somewhere behind him. He turns, wondering how there can be warmth while the rain had yet to relent its downpour, and cries out in dismay. The bodies are burning. Flesh and steel becoming ash by the second as a pyre of blue-white flames consume the bodies. The rain only causes the hungry fire-beast to hiss in annoyance, for nothing will stop it from its purpose while fuel is nearby to feed it.
Artur watches as the remains of the Drakenguard – heirlooms, banners, and all – are erased. For a moment, a dark thought entertained his mind: what if he brought their families to the Conclave, and held them accountable for their son or daughter’s cowardice in the expedition? Sixteen different families, all sued for the price of honor, would surely sustain Albion in her darkest hour…
  ”No! Artur screams, pounding the muddy ground, ”No! No, Theos damn you! How could you think that way?! Your peers, your comrades, your friends? Is it really that much easier to make their families suffer, rather than tell them the truth?!”
The rain slowly ceases, and the fire dies without fuel. The Tempered Sorceress is long gone, taking with her a map to what would have been his next expedition to a rumored dragon’s cove by the southern coast.

The surviving troops will eventually regroup that night and find their Prince back at the camp securing the remaining loot – mostly salts, W’adrhun crafts, and a big, hidden chest full of cinnamon from a thieving soldier. When asked about the events that transpired, or the fate of the Drakengard, the usually serious young man was unusually quiet and uncharacteristically detached. All he would say was, “The expedition’s time has expired. Let’s go home”.
Something had changed in him. The court whispers that the Prince is now a King, having lost his naivety in the expedition. But those from the expedition claim something else, that Artur had faced down Death itself, and no longer feared. The truth is only know to the man himself, who no longer wore his crests openly, and would rather that everyone know him as Artur before his own lineage is said.
Thus starts the next chapter of Artur’s life as The Lion of Cammuravi, having tasted sweet victory and bitter defeat, in equal measure, in the alma mater of his career.

The Price of Honor (Pre-Battle)

Agea’s Drake Hunt (Dweghom) vs. Campaign Albion (Hundred Kingdoms)


Pre-Battle Narrative.

Artur opens his eyes. Above him, soft, white clouds, laden with water from the southwestern sea, float slowly over the Wasteland. They promise rain, and shelter from the oppressive heat surrounding him. He’s kneeling before a small altar made of stone, praying before it, refocusing the imperfect man. The same man that had given in to his inner demons.

It’s been a month since he had captured the rival sovereign of the nomadic hill-tribe. And what a profitable month it has been. Just the first week saw the initial investment repaid, from the travel to the supplies, and even the third-party sponsors of the expedition. The Mint was paid with the second week’s tributes, and the third and fourth week were almost all directly sent to Albion. Some of the men were sent back to make sure the money was filling the coffers correctly, and Gravin was assigned to lead the changers in this endeavor.

It’s all going surprisingly well. Maybe he can finally relax for once…

A loud crash shakes him from his ennui. The Prince stands quickly, rushing out of his personal tent, one that was fashioned in the way of the W’adrhun (but fit for a human, rather than their prodigious bulk). The crash comes again. Before him is a decently sized clay prison. It was originally made of wood and tied together by dried fibers with an open ceiling above, but taking compassion for the sweating Queen the Prince had ordered his men to put plaster over the wood, and even form a makeshift roof. For his efforts, Artur was met with silence. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, this sudden vitriol against her prison.

  “Stop! Cease and desist!” Artur shouts, drawing his side-blade, and eyeing the growing bulge of a soon-to-be hole on the side of the prison. “I had thought that we reached an understanding, that you would be a compliant prisoner of war until your ransom was paid, Matriarch! Are you turning back on your word? Are you turning back on your honor?!”

  “Peace, please! Peace!” Artur feels a strong pull on his desert scarf around his neck, the motion nearly choking him, but spinning him around well enough until he faced a W’adrhun girl whose height reaches his chin. She has bright, brown eyes, similar to that of the Queen, but where the Matriarch would merely gaze at you with a presence that simply deserved respect, this girl’s eyes were ones that gleamed with curiosity first and regal steel second. Apparently, she was only nine-years old.

  “Can you not hear it, Chief Drakequill?” the nameless girl whispers in fear, her hands cupping the sides of the Prince’s head, her fingers pulling on his ears as if trying to open them further. “That rhythm, that awful rhythm… of War’s Disciples?” Her lips purse and her face scrunches as she tries to imitate whatever sound she heard, without using the strange but sometimes beautiful intonations that come from deep within their throats. Her sound, instead, comes from the stomach.

…It beats. Like a heart, it beats. But at a rhythm which quickens the blood, incites action. Artur once asked his mentor if he had ever lost a battle. Colonel Ector nodded slowly, then, and uttered only one word, the same that echoed with the maddening rhythm.


And then, the sound doesn’t just come from the W’adrhun girl. The sandy ground holds a beat, and it seems to grow ever stronger. Artur shouts for his men to ready themselves, everyone scrambling to equip for the coming battle beneath the roiling storm-clouds, heralding terrible omens as streaks of fury and light ripple between heaven and earth.

The Dweghom crest the dunes. Their purpose, an enigma for now… but perhaps seeking to settle a Memory with his prisoner. Or with his lineage for some forgotten slight.

In the chaos, the Prince places a dagger to the girl’s palm. He looks into her eyes, saying, “Go! Take your Queen! We’ll meet the foe here. Tell her to pay the price of honor… when we meet again.”

The Predator and the Prey (Post-Battle)

The Silent Foe (W’adrhun) vs. Campaign: Albion (Hundred Kingdoms)


Post-Battle Narrative.

Regal. Unbowed. Unbroken. The Prince of Albion stands atop the fallen monster which was the Matriarch Queen’s chosen steed, his glaive pointing at her throat while she gazed back, measured and unafraid, even though her leg is trapped under the wounded beast. He notes the lack of perspiration from his foe; in contrast, his armor itched from chaffing against his body, the applied oils already evaporated in the midday sun. His face is moist, his breath ragged, as he fights the urge to commit regicide.
Fall. So this is a true battle.
  “So you must be the Matriarch of the tribe beyond the hill,” Artur says, swallowing his saliva first and managing to control his shaky voice. “Let’s get straight to business. You’re a Queen, and me? I’m a King. You’re my prison as of this moment. And by right of conquest, I will demand of your people everything that I see fit to own.”
She opens her mouth. For a brief moment, Artur feels somewhat relieved: finally, some diplomacy with these people! His hopes are dashed – she spits at his boot, soiling it with mucus.
The next moments blur for the young, hot-blooded prince. He recalls his fists and boot whirling about, his heartbeat pumping loudly in his ears, trying to feel petty vindication at inflicting pain but only hurting himself in the process. And feeling a dark seed fester like a parasite inside his heart.
When Artur finally returns to himself, Gilead has him grappled on the ground while Gravin is shouting at the Shield Templar to release him or, “So help me, Theos, I will-!” The Prince taps at Gilead’s arm and shakes the other at Gravin, calling for appeasement from both of his agent and his Armsmaster. Gently, Gilead releases him and Gravin shoves the templar aside to check on Artur.
  “I-I’m alright…” Artur coughs. He smiles weakly at his guard before looking around in alarm for the Matriarch Queen. “T-the prisoner, where is she? Did I… Did I kill her…?”
  “No, milord,” the Armsmaster shakes his head, partly in disappointment, “Were it any other woman or man, surely your righteous strikes would have slain the fool. She is beaten badly, but otherwise still alive, by Theos.”
Artur nods. He looks around the battlefield, noting his veteran guard already fulfilling their task by taking charge, commanding the volunteers to care first for the wounded and the fallen heroes while they capture those who accepted surrender, and gave a merciful end to those who won’t. One man, in particular, managed to stand and began running for the hill, screeching something horrible. Three longbows put an arrow in his eye, throat, and heart almost in one shot.
So. This is true battle…
Artur rises and immediately takes command. First, he calls upon his men and praises them for their service. To the survivors, he promised an increased twelve-percentage of the spoils of war to be divvied up among them all – this causes a great cheer throughout the small expedition. Second, he calls upon the prisoners, explaining to them their situation as prisoners of war and the conditions for their release. To one of their uninjured javelin-throwers, he gives the simple task of returning to their tribe to relay the circumstance, along with a single cart for which he was to return bearing the first of many tributes of cinnamon barks, unrefined salts, and especially fine ivories.
Thirdly, he has the Matriarch bound like a boar on his own, unbladed polearm, to parade and keep her immobilized while the ransom is paid over time. Her own size alone almost makes the task impossible, but they make do. Had there been other ways to carry a royal prisoner, Drakequill would undoubtedly be using it; however, the expedition hadn’t planned on earning a Queen’s Ransom in the first place.
But a Queen he did defeat. And a prize, he will receive. He meets the defiant Matriarch’s gaze with his own, unflinching as he relishes in his first sovereign victory.

The Predator and the Prey (Pre-Battle)

The Silent Foe (W’adrhun) vs. Campaign: Albion (Hundred Kingdoms)


Pre-Battle Narrative.

  “Artur, my sixth sense has been ringing alarms for a while. It’s getting really strong now – can I suggest we just head for the hills and fight another day?”
  The prince of Albion continues looking at the leather village tents not too far away from the strategic mound his scouts had suggested he view the W’adrhun from. They reported seeing them harvest cinnamon bark, saltpeter, and even ivory from the various random bounties of this Theos-forsaken Wasteland. An industrious folk, to be sure, though strangely silent.
  Perhaps they’re keeping a tradition where they mourn in silence for their dead matriarch? The Prince admittedly has almost no experiences with the savages, but even he knows they’re uncharacteristically quiet for a musically-blessed people. Still, he hasn’t seen signs of the prodigious female anywhere.
  Artur lowers his spyglass and turns to the Shield Templar beside him. He keeps his face stoic, but his tone firm. “Time is of the essence, Gilead. Albion’s already invested a small fortune to sanction this expedition with the Mint, and I’ve cashed in many favors so we can pass through the Russ and the Orders. We’ve got to come back with something to show for it. We have to.”
  He walks down the hill, the light desert clothing billowing from a cool, north wind. He passes by his warriors who are resting by the shade of a few craggy bluffs, dreading the hour when the sun hits its zenith and comes down in force. They look miserable – sweating, bored, and anxious for action to distract them from the heat.
  The Prince squints in the distance, spotting another mound. Wasn’t this the only hill in the area? Where did that come from?
  “Gravin, I need your spyglass,” Artur urges the Armsmaster of his personal retainers, the Drakengard, a force loyal only to the Drakequill House.
Receiving the object in question, the Prince glances through the tube only to put it down ten seconds after.
  “Rally, men!”

Campaign: Albion (Introduction)

A narrative-introduction for a Hundred Kingdoms army in the 2023 Slow-Growth Narrative League.


  Artur paces about his office, the oil lamp burning brightly. Four times already, he replaced the fuel for the light, each time glancing passively out the window. The sun is already beginning to rise, a new day bringing with it new problems. And another sleepless night for a tired, worried prince.
  He knew that royal duties would be difficult. But, oh, how the pressures of boring Academic studies pale in comparison to the suffocating collar he wears now. The Nord raiding season, the grudge of three neighboring kingdoms, and the endless internal issues what with his predecessor and father, Uthor the Usurper, having centralized the kingdom’s powers so tightly… if the “energy-boosting” medicines his dubious physician keeps giving him would cease their miracles, Artur was certain he might just die the moment he finally sets his head down to rest.
  Money. That’s his biggest concern right now. Tyrant though the previous king might have been, the projects he had moved forward and personally financed were surprisingly reasonable and logically sound. But they were expensive to initiate, and even more expensive to sustain. The White Walls of Albion, for one, would be near impossible to cease funding now. No, he wouldn’t be able to justify removing them – not to the pompous nobles of his court, not to the commoners who stood by him during the royal civil war, and most definitely not to his own stubborn pride.
  The easy way to solve this is to tax the land. But what ruler would do something so unpopular not long after reclaiming the throne? Artur recalls a kingdom or two which were no longer run by “kings” per se because of an unpopular tax increase. He would not add Albion to that list. There had to be another way…
  A campaign. A military campaign. Of course. If the treasury lacks funding… Albion must survive, engorging herself in blood and loot. Artur’s eyes meets the mirror, the Prince staring at a future King.

Short story: The Market price: Coin like Blood Part I

Gerald the younger sat at the highest table in the grand ballroom of Corngrad, the room filled with swaying silks and velvets of the army of courtesans. The sounds of a ten man accompaniment playing the newest songs throughout all of the hundred kingdoms. The ten musicians being instructed by a singular white haired figure gesticulating for them. His brother truly spared no expense in greeting his return to the city. Though the letters outlining Gerald’s intent and reason for such a ball and tournament no doubt helped.

The nobleman felt a strange emptiness in the chair to his right, where his wife would’ve sat years ago. Now it seemed to forever sit empty no matter where he went ready for her return. The weight of her passing bore down on him despite the long years since then, like an anchor on his shoulders.

The glint of metal caught Gerald’s glance. Another chair down his son Gerald the third sat, giving his father a small gesture behind the table so that none but those near could see. His gold signet ring reflected the light against it’s polished surface. Issuing a slight sigh Gerald brushed his short beard with his hand and said. “What is it boy? If you need to relieve yourself, simply excuse yourself and go.”

The younger man blushed and stammered out. “No, father. I- I wish to go speak to the conductor for a few moments during their next intermission. According to Aunt Alexa they’ve been to distant Lantony, Argem and even Leona.”

“I’m not raising some courtesan or middling nobleman’s son. You’re to be a lord of men, a warrior. Act like it with your whims and desires, boy.” 

The young nobleman frowned momentarily, then leaned back and returned to smiling down at the gathered party. Gerald felt a thudding in his head start, blasted child ‘why doesn’t he act like a man, he’s seventeen already. Or was he sixteen?’ Reaching up a hand to rub at his aching temple he would look over the party. Drawing him from his observations was a muttering at his left, a soft velvet voice that teased at having iron beneath it.

“Let the boy talk to the conductor, dear Cadmael, it will do him no good to constantly be thinking of war. If you want him to be a leader of men you should let him follow the courtly traditions. Music, art, culture, poetry and maybe even romance? Hmmm Little Alexander?”

Gerald Cadmael Vandas turned fully to his sister-in-law and asked. “Tell me, does that make a good leader? Learning to make scribbles, to say soft flowery words… Does your son Chadrick say that when he trains with your men at arms? What do they call the young Prince of Corngrad? What moniker did they give him?”

Lady Alexa would give a small strained smile and flip her fan open waving beneath her face. “He is called ‘The Flower Prince’ for he has been well schooled in both war, love and courtly affairs. Somethings that your own Alexander has yet to be taught. Did you not see him blushing so easily earlier when talking to dear Greta? The poor lad will never win a lady like that.”

“Who is this Greta? A lady of my brother’s court, or one of your ladies in waiting perhaps?” Gerald spoke softly, keeping his voice level. “I’ve never seen the boy flirt or speak to a woman before, frankly I was starting to suspect-”

“Ha, perhaps it’s because you spend every moment you look at the poor child scolding him for his failings and flaws that only you see.” Lady Alexa would lean back and look at him then his son.

“I do not scold him, I instruct him.” 

“Ah yes, Gerald, you instruct your son like I would instruct a horse or hound. You expect him to be seen as marriageable material with those whip marks on his hands and neck? Bwah! for someone who calls himself his father you treat the poor child more like property.”

“Mark me and my words, woman. I instructed and raised him by myself. In the way of my father and his father. I did so alone. Pardon me if I choose to not spare the rod when I’m saddled with such a whimpering weak-”

The soft snap of the soft ivory ribbing of Lady Alexa’s fan silenced the table. Gerald felt a pit form in his stomach as the woman’s furious eyes returned back to him. The emotional mask she had held on for so long was broken, her eyebrow twitching and smile straining as she whispered to him. “If my sister still breathed- gods bless her. She would’ve put a hot iron to your jewels for how you’ve treated her only child. Now, you’re going to get up and ready him for his joust later this evening.”

Restraining a gulp Gerald adjusted his gloves and vest standing. In a harsh whisper he said. “This will be a discussion for another time ‘Bloody Rose’. Boy! Come, we must prepare you for your bout in the tourney.”

Gerald Alphonse Alexander Vandas the Third stood quickly to catch up to his father as Gerald the younger started to walk through the crowd, his shoes clicking against the marble in time with the music.

Gerald the younger shoved the servant aside. “Be out of my way, fool. Boy! What is taking you so long? It has been ten minutes, you should’ve had your armor on by now.”

Following in wake was the elderly Sergeant Erick and Gerald’s bodyguard Sir Yerrkin. Gerald could hear the Sergeant offer the Servant a respectful apology as he followed in the wake of his lord, Sir Yerrkin lifted a hand to stop someone from moving into Gerald’s wrathful path. 

A fist soon found the right door to pound on. Only a few heavy strokes however Gerald forces his fist to stop it’s movement as it soon opens. Shoving it open Gerald the younger saw a strange sight, three Thiest priests praying. Searching the room from the doorway Gerald would call out respectfully. “Forgive me- I am looking for my- I’m looking for Sir Vandas. A young knight, strawberry blond hair, meek of build, should come to my shoulder, about seventeen-”

“Behind the door- Father please, you’re squishing me.”

Removing his foot that had jammed the door open Gerald would allow the young man to come out from behind it. He hadn’t even donned his chest plate, only the greeves. Inhaling he would mutter, “Sloppy ill bred boy… You shame yourself, What if we were under attack or you were in the field.” 

Alexander would shrink back slightly, rubbing the back of his now bruised head. “S- s- sorry father I-”

“Do not call me father, you’re wearing the armor of a knight not the sleeping gown of a still teething babe. Stand up straight, you’re in the presence of a Lord, Knight now!” 

“Ah you must be Lord Gerald Cadmael Vandas, Yes? I am called Theogin by my brothers, but you may call me father, brother whatever you wish.” One of the Thiests priests stood and dipping his hands into his sleeves.

Gerald looked over the man, he wore the robes of the Thiest Church, a deep crimson with a black wolf’s belt slung over his shoulders and a metal helm dangling at his hip opposite from a longsword and dagger. “I am Lord Gerald Cadmael Vandas, I didn’t know that this room was to be used as a chapel. I would’ve sent Sir Vandas to equip himself in the stables.”

The priest gave Gerald a small smile, his bright white teeth showing that they’re missing along one side. Lifting a hand he would say. “There is no need to apologize, We simply felt an urging from the gods to speak with the young knight before his joust and lost track of time. He is quite adept at Theological debate and discussion. He knows many prayers from the heart quite in pressive for a boy of his age, yes? Most are interested in the pleasures of the flesh, either the belly or well below that.”

“Ah yes, He has had the finest instructors that our house could provide him. Begins every day with prayer and ends it the same. Nothing strengthens a knight’s resolve more than training and the gods. Right, Boy?” Puffing his chest out. 

“Y-yes, Your Lordship. After every meal, My drill instructor Erick taught me the legionaire’s battle prayers as well.”

“Did he now? Though I would think that your back doesn’t strengthen your resolve much? Perhaps I should speak with the Drill Instructor Erick, he seems to have forgotten a few prayers for the Mother and Father to teach you.” The priest positioned his arm on the young man’s shoulders and add. “If you would allow me and my brothers to assist the young knight in his final preparations he’ll be on the field in a matter of minutes, yes?”

Sir Yerrkin spoke, “Sir Vandas hasn’t earned the right to have a squire yet, it wouldn’t be proper-”

“Oh you assume me to be a squire then Sir knight- What was your name? Ah It doesn’t matter. No, I’m not going to squire for the boy, simply finish our prayers and rites while assisting him in donning his armor. Agreeable?”
Working his Jaw Gerald bit out, “Vary well, Sir Vandas. I expect you to conduct yourself like a knight of our house ought to. Remember what I said about fighting other men.”

“Fight with valor till the last drop.”

Nodding Gerald turned on his heel in one smooth motion Sir Yerrkin followed after. The Sargeant stayed a moment longer, Gerald faintly hearing him say. “Make ‘em eat the fecking dirt lad, then roll them under then beat the little princeling’s arse.”

After rounding a corner into the covered way of the courtyard Gerald felt Sir Yerrkin’s hand on his shoulder, jerking his arm away he rounded on the knight hissing out. “What is it, you stiff necked baboon? What questions rattle around your saddle bag shaped head.”

“I- Sire, Sir Vandas needs a squire, yes? Or he won’t be able to joust, he hasn’t earned it yet but he still needs one. Who-”

“Are you volunteering? Do you truly wish to belittle yourself with such a lowly position as to be Sir Vandas’ squire for the day?” After a moment of the Knight’s silent contemplation he’d continue. “Or would you rather sit in the noble’s box with me where you could perhaps play at your political play you so enjoy? Talking in the ear of this noble and that.”

Stiffening his shoulders he’d say. “If you were to command-”

“Do not speak those words unless you want their full repercussions to fall about your neck Yerrkin. Link a vise gripping about your honor should the boy lose. My House’s honor.”

Sir Yerrkin would give a firm nod. “Sire, he is your heir. I am sworn to you and your house, he deserves to be given the chance to gain the honor and privilege of a squire. This bout of jousts I hope that you will grant him it.”

Gerald turned from his guard pacing slightly. “Why would you risk this for me Yerrkin? Twelve years you’ve served me, and my father five years before that. Do you- You want him to replace me. Sir Yerrkin, is this perhaps the truth.”

“Sire No!” Stepping closer the Knight would kneel. “Let the Gods forsake me should I ever prove untrue Sire. I simply believe that if you where to allow your heir a squire and perhaps a group of men to lead then you could resent him less your ire for his murder of his mother might be eased. I offer my honor on the line this day for you my lord.”

“You- You’ve been true all these years, I- I trust you Sir Yerrkin. Stand and be free of my doubts. Should you wish to Squire for Sir Vandas I shall not attest it.” 

“The prancing Laddy won’t be needing a Square like Sir Yerrkin to be doing his doing. I’ll be about it. Been training the lad since he could pick up a stick, might as well see him fight with a bigger one for the first time.” Sergeant Erick interjected walking down the hall to join them, his cane tapping along the ground. Giving Sir Yerrkin a small smirk looking down at the kneeling knight.

“What is so funny, you up jumped peasant?”

“Oh nothing, tell ya in a minute. Sire, let me Squire for the boy.” The older man took a step forward. “As your father had me first squire for you before you earned a noble brat to do yer doing.”

“I’m- I’ll allow it.” Gerald would soon turn and start to walk down the cobbled corridor of the keep’s courtyard he heard an amused voice of Sergeant Erick say. “Oh by the way Sir yur-kin, Yer kneelin in horse shit.”

Mustering the troops-BTJ’s month 1

Hi, and welcome to the start of my lot of articles for Conquest Eternal’s Path to Conquest series. Basically, 6 vanguards are gonna spend the next 5 months working up to a fully painted 2000 point list of their chosen faction. I’ve chosen to build an army for the Hundred Kingdoms, because quite frankly, I just love the theme.

The way this works is months 1 & 3 we work on a new 400 point First blood list. Then months 2 & 4 we take the previous month’s list, take it up to 600 points for FB and then round it out to 800 points in The Last Argument of Kings. Then month 5 is take the 2 800 point blocks and finish out to 2000 points. Obviously, if you’re following along you set your own goals, it’s not about matching us(or exceeding us, but if that’s your goal soar high you glorious mad(wo)man!), but about getting some hobby done that you can be happy about.

So, with that being said, what does my staring list look like, hypothetical reader of mine? Kinda like this;

=== First Blood! ===

The Hundred Kingdoms – 399/600


Noble Lord [80]: Select as Warlord, Arms Master

– Household Guard (8) [104]: Leader

– Household Knights (2) [110]: Leader

Theist Priest [65]: Holy Fire

– Militia (5) [40]

Characters: 2

Light Regiments: 1

Medium Regiments: 2

Heavy Regiments: 0


If you’re curious about the logic behind this list, there’s no great mystery involved. It’s literally just the contents of the Hundred Kingdoms Warband box that’s available, cause it’s a good starting point for both First Blood and The Last Argument of Kings, so I wanted to take advantage of its contents as much as possible. I went pretty light on options for both the characters because Househould knights are a fair chunk of points at this level so wanted to maximise bodies. 17 minis is a decent starting point for First Blood, and it means I’ve a damn solid starting point for bulking out these units next month when we move to TLAoK.

In terms of painting, I’m thinking this is the household of a small time noble in charge of a small provincial town, and the local priest. So to tie them together as the Noble Lord’s personal troops, the units are all gonna show his heraldry of halved green and yellow, cause those are colours I just don’t use enough. For the priest, well the Theist church kinda stole purple as a colour from the Armatellum dynasty, and this priest’s gonna flaunt that fact!

So, where does this go from here? Honestly, whilst I have a vague, half-formed idea in my head, it’s a very fluid one, so I’ve decided not to have a set end-goal of a list, but decide each month what I’ll add for the next one, and almost let the army build itself, so should be fun to see how it ends up!