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The village
of Hoffenbouff burned.
The undead raiders had come with the dawn, attacking without mercy. The small
defenses the village possessed were easily run down, scattered beneath the bony
heels of the skeletons. The attackers had made their way straight towards the
church, and entered Morr's Garden. Among the ancient crypts they searched,
looking for some lost artifact that had been buried there centuries ago. It was
the villagers themselves, maddened by fear, who had caused most of the damage.
Panicked, they accidentally started the roaring blaze that was consuming the
town. Most now had fled into the seemingly sheltered forest, as their ancestors
had done for generations. They town would perish, but they would survive to
pick up the pieces once more.
Archibald Quinn, Imperial captain, looked placidly at the
town from the outskirts of the forest. Around him, his state troops were
assembling to drive the undead back to the river. He felt little sympathy for
the people of the village, for he had seen their type before, repeated again
and again beyond counting. As long as the taxes came in, the affairs of these
people were beyond his concern. It was not for them he would fight to the death
if need be for the tiny burned-out husk of a village. No, he fought for the
Empire, and the glory of his majesty Emperor Karl-Franz. He knew that every
struggle, every conflict within the empire was a fight for survival. Not just
his own, but the life of the very empire itself was in peril. If he allowed the
undead even this one village, it would be the small death that would spread to
cover the land. He vowed he would not let that happen.
He glanced up from his consideration as he heard horns
coming from behind his lines. They were not the crude horns of the chaos beasts,
but elegant and noble. Confused, he wheeled his horse around. The carefully
formed battle lines too attempted to look behind them, sowing confusion among
the massed men. Harsh words echoed from unit commanders, telling the troops to
hold their formation until given word otherwise. Quinn saw four figures
emerging from the forest. One was a scout from one of his units who he had
never bothered learning the name of. The others were obviously not Imperial.
They were tall, riding massive warhorses bedecked in bright colours and images.
They held their long lances with a practiced ease that spoke of a deadly
precision on the battlefield. As soon as they reached a respectful distance,
the figures halted.
'Hail, lord of the Empire,' the first one cried. 'I am Jean
Marcel, Bretonnian lord and commander. These are Cyris deLonse and Buliwyf of
Nilfheim, nobles warriors both. We ride against the vile Settra, the monster
that is even now attacking your village. We seek your permission to ride
therewithin, for we would have your favour with us in our errand.'
Quinn sat back in his saddle. He had heard these names, and
many more, in tales of the noble deeds of the Bretonnian horselords, neighbors
to the west who had defended the Empire many times in recent memory. They were
heroes in the truest sense of the word, and saviours to the people of the
empire. He also remembered his orders, to beware of foreigners trying to
conquer the lands of the empire. He looked down once more at the village,
burning silently on the water's edge. His force, though eager, was small. They
would fight valiantly, but could not destroy that barge. He thought again of
the legendary bonds of loyalty shared between the Empire and Bretonnia.
'Come quickly,' he said. 'There is little time to waste. We
must fight out way through that horde to get the barge.'
'No need,' the one addressed as Buliwyf said, gesturing
upwards. 'My lord has arrived.' Quinn looked up, and his mouth fell open.
Hundreds and hundreds of massive forms streaked across the sky, heading
straight for Settra's barge.
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