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Report - Special Division "Lenaceri"

Most of the Akritai, the light infantry of the Commonwealth armies, are general levies of subject populations, mediocre in equipment, loyalties, and training. The one exception to this has always been the highland skirmishers of Vindeirnesi, the only Elves to serve in such a capacity. Theirs is a tradition drawn all the way from the earliest days of Druchii inhabitation there, and in the form of the Lenaceri it continues to this day.

The Lenaceri take their name from the now long-dead Lenacer clan, the first to unite that sceptred isle over two thousand years ago after the death of Vindeir. Vindeirnesi, known for its marshes and hills, was never conducive to mounted combat and large formations; warfare instead was a matter of small, light, mobile forces on foot that knew the terrain and could slip in and out of the clan holds unnoticed. Such forces were how the Lenacer became kings; such forces were how the Adenar, Aevir, and Oderil likewise became kings.

The history of the Lenaceri as a standing unit dates back to the Oderil kingdom of Vindeirnesi, some four hundred years ago, when the monarchy sought to reduce its reliance on the feudal levies of the clans and subject peoples. The Lenaceri at the time were recruited from the finest young men of the clans, a united fighting force that owed its allegiance not to the whims of the clan patriarchs (despite who was in it) but rather to the king or queen alone. The force maintained its strength despite the fluctuations of Vindeirmeri power, and even in the turmoil of the country's final years before its unification with Chalsardu the corps d'esprit stayed strong.

In Commonwealth service the Lenaceri proved their worth despite the short time since their incorporation, serving with distinction in Valassyria, Seniker, and the Aralur as part of the regular army. Now, it is a separate unit once again, its ranks continuing to be maintained by the fine men of Vindeirnesi and augmented by other Druchii men and women of similar origins throughout the Commonwealth. Their ability to operate across all terrains, their ability to infiltrate where none expect, and their ability to serve equally well at all times of day shall continue to prove of immense value to the Chalsardi people in matters where surreptitious security is key, within the Commonwealth's borders and, if necessary, without them.

Originally printed in Military Matters Magazine.

Golden Company Opens Official Branch in Chalsardu

Yesterday, in a continued expansion of their business operations across the globe, the Golden Company opened the headquarters of their Chalsardu branch. Occupying the former Anansi buildings in the Upper Banks neighbourhood of Euskara, the unveiling ceremony was presided over by Aulonas Kamateros, Mayor of Euskara, accompanied by many other movers and shakers in the Bostra-Euskara business community.

The Golden Company, originally of Nemadon, is one of the world’s few truly international organisations, with full subsidiaries in twelve countries and business dealings in many more. In addition to its subsidiaries, it also manages a network of island entrepôts across the globe, and has stakes in almost every industry under sun, ranging from insurance to security, from tobacco to reprimerium. Even in countries where it does not have a full subsidiary its business often operates, in competition with both local businesses and other conglomerates such as Minon Trading.

The opening of a Golden Company subsidiary in Chalsardu is a major step for the organisation’s business operations in the Commonwealth, no longer needing to report all dealings directly back to Nemadon. It is a sign of the Company’s confidence in its own resources that it has opted to invest so heavily in one of the most competitive markets in the world, and that flood of international money will likely soon make itself felt.

Originally printed in Efimeridia Munduko, Bostra-Euskara

(I was heavily inspired by The Shining when I wrote this.)

The wind was blowing, and hard. Unrelenting, cruel, cold gusts furiously roared outside the small house's windows, occasionally rattling the building's window panes. The snow was falling down so thick that you could barely see your hand if you were to fully extend your arm and position it in front of your face. Such was Dringa's climate. Most folks who lived in the state had gotten used to the cold; it was a life or death scenario. You froze or you didn't. The spring thaw was short-lived, and almost as soon as it was time, the skies opened up and cold, white flakes of snow started falling once again. In any case, the little house offered warmth and a break from the bone-chilling weather.

The house was home to a grumpy old man, about 50 or so. His name was Wencil, a human. He'd come to the frozen hellscape years ago, back when Messaria sent settlers to the dark frontier of Umbra, back before Vrathiir was a thing. He and dozens of others had come under some noble by the name of Malch von Malinhou. When their ships reached the shore, all seemed truly glorious indeed. But then Malch up and died a month later, mauled by a bear on a hunting trip. To date, no one had managed to kill that bear, and not many people tried. Wencil tried, though. Every spring he'd go up to Mount Scoyn and try and find the bear. He never saw it though. That beast proved too elusive for even the great hunter, Wencil of Trommen.

Wencil was enjoying the little fire he'd built, and was now roasting a large hunk of a great elk over it. The smell was intoxicating, only making his hunger greater. Suddenly, he heard three quick knocks on the door. Strange. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and he doubted any of Trommen's residents would take time out of their day to go visit the grouchy old village huntsman, but he opened the door nonetheless.

He was greeted by three soldiers, two murus, one human. "Master huntsman." Said the first soldier, pushing up the visor of his Sallet. "As you are aware, you're rather isolated from the village. Not by much, but enough to... pose a slight danger. It would appear that a killer's running loose on this bitter cold night."

"A killer?" Wencil said, not entirely believing the soldier's words. "Yes, a killer. The quarry's foreman and his family are all dead. Met a rather grisly end." This concerned Wencil. He'd visited the foreman's residence earlier that day to drop off a fine new hunting bow. The foreman's wife even invited him in for some soup. The foreman's residence was also a little ways out from the village, around the same distance as Wencil's own home. "They took an ax from around the back and butchered 'em like pigs. Not fun at all." Said another soldier. His comrade elbowed him in his ribs, giving him a look that said 'now's not the time'. The soldier got the message. Wencil was speechless.

"Well, we'll leave you to it. Sorry for the disturbance." Said a soldier, and the band mounted their steeds and rode off. Wencil was still processing all this as he watched them go. For the first time in his adult life, he was actually scared. However, the man still had a hard time believing the soldiers' words. The foreman was a burly man. Strong, hulking. He towered over others in the village. Whenever Jakob the Innkeeper hosted fights in the town square, the Foreman almost always took the first prize. In short, he was not an easy man to best in feats of martial strength. Perhaps he'd been sleeping when he'd been killed. Wencil would have to go see the Foreman's house for himself.

Upon arriving at the secluded residence, the hunter immediately saw signs of struggle. For one, the windows of the house were shattered, the shutters off their hinges. Secondly, there were visible blood stains trailing into the house. Tracing the blood stains back to their origin, Wencil could see two small lumps in the snowy blanket that coated the area. Dismounting from his horse, Wencil trudged over to the lumps and brushed away some snow. The lumps were in fact the Foreman's guard dogs. It was a sad sight, to say the least.

Trudging away from the dogs, Wencil mentally prepared himself for what he might see upon entering the house. Fully opening the already somewhat opened door, Wencil dared to look inside. What he saw was truly grotesque. Before him lay the body of the Foreman, half-buried in a heap of snow. His face was permanently stuck in a twisted expression, his mouth agape in a distressed frown, his eyes squinting but not seeing. His arms were also frozen, extending out as if he was in a fight, his hands clamped into fists. Towards the back of the house, there was another heap of snow. However, Wencil knew what would be under that one, and the thought horrified him. He'd look no further. It was time to go home.

I love you

Hello everyone! The Democratic Republic is now in control of this region, and ready to lead us back to prosperity.

laugh in non executive*