Chronicles of the Brotherhood: Genesis

Act X: The Fall of Tenbarge

 The sun set on the bleak day as a hundred lights dotted the frosted landscape around the walled city of Tenbarge. Within the city had gone quiet, save the routing and marching of armored militia that moved with a dreary pace. The shiver in their bones and the quake in their souls was almost audible.

The houses were built strong, but the setting sun cast the longest shadows, alluding to the long night ahead of them. Never had the city been so quiet. Never had the walls been so cold. Never had the eyes old the old general, Armenius been so dismal in his weary brow as he gazed out over the walls to the trees that lined and decorated the roots of the rolling mountains that encircled the city.

Tenbarge sat in the Frosted Peaks, West of the the Sacred North and east of the Storm Reach. Often it had suffered raiding attacks from Urls of that barbaric tribe, but being so well tucked away from the rest of the world, It was often seen as a gem in the north; a Diamond in the frozen rough. In the days of the united Mundaran Empire, Tenbarge had been the bastion of order in in the north. It was a city unlike any other. Now, in the winter of it's life, the once great and shining city sat a pale, bleak shell.

Armenius puled the bear fur pelt over his shoulders and stuck his hands closer to the pathetic fire in his quarters. The fire wood hadn't been restocked in days. His breath was visible, escaping in large puffs from beneath his weathered beard. His face carried the lines of age and an anxiety that all men and women had come to know in this hour.

The walls of his quarters were once decorated with the value of material wealth and prestige, all earned in his lifetime by the sweat of his back. Most of it now lay on the ground in taters or shards, the result of a most unbecoming evening. In his crisis, he threw his sword into the wall, cleaving the tapestries in twain, smashing the glass and wooden frames of his refined station. Even his prize trophies and pelts were not sparred the wrath of his emptiness.

Now, he sat alone.

There came a knock on his door.

"Enter: he said in a gruff tone, born of discomfort.

A young man, dressed in chain mail stepped into the room. A sword sat at his hip, slung around his shoulder. The chain cowl laid across one shoulder, a buckler was strapped to his dominant arm. He saluted Armenius before stepping into the light. His face was the same as Armenius, however lacking in years. His eyes were absent light, mirroring the bleak cold of the outside.

"General," he said.

"Report, Marlowe," Armenius replied, not giving him the courtesy of a glance.

"All companies have been outfitted and sent beyond the wall," he said very plainly. "They have all pitched camps and await the night. Food and drink has all been dispersed. What could be sparred of pelt has been given out as well."

"And what of the gates?" Armenius asked.

Marlowe took in a deep breath before speaking. "They have all been locked and barred from the inside."

Armenius shared a quiet moment with the fire before nodding his head. He coughed from his own illness and struggled to keep the pelt over his shoulders. "Well done, Marlowe.," he said. "May the Divine have mercy on us all."

"Are you certain there was no one else, general?" Marlowe asked.

Armenius shook his head. "Every rider we sent out that returned all had the same story to tell," the old general spoke. "The south was in flames. The fields were all burned, the cities and villages were all in ruins. Anyone they found they sent here. If they made it, their fates have been sealed."