[1000yd_stare]

Opening AAR to turn 26 follows (read between the lines for details, all numbers correspond to real stats):
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It is the 26th month of our Prince's rule. I myself have only recently joined the Prince; he understands the use of armies far better than
the arcane mysteries. For this reason, our grove was not established until after the falling out with the norse giants. Since then, our
numbers have increased each month.

We serve our lord in a capacity we are not used to, that of research. Some of use, however, are useful to our lord in other ways.
I myself have led a horde of half-men, half-fish for a time, watching remorselessly as those who did not sucuumb to the enemy fell to our
Prince. He knows well that in order to prosper, his realm must grow. We now march our armies over thirty provinces, counting among them two
fortresses and Marginon's capital, under siege by our Prince.Three months ago Malchaka fell beneath our onslaught, but the norse giants
took thier sacred home on the other side of the frozen mountain wastes. My prince was content with that, for the moment.

For we had stumbled upon the bloodletters, and crushed them in a swift campaign. Thier obsidian armed corpses rose to join us as ghouls as we marched south. We rudely surprised the hotones, who had just besieged the bloodletters home. Swiftly the hotones attacked, only to fall left and right to our relentless march. Only once were they successful, when a flying creature sneaked in to butcher one of our Mound Kings.

Thereafter the Prince ordered that all commanders should be surrounded by a retinue, and ordered his bishops to create special guardians; Lictors, so I am told. Shortly thereafter our relentless advance brought us to the Inquisitors; our advance armies barely noticed them, they were so weak. Our Prince, however, was not fooled. Forwarned by diabolical forces from beyond, he directed our armies to encircle this potentially fatal enemy. We concentrate, determined to enshroud the Mariginon Prentender in the cloak of death.

You may wonder why I am still alive. I wonder as well- for I have seen men fall three times as often of the pox and other illnesses than in
other lands. Magic is twice as hard to use; and I feel the slightest twinge of unluck in this barren land of still death. But there is no denying that this lands dominion is the most powerful there can ever be- tenfold over any of those squabbling independent states. You scoff, I see. You do not know the power of the dominion. For even now the hotones grow weak, thier field army inwreathed by my Prince's aura. Our spies report the destruction of their fortress, while their numbers have fallen by three score in a month.

The Prince? A strong arcanist, is he. Dabbling in Air, he is a seventh circle Astral and Death mage. Unfortunately, in his zeal, he has negelected the libraries in favor of the graveyards. We have barely scratched the first level of learing in most schools; and our leaders are more concerned with the horsement clattering off to war than trying to decide summoning or constructing paths.

Sometimes, in the few moments I am not chained to my reading stool, I dream. The Prince is clearly new to this realm, wrinkling his brow when trying to understand why magi cannot continously cast without rest. He is easily adept at the battlefield, manuvering armies back and
forth, and he has mentioned with happiness the lack of something called 'logistics'.

Oh, you wish to know why I am here? See those workers? Even now, as some of them drop from the scaffolding, you can see it take shape. A
vast temple, dedicated to the Prince. Only two provinces away the norse have attacked, treacherously advancing at our border fortress. This temple will help remind the giants that the Prince's shadow is long, as they starve in the desert, watching the horizon as the 3 armies
raised for this eventuality march to seal thier doom. Surely, the forces we bring are weak; corpses stirring in rusted gear, zombies and
ghouls. The vast legions of horsemen, while very mobile, are soon hurled through the sky by the comtemptous giants. But, for every bone
they crush, every dusty skull split, ten more rusty spears pierce thier cold hides. For the dead walk our realm, and there is nothing the
living can do but die and join them...

[ February 21, 2004, 01:50: Message edited by: 1000yd_stare ]