Imperia Online International

Nomads Invasion => Era 1 Chronicles => Topic started by: Oton on August 17, 2008, 17:23:02 PM

Title: Thirty second wave.
Post by: Oton on August 17, 2008, 17:23:02 PM
Xaoc led the Horde to a final battle to conquer the lands of Imperia once and for all.
The elite nomad armies advanced mighty and fast to the free lands, intending to destroy tha last remnants of resistence.
Felt that this would the batle to decide thir fait, the handful of Emprerors who still had the ability to fight back, did not escape. Instead they summed all their troops and went out on the fields to fight the mighty Steppe Wolf.
Bloody and horrible battled waged off in the imperian lands, with their scales imaginable.
Legendary maneuvres, courage and selflessness could be seen in many of them.
Neither nomads nor imperians retreated. They fought till the last man, till the last drop of blood.
Millions fell.
Both sides.
The war was total. Non one place was left not to be fought for it.
The Steppe Wolf knew no mercy, he left no prisoners, he knew no rest. His hand was pillaging, looting and destroying each step and beyond.
His troops were dying in thousands, but they kept on moving. Retreat was unquestionable. There were two options - victory or death. The Horde had gone to war to establish its will. There was no way back.
And the free rulers had nowhere to go. This was their land. Their home. They would die to defend it. Never surrender.
The Ocean clashed with the steady rock.
Two forces, equal to each other - the ever lasting will to conquer everything... against the thousand years old civilization, prevailed over the time with its stoicism
The imaginable collision echoed through the soul of everyone - both nomad or imperian.
Who would enforce his will over the other?
Who would be the triumphant?
Who would be the better?
How to answer all these questions when the forces are equal?
The Steppe Wold was thinking all these thoughts while his troops were advancing.
He was drowning the lands of Imperia in its own blood an yeah already.
Bu it stood.
He conquered it all. Almost.
Some survived.
Some rised from the ashes even stronger and tougher. Some dared to challenge his absolute power. Some retaliated his cruelty with even bigger brutality.
Every other man would retreat. He would tire and abandon this damned campaign.
He would think to save his people.
But this was not the Steppe Wolf's nature. And that is why he, and only he... was the Horde Chieftain.
He was born to conquer.
He did not know the taste of defeat. And this land... this small piece of civilization, squeezed between his seemless Stepp and the Ocean... was the only one... he still had not conquered.
"If I take this land into my hand... I will then be able to proclaim myself... as the Lord of the whole World!"
He had all the time in the world. And it gave him two choices - either fullfil his dream... or die trying.

Thirty sesond wave results:

(On Monday)

Tomorrow Marshall Robust would lead all his Tree Children into one last assault to destroy the last imperian supply lines and civil populations.
"And will probably lose half of my warriors. Or then again - why not all of them?"
He hoped that if he would lose, the Spirits would be merciful enough to allow him to fall gloriously into battle. That was the single thing he prayed for. He did not desired to return to nomads camp defeated.
"Return to what? To whom? If all my Children die fighting... what is the point for me to live?"
The stakes were high - all or nothing.
Is this the price of immortality?
Who will remember you if no one lives, if no one remains to know your name?
The Black Marshall sipped from his herbs tea. Today it tasted horrible.
He looked at his camp. The Tree Children were marching, taining hand to hand combat, checking the horses.
"They ready themselves."
For what? To die?
'We will all die here, Robust', Oton seemed to have read his thoughts, 'Soon or a later... we will all die here.'
Despite he hated the Butcher, today Robust was not in a mood for quarrel. He silently poured a cup of tea and gave it to the one-handed.
Oton drank and his forehead lined.
'I have never liked this crap', he exclaimed and left the cup on the ground, 'So... tomorrow you will lead all your vermin to death?'
'Like you said, Oton - we will all die some day', the Marshall replied, ignoring his insult, 'Maybe tomorrow will be a good day to die?'
'I keep telling this to myself ever since we came to this damned place', Oton replied, 'But it does not happen. I am still alive.'
'Yes... still', Robust said and drank from his tea.
They both kept silent and all the nature was silent too, expecting the end.
The end for nomads... or for the lands of Imperia.