Orendras, the heart of Obrith, and seat of its capital at Orendon (formerly Oathkeep), sure has a lot of O's in its various names. But more to the point, it is the wealthiest of the six duchies, home to the old nobility of the realm, much of which was imported from Old Ascadia when the King of the Sword set his roots here.

Her Grace, Rulenka Argard, High Lord of the Morrowood, is a young woman, with no battle experience. Her armies are loyal, but relatively few in number; she can call perhaps 500 knights and 5,000 foot, enough to man the walls of Orendon and little else. Historically, the central duchy has limited its military capacity, as a sign of peaceful intent toward the Church.

Of course, the Church is headquartered here as well, and could field its own men to protect its home, if need be. The Knights of St. Arja number over 1,500 in all--though many are afield, they would return given the need. They have much more battle experience than the civic-minded bannermen of Argard, as they venture into other realms on the Church's many errands. Indeed, it is not unprecedented for the order to levy fighting men from among the common folk, calling upon their faith to rally those who would not otherwise stir for Argard's banner. Perhaps 10,000 could be raised, and would fight with zeal, if not any particular skill.

The Church has its two wildcards: the Sisterhood of St. Devorah, and the Brotherhood of St. Kord. Its membership is comparatively low, and has never been fielded for the purposes of war, but they possess great magical talent that could well make the difference in their defense.

It must be assumed that Orendon, with its ancient, dragon-proof walls, and its loyal citizenry, can withstand the longest of sieges and repel all but the mightiest of assaults. Its countryside is another matter--with a generous apportionment of flat plains (once under the canopy of the Morrowood), it is dotted with vast, fertile plantations, capped with rich, wall-less manor houses. With only a few hundred knights riding around, it would be like strolling through a ripe orchard.

Of course, another vulnerability presents itself: the young High Lady is without husband. While no raider or sellsword could hope to claim her, the nobles of Valte and Brinn will likely have their eye on the prize. With enemies all around, perhaps yielding herself and her throne to a legitimate foreign lord will seem preferable to the second sacking of Orendon in its 1200 year history.

Home to House Flurmar, Ostruck is a land alike to its neighbor, Brinn. The Flurmars are not known as the Great Growers for nothing: it is the breadbasket of Obrith, a quilt of food crops. Unlike the cash crop plantations of Orendras, the farms of Ostruck are largely worked by common folk, and taxed reasonably by their lords. With sparse keeps, the farmlands would make excellent foraging ground for any roaming army; the local barons would far rather spend a harvest than every life in their domain.

Flurburg, the City of Flowers, is a beautiful city, with wide avenues, blooming meadows, and no walls to speak of. Against the smallest of armies, the citizens would have little choice but to flee to Engelcarr--a soaring tower of a castle, unfazed by the Dragon War, and better left alone--and why not, when the City of Flowers lies undefended.

Still, all that food means plenty of healthy young men. The Flurmars can raise a respectable 2,000 horse, and anywhere between 5,000 and 25,000 foot (depending on season--the harvest is more demanding than most wars). They rely on their ancient, Ascadian-style roads, dotted with guard towers stocked with fresh mounts, and good on it--it is said the High Lord can dispatch a runner to any of his neighbor duchies, or to Brinn, and hear back from the same man before day's end.

And one must be mindful of their natural defenses. The mighty Amandine covers their right flank, and it is a safe bet they will not leave its two major bridges undefended. On the left, the Burinflow, no slouch in the river department, guards well enough, though it offers many more crossings, the better to facilitate trade with wealthy Orendras.

Should the Old Flower's forces ever find themselves afield, perhaps to aid neighbor duchies against some foreign threat, there would be a wonderful opportunity here. Elsewise, it is best avoided by all but the smallest parties.

Although, there is the matter of House Flurmar. Survived only by the widowed Serafine Mielere (nee Flurmar), whose husband (and his heirs) were plucked root-and-branch by the Usurper-King of Brinn, the once mighty house stands to go extinct, unless the aging woman manages to birth again--no easy feat without a husband. Still, she and her retainers are not pleased with the arrangement: Brinn has propped up House Helndun as heirs to Flurmar's titles and lands when she dies, and with little she could do to stop him, Onder Helndun has long since assumed his role well in advance of her actual death. He even demands the style "Your Grace" these days, and is already considered the de facto Duke of Ostruck...if not High Lord of the Amman Vale. If someone could arrange things right, removing the Helnduns from power and restoring House Flurmar might well be worth a kingly (or at least duchessly) reward.

Few in Vallgard would expect raiders to make their bleak hills a first port of call. The Ghostlands are not so named without reason--the vast Ghostwall does an ample, but not perfect job of repelling Espers and Monsters from the countryside. Little of Vallgard has been cleared, and the ancient eaves of the Morrowood remember the sins of past invaders. Alvenhalt, or Elvenhold, is not a play on words--the ancient elf-built fortress has stood, some say, for 10,000 years, and though it is far from the southern reaches of the duchy, it is so high in the mountains that its guards can likely see any breach of the Sorodine a day before the invaders reach it.

And yet, it is not so high as the White Tower, home to hundreds of wizards, who might take it amiss if raiders plundered the homes of those helpful muggles down in the valley.

His Grace, Soren Wagnar, or the Black Bear as he is more affectionately known, has always been friend to wizards and elves alike, and is a staunch defender of Obrith's most historically vulnerable flanks--the Sorodine, and the Kurland Steppes beyond, and the Ghostwall, mankind's only hope against an apocalyptic tide of Monsters and Magic. He commands a standing army of 500 horse, and can roust another 1,000 at the stamp of his feet, with perhaps 7,500 loyal footmen. The Ghostfolk have a queer habit of training at arts martial--even the smallfolk--and those 7,500 footmen would best not be underestimated for farmers and foragers.

Meanwhile, his daughter, Sera Nell Wagnar (OSS), commands the Ghost Guard, those who watch the Ghostwall, and range into parts beyond. Her first duty is to protect the realm's northern border, but amongst her thousand-odd men she counts many accomplished rangers, who have done battle with monsters, spirits, and things far more horrible than any raider or thief.

Still, although the people of the Ghostlands may be ready to defend themselves, it is well that they are so trained: most of the common people live in small towns and villages too remote to expect much help from the Black Bear should nimble raiders strike quickly enough. No Ascadian roads connect the vast webwork of forest towns, only a few faded elven highways, most of which begin nowhere and head likewise.

And of elves, or at least their ruins, there is much to be found. The Ghostfolk respect the Elfkind, and generally leave their tombs and vaults free. Only ghosts and faded magic defend those places, and they are replete with precious and rare things long vanished from the world. Would it be so great a crime to liberate these forgotten treasures, with nary a single stout-hearted commoner needing suffer?

Of course, should one take that path, there is always the danger of Elfkind. They are friends to House Wagnar, and welcome in his lands. They may well defend them against such intrusion. Don't say you weren't warned.

The Uthbren are a proud folk, and who wouldn't be...it's not easy to carve a living out of the Thunder Ridge. The frequent storms at the foot of the Thundercaps feed the hungry Burinflow. When the nights grow long, the storms turn to blizzards, and the hearty folk of Uthbren dig in for another cold winter. And yet, there is an unearthly beauty here, a primal, untamed beauty, where nature has not yet yielded to man. The Thunder Ridge's tall pines and aspen are less of the Morrowood and more of the Thundercaps themselves, children of the mountain.

Not to be confused with the Children of the Mountain, that is, or the Stormkin as they are commonly known. To outsiders, they are legend, a local superstition of no note. But come the storms, it is plain to see: they only come out when the thunder calls to them, and they dance, and lightning their lady. They are said to be cousins to the elves, or perhaps deformed giants...in any case, they are not human, nor friendly, and very much real. Best to stay out of the heights when storms come.

Uthbrenhol, home of the House of Gennost, is a mighty fortress, the last built by the Host of Dawn, meant to stand firm, alone, against the might of the Undying Kingdom. It sits high amongst the mountains, protected by storms, slopes, and perhaps Stormkin, and has never been taken...not even during the Kurnish Invasion. It is a bleak thing of black stone, not meant for beauty, but for safety, and not just from force of arms. John Calabeth's men expected magic, particularly weather magic, and the castle was hardened against lightning, fire, earthquakes, and all Brell Gennost and his dwarven architects could imagine. It is folly to imagine assaulting such a keep, not with a hundred thousand men. And should anyone try, they shall find out why the house takes the Griffon as their sigil.

His Grace, Olvar Gennost, High Lord of the Thunder Ridge, can muster 1,000 horse and 6,000 men easily enough...and, should that prove insufficient, he can call upon his 300 griffon-riders. Trained in an ancient art first mastered by the Stormtalons--a virtually-extinct elven tribe--they ply the skies calm and stormy alike with equal grace, raining down arrows and even lightning with impunity. Per legend, they were instrumental in the Dragon War, swarming the great beasts and outranging their fire-breath with harpoons, and felling them with mighty lances. Against raiders, one can expect similar, or even better performance. They are known as the Knights Volantis, or more commonly the Dragon Knights.

Why would anyone risk the ire of the Dragon Knights? Why, plunder, of course! Where the Ghostlands are dotted with elven tombs, the Thunder Ridge is replete with them, so much so that some are thought not even to be abandoned by the Stormtalons. In these last holdfasts of a fading people, what magicks and treasures might await? Mithril? Mail of leaves? Some even say the Stormtalons captured lightning--not in a bottle, but in crystals, which hold tremendous power. An artificer, if no one else, might treasure these beyond gold.

The Vast wasn't named for being compact and easily-defended. It is a long stretch of land, with ill-defined western borders, hugging most of the western bank of the Sorodine, and stretching all the way to the Blue Water. Turns out, there is a reason the River of Sorrows was long held to be the terminus of human civilization. The land has ever been under constant assault by raiders of every sort, but none more so than the Kurns. In times of darkness, what hope could the Vast have to defend her long, open border?

What, indeed. Her Grace, Malre Ozress, Warden of the West, Gatekeeper, Scourge of the Horselords, and Great-mother of the Fallen Clan, has been defending this frontier for over a century. None alive could claim to have lived through half of her lifelong war with the west, and she herself has long lost count of the battles won against the endless horde of savages. She has built the Hundred Towers, defining a border of sorts--though it has no visible wall, all the space between them is said to be a wall of magic, cursing those who pass never to see their homes again. Those who enter her lands scarcely leave with plunder in tow, and never leave with scars--they evade the Dusk Riders, or they die.

In any time, the Vast is hardly choice hunting ground for raiders. None are foolish enough to leave valuables unguarded, nor herds unready to seek safer ground. Few plow the soil west of the Sorodine, preferring to herd, mine, or forage. The river itself provides the people's lifeblood, and its cities are more than ready to repel horselords. The Ten Towns boast soaring walls, massive moats, and an infinite supply of water and fish to sustain any siege. None has fallen to any invading army in the Gatekeeper's lifetime.

That said, should the rules change, the game may become more interesting. Soval's Rebellion has brought siegecraft to the steppes. The Magelords fly on dragonback, and wield ice and thunder. Her Dusk Riders move like the wind, and their arrows sting like scorpions, but will they hold against such new threats? And ever the Vast has counted on its own back as safe ground. What if a threat were to outflank her? Kurngard sits not far from the Sorrowgate, presenting a soft belly to threats from the peaceful east. Perhaps this might do.

Though the Vast is not rich in treasure, it is nonetheless a tempting target. There are many with old scores to settle, many who would see the Old Mare dragged from her horse and shown her rightful place in the steppes. And, for those horselords dreaming of glory, Kurngard must ever be the first step. Take it, and the realm is in hand.

The Dusk Riders number 5,000, all ahorse, trained with sword, spear, and bow. Her Grace fields no foot, but calls upon the Ten Towns to supply an able City Guard capable of repelling invaders by sword and arrow. Each must ready 1,000 men and 1,000 reserves, and in times of siege will support one another via the river, bolstering those in greatest need.

Gjor Mennos commanded 50,000 men, 5,000 horse, 100 longships, and artillery besides. His army was the equal of the rest of Obrith combined, and more; he kept them sharp, warring with such mighty powers as Brinn, Valte, and the Ahrimids.

But Gjor Mennos is dead.

The Arnroc is held by House Breddic. His is the lion's share of the remainder, with 15,000 loyal men and 1,000 ahorse. He holds Menendara (with the help of Jarla Brighid Mason) in trust for the "true heir" of the Old Stone, whoever that may be. His forces are just enough to keep the city free and open--and to him the realm is thankful, for without Menendara, Obrith may as well be on the moon, with all the trade that implies.

Amongst his allies, Valtar Breddic counts Karl Wester of the Menen Vale, with his 400 horse and 2,000 foot, and Elisif Ionia of County Aventine, with her meager 80 horse and 500 foot. Both pledge their service, but keep their armies close at hand as raiders and rebels terrorize the countryside. Of course, the backing of the Church and most of the other duchies is a considerable point in Breddic's favor, though their commitment is minimal, preferring to wait until a major army arrives, rather than tempt Soval or other brigands into seeking better plunder in their own lands.

And why should they fear this? Because Guyan Soval, Earl of Winterburg, yet lives, and commands a host--some say 10, some say 30,000 strong--of horsemen, magelords, sellswords, and stranger things besides. He means to claim Menendara, the Arnroc, and all the land of the Gates. And with it, control of Obrith's mightiest army...an easy path to kingship.

Amongst those who rebelled alongside Soval, some have laid down their arms and sworn loyalty to House Breddic in the wake of his ouster. Finneas Torne of Hillwall surrended his sword, and has pledged a thousand men, but they are not well trusted--some say he conspires with the Queen of Valte to allow her armies access to Obrith in exchange for lands and title under her rule. Altangard is still under siege after years, and some say Livinia of Altania would sooner die than betray faith in Soval, her unrequited love. Still, her lands are claimed, and much of her army turned coat, lending 600 men and a few horse to the Arnroc's cause. Hestia Kaular travels with the Rogue Earl, along with 400 of her men, but her lands are conquered--save Caer Doval, which is held by a band of sellwords proclaiming their leader the "rightful lord" of Cedroc.

Albur Tremen remained loyal during the rebellion, and suffered for it. Brunheim was burned, and its soldiers trapped in a pincer. The lord of Hrondyr lived, though remains disabled by wounds. He can scarcely field 300 men, with all his losses, but he pledges them--largely symbolically, given the presence of rebels rampaging through his lands--to House Breddic and the rightful heir to Mennos.

Mynie Frisjar was taken prisoner, betrayed by rebels within her own house, and is thought to be alive in Soval's camp. Her retainer, Lord Smalling, Baron of Elford, holds her seat in trust, and commands her 800 men. They largely contend with local rebels and Valtan raiders.

And then there's the wildcard: Ser Honn Brunhammer (OSS) leads an expeditionary force of no less than 1,000 horse and 5,000 afoot, sent two years past to aid Queen Ayse Lionheart in ousting the usurper to her throne and reclaiming her lands. They have grown close to their charges, but yearn to return to set the realm to rights. Honn was commanded, in Gjor's dying days, to remain in Valte, to dissuade Ayse from any conquering urges, and, if necessary, to blunt her assault--a far easier feat for such a small force if they are already embedded in her midst. He is conflicted, torn between his love for his lord...and that he cannot speak of, for his new lady. His hardened riders could easily swing the tide of any battles for Menendras.

It's a right mess, and it has left the realm crippled. Without Menendras' strength, Obrith cannot hope to prevail against any major invasion--and both Valte and Brinn boast large armies, led by ambitious rulers. Should either attack, or should other threats come from the north, the west, or perhaps even from across the Blue Water, the realm will have need of Breddic's men. Depending on the nature of the threat, this could be an opportunity not seen since the founding of Oathkeep.

For Menendras sits atop the Mines of Mennos, a vast network of rich dwarf-holds, most of which are utterly uncharted and surely unplundered. Only the Old Stone himself knew of their extent, and some guessed he only pretended to know beyond the hold that won him his fortune. There could be hundreds of mines, each one rich enough to make a king of its plunderer. They are undefended--their builders long dead and gone to stone--and ready for anyone with a shovel and pockets deep enough to carry a nation's wealth.

Unless, of course, you believe the legends of ghosts, automata, ancient traps, Stoneguard, bone dragons, and innumerable other horrors. Or perhaps you believe the rumor that Mennos is not dead, but was spirited away to the depths of his hold, where he undergoes a final transformation into the Rock That Walks. Surely, if such folly is true, the bards will sing of the day a golden king rises from the earth and crushes his enemies underfoot...and wise raiders will be long gone with the best of the loot.

And then, of course, there is Menendara. Even without an army, it will not fall to casual assault. It withstood the Dragons' War, it was never truly assaulted during the Second Kurnish Invasion, and so the last time it truly fell was to John Calabeth himself...and only because he demanded right of single combat, and the Thane in command was a particularly honorable dwarf. No record exists of the city ever falling to assault or siege.

That said, there is a first time for everything. The city will remain open as long as Obrith has need of trade. Surely its mighty dwarven walls will shut to an army of Valtans, Brinns, or rebels, but a much smaller band might slip in undetected, and make away with whatsoever they wish. Or, perhaps great powers will battle, and the city may some day fall. It may be that she changes hands a few times, and when all the mighty are done slaughtering each other, perhaps new lords will arise from the west, and horselords might sit upon thrones of stone.

Born to the dwarves of the White Crest, Theia learned early to raid the men who dwell beneath towers, and the elves who hide in trees. When a raid on Kronar's Hold went sour, she was captured and enslaved. As fate would have it, she was sold to an old wizard...not a magelord, but an exile from the south, who sought no glory, only unfettered study.

While he was no match for a tenth of her strength, his will was superior. He made her realize she was more than mere muscle, that her mind was sharp, and she was wasted on spears and dragon-riding. She learned to read, and to dabble in magicks...and a vast, new world opened to her.

Her tribe returned in time, freeing her and taking many lives and slaves of their own, but she found she could no longer fit in. Their world was so small, so certain and unchanging. They questioned nothing, save her insistence on doing the opposite. Though she was loved, and loved in turn, she knew her life would be wasted in the remote lands of the Lake of Song. And so she left.

She traveled south, avoiding the Mageholds, surviving amongst the mountains and valleys. She lived off the land, and learned its wisdom. And one day, she found a hatchling, abandoned to die when the rest of the clutch was taken away. Since then, she has traveled with a white wyrmling...and he's starting to get kinda big.

Once south of the White Crest, she encountered others like her: wanderers, vagabonds, sellswords, and the like. She fell in with some rough sorts, and had to break a few bones before finding worthy companions.