Part of Winds of the World - Summer 223
It is never peaceful in Mukarrem. This much is common knowledge to the Nomads, the Janissaries and to the sandflies. The peace here is a fleeting thing, like the haze of the Summer sun. If it's not the weather, it's the war. If it's not the war, it's the coins. If it's not the coins, it's the weather. And so on until you yourself are lost among the sands.
This Winter, it has been peaceful.
Nazafeza is temporarily turned back to the site of a prosperous town. More than three-thousand occupants flock to its streets, trading rations for boot knives for travelling cloaks for rations again.
The Desert Whisperers use the ruined city as a base of operations as they repulse the forces of Luis El’Corvarrias. Columns of Janissaries and nomad scouts wander north into the sands and coastal scrubland in search of mercenaries, assassins, and corsairs bearing the gold and red of Aprivano.
And this Winter is peaceful.
Forces under the command of Aramir El’Obregon know that El’Corvarrias’ are here, for the warriors of The Valley’s Own (comfortably barracked in Obregon) have seen neither hide nor hair of the raider all Winter. So the patrols continue; the sorties go deep into the Tanebar Sea and the midnight raids go far along the beach, hunting for plains deer and feral goats as they wander. They stand watch in the depths of The Tanebar Sea, fighting naught but dehydration. They even craft small boats and sail out to the various sandbars - perhaps El’Corvarrias is hiding supplies among the rum-runner islands. They lament their Iron Valley brethren, no doubt making full use of everything the greatest city in The Concord has to offer.
And still, this Winter is peaceful.
Eventually the soldiers joke that The Desert Whisperers have walked further in Mukarrem than it took them to get back from Windholme. In the downtime between bloodless sojourns, they fish in the harbour of Nazafeza as Concordian labourers work hard to bring the trade port to fruition. Soldiers bring a faux-peace to the place. It can be easy for the barely two-hundred locals to pretend that their neighbours have simply been replaced by a Janissary Officer and his aide, or a gang of Delvers-turned-scouts, rather than that they had died of dehydration in the prison camps of El’Corvarrias. A kind lie to tell yourself in the grave of your civic dreams.
But there is a secret here. Something that weighs heavy on the General and his staff. Something that would put these patrols in a different light.
Not a single supply wagon has made it from Obregon since they arrived. The officers have rustled up whatever spare hunting bows and fishing poles they can, not because they want the soldiers to let off steam, but because if they don’t, the army will start to have bigger problems than an elusive enemy. It is infuriating how the forces of El’Corvarrias evade them. As Winter closes, they find cold campfire after cold campfire, plenty of discarded supplies and even a single corpse. But at no point this entire season does a warrior of Andash trade blows with a Trade Principality fighter.
By the time spring comes around and thoughts turned to the nearing Summit, malnutrition and even scurvy are common across the army. Soldiers have long since learned that they were under siege from an invisible foe and come to realise that it is never peaceful in Mukarrem.
In the north, across the border, there is a place where the sandy hills near the beach fall flat and the water forms many brilliant small pools that warm during the day, and dance the reflections of torchlight during the evening. Mercenaries, assassins and corsairs lounge on reed mats, drink fruit juice from Civisello, smoke cut Beggars Root from Resinderholz, and eat mutton from Weiland. They swim in the pools, dance in the light, and toast to foolish Concordians.
A large tent is the crown of the camp. Inside, the Bastard Warjackal himself, Luis El’Corvarrias holds an old warrior at swordpoint.
“Tell me, monk of the Tanebar sea, Master Janissary, you gutless Concordian weakling. Are there really no more paths through the Tanebar?”
The Master Janissary cannot answer. Men who have been dead for a month rarely can.
“Fair. I appreciate the honesty.”
The Warjackal picks up a bottle of wine and wanders to the tent entrance. He glances at the label.
“Andashi Delight, Bottled in Weiland.”
“Fucking Concordians,” he spits the words as he brings the bottle to his lips. As he does, a warrior dashes up to him.
“General, orders from Aprivano,” mutters the man, handing the parchment to Luis who unrolls it and skimms the contents.
“Well isn’t that a fun surprise.” He grins as he looked at the nervous warrior. “It’s time to get back to work.”
Game Information
Luis El’Corvarrias’ ‘Blockade Runner’ order allows his forces to evade the Desert Whisperers all Winter. The constant tempo of patrol and wariness stops The Desert Whisperers from resupplying, as if they had fought an actual aggressive campaign. The Desert Whisperers will still gain 2500 troops at the end of the season, as they join up with their expanded complement.
To add insult to injury, the missing supplies are a costly loss. The Desert Whisperers have cost twice as much in upkeep this past season.
Characters who would like to roleplay as having been a part of this campaign can tell stories of frustrated impotence; of long patrols, and an army turning on itself in the small ways that soldiers lacking supplies at the front can. They can also tell stories of the beautiful Great Trade Sea illuminated by sunset, of cool nights in the dunes of The Tanebar Sea and the great grasses of The Priado Expanse.
It remains clear as a sandstorm what the Bastard Warjackal or the Trade Prince mean to do in the Summer Summit. But their armies are well supplied and their coffers full.