After reading all of this I wonder if I should be happy or sad I wasn't around in the old days. Does make me wonder how this is panning out compared to back in the day though.
Naw the old days were full of 100+ page threads bemoaning the giant behemoth Kingdom that is Ur-Fossail and all the unwieldy power it weld, and how to siphon said power into lesser beings in the community, who where in-turn corrupted by wielding such power, and as such became thralls of the unstoppable growing void that was the Ur-Fossail.
Until one day, a bright and shiny hope arrived with his rugged band of compatriots, to rid the land of the evil kingdom! Led by Lord Rogerstram of Grumwild, along with his sworn brothers Sir Figgit, Sir Pudulie, Sir Hupple and actual brothers Lord Herrorferd and Lord Furrioso the Mediocre, they dared to form an army in the desperate hope that a large contingent of stalwart defenders could muster the courage of the populous! Storm the gates and re-take Ur-Fossail for the people!
Lord Rogerstam of Grumwild himself held the largest force of 200 rambunctious footmen, at least half were untrained but willing to put their lives on the line for something they believed in. Lord Rogerstam stood tall upon his scarred black steed, easily standing out in the middle of his crowd of men with his rock-hard jaw line and shock-white hair flowing freely in the crisp autumn wind. Sir Figgit and Sir Hupple each had 40 heavy infantry, with Sir Pudulie himself only 20, but they were the most skilful veterans in the army, trained by their very commander for such an occassion. Lord Herroferd, a wiry man of cultured breeding and harpsicord virtuoso took control of the mounted knights, roughly 25 strong riders. Lord Furrioso refused any men, but standing at 7'1 with a youthful swagger and musclebound from head to toe, he himself was worth 10 men, and preferred to freelance on the field of battle on his white speckled Clydesdale warhorse, whom he had affectionately named "Penelope".
They formed in the command tent that fateful night to break bread before shedding blood on the morrow. Deep in their cups, the leaders of the New Path built up their reputations with tales of their own bravery and adventures. Sir Figgit bragged of downing three men with naught but a tree branch that was struck by an errant bolt of lightning after losing his sword in the Bulza stream at the Battle of Bulza. Lord Furrioso told of the time he wrestled a hippopotamus for the rights to its watering hole. Sir Figgit seemed to drink it all in from the shadows, sipping slowly from his frothy mug. After much courageous braggadocio, Sir Hupple himself swore to be the first upon the battlements of the looming walls across the barren field.
Swollen with pride and heroic visions, they settled into a serious mood as the night rolled onwards, hurtling towards what would surely be their last for at least some of the men in that fateful tent.
Moving large avatars and figurines across the detailed battle map, a large tattered parchment held down by its corners with heavy rocks and a bronze dagger, Sir Pudulie softly spoke (as he was wont to do, his overgrown wispy mustache cascading gently with breath pulsing from his thin, chapped lips) of a weakspot in the castles rear. Built against a towering mountain, the stronghold of Ur-Fossail was ominous, yet Pudulie suggested that his team of specialists armed only in chainmail and climbing gear and dressed in the garb of the guards of Ur-Fossail would be able to scale the mountains East face, and descend the unguarded mountain during the battle. Unnoticed during the heat of battle, Sir Pudulie and his valiant troop would then assault to the south gate from the rear, dispatch the befuddled guards and open the doorway to victory.
Without catapults or heavy siege structures, the leaders of the New Path begrudgingly agreed to this somewhat un-chivalrous tactic of subterfuge. For the meat of the plan still centered on the slaughter and sorrow that would surely manifest itself upon the field of battle. Drawing the enemy away from the safety of it's walls and onto the battlefield. Yet, it all hinged precariously upon to vanity and pride of the only two men who mattered in all of Ur-Fossail.
King Ur-Dalfur III, and his twin brother Prince Ur-Dalfur the IV, whom to even the most casual observer would note, were unerringly close. But only in hushed whispers amongst the most trusted of friends. The reason for this being; King Ur-Dalfur III and Prince Ur-Dalfur the IV were Siamese twins, and were indeed “connected at the hip”.