[BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

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[BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

Post by Dienekes22 » Mon Nov 30, 2020 10:30 pm

[Units mentioned can be found here: https://brikwars.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=16937]
[Vasli kings, upon being coronated, inherit both the title “king” and the name “Randoul,” thus the princes of Vasluxia are often referred to as “son of Randoul” instead of their actual names]

There is violence to be done. 

Across the field my enemies gather. Their horses stamp impatiently and their officer’s cries carry on the breeze. I scowl at such a sight; at this betrayal of proper discipline. My own warriors are silent as I. Have we not rehearsed these actions many hundreds of times? I have no need for last-second speeches or calls to courage, these are for the fearful and cowardly, and none of these things dare present themselves in my army. 

I am at ease, truly. My shield is set against my leg and my helmet I still hold in the crook of my arm. I will need them soon, but first I must show my men that I am, as always, without fear. I don’t need to look back to them. I know they are ready. 

Across the field is a son of Randoul, set one day to become a king. I see his banners, set in a place of prominence that all may know he means to make war today. It will be his undoing. I will bring him down on this field and make his head my prize, for I am Akhilleus, and I do not know defeat.

“Bah,” I dismiss a courier, “I am aware, yes, yes, thank you.”

The man rides off and I stare out into the field. The Archohellenium arrays itself against me, their forest of spears swaying in the breeze and challenging my authority and kingship. Who are these ruffians to do such a thing? My father, the king, sought to spare me of this battle, to save me for other battles still to come in this war. He thinks as a king but I will be the dragon my nation demands. I am a son of the king, soon to wear the crown upon my own head and bare his name in service of our people. I will meet this foe today and drive them out. 

The cavalry form up beside me, breaking me from my concentrations. 

“Good morning, sire,” the sargent greets me. 

I nod to acknowledge him. 

“We are ready to advance on your word, my lord. The men only await your command.”

I smile and lift my visor, that my troops may see my face. I turn my horse and survey my battle line. The banners: black, green, and gold for our home, snap in the breeze over the glimmering swords and armor. Magnificent. 

“My brothers! Today we take the field for the honor of Vasluxia!” I shout, pumping my sword in the air. The men shout, bellowing bravely. 


A shout lifts from the foe. I roll my eyes. The son of Randoul must be giving his speech. This only means the fight will come soon. Excellent, I tire of the waiting. 

“Menestheus,” I say casually. The man is at my side in a moment. 

“My lord,” he says. 

“The fight will come soon. Signal the perioíkos and have them pull behind our position and come behind to our left to flank the foe’s right. This supersedes the orders I gave them previously.”

The man readies to run. I selected him for this task because there is no man alive who is faster than he. 

“Stop, tell me what I have ordered,” I say. I must know he has heard me right. 

“Report to the perioíkos on our right, their officer is Idotychides, and have them pull behind to the left and flank the enemy right.”

I nod. He knows the field and our order. He sprints to obey me, kicking dust behind his flying feet. 

The speech across the field continues. This man has too many words. Today I will test his steel. I seat my helmet and, behind me, my men do the same. Now it is time for violence. 

“For Vasluxia!” I shout, one final time, whirling my horse in a circle and extending my lance toward the phalanx arrayed against us. 

The army responds with the same cry. One last look at the front. My cavalry is arrayed about me, the anchor of my our line, holding the center. We will start the charge and break the Archohellenic forces for our infantry to mop up. 

“Yah! Forward to victory!” I shout, spurring my mount and dashing into the open ground between my enemy and I. 

The shout is carried by my army and I feel their horses slide next to mine at the gallop. I see the phalanx at the center, still far off, standing in formation but not prepared to meet our charge. Magnificent. I laugh, my voice drowning in the cacophony of hooves obliterating the grass and trampling it to dust. Soon the bronze armored bastards before me will be the same dust beneath my feet. I steady my lance. Only a hundred yards to go. 

They are a hundred yards out. My face is stone but I allow myself a smile, just for a moment. This son of Randoul thinks a few horses will frighten me, or intimidate me from my position. He is wrong. I lift my shield into place and the line steps up around me instinctively, creating the phalanx that will break the charge. The cavalry will falter and my trap will be sprung. The perioíkos have already swung behind, ready to flank the languishing horses. 

Fifty yards. 

“Step off!” I shout. 

In silence we advance. One must never allow the enemy to charge headlong into a static position no matter the strength. Courage is won in the advance. And so we will advance into the storm.

Ten yards. 



I have drifted in the charge. I meant to hit the enemy in their center and to rip them in half. In my lust to engage I let my mount stray from the line and strike the phalanx too far to our right. The crash is monumental. Steel and flesh and bronze collide with malevolence and blood. My lance shatters on the bowl of the gray shield of the enemy. In this moment time stops. I see the shards of my lance flying into the air. I see that this Myrmidon has speared my horse in the shoulder. We lock eyes, for a thousandth of a second, with all the rage and hatred we can muster, each cursed with poor luck at the start of a fight. 

My horse flails. I pick out his cry from the violence, pierced with numerous spears as we try to advance through the phalanx. The charge falters. I draw my sword, hacking at the spears and javelins of the enemy. 


I can’t turn around or even look for my men, so imperiled am I by the spears of the enemy. My sword glances off helmets and spearshafts. I cannot strike a killing blow. 

“Retreat!” I shout, again and again. My horse cannot turn. We are stuck. 

The son of Randoul has missed his mark. I know he meant to strike true to our center, thus I moved my position to our center instead of my place of honor on the left. I wished to duel this man, my enemy, but his own lack of discipline under fire led him astray. Now I must fight his whoreson’s underlings until I can butcher my way to him. The collision of our lines is exactly what I hoped for, however. The cavalry balked at our spears, falling back against their reinforcements, stalling at our superior discipline and warrior virtue. 

Our enemy does not know horses cannot charge into a wall without trust, and I know these Vasli bastards don’t have the trust of their mounts. Like all things in their bastard city, they have half-assed their training. 

My spear has broken and I do not have a spare. I pull a foe from his horse with my bare hands and beat him to death with his own helm. I pull my sword and begin hacking my way to the would-be-king. The perioíkos have ensnared the cavalry. They will be butchered like dogs in minutes. I must find this man and kill him now before someone else takes the honor from me. 

We are broken. 

The line is given way to panic. Our horses seek escape and the men do the same. They are pulled from their horses and butchered like animals. The foe has not broken rank, nor even let loose a cry of victory. By gods, they are magnificent. I have underestimated them. 

I must escape.

I wheel my horse and sheathe my sword. He still lives because he is armored so heavily, but he is faltering. I cannot keep him in the fight. He spits blood with every breath. 

An opening!

I make for it, traversing the spear points of the phalanx to retreat. I must make it before the division that has flanked us closes the gate. 

I spur my mount. We must fly. I break into a clearing, though it is littered with my dead countrymen, and, for a moment, feel I am safe. From the corner of my eye a man in black armor is sprinting toward me. 


It is Akhilleus. 

There! The son of Randoul is trying to escape!

I churn my legs with all the power I can muster. My shield has rubbed my arm raw but I must not falter. I sheathe my sword on the run and make all haste to intercept the coward. 

I leap over a dying horse. This man will not escape me. 

The mount must navigate a field of the dead. Horses dislike running over such a surface, they cannot see their feet at the gallop. I am unhindered by such limitations. I am untouched by fear.

The supposed king sees me approaching from his flank. I can see his fear even through the visor of his helmet. He knows who I am. 

Then he knows he is already dead. 

In this moment I am faster than the beast. I bear my shield and launch into it. It wails with the heat of my rush. I bounce off the horse, churned underneath its feet and pitching into the dirt, but I have done as I wished: the horse and rider have fallen also. The mount staggers and then spills by the time I have regained my feet. I spring upon the man and drag him from the saddle. He flails like a coward and I dump him in the dirt. 

“Will you fight me, coward son? Or will you tuck tail and run back to your city and your walls to die in the street of starvation?” I scream, spraying spittle out of my gore-blasted helmet. 

The man stands and places his hand upon his sword, slow like he is wounded or winded, I do not care which, and faces me with his shield at his side.

“And who are you, Akhilleus, to speak to a prince in this fashion? Your arrogance precedes you and I will end it today.”

“I am no more arrogant than a king,” I shout, “but my arrogance I have taken in blood and fire rather than casually plucked from a silver platter! Draw your sword! Fight me!”

I bear my longsword, Archalion, and cover behind my shield. Akhilleus has no javelins to toss and so I have the advantage. He seethes behind his helmet, painted with the blood of my countrymen, and roars into the duel. He charges, shoulder down, and I know he means to bowl me over like my horse.

I step aside and he strikes underhand with his blade. I knock it aside, quite easily, and riposte back. His shield stays my blow and he swings his shield arm around as a weapon. I leap back, narrowly avoiding the shield, and I see Akhilleus is already closing in. He rains three hard blows on my shield. Sawdust and metal sphincter from the surface underneath his strength. I try and move away and gain an advantage from my position but he is faster than I, beating upon my shield with blow after blow.

I slap his sword aside with my own and make to attack. He does not wait for my strike but meets my blow with his blood-splattered shield. My arm rings with sudden numbness as the collision occurs much too early in the wide arc of my intended attack. Every move I invent Akhilleus sees and counters before I’ve even made it. I strike with my shield, creating enough space to spin to my left, I can catch him with my sword as I—

The fool pitches into the mud, head nearly severed ans dangling daintily off his neck.

The son of Randoul thought he could show my his back. He believed he was fast enough to spin so arrogantly while I was off balance. I buried my sword under his helmet before he was halfway around.

The battle is finishing around me. Shattered horses sprint away in a dozen directions, fleeing the horrors I have wrought. My line is unbroken and I hear the officers pulling the men back into position to support me. I rip the crowned helmet from the dead princes corpse and throw it toward the foe’s camp. My men roar with victory.

“Let us clean the skeleton of the foe’s army and toast this triumph!” I scream, raising my blood-soaked blade.

“For the gods and Akhilleus!” I hear a man shout.

I grin and turn back toward the foe. They are fleeing, like their coward prince. We will run them down and make our camp amidst their corpses.

For I am Akhilleus and I do not know defeat.
stubby wrote:Oh man, look at these guys. Beautiful units, photos in focus, appropriately cropped, white background... what if I remove all the current photos from the rulebook and just replace everything with these
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Re: [BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

Post by Bragallot » Thu Dec 24, 2020 3:10 pm

Nice work with the back and forth between the two perspectives. :guinness:
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Wtf is this thread?

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Re: [BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

Post by Bolicob12 » Sat Jan 09, 2021 4:15 pm

Concept and Theme: 10
Form: 9
Voice: 9
Style: 9

Presentation: 18

Well done! This was really entertaining :tiger:
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Re: [BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

Post by Gorvoslov » Sat Jan 09, 2021 5:15 pm

Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia
Concept and Theme: 10 - Death of the crown prince is a pretty significant development worth telling.
Form: 10 - It definitely kept moving.
Voice: 7 - I liked the two opposite views, but it was a little confusing at first until I figured out that's what was going on.
Style: 16 - Again, as nice as the two opposite views was to get, I found it a little confusing. Maybe I'm just not great at cerebral engagement.
Presentation: 8 - A couple spots of awkward wording.

Total: 43
Total (Tiebreaker): 53

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Re: [BF20] Akhilleus and the Prince of Vasluxia

Post by SirZaphod » Tue Jan 19, 2021 12:12 am

Concepts and theme: 9 A nice classical theme bringing to mind the siege of Troy.

Form: 7 The story flows nearly flawlessly from one point of view to another. Though I do have to admit I did not realize it was doing so at the start.

Voice: 10 I could envision nearly every move in full Lego as I read through this story.

Style: 17 The story accomplishes what it sets out to do though I would have liked a bit more explanation at the start that it is from two points of view and passing back and fourth.

Total: 43
Presentation: 10 Nothing I could see wrong.

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