So I've been working on this idea for a fantasy epic for a few years now. And a while ago I decided on making a portion of the story a webcomic. Since I currently lack any artistic skill, or any artistic friends, this will probably take a long time to produce, if ever. But I figured I might as well write the whole thing out, just in case.
Here's a rough draft for chapter one.
"They were like gods upon the field of battle,
Their every move made with pride and purpose,
Where we were weak, they were strong,
Where we were broken, they stood tall,
And where we showed mercy, their hearts were stone."
-The warrior-poet Cassidus, on the first Black Hand deployment during the Western Insurrection
Twilight streaked across the sky as snow began to descend quietly from the heavens. A chill breeze fell upon the empty fields. Man once stood here, standing with pride against these harsh lands, earning his meager livelihood tilling the ground. Fate rewarded such dedication with a marauder's blade. Homes were burned and crops torn from the ground as the Easterners descended across the border. No quarter was given as villagers were slaughtered like cattle, or dragged off to fates far worse.
This land is Karav, the last bastion of Order along against the barbaric tides of the Unknown East. The Easterners attack was unexpected, using the element of surprise to crush the Nobles dotting the Borderlands. Mishtalyn and Karav have long been close allies. Bound by treaties that have lasted since they were sworn by both countries' forefathers. We were the first to answer their call.
It has been long since my home has gone to war, long since we've bared our teeth for the world. Our allies see this as weakness. Likening us to the wolf who has grown fat in times of plenty. Slowly encroaching on our lands, pushing at our treaties. Testing how far they can push us before we snap at their fingers.
Lord Acreas knows this. He saw it in the Luthanian Diplomat's eyes as he greedily clawed at the fertile farmlands along our borders. Sensed the malcontent in the Balthian Ambassador's voice as she renegotiated our military presence within their lands. And heard it from Cree assassin's broken voice as he broke after hours of torture.
Etiquette would govern that my Lord should send an entire chapter of Imperial Knights to aid our Eastern brethren, flanked by the auxiliaries taken from the Nobles personal armies. Deals would be made with the Merchant Guilds to create a fresh supply line to feed this beast of war.
But reality ignores etiquette. The wolf will always begin to stir as the buzzards pick at it's kill, eating away at what's rightfully his. He will lash out at them, driving them off. But they will remember his strength. No Knights were summoned, no Nobles to be taken under oath. My Lord has seen fit to remind the world of our true strength. So he sent us few, his own personal honor guard.
The Black Hand.
To remind them to fear our strength.
