Posts from Original plots for new scenarios and Campaigns

Sometimes a battle scene in a movie or a historical clash inspires the creation of something similar, but in the World of Ashan! Of course, it is difficult to implement all this on your own, but since there are many of us, skilled mapmakers can surely be found. Therefore, I suggest sharing your ideas and suggestions here for creating interesting plots that you would like to see in new scenarios and Campaigns.
I ask that you express your ideas, suggestions, and wishes in a clear and concrete form. Note that your desired plot should be original, interesting, and new—something that makes one want to implement it. For clarity, I will provide an example of a plot that I myself would like to see in a new scenario (campaign).

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Back in the day, I read Vitaly Zykov's novel "The Nameless Slave." It contains a description of a Great Battle between mages, dwarves, and elves on one side, and humans and lizards on the other. I think it's best to post this battle now without changes (it will be clearer). However, when the scenario is being made, adjustments can be made

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So, here we go:
...Tass emitted streams of caressing light. The wind tossed masses of clouds, disturbing the blue of the heavens. There was a ringing silence. Lush grass swayed lazily, mesmerizing the eye with its play of greens. In the distance, gloomy masses of forest loomed dark. Against the backdrop of this peaceful and soul-softening picture, tension and passion gathered drop by drop, threatening with every moment to tip the scales of patience and wash away everything around in an unrestrainable wave of anger and fury. To wash away, burn, trample, tear apart, disincarnate... Two great armies stood on the plain.

There was no equality in terms of numbers. One of the sides was characterized by extreme numerical superiority, but whether it was stronger remained a question.

In the center of one of the armies stood grim stocky bearded warriors – dwarves. Tightly closed shields, a matte glint on insanely expensive armor of smoky steel. An elite thousand of under-mountain warriors made the center practically invulnerable. Not even every magic could break the combat formations of the dwarves. Above the center of the dwarven square towered a signa – a stone fist.

The left wing consisted of heavy infantry. Each had a black shield. No banners or signs; the elite thousand black shield-bearers of the Kingdom of Zelod needed no introduction. The spirit of the detachment lived in the hearts and memories of the soldiers, and it was simply impossible not to recognize the black shield-bearers in battle. Their military glory could only rival the glory of the dwarves. Indeed, they had clashed in battles in times past... The thousand stretched out in a wide arc, truly resembling a wing. The warriors stood three cubits apart, leaving a path for the slender pointed-eared warriors in green armor – elves. Three hundred elven archers were ready to enter the fray. Paths in the neat ranks of men allowed them to retreat behind the backs of armored warriors in case of danger, while the latter could quickly close the ranks. Slightly behind, on small platforms, stood the crews of siege engines. And further to the left froze a half-hundred of stone idols.

A similar situation existed on the right wing – a thousand heavy infantry and three hundred elves. Only here were scarlet shield-bearers – eternal competitors and allies of the blacks on the fields of battle. Instead of stone idols, five hundred heavy cavalry were stationed.

Behind the troops was the Pilm guard. Five hundred of the most experienced veterans were ready to enter the fight at the command of their commanders – five Great True Mages. The mages stood on a wide platform and surveyed the battlefield. The magical aura blinded the eyes of those who could see it; the Astral shuddered from the spells held at the ready. Everyone awaited the signal...

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Against them stood far more modest forces. In the center was heavy cavalry. Light played upon their snow-white garments. Five shock companies prepared for battle. They were backed by a thousand infantrymen, ready to serve as a reliable shield for retreating cavalry or to secure a breakthrough. The left wing, opposite the scarlet shield-bearers, consisted of a motley mass of some people. There was various weaponry, equipment, and uniforms. One felt tempted to call them a rabble. There were no more than three hundred warriors here. Only the gray animal shadows flickering in the human mass were alarming.

On the right wing froze the masses of four-legged lizards, encased in armor and with combat turrets on their backs. There were no more than two hundred beasts. Behind them was a huddled crowd of light cavalry – six hundred mounted two-legged lizards... And on this side, too, they seemed to await a signal, a signal from a dozen riders in clothing as snow-white as the knights'. The faces of most commanders were adorned with slanted almond-shaped eyes – elves; the others had entirely human features. Except for one, with a strange non-human figure hidden by a spacious robe and glowing eyes beneath a deeply drawn hood. The creature stared intently at the enemy position. The Commander! Finally, the creature raised its hand and waved sharply. It began...

Horns sounded, and the mass of living beings came into motion. The giant lizards began a leisurely run first. Perhaps it would have looked comical if they didn't emanate such formidable power. Carefully moving their powerful paws, the creatures gained momentum. With every moment, the speed increased, casting doubt on the very possibility of stopping their furious breakthrough.

The warriors, whom one wanted to carelessly call a rabble, also stirred. Here, the speed of the advance was limited to a brisk walk. The center remained motionless. The point of such an absurd attack was unclear.

One of the mages on the platform sent a command to the regimental sorcerer of the cavalry half-thousand to strike the enemy's left flank. With shouts and whistles, the heavy cavalry began to accelerate. The fate of the wretched three hundred opposing them was predetermined. A much more complex situation was unfolding on the left flank. Elven archers released a hail of arrows, but the armored beasts continued their relentless march completely unharmed. These living fortresses forced the warriors to grip the shafts of their spears and shields tighter. The warriors prepared to die...

At a distance of three hundred cubits, the regimental mages struck in unison. The stream of fire created by them bit into the first three beasts and covered them with a searing sheet of living fire, crushing the protection of shielding spells and seeking gaps in the armor. After a few moments, the death cries of dying animals were heard, and three immobile blazing bonfires remained on the field. But this did not stop the rest. A crash rang out, and a giant globule of fire flew out of the turret of one of the lizards and streaked toward the human line along a shallow trajectory. Vv-v-uu-hh!! An explosion occurred as the charge hit a magical veil. But following the first, others flew, and there was no defense that could hold out under such shelling indefinitely.

At that moment, the cavalry reached its opponent, and clouds of mist enveloped the battlefield. From there came screams, horse neighing, the clang of steel, and the monstrous roaring of nightmare spawns, interspersed with flashes of magical strikes.

– Bastard! – barked one of the mages on the platform. – What kind of creatures did he put there?! Grant, can you dispel the mist?

The mage nodded and shouted some phrase, accompanying each sound with an intricate pass. A gust of wind struck, and the veil of yellowish mist was easily swept aside, torn to shreds in the process. But there was nothing left to look at. The same crowd of warriors ran across the grass, leaving bloody blots of human or horse bodies behind them. Five hundred elite cavalry ceased to exist in a matter of moments. Small groups of knights retreating to their own could no longer be considered an army.

– What in the... – one of the mages began, then immediately exclaimed: – Marhuzes, he managed to hide marhuzes from us!!!

And the panic sounding in the mage's voice did him no honor.

– We'll have to strike ahead of time, – said the bearded mage standing in the center, maintaining stony calmness. – Progius, Savage, let's do it together, Cloak Kali! Grant on defense!

Without bothering to answer, the mages waved their hands in unison, and the air above the running enemy howled in protest. A sheet of Darkness wove itself out of nothing and, hanging for a moment, greedily rushed down in a thousand tongues of dark fire. A multi-voiced howl rose over the place of battle.

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– Something is wrong!!! – Savage screamed. Beads of sweat ran down his face, tension locked his muscles. – We can't hold the spell long! Do you hear me, Ptolemy?!

The mage called Ptolemy nodded. Then he waved his hand, ordering the attacking spell to be dispelled. Before the spell that had gathered a bloody harvest could wither in the boiling air, a waterfall of yellow light crashed onto the field. Ptolemy, who had cast the High Magic spell almost effortlessly, suddenly jerked. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. The mages standing nearby concentrated and threw all their strength into deflecting the foreign magical strike. The spawn of Ptolemy's magic, left unsupervised, seemed to drift; Power strained for freedom, tearing the bonds of the spell. A moment – and with a soul-rending crash, a flash of hellfire flared on the field. A blast wave passed over the battlefield, knocking over several soldiers but bringing no significant destruction. In the place where three hundred living beings had been, there now darkened a melted crater...

And too late did the humans notice a dozen and a half animal shadows that had managed, by some means unknown to mere mortals, to avoid the monstrous cacophony of frenzied Powers. And then it was already too late to think about anything – the shadows reached the rank of shield-bearers. The only ones who managed to react in any way were the elven archers. But their volley brought no results, and the beasts burst into the crowd of warriors, easily breaking their ranks. Soon it was no longer a military formation, but a crowd of people driven mad by fear, each for himself. The screams of dying people, the roar of marhuzes, and fountains of blood spurting upward told an outside observer exactly where the beasts were located.

– Girkam, just dispel this Seal of Fear! Can't you see?! They are enchanted! – Ptolemy yelled at a thin, ascetic-looking mage.

He tensed up and, waving his magic wand, began to shout the words of a complex spell.

On the left flank, the situation was still controlled, but was also close to critical. Slightly fewer than two hundred lizards reached the infantry line, and now heavy flamethrowers were working there. Screams of people burning alive under streams of dwarven heat were interspersed with the roars of lizards literally being torn to pieces. Animated golems were already working here. Fire had no effect on them, and now the stone figures crushed foreign armor, tore flesh, broke limbs, and overturned huge carcasses. But there were too few golems, and they too suffered losses. The turrets on the lizards' backs turned out to be literally stuffed with all sorts of artifacts, some of which were effective even against golems. What was happening on the flanks now could be called simply – a meat grinder.

Usually restrained and pointedly correct, Lier Ptolemy cursed and ordered the guards led by Mage Diras to destroy the last creatures and take command of the right wing of the army. Though the panic-stricken terror instilled by the creatures had been dispelled by Girkam's spell, the monsters had not ceased to be what they were – ruthless reapers of death. Soldiers standing in reserve ran to meet the dance of death.

– The rest on center defense! – Ptolemy roared and shut his eyes. His consciousness was already floating in the sea of the Astral, pushing aside its layers and weaving the pattern of a spell colossal in its power.

At the same time, the enemy's light cavalry rushed toward the mages' left flank, intended to complete the rout of the broken army. And at that very moment, the Astral shuddered, rivers of Might surged, and the edges of reality trembled. In moments, monstrous winds drove in clouds, and a cloud, crimson in its nightmare power, hung over the battlefield. And green lightning, like pillars, struck the concentration of troops. The spell worked with filigree precision: the lightning struck only the lizard carcasses, leaving those around untouched. Blood boiled, shells and armor burst, and a multi-voiced howl drowned out all sounds. Of the creatures that had broken through the defenses, only deep ruts filled with smoking melt remained – everything that was left of the nightmare spawns of the enemy mages' and engineers' military genius.

But before the detachments could recover from the shock of the impending rout, mounted warriors burst into their ranks. And a bloody slaughter boiled over, but these were ordinary warriors, not living fortresses invulnerable to mortals. One could fight the riders; here, military spirit and training decided everything, and the black shield-bearers lacked neither. They gave the elven archers the much-needed respite, and the latter, gathering around the siege engines that had performed well but were now burning in fire, began shooting the enemy riders. The thick of the battle did not prevent the arrows of the best archers of the four continents from finding their targets... The scales tipped again. On the right flank, the last marhuzes were being finished off, and though it was good if every fifth of those previously standing there survived, they did survive. Now Diras was restoring order, and soon the thinned right flank should be ready for a new battle. The center had not even entered the fight yet.

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And at that moment, the enemy delivered the main blow. Again, the disturbed Astral shuddered; from somewhere in its lower layers, hidden by masking spells, a deadly spell broke free. Like a giant wedge, it swept across the field, leaving withered grass and cracked earth behind. And this wedge bit into the combat ranks of the dwarves, sweeping away the mages' deployed defenses as if they weren't there. And the formation collapsed under the blow. Dozens of under-mountain warriors fell dead, even more wounded, some simply thrown dozens of cubits aside. And the White Guard was already gaining speed. Warhorses struck the ground with their hooves in unison, trampling the remains of the grass, spears ready for a ramming strike. Following the cavalry, the enemy's infantry reserve began to move. The threat of rout loomed over the mages' army...

The dwarves saved everyone then. The surviving warriors managed to form ranks and take the blow themselves, bending but delaying the enemy, preventing the heavy cavalry, like a knife, from cutting the army into two parts and initiating its destruction. Dwarves perished, but did not surrender. They died with screams and praises to their clan, not bowing their heads for a moment before the enemy's signa.

It was only later that the mages were able to break the enemy's defense and bind the foreign lord, giving him no opportunity to strike again, losing six of their comrades in the process. It was later that the arriving shield-bearers enclosed the surviving enemy warriors in a ring and began their destruction – they refused to surrender. The dwarves ultimately tipped the scales then, and all fell. Only the signa remained unbowed: the dead hands of the standard-bearer continued to hold it vertically upright.

The enemy did not flee or surrender. With some transcendental ferocity, the enemy warriors rushed toward death. The commanders of the foreign army did not survive either. Deprived of magic, armed only with a giant poleaxe, the commander finally broke through to the remaining great mages... Only to perish by the swords of Girkam and Ptolemy. At the moment of death, the warrior flared with a deathly light and withered away. Only fragments of the shattered poleaxe remained for his conquerors...

And here is a new plot for a scenario or campaign (based on Dmitry Kolosov's book "The Warrior")

"Well, hello there, my dear ones!" Zeus drawled sinisterly as the five rebellious gods approached the throne. The Thunderer was clad in a ceremonial golden chlamys and held perun in his right hand, and in his left—a small round shield covered in a mirror-bright alloy. At his feet lay the shackled Hera; slightly behind her stood Artemis, Ares, and Apho.

"I would like to believe that you have come to your senses," Zeus continued, not waiting for a greeting in return, "but the method you chose to enter the palace suggests otherwise. I warn you: you have lost your battle, and it would be prudent of you to surrender to my mercy." The rebel gods remained silent. Zeus's voice grew increasingly solemn. "The punishment I shall assign you will not be easy, but you have well earned it. My sentence is this—all who do not submit to me await the fate of Pan; others shall be imprisoned in Tartarus for a term sufficient to repent for their deeds. In other words, I have decided to part ways with my rebellious assistants. I shall create new ones for myself, more obedient and perfect. Do you wish to say anything in your own defense?"
"Only one thing!" Poseidon replied. "We haven't lost yet!"
He thrust his interlaced hands forward, from which a bright blue beam shot out. Zeus made an imperceptibly swift movement with the shield and reflected this lunge. Bouncing off the shiny surface of the shield, the energy cluster hit the painted vault. One of Tacon's frescoes shattered into pieces, showering the floor with multicolored fragments.
Zeus remained unperturbed and merely noted:
"Impolite."
In the next moment, he had to reflect three more energy clusters sent by Athena, Hades, and Hephaestus, as well as a gold-tipped arrow smeared with love-poison from Erot. The Thunderer handled this task with incomprehensible ease, after which he struck back, unleashing an energy squall upon the insurgent gods. At this signal, Artemis and Ares entered the fray, while Apho, whose energy capabilities were small, hurried to hide behind the armored back of the throne.
The hall filled with shrieks and crashes. The gods hurled energy clusters at one another and reflected them with hastily created shields. There were more rebels, but despite this, they were weaker than their opponents. The power of Zeus's energy field many times exceeded the capabilities of the entire enemy coalition. Furthermore, fighting on his side were the battle-fierce Ares and Artemis, and Apollo, who had suddenly appeared in the Throne Hall after previously checking the integrity of the light streams. At first, the picture of the battle seemed chaotic. The gods threw energy clusters in all directions, trying as best they could to dodge shots aimed at them. They did not always succeed, and then an energy cluster would slam into a defensive contour and explode in a fountain of fluffy sparks. Such tactics favored Zeus—he possessed a strong protective field and could strike his enemies of his choosing. Therefore, the insurgent gods hurried to break the battle into several duels, where they met face to face: Athena and Ares, who had long disliked each other; Artemis with Hephaestus; Poseidon with Apollo, who dreamed of occupying his throne. Hades and Erot fought against Zeus, as well as Hera, who had somehow freed herself from her bonds. Not long ago they had feasted at a common table, but now they fought not for life, but for death.

Whether by chance or as fate willed it, the fighters in each pair proved to be roughly equal in strength. Athena, experienced in military affairs, was inferior to Ares in power, but he knew how well the goddess of wisdom wielded any weapon and therefore acted with caution. Without speaking, both opponents collapsed their energy fields and drew ordinary weapons from nothing: Athena—a five-pound spear with a leaf-shaped steel tip and a lezeion[240] with a convex image of an owl, and Ares—a heavy double-edged sword and a shield with a torch. It was a glorious duel that brought the combatants much pleasure. Eventually, they both became so engrossed in the fight that they stopped paying attention to what was happening around them. Only a prick, a parrying movement with the shield, and a counter-thrust.
Artemis considered herself a more experienced fighter than Hephaestus, and if they had fought on the same terms as the previous pair, the goddess of the hunt would surely have achieved victory quite quickly. After all, there was no armor that could withstand her arrows—forged, by the way, by Hephaestus. But a duel with energy clusters made their chances approximately equal. Artemis had a steadier eye, but Hephaestus's clusters possessed not only impact force but also burned with fire, and he moved quite well for a lame man. Several crimson rays, fired from the intersection of the index and middle fingers of the lord of fire elements, touched Artemis's skin, and whitish blisters swelled in those places.
The battle between Apollo and Poseidon was characterized by wild frenzy. The gods showered each other with a hail of energy pulses; Apollo's orange rays left bloody scars on the body of the lord of the sea, while Poseidon's accurate shots, saturated with the energy of the ocean, hit the enemy with such force that muscles crumpled and bones cracked. Soon Apollo began to cough up blood. Several times he was a hair's breadth from death, saved only by the intervention of Zeus, who at the decisive moment unleashed his perun upon Poseidon.
But the Thunderer himself did not have it easy. His calculations were thrown off by the suddenly freed Hera, who deftly cast a sticky loop around her husband's right leg, which slowed his movements and prevented him from concentrating for the decisive blow. The mischievous boy Erot also caused much trouble, firing arrow after arrow. Zeus had no desire to fall in love with the monstrous Hecate—for this was the sentence Erot accompanied each of his gold-tipped projectiles with—and therefore he had to remain constantly on guard. Perhaps the weakest link in this trio was Hades. The underground god diligently unleashed all his power upon the Thunderer. Long black streaks dug into Zeus's defensive contour one after another but could not pierce it, as the nature of Hades' energy clusters was very close to the cold essence of Zeus.
Taking advantage of the fact that Hades had slightly slackened his onslaught and the loop cast by Hera had lost its former strength, the Thunderer struck first, blocking Erot's consciousness with a will-impulse. Before the boy could fall, Zeus unleashed two powerful clusters upon Hades. The latter did not expect such a powerful lunge and was overthrown. A pink liquid—drops of energy plasma—oozed from the breached contour of his body. Dealing with Hera now proved to be as simple as can be. She understood her husband's power better than anyone and trembled before him. Thus, seeing that Zeus had overthrown two of her allies, Hera instantly released the loop and freed Zeus's leg. The Thunderer limited himself to casting a four-meter net over his rebellious wife, from which it was impossible to free oneself without outside help.

After this, Zeus allowed himself to catch his breath—not without purpose. It suited him to weaken those fighting: both opponents and allies, before he delivered the decisive blow and began to dictate his terms. The opposing gods fought with inextinguishable passion. Multicolored rays flew in all directions, plunging with a shriek into the walls, from which pieces of frescoes and marble friezes broke off. Then one of the columns collapsed exactly on Ares' head. Athena helped the stunned god rise, and they continued their duel. Zeus greeted her gesture with a crooked smile. Now it was time to effectively end this clearly prolonged dispute, and the Thunderer sent a telepathic signal, summoning the hekatonkheires into the Throne Hall, after which he sat on the throne and watched as Poseidon methodically beat Apollo with his blue clusters, turning him into a piece of well-beaten meat. To be honest, this sight brought him pleasure. But then the doors swung open and in appeared... No, not the hekatonkheires. These were those whom Zeus did not expect at all...
* * *
For countless years imprisoned on the Isle of the Blessed, the heroes led by Cronus built their endless ladder and finally reached the sky. And hammers beat loudly, scattering crimson marble dust in all directions. And the boisterous Ajax laughed, striking the celestial vault with such force that it shuddered from these blows. The heroes broke through the wall separating them from Tartarus and freed the titans. And now, when they had united their power, there was no force capable of stopping their onslaught. A monstrous vortex, created by the will of the titans, destroyed the walls separating the prisoners from the world of men, and they went free.
Scaring away wild beasts and minor demons who had heard of the quarrel between the gods and were rushing to Olympus to join the victor in time, the titans and heroes entered the palace and stood before the one who had condemned them to eternal imprisonment.
They stood in a row.
Eight titans—huge, mighty, indestructible.
Strong-jawed, sun-haired Hyperion. Previously he commanded the course of the luminary, and then he was cast down into gloomy Tartarus.
Blue-eyed Coeus, whose daughter Leto Zeus was once in love with. At least so it was believed. Coeus was Apollo's grandfather.
Iapetus—father of four mighty sons, one of whom, Menoetius, stood nearby. Behind Menoetius stood two of his sons.
Distrustful and suspicious Crius. He was especially fierce in battle.
And at the head stood Cronus—the most powerful and own same to Zeus, for he had managed to subdue time itself.
By the sides of the titans stood twelve great heroes, shining with the magnificence of armor and shields. The sharp stings of their spears looked threateningly forward.
At the appearance of such unexpected guests, the gods ceased fighting and froze in confusion. Then they began to back away toward Zeus's throne—step by step, picking up the lifeless bodies of Hades and Erot along the way. Soon they huddled at the Thunderer's feet, like chicks seeking refuge under a hen's wing. Zeus was no less surprised than they were, but not in the least discouraged.
"How dare you come here?!" he exclaimed thunderously, raising perun above his head. His voice rolled through the hall like a mountain landslide, making the walls tremble.
The titans and heroes answered the Thunderer with daring looks, and Cronus shouted:
"Return what belongs to us by right—our power!"
In strength of voice, Cronus was in no way inferior to the king of the Olympians.
"You, who only yesterday begged me for freedom, speak again of power?! I shall destroy you! I shall lock you in such a dungeon that there will be no road back!..."

The only difficulty is integrating the new storyline into the game's lore.

The only difficulty is tying the new plot to the game's lore.

Well, go ahead and work on tying it in! Or are you waiting for motivation in the form of a pittance?!

So, get started with the implementation! Or are you waiting for motivation in the form of a small reward?!

I'm waiting for the author who will take on the implementation of this project. And if the author is motivated by a small reward, I will only be happy about that!

... — How dare you come here?! — Zeus exclaimed thunderously, raising a thunderbolt over his head. His voice rolled through the hall like a mountain landslide, making the walls tremble.
The Titans and heroes answered the Thunderer with defiant glares, and Cronus shouted:
— Return what belongs to us by right — our power!
In the strength of his voice, Cronus was in no way inferior to the King of the Olympians.
— You, who only yesterday begged me for freedom, speak of power once again?! I shall destroy you! I will imprison you in such a dungeon that there will be no way back!...

To be continued...

— Our swords shall find it! — Ajax the Oily shouted shrilly. Zeus pushed the brazen man in the chest with a bolt of energy. The hero staggered but held his ground.

— It won't work! — Ajax shook his spear threateningly. — You were too generous in granting us immortality. I imagine how you regret it now!

— Not at all. — Zeus smirked and turned his gaze toward the god of war. — Ares!

The latter nodded and stretched out his arms. In that same instant, the heroes' faces turned to stone, and as one, they stepped forward in unison. One step, another, and another. By the unnatural movements of the warriors, it was easy to guess that they were trying to fight a force compelling them to act against their own will. But this force, stemming from the depths of consciousness, was insurmountable, and the heroes yielded. Upon reaching the throne, they turned as one and leveled their spears at the Titans.

— As you can see, by granting you eternal life, I ensured that if necessity arose, you would serve me faithfully even after death! — Zeus exclaimed triumphantly.

The echo of his voice was still booming off the marble walls and vault when three shadows appeared in the rectangular doorway outlined by the rays of the setting sun, falling like ugly stains upon the marble floor. The Titans turned hastily. Behind them stood the Hecatoncheires, gazing maliciously at the freed prisoners.

— Gaze upon the rays of the sun one last time! — Zeus roared with laughter. — Now I shall hide you in such a dungeon where the light of a candle will seem more blinding than the midday rays!

The Titans remained silent, gritting their teeth, then Cronus spoke:

— A star, if one looks closer, is always a sun. I wish to tell you, Zeus, I have finished my painting. Now there is a face upon the wall of the one who shall grind you into dust.
Zeus smirked.

— I am trembling with fear. I... — The Thunderer cut himself off, for in that moment, a new face appeared in the hall. Fate — the greatest director the world has ever known. Only she could create such an intricate plot, bringing new and new heroes onto the stage, doing everything to enjoy the game before the denouement arrives.

Comedy, tragedy, farce — everything must be saturated with intrigue: departing Moors and suddenly returning husbands, rebels vanishing into the subterranean abyss, and prophets ascending into the ether. They say the great Aeschylus intended to finish his "Prometheus," to bring back from the void the rock with the hero who suddenly regained his strength.

Whether the legend be true or not, Prometheus returned. He emerged from nothingness, huge and majestic, like a statue by Polymedov. Time had not touched the Titan at all; his hair was black, his body young, his gaze piercing. In truth, it was meant to be so, for the wise Chiron had granted him immortality.

Crossing his arms over his chest, the Titan looked defiantly at the Thunderer. In his gaze was a triumph that unsettled the Olympians.

— Seize them! — Zeus exclaimed hastily.

— Stop! — Prometheus raised his hand preemptively. — Stop, great gods! Or are you unaware of the prophecy that Prometheus shall return when the time of change arrives and the power of the tyrant, who imagined he held the fate of the whole world in his hands, falls!

The Titan was still shouting when enormous silvery-black tentacles began to grow from Zeus's chest. They grew larger, filling with a deathly and grim power. They reached an incredible length, lunged forward, and coiled around Prometheus's body. The Titans cried out; Iapetus, the prophet's father, rushed to help his rebellious son. But the movements of the tentacles were lightning-fast. Lifting Prometheus into the air, they slammed his head against the wall with full force. Pink fluid splashed, sprinkling the gods and heroes frozen by the throne. Then the tentacles loosened and released the lifeless body. For a moment, it was unbearably quiet, with only the rustle of storm-tossed branches and the ragged breathing of the gods, stunned by what had occurred. Only a moment. Then the silence exploded into a furious scream, and the Titans rushed upon their enemies.

Fiery vortices filled the throne hall, crashing down upon the gods and Hecatoncheires. The Olympians responded with a volley of energy bolts. The Hecatoncheires, possessing a powerful protective field, menacingly spread their numerous limbs and moved toward the Titans.

On the other side, a line of heroes stood ready to attack. They did not possess the strength of the hundred-handed ones or the energy power of the gods, but at this moment, they represented the greatest danger to the Titans. Foreseeing that the hour might come when heroes transformed into plasma-energy cyborgs might be useful to him, Zeus had ordered Hephaestus to craft special rods for them, the tips of which were coated with a substance possessing anti-gravity properties. Any strike with such a weapon, penetrating deep enough into a Titan's defensive contour, could inflict a grievous wound.

The Guard dies, but does not surrender!

The concept of the guard was born at the dawn of humanity. The term guard was used to describe elite units of warriors, the personal retinue of tribal chiefs, and later, despots. The pharaohs of Egypt, the lords of Ashur, and the bloodthirsty Assyrian kings all had their own guards. These were the best fighters, but in truth, they did not rush to die; on the contrary, they longed to live, to feast sumptuously, and to dress well. They were skilled in battle, often deciding the outcome of a fight. They stood as a formidable wall before the throne, embodying the power of the state. But they did not know how to die. And that is why our story is not about them.
Our story is not about the gold-armored Praetorian Guard of the Roman caesars, nor about the noble regiments shining with the splendor of their equipment at palace reviews; our story is not about the heroes of palace coups or the conquerors of the coquettish hearts of royal ladies-in-waiting. Let someone else tell of them.
Precious clothes, gilded helmets, silver spears—this was the look of the immortals, the tinsel guard of eastern lords. For many years it seemed invincible, frightening enemies with its menacing appearance and contrived glory, but it faltered before three hundred Spartiates, who were taught how to die, but whom they forgot to teach how to retreat.
Truly, in that moment, the real guard was born: a guard of spirit, a guard of honor. There were many such warriors who placed honor above all else. They were not always called guardsmen, but they were indeed so.
Leonidas's Spartiates and Epaminondas's Sacred Band, the Companions of Alexander the Great and the Tenth Legion of divine Julius, the Knights of the Round Table and Lazar's Serbs, the knights of same-named Svyatoslav and Sobieski's hussars [Jan Sobieski—a Polish king (17th century), who repeatedly defeated the Turks], Swiss mercenaries and Maltese Hospitallers [members of the Order of St. John; in 1565, the Hospitallers defeated a Turkish army attempting to capture Malta], Suvorov's wonder-bogatyrs and Napoleon's world-shaking "grumblers."
Perhaps we have not mentioned many—the unyielding Scottish Highlanders and the militia of Moscow Prince Dmitry, the warriors of Roland and Cromwell's "Ironsides" ["Ironsides"—an elite cavalry created by O. Cromwell; played a decisive role in the wars between the English Parliament and King Charles I], Kleber's revolutionary soldiers [Kleber—a famous French general during the Great French Revolution and the Directory] and Blücher's Landsturm.
Perhaps we should also mention the heroes of Shipka, and the "Varyag," and the brave Belgians who for three whole weeks held back the "steamroller" of the Kaiser's army, and von Spee's "Scharnhorst" and "Gneisenau" ["Scharnhorst" and "Gneisenau"—German cruisers that entered an unequal battle against an English squadron; Admiral von Spee, commanding the German ships, refused to lower the flags and perished along with 2000 sailors, including two of his sons]. Perhaps, although it was another century.
The Guard—whatever drove it: protection of the hearth, knightly pride, military brotherhood, greed—but above all, there was honor. The guardsmen left no lavish monuments or palaces to their descendants; they left something greater—a great memory that defines history.
Thus, it is almost indisputable that the homeland of the guard was Sparta, truly a state-guard. Heroes are not born; heroes are raised. In Sparta, they raised heroes. Here, one could not help but be a hero. A Spartiate going to battle was given a shield and he could return either with it, as a victor, or on it—lifeless, carried by loyal friends who had crushed the enemy. He who threw away his shield ceased to be a Spartiate. He no longer belonged to the special caste of warriors—the Hellenic guard.
The Guard inspired admiration. It was adored. Hymns were composed in its honor. In the mind of a Hellene, the Spartiates of the Thermopylae era were likened to titans, great heroes. And this veneration sometimes influenced them more strongly than courage. In those wretched moments when sticky fear crept in, a Spartiate remembered that he was a hero, equal in spirit and valor to his god-like ancestors. And does a god-like hero have the right to turn his back on the enemy? And so the Spartiates refused to leave the battlefield for the sake of saving their lives. The age of Sparta's glory was the age of Hellas's glory.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhAKkPOjRVs

However, the ancients rightly noted—sic transit gloria mundi [thus passes earthly glory (Lat.)]. Any glory becomes nothing if it is not confirmed by daily action. The Spartan guard dissolved in inter-Hellenic squabbles; it was consumed by a golden rain that blinded the eyes of the gerontes. With the sunset of the guard began the sunset of Hellas. This sunset was beautiful, truly—many nations would have envied such a sunset—but still, it was a sunset followed by night. There was, admittedly, a short surge—the decade of Epaminondas's glorious victories. Three hundred warriors bound by divine friendship—they fought not for profit, not for themselves, not even for the fatherland, but to save a bleeding comrade. It is no wonder they were victorious. But at the same time, they were overshadowed by the glory of the invincible Epaminondas.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Mg7r1f-D0U

When the great bearch was gone, the Theban guard sank into oblivion.
Then came the Companions—the "friends" of Alexander the Great. Noble by birth, they were fearless in battle. There were very few of them, a few hundred, perhaps a thousand. Ptolemy, Lysimachus, Seleucus, Perdiccas, Hephaestion, Philotas, Parmenion. But the onslaught of the Companions crushed enormous armies. And there were dozens of battles. And there were great victories at Granicus, Ipsus, Gaugamela. And there were losses. Some "friends" perished in clashes; others were sucked into the swamp of conspiracies. Those remaining declared themselves Diadochi [Diadochi (successors—Gr.)—the generals of Alexander the Great who divided his empire after the ruler's death] and tore the great empire to shreds.
The Tenth Legion was never called a guard by Julius. But Caesar sent it to the most dangerous places, which means he considered it as such. The Triarii [the most experienced warriors forming the third line of a Roman legion] of the Tenth Legion bore scars received in clashes with Helvetians, Belgae, Germans, Averni, Carnutes, Aedui [Gallic tribes conquered by Julius Caesar]; they remembered Pharsalus, Thapsus, Munda [battles of the civil war in Rome in which Julius Caesar crushed his main opponents]. The Tenth Legion was Julius's child, and he, in turn, was its soul. The Guard ceased to exist when the soul died, pierced by the daggers of Brutus and Cassius. And then appeared the Praetorians, those janissaries of antiquity, whose valor consisted only in overthrowing and elevating caesars to the throne.
The Knights of the Round Table turned into a beautiful legend. And Lancelot is doomed to fight eternally with a dragon—a dragon eternal and undying. And Roland's Frankish knights fell in a gorge under the blows of curved Basque swords, and Lazar's brave Serbs carpeted the Kosovo field with their bodies [site of the battle between the Turkish army and the combined forces of Serbs, Bosnians, and Albanians; the Turks won a complete victory and captured Serbia and several neighboring states].
The pagan retinue of Svyatoslav vanished into oblivion, tamed not by the Roman spear, but by the cross. Sobieski's dashing szlachta traded honor for revelry and pride.
But let us return a few steps back to the early Middle Ages—the era of the power of Arabs and Vikings. Norman drakkars shook the world from Algeria to Scotland, from northern Rus to North America, which at that time was not yet America, but Terra incognita [unknown land (Lat.)]. The Normans laid waste to the lands of the Franks, Germans, Italy, Sicily, Spain, Portugal. "A buroxe North Mannorum libera nos, Domine!" [save us, Lord, from the fury of the Normans (Lat.)]—prayed a Europe frozen with terror at the appearance of predatory dragon-noses. The Normans were distinguished by frenzy and cruelty, but the most frenzied were the berserkers, who laughed in the face of death. Yes, they wished to die, but only so that they might live. Live in beautiful Valhalla. Odin's children did not seek death; they sought salvation in death. Jumping with a sword into a crowd of enemies, the berserkers screamed with happiness, believing they had escaped the horror of Hel, and as they died, they looked to the sky for beautiful Valkyries.
Paradise awaited Muslim warriors too. But the frenzy of the Vikings was akin to honor; the heroism of Muslims was religious fanaticism, for the mujahideen [Islamic warriors waging a holy war against infidels] believed in God, while the Vikings believed more in the sword. Neither were guardsmen. They did not fear death, but paradise was behind their backs. Behind the backs of the Spartiates, however, were the fatherland, homeland, Tartarus, and honor.
For four centuries, Swiss mercenaries were the mainstay of many European sovereigns. They fought for money, but they worked it so conscientiously that they crushed those who fought for glory. A tiny detachment of Swiss protected the unfortunate French king even when he was forsaken by the people, the nobility, and the army. This was a guard honestly earning its money. It ceased to exist the moment mercenary work died and national armies appeared.
Came the age of great revolutions, wars, and upheavals. An age of giant slaughter for possession of the world. An age of emperors and generals. An age brief and formidable. An age that contained countless battles. This was the age of the great guard. This was the age of its death.
Bassano, Holabrunn, Austerlitz, Jena, Auerstedt, Preussisch-Eylau, Friedland, Zaragoza, Aspern, Wagram, Smolensk, Borodino, Maloyaroslavets, Krasny, Berezina, Bautzen, Kulm, Katzbach, Lützen, Champobert, La Rothière, Lannes, Brienne, Dresden, Leipzig, Ligny... [The most bloody battles of the Napoleonic Wars.]
Hundreds of thousands of brave warriors laid down their heads in these bloody battles.
And finally, there was Waterloo, a small village south of Brussels, which entered history by its name only because Wellington's headquarters were located there. Had Napoleon won, this battle would have been called the Battle of Belle Alliance. But he lost and therefore:
WATERLOO.
Year 1815, month June, eighteenth.
On this day, Napoleon's old "grumblers" fell. They died because on this day everyone was dying. On this day died the gendarmes of Delor and Vathier, the chasseurs of Lefebvre-Desnouettes, the dragoons of Somerset, and Cook's guard companies. On this day died the Grey Scots and Duhem's Young Guard. On this day the guard died, for its age had passed. In place of valor and courage, sword and bayonet, came the strategy of Clausewitz and Moltke [Clausewitz—a prominent military theorist; Moltke—his student and follower], the conical bullet, and the rocket. The individual was leaving; the masses were arriving.
It was not Waterloo that killed the Guard. At Waterloo, guardsmen died—perhaps the best of the best—but not the guard. Its executioners became the steam engine and boulevard newspapers, bloomers and parliaments, the battleship and a sated society. It was buried by feminists and communists, speakers, Quakers, theosophists, Labourites, and mercy societies. It was buried by hypocrisy and polished prosperity. It was buried by time itself.
The Guard could have surrendered to the mercy of the victors and become an interesting anachronism evoking a kind smile, like the English monarchy or Disney-like phantom castles, but it preferred to die, leaving the material world only the lavish tinsel of uniforms—the dried shell of a dead body.
The sailors of "Varyag" and "Scharnhorst" still sang their death song:

And from the faithful pier we shall go to battle
Toward the death that comes for us...

But the guard was already dying, and in its agony, the cry of Cambronne could be heard.
The Guard dies, but does not surrender!
It has always been so. For the greatness of the guard is not in bearskin hats or silver shields. Its greatness is in modest obelisks erected at Thermopylae and Borodino, at Leuctra [site of the battle between Peloponnesian and Theban forces (371 BC); the Thebans under the command of Epaminondas dealt a crushing defeat to the enemy] and Waterloo. Its greatness is in the feat of the Russian hussar Melissino [A.P. Melissino—a Russian hussar, regiment commander; in 1813 near Dresden he performed an act of self-sacrifice, charging on horseback into the bayonets of an enemy square; the enemy formation was broken, and Melissino received several mortal wounds and died on the spot] and in the twenty-five wounds of Lannes [Jean Lannes—Marshal of France, one of the most famous commanders of the French army; commanded troops in many battles; mortally wounded in the battle of Esling], who died from the twenty-sixth. It is in the short word "merde," shouted before the muzzles of enemy cannons.
So when does the guard die?
Then, when one cannot take a step back because the lives of friends, the outcome of the battle, and the fate of the fatherland are at stake—when honor is at stake. The Guard always dies.
All reserves had already been exhausted. And then the phrase that has since become great rang out:
- Throw the Guard into the fire!
And the guard went into the fire. As it had done many times. But on this evening, everything was different. With cries of "long live the emperor!" the guardsmen marched toward enemy batteries, toward the retreating army. They marched toward their own death. On this day they could no longer bring victory; they could only die. Die without shaming their honor and glory. But is that not enough?

The Guard died. But did not surrender.

Authors:

1. Zeratul
2. DinHot
3. Dracon Mallasa
4. Machete
5. eXeCuToR
6. Simas
7. TibWar

The young elf, Albin, wiped the blood from his sword. Recently, at the School of the Invisible Hand, he, as a gifted student, received an assignment to carry out a murder for a decent reward. A certain woman was willing to pay up to a thousand coins for this task, depending on how the murder was carried out.
Now, at the foot of a tree, lay a man, decently dressed, with eyes as black and bottomless as Silanna's. The last thing Albin had to do was wave his knife, and he was left with the finger and ring of this man. Proof that he was killed.
It would take several days to reach Glenger. Night had fallen, and our hero decided to spend the night in a tavern. In the morning, after breakfast and watching a couple of fights, the young man went to the city, where he was expected. He needed to reach the underground passage that day, and then it would be easier.
Along the way, Albin kept examining the ring. Although assassins are not supposed to know who the murdered person is and what the employer's motives are, this elf was different. A stone was set in the platinum ring. It was so dazzlingly red that Albin's eyes hurt at first. The entire ring was covered with runes and very strange ornaments, possibly demonic. The young man hid the ring in his pocket and continued on his way.

The story continues here:

I'm waiting for the author who will take on the implementation of this project. And if the author is motivated by a small reward, I will only be happy about it!

I also support this idea. The work of mapmakers should be paid for.