[WP] You are charged with leading the next Crusade. Where do you end up instead of Jerusalem?

...

Jarl Congrad had been charged with the Northern expedition of the Doterra Holy war. For many who dwell deep within the heartlands of the Eastern Nation's faith, this great privilege would be treated as more than just an honor: It would be God's own will. A destiny for a chosen soul.

For Jarl, though, it was an execution almost as certain as the axe and block of the Great Cities he despised; albeit in place of a sharp piece of steel to his neck there was instead a slow and tedious method consisting of supply routes and frustrating markers placed over inaccurate maps.

Doterra: The great and Holy Nation of Faith and Resistance to the Dark Lord's influence, had launched no less than five Holy Crusades in known and recorded history. Unlike most of the populace, Jarl Congrad had read the ledgers and analysis by old and crotchety men of war and distinction, and he'd drawn quite a few conclusions on the subject of Northern expeditions before ever setting foot beyond the Holy Western Wall.

The most important of which, was that (with a rather high degree of certainty) Jarl was confident that they were all very likely to end up dead: Just like all of the other Northern Branches of former Crusades.

"Armor, ready!" His shout ushered out over the plate and mail of hundreds of soldiers, elevated from his authority upon the white coat of his mount. Peering into the distance of the blackened deadlands before them, he should see another pack of Orcs approaching. "Archers, ready!"

The hum of wood and string in tension followed a quiet shuffling of hands and leather before the final command.

"Loose!"

Distant Orcs scattered into wild shouts and stumbles, thick shafts of wood impaling them from above. Those who survived ran off into the hills and rock covered wastes of the land, fearful of another attack. A quiet end to yet another skirmish upon the ledgers.

So far, Jarl had only found the force engaged in a single true battle. A pitched and bloody affair, armor and shield lines buckling so badly he'd needed to call upon his Mages with disastrous repercussions. One of his most effective Battle-Casters has been gravely wounded, and the man's companions now refused to do any more than watch over his slow recovery like blood-sworn guardian hounds of the Southern Isles.

Upon his formal visit of the man, stench of pain present in the strange wagon of metal and steal his beast drew along: The blood stained bandages were just another reminder of what waited for them.

Jarl was born and bred in the cruel and difficult lands of the North. A place of roaming monsters, wild Goblins, and raiding bands of Orcs that slipped the abandoned outposts on the far walls. His mind was honed by a strict tutelage of a disgraced Noble house, and then sharpened further by the brutal realities that lurked close as any roadside, but even so the sight was humbling.

No matter how powerful or resourceful a person was, every Northern Expedition ended in Tragedy. History would repeat itself, even for those aware of it (and very much regardless of their thoughts on the matter)

"Oh, but this one was different!" They all said. "This time we have an ancient ally: A Great Dragon aligned with the Equatorial Main force! We have a second awakening- thousands of young men joining the blessed ranks, all while the Dark Lord of the Western Lands seems to have abandoned his armies to their primitive ways and tactics! Every day reports show that we've routed thousands more Orcs and Goblins with ease!"

Those flashes of magic imbued ink upon the ledgers of the Wagon train might hold some weight in the minds of many others receiving their words; but Jarl didn't believe in baseless optimism. Tiny battles had been won, while the war itself was still thrown like a silver coing, all eyes unable to discern whether it might land on Crown or Seal.

To a man of his constitution, the messages from those Southern armies were nothing more than pleasant misdirection from the facts of the matter.

Scanning the barren dead-lands of black sand and dried stone, Jarl knew what they faced with clarity. The West was a force that could never be beaten, only resisted- and often poorly at that matter. The West was a force as constant and ever-present as the nature of wind, snow, cold or heat: Man could not defeat Nature, only defend from it.

The wagons creaked and jostled behind his mount, marching clamor of men and armor along side it in a slow pace. Their portion of this Crusade had been given the same mission as all the rest along the compass points. Lay ruin to the armies that crossed their path, and destroy the Relics of power: Those strange and wicked artifacts that watched over the land, commanded by the Dark Lord's touch.

Three hundred armored soldiers along with thirty trained Knights courtesy of the Baron Piosious. Forty supply wagons run by a small portion of the two hundred and fifty or so mixed-irregulars drafted along with the Adventurer's Guild, as well as two hired healers and half a dozen Battle-Mages beneath his own command (one of which counted was Jarl himself, and another of which was clearly out of commission for the next week at least)

Though theory and promise gave them and additional five hundred soldiers and supply wagons on reinforcement confirming success of their commanded objectives, Jarl knew full-well the Church had no intentions of sending those, just as they'd carelessly forgotten to provide numerous other objects of importance: Maps, supplies, horses, soldiers.

The entire battalion was without a single True emissary of Faith, lest you count the Baron or Jarl himself (and no sane individual who knew them would) and the escort of the Wall-division ended after the first three miles, turning back to their posts once the roads were located.

No, it was perfectly clear that they had been sent to die. The Baron was a well known thorn in the Church's side, and Jarl Congrad's family name had little but bad-blood and spilled blood along the few fringes of Faith holding true power in the Northern Territories.

They used him and his Guild as a tool, and tools could be replace: That was why he had been chosen, and his men drafted. Because the Northern Expedition of the Crusades always failed, and most everyone sent on them died.

"Congrad, Eldrick's Eagle returned. Two miles more and we'll be cresting the relic's crater." A thick man of scars and muscle trotted up alongside Jarl's mount upon an monstrous and ugly looking steed. "Eagle has spotted three figures at its base, Eldrick say's they're probably human. No packs or armies in sight."

"Humans..." He paused at that, a rarity here in the Western Lands so far as anyone knew. "Rally the rest of the Mages to me then." Jarl ordered, turning towards a distant figure in red-painted armor. "Baron! I leave you command!"

"And what should I tell them we'll be doing?" A far off gauntlet waved acknowledgement with a shout before Jarl's steed began to pick up pace ahead of the convoy.

"Why Bruce, we'll be meeting our three new friends and asking them some questions." Jarl let his magics rise, glow of blue essence soaking out into the world as he replied. "Politely, of course."