Andrés del Bosque's father was a knight, and a leader of men. His mother, meanwhile, was of gentry from a neighboring county. 

When the knights and local lords come to pay their respects to the Thrune lackey pretending at dukedom, Andrés is notably absent. This pretender is a murderer, a diabolist, and lacks the magical bloodline of the true ducal line. So Andrés gathers his followers and his allies, to fight in the name of his lord and oust the usurper.

The core of the force is loyalist knights and their men-at-arms, but they need more recruits. Joining up, peasants whose farms burned, out for revenge and a soldier's pay. 

It's not enough men to face an army on an open battlefield, so they take to the woods. The pretender duke and most of his men are away, called by the Thrunes to fight on their behalf. So Fraga's Woodsmen, as they've started calling themselves, are free to strike at any supplies or messages being delivered to those armies. There are a few skirmishes with the garrison left behind to secure the duchy, but their forces are evenly matched. Some of the garrison don't even fight, either because they fear that Duke Felip might return soon, or because the woodsmen loot the manor of any knight too eager to fight in the name of the pretender. 

The supply situation is a constant worry. There are villages who still call Andrés or one of his knights 'lord' and give what they can spare. This is supplemented by seizing supply wagons meant for the war, and raiding the manors of traitors. It's not sustainable, but it doesn't need to be. Just enough to hold on until Duke Felip returns. 

So they fight on, with prayers to “Iomedae for victory, Cayden for bravery, Gorum for strength, Erastil for our families, and Sarenrae for our souls".

Andrés II 's father was a knight, and a leader of men. His mother, meanwhile, was the proprietor of a small roadside inn. 

When the last great house surrenders and every city has parades to celebrate the victorious "Queen Abrogail Thrune", Andrés II and his men stay hidden in the woods. The people will never accept rule by a devil worshiping queen and her lackeys. Outlying provinces are already in revolt or breaking away, inevitably this diabolist queen will fall and the true king and his nobles will return. Fraga's Woodsmen do their part to make it happen sooner.

The core of the force is knights and veteran fighting men, but they need more recruits. Joining up, mercenaries and soldiers left listless at the end of the war.

Openly challenging the pretender duke on the battlefield would draw the attention of the new queen and her forces, so Fraga's Woodsmen fight from the shadows. Moving their camp to stay ahead of the local garrison, they nip at the heels of this new queen. Tax collectors and officials die on the road. Conscripts for the 'New Chelish Army' kill their recruiting sergeant and join their fathers in the woods. Some remote villages go years with neither an Asmodean cleric nor a schoolteacher; the Woodsmen putting them down faster than the church and crown can send them. 

The supply situation is a constant worry. There are villages who still resent the rule of hell, at least enough to take the Woodsmen's coin. This is supplemented by seizing the goods of known collaborators, especially merchants on the road who trade with the pretender. It's not sustainable, but it doesn't need to be. Just enough to hold on until Duke Felip returns. 

So they fight on, with prayers to “Iomedae for victory, Cayden for bravery, Gorum for strength, and Calistria for revenge."

Andrés III 's father was a "knight", and a leader of men. His mother, meanwhile, was a camp follower treated slightly better than the rest. 

When decrees announce that the fall of Queen Abrogail II in favor of Queen Catherine Aspexia means an amnesty for all crimes, Andrés III and his men laugh that anyone would buy that; they've have heard these kinds of tricks before. Some of the oldest woodsmen say their fathers said a man called 'Duke Felip de Fraga' will come back, pardon them all, and give them medals and manors. Only a few really believe that, and even they only believe it when drunk. No one believes that it'll happen just because there's a new queen, they've seen a few new kings and queen before.

The core of the force is hardened bandits, with only a few new recruits. Mostly outlaws or runaway serfs.

Openly attacking villages and even manors is an option now, with the local army garrison sent off to fight some "four day war" and the few soldiers left behind turning bandit themselves. Fraga's Woodsmen refrain, though. Instead they stick to their usual racket, ambushing travelers on the roads. Anyone with coin to spare gets to live– except clerics of Asmodeus. Most of the men don't even remember where it came from, but that's their rule: Spare anyone who surrenders, except for diabolists and anyone wearing the colors of the duke.

The supply situation is a constant worry. They're not openly sacking villages, but few will trade with them except when threatened. Not exactly robbery, even if mentioning that they could just take what they want comes up every time they haggle over prices. It risks drawing attention every time, but as the saying goes, they only have to keep doing it "until Duke Felip comes back". As if.   

So they fight on, with prayers to “Gorum for strength, Calistria for revenge, and Baphomet to cover our tracks."

It is 4713. There is a war, and the duchy of Fraga is still slow to react--this time, it is over before they show up to any battles, as it only lasts four days.

The Thrunes have fallen low; Felip's grandson, Felip III, leaves Mendev with his retinue. Traveling by river, then sea, then river, then land, then river, it takes them well over a month to reach his old lands. There is no longer really a ducal seat--the pretenders ruled from Egorian--and the Queen has already dealt with the worst of the counts, but the remainder require a more thorough review. Even without a seat, they can still manage; he sends word ahead, commanding the counts to attend to him at the first town in Fraga they will arrive at. There's a ceremony; he redeems his grandfather's words, appoints one of his companions to a county seat that the Queen caused to be vacant, and then announces that he will take a Grand Tour of the duchy.

The duchy is large, mostly farmlands, with scattered woods and rivers and ruins. There are no real cities, but a meaningful town in each of the county seats, a handful of others scattered throughout, and countless villages dotting the countryside. Well--her job is to help count them. While much of Golarion has 'agrotowns', where somewhere between two hundred and a thousand people gather together inside walls and farm the neighboring region, Fraga is old, well-settled, and well-policed enough that hamlets and villages have sprouted between them, where the farmers only have to walk a mile to their fields instead of five, and then walk five miles to the weekly market (or the nearest cleric). They're not going to stop in every settlement with dozens of residents--they couldn't realistically try--but they are going to try to hit some of them, and as many of the agrotowns as they can manage. 

Isidonia is managing the parts of their route that go through the towns, and she is managing everything in-between. What could have been a month's trip if they were only interested in the major centers instead looks like it will be six months of small roads, camping, and unclear supplies.

Well, at least the counts will appreciate having time to prepare for the duke's inspection. Of course she sends some observers home with all of them anyway, so they can't sweep too much under the rug, and they know what sort of things their new liege-lord will be attentive to and appreciative of.

And place their itinerary against a festival calendar, and--

From the perspective of an army, a hundred pikemen, arranged in a ten-by-ten square, is a single building block. From the perspective of a village, it is a village of its own, but one without elders and children; only military-age men, ready for violence. It makes for a rather impressive sight, especially when they have a cleric to keep them healthy and magic enough to keep the pikes shining and the uniforms crisp.

They are a mixture of ethnicities; Mendevian, Taldan, Galtan, Andoren, Chelish. Men from all over Avistan traveled to the Worldwound to fight for Golarion and ended up in Felip's employ, when he was just a wealthy mercenary captain; these are the ones that decided to follow him to his Chelish adventure. Their easy camraderie is only marred by a handful of new faces, men who never left Cheliax or the duchy, and are in the new duke's service; not yet fully trusted, and not yet fully trusting.

They take the road that cuts through the core of the territory held by Fraga's Woodsmen. Four squares, five abreast and five deep, with supply wagons laden with barrels in between the first two and last two squares, and a carriage in the very center. Their banners fly the old colors--five black flowers on a field of gold--and ribbons in black and yellow stream from their pikes.

Three woodsmen return to camp, sacks empty. "No dice. We even offered to pay in coin."

First, those three have to count back the valuables they were given to trade, and put it back in the strongbox. Once they see that not one coin is missing, the camp gets a bit less tense. Though a few men are disappointed that the count adds up. 

"Think I know why they're so jumpy, too. Heard rumors all over town, an army marching around."

"Don't think so. War's over. If there even was a war." He has explained, several times, how the whole story of a war that only lasts four days is clearly an infernal lie.

"How would an army even get to the heartlands. Weren't they fighting the Galtans, all the way over... near Galt? Not near here."

The men who learned geography from squiggles traced in the dirt by their parents argue with the men who have been to schools. Not one of them has seen a map of Cheliax. Eventually, they agree on "It's called the heartlands, that means it's in the middle. Galt is not in the middle, so the soldiers can't be from Galt or fighting Galt."

After even more arguing about who they are, then, the heads of the camp decide to send a couple scouts, to–

"PIKEWALL! HEADING THIS WAY... Same as the ones they trained us to make in the army. Four blocks of men, each one big enough to fill the road. With banners and wagons and everything. We're too close to the road, good chance they find our camp."

Bernad gives his report frantically and with some shouting. The others in the 'command tent' looks at him skeptically. He is new blood, not old guard, which is already a mark against him. But 'conscripted then escaped halfway through training' is more experience with armies than anyone else, so he got to be the scout for this. 

The "chaplain" is first to respond. He a necklace of asmodean holy symbols taken as trophies, and one symbol that no one recognizes but everyone is suspicious of. "A good ambush could even the odds. Lemme get the strength and courage spells up before the fight, with that and surprise, we can cut half of them down before the start even starts."

Pere Ramirez-Diaz– it's obvious he is old guard because he has two last names and a full set of armor– sharply disagrees. "Don't start planning for a battle if we can avoid one. You might want to die for your demon god; I would rather move the camp before they find us. "

Bernad nods. "I said FIVE SQUARES, remember? Their armor is better but we could take take one of those squares, with surprise. Five to one, that's walking into the mouth of a bear. We pack up and make a run for it now, deeper into the woods. Those armies are expensive, if we get away now, probably isn't worth it to chase us."

That gets a few glares. He was picked to scout, not invited to make decisions. On the other hand, he is speaking sense and the "chaplain" seems determined to get everyone killed. They only let him into the command tent because fresh water and spells are really useful. Ramirez-Diaz responds directly, "That sounds better than jumping onto their pikes, but only fixes things today. Without yesterday's resupply we can't just spend weeks trying to stay ahead of them."

"So we scare them off now. Show them that it really isn't worth it to chase us."

"Or, if they don't know where we are yet, better to keep it that way." 

They do know where you are, but are being polite about it. Melina isn't close enough to overhear the arguments in the command tent, but can see what the mass of men are up to.

They continue walking until they find a good spot for ambushers; trees grown close to the road, gentle hills to both sides to put gravity on the side of the woodsmen and against the road. The wagons stop; two small squares stay on guard, while one sets down their weapons and rests while another trades their pikes for axes, and sets to work chopping down the trees, and then fashioning crude tables and benches out of them.

A stump is quickly converted into a camp stove, and the smell of cooking meat begins to waft away from the camp.

Well, looks like the ambush is off the table. Damned army took the one good ambush spot. They can't keep arguing, they already lost an advantage by taking too long to decide. With their best option for a fight off the table, and time running out, the woodsmen turn to their leader to make a decision.

Andrés III is old. No one really knows how aware he is during these command meetings. He seems silent and half asleep, letting his lieutenants squabble, but at times he coughs and cuts in with surprising awareness. If he wasn't still hale enough to hold his own in a fight, one of the lieutenants might have taken over. But so long as he can fight, everyone knows better than to usurp him. The old guard families are serious about their oaths of loyalty, and they make this clear to anyone who seems to be getting ideas. It takes a few moments for Andrés to stir, and instead of making a decision he coughs out a question.

"Banners... their colors?"

The scout answers 'gold with black flowers' and the conversation halts. To some of the woodsmen, this is a minor detail. But the command tent is still mostly old guard, and most of them dimly remember who they were supposed to be loyalists of. It is now entirely obvious what is to be done.

A small group, five of Fraga's Woodsmen, approach the Dukes Own and their roadside camp. Two more hide behind the newly-diminished treeline, too far to fight but close enough to watch. When this goes wrong, their job is to run back to camp and warn them to run for the county line with the camp followers and children. 

Two of the five are dressed something like knights, clad in scratched and dented armor, heraldry displayed on tabards with fading colors. The first is much too old to fight, the second other a bit too young. The other three men are clad in armor scraps and dirty clothes; visibly estranged from society, or at least from contact with a laundry wizard. They cluster around a tattered banner. 

At the center of the camp is a man dressed in fine silks, a ducal coronet on his head, sitting on a camp stool, writing at a camp desk. Periodic Messages keep him apprised of the work crew and the sentries, and on the arrival of their guests he gently consults an old book.

Send them in.

Half of one of the sentry squares forms a corridor, six men standing to each side, pikes up. Another pikeman approaches the woodsmen.

"How shall I introduce you?"

The pike corridor is nerve wracking. None of these men were alive back when Fraga's Woodsmen actually tangled with armies, and even back then they mostly just ran away. The knights are sure they're supposed to face death unflinching, and so they can walk through. The others follow only because it's not like not following makes them any less outnumbered. 

The young knight, standing up straight and proud, answers. "This is Sir Andrés III of Fraga's Woodsmen."

He projects his voice clearly, sounding across the camp. "You stand before His Grace Felip III, Duke of Fraga, Count of Massal, Veteran of the Fourth Mendevian Crusade!"

"Presenting Sir Andrés III of Fraga's Woodsmen!"

"Approach, and be welcome at our fire. Are these your lands, we are travelling through?" Their leader looks old; he gestures, and his valet sets up another stool a respectful distance away.

Before they sit down, they bow. The knights with some practice and the rest in terrified imitation. The old man shakes his head at the question, "Your lands."

He smiles. "Well yes, but also the lands of Her Majesty Aspexia III, and, for now, of Count Fernando." He doesn't know Fernando well, yet; one of the holdovers not executed by the Crown, who he might find himself executing soon enough. "Many men can share responsibility for the same land, so long as they understand their relationship to one another."

The old man nods. A silent moment, as he does not elaborate. One of the others speaks up, gruff and unpolished. 

“We’ve got no understanding with Fernando or any other count. The only land we hold to is all Fraga and the only master is the same. Looks like you if you’re got the blood to match the crown.”

The youngest man nervously cuts in, “He means no offense, we’re talking about the magic of the Fraga birthright.  … your grace.”

He will demonstrate his sorcerous blood with a Dancing Lights. Of course, any sorcerer could manage that, and any wizard besides, but he doubts they know enough about magic to differentiate his bloodline from others.

Well, maybe they've heard the stories of their unique spell, but--he hasn't managed it, yet. His father never did. Now that they're back in Cheliax, he hopes it will appear swiftly.

"I understand news moves slowly, to the more remote corners of the realm, so I will begin at the beginning. Earlier this year, one of the claimants to Gaspodar's throne, Catherine de Litran, managed with her allies to defeat the House of Thrune, and now sits atop Cheliax's throne as Aspexia III. The pretender to the duchy of Fraga was shortly thereafter executed, and I was restored to my lands. We are perhaps a third of the way through our tour of the duchy, seeing for ourselves its condition, and who is responsible for the corners of it.

There has been a cessation of the Infernal Laws, and a general amnesty for the commons for any crimes committed before the war. Her Majesty has so far issued only one decree to replace them; we may trust that more will follow with time. If you cannot read, it will be read to you, and I entrust you with spreading the news to those you are responsible for." He gestures, and his valet hands over a scroll.

"There has been no such amnesty for the rulers of men; the counts and barons are on probation, with the Queen excising the most tyrannical and her allies arranging the for the resurrection of many who lost their titles in the civil war. One of the purposes of my tour is to discover which of the grandees I can work with, and which I must request be replaced. I am also reviewing the lesser appointments, when appropriate, and hearing cases for crimes committed since the war."

He'll give them a minute to contemplate that, and read the scroll (or have it read by the valet). His next question is perhaps obvious.

A couple of the rougher bandits narrow their eyes at the display of basic army or laundry wizard tier magic. They also know better than to say that any wizard could do that, not while surrounded by pikemen. 

The younger knight takes the scroll. He, and his friend who went to half of a school, can read it if they cooperate. They are unsure about when the dates on some of these are, and what exactly some of the words mean. "We can let the rest of us know what this says. Does it mean we aren't outlaws anymore, or are we?"

The rest of them, with the exception of the leader who is staying quiet, have hushed debates on the demerits of various local magnates. There are a few who the woodsmen respect, for paying them to go somewhere else or for giving anyone they capture a proper trial and hanging. There are many others they would gladly see gone for things like being too generous with the impalement, killing the secret pharasmin cleric, sending men to check for travel passes even after the war, torturing random serfs to find out who had been trading with the woodsmen, being a devilspawn, and most hated of all: somehow training hunting dogs and giant spiders to work together and go after humans.  

There are not many crimes on the decree's list, but "murdering" and "stealing" are both there. 

The old knight takes the paper and gives it a close look. No exceptions for soldiers fighting the dubiously-still-ongoing Chelish civil war, in the name of the true rulers of Fraga? The rest look over his shoulder with some nervousness.

He gestures and one of the few men in the Duke's group not wearing his colors approaches. "This is Ser Sebastien de Carlennes, a paladin with the Glorious Reclamation. Are you familiar with that order, or for that matter, with paladins?"