Da Vinci's Legacy [AltHis-Steampunk/Fantasy|IC|Open]

[Tracian Empire]

Da Vinci's Legacy IC Thread A Steampunk and Fantasy Roleplay OOC - MAP - DISCORD OP Tracian Empire CO-OP Remnants of Exilvania “Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return” –Leonardo da Vinci Welcome to Da Vinci's Legacy, a steampunk and fantasy alternative-history roleplay set in 1648. This is Earth - but not our world, instead, a world which mankind has shared since times immemorial with the art of magic and with other races. Through wars and much bloodshed, humans had already taken control of much of the Old World, but in the 15th century, the rediscovery of ancient knowledge which had almost been lost brought with it the Renaissance, a great age of progress for all human realms. The rediscovery of the aeolipile led to the invention of the steam engine and to an explosion of technology which allowed great minds like Leonardo da Vinci to put their dreams into practice. With new ships, vehicles and great new devices of flight, alongside the power of their mages, humans expanded once again in an Age of Discovery and Conquest. The year is 1648, and a precarious balance between magic and steampunk technology exists in most of the developed nations. Europe, the main center of this new age, has been weakened by religious wars and tensions between mages and scientists, while rumors of ancient monsters hidden in the shadows bring fear into the hearts of men, fear that is often directed against the remains of the other races. In the Americas, the colonies of the Old World wage a seemingly never-ending struggle against the native states, human and non-human, for supremacy over the new continents and their resources. Asia, once a realm of stability and tradition, is battleground of ancient magic and gunpowder empires, with the Europeans lurking at the edges. The dreams of an enlightened future, with peace and technology for everyone, are long gone, and it is clear that the future will one of blood, magic and steam... General Rules 1. The OP reserves the right to be subjective and will have the final world in all matters. 2. The Co-OP will enjoy the same prerogatives in the absence of the OP. 3. All site-wide rules apply. 4. No OOC writing in the IC. 5. No godmodding, metagaming, or other similar actions 6. No flaming, trolling, or harassment in the OOC or in the IC Roleplay Rules 1. There is no single, strict PoD. This is alternate history, so you can go with anything that you want, including real life nations, as long as it has a basis in history. While the addition of fantasy races and of magic, and later of steam technology makes this world radically different from our own - the humans in particular developed in similar ways compared to real life. 2. Some important historical events can not be changed and will need to be respected. The existence and expansion of the Roman Empire, the spreading of Christianity, the Sunni-Shia Split, the Age of Discovery, the Protestant Reformation are among them, but the OP reserves the right to add or remove such unchangeable events depending on the needs of the roleplay. 3. Non-human races, like Elves, Dwarves, and others have existed alongside humanity since ancient times, but are much smaller in numbers, even if they usually have longer lifespans. Humans have gradually expanded and form the majority throughout most of the Old World, where such races are minorities that are often discriminated against - so non-human majority countries will usually not be accepted in Europe and Asia and would be subject to the OP's approval. Non-human races exist in larger numbers in the Americas, where relations between the races were more peaceful, but that has changed ever since the discovery of the continent by the Europeans. Monsters have also existed, but a lot of them have been hunted into near extinction throughout the Old World, while others, like dragons, were domesticated. Vampires were also confirmed to exist but are thought by most to be extinct - with their remains usually remaining in hiding. Specific details in regards to the types of non-human races and monsters, their numbers and presence regardless of the place is up to the players as long it respects these guidelines, but the OP will of course have the final world. 4. Magic has similarly existed since ancient times, and in its most simple definition, it is the manipulation of the magical energy of the world, known as aether or as quintessence, to change the material world or to interact with the spiritual one. The use of magic depends on one's ability to hold and manipulate aether, which is an inherited quality. Few people, compared to the entire living population, can use magic, and even fewer can use it easily. Non-human races like the Elves are much more naturally attuned to the use of aether, but humans have pushed the use of magic forward through their developments of spells. Within the human realms, magical bloodlines are the most preeminent - with mages carefully seeking to create descendants that can still use magic, while also keeping their own specific spells and magical traditions secret. Even with the advent of new technology, mages are considered to be highly important in society and are in many ways treated as a resource. Within the roleplay, this will translate to limits on how many mages a nation can have, and to magical specializations - areas of magic that each nation is focused on. 5. The Renaissance and the steampunk revolution that followed started in Italy and Greece and in the exchange of knowledge and documents from Antiquity that marked that period. A parallel revolution, but focused more so on gunpowder happened in Asia. Multiple centers of innovation and modernity could have developed afterwards as nations and monarchs attempted to attract the brightest mages and scientists, but obviously not every nation in the world will have such a center, similar to how technology has developed in real life. Players should take this into account, and being at the forefront of steampunk technology, while clearly an advantage, does have its limits. The development of technology also usually leads to a stagnation or a limitation of magical development. 6. Steampunk technology will be left up to the players and their imaginations, but the main source of inspiration is represented by the ideas of Leonardo da Vinci and of similar inventors. Steam trains, tanks, ships, helicopters and airships all exist, but they are all still somewhat unreliable, and there are limits on what the technology of this world can achieve. 7. Colonies and other historically autonomous areas can be applied for, however, realism will still be maintained - colonies can't rebel against their home countries on the second day of the IC. Players applying for such areas would require the consent of the player in charge of the nations that owns the colony or the autonomous areas, and players can deny such requests without justification. 8. Political and rebel groups and organizations can be applied for, however interested players should take into account the fact that such groups are most often in an inferior position and that they can usually not achieve their goals without foreign backing or government weakness. Players who wish to play such groups need to obtain the consent of the player controlling the nation in which their group would be operating. 9. The map is an estimation and may not be constantly updated, make sure to also check the list and do a cursory search of the OOC before reserving.

[Tracian Empire]

Accepted Nations Last Updated: 09.04.2024 Intermountain States - Great Goryeo State - (대고려국) Remnants of Exilvania - Holy Roman Empire of German Nation - (Heiliges Römisches Reich Deutscher Nation) Tracian Empire - Roman Empire (Βασιλεία Ῥωμαίων) Reverend Norv - United States of the Netherlands - (Verenigde Staten van Nederland) Sao Nova Europa - Rat Empire - (Ratren Imperium) Cymrea - Holy Kingdom of France -(Saint Royaume de Français ) Theyra - Lĩnh Nam Empire - (Lĩnh Nam chích quái) Dragos Bee - Alid Caliphate - (خلافة علوية) The National Dominion of Hungary - Kingdom of Rus - (Pо́усьскаѧ землѧ́) Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States - Nordheim Pragia - Holy Kingdom of Albion - (Teyrnas Sanctaidd Albion) Ambassingh - Beleguanze Tribal Council Intermountain States - Papal State - (Stato Pontificio) Khasinkonia - Ōyabōrei - The Great Domain of Many Webs Accepted Organizations Last Updated: 09.04.2024 None Reservations Last Updated: 09.04.2024 Union Princes - Tuscany Asturies-Llion - Crown of Spain

[Cymrea]

Acompanying music

12 Janvier 1648

The Tempérance was becalmed. There was no wind; the broad canvas sheets of the sails hung slack on their yards. No waves churned the fathomless deeps to move the ship. The ocean was a dark mirror of the cloudless night sky and hanging high above in the jeweled firmament, the full moon bathed all in a soft silver glow. A seductive dreamlike quality had settled over the ship, like a silent lullaby. Near the port rail, between the main and mizzen masts, young Claire Dardennes lay on the deck with her head propped on a coil of hempen rope.

Claire was short for Claire de lune, a name given to her by her hopelessly romantic human mother. It meant “moonlight” and Claire lay washed in it, staring up at the stars and missing her parents.

Her mother Rheannon, a whimsical whirlwind of golden hair and boundless energy, quick to laugh and endlessly curious, had travelled to France from her native Wales and fallen in love with Faelar Dardennes, a silvanesse – a wood elf. They had made a home among the rural orchards northeast of Paris, growing apples and pears, and – after some unsuccessful attempts – had brought a child into the world. Claire still remembered the quiet days of her childhood, playing among the trees and catching crickets near the creek. The Church ended those days. Claire and her parents were forced to flee, escaping Catholic persecution in the dark of night, guided by her father’s keen eyes and the silent moon. They had evaded capture for nearly a year, scurrying from hiding place to bolthole, eating what her father could steal or her mother could beg. In the end, it was another elf that had betrayed them, providing anonymous information to the Lily Inquisition in exchange for the hope of amnesty. Amnesty the Church would not give, would never give to non-humans.

She never saw her father again after Church gendarmes dragged him away. Claire and her mother were imprisoned together, in a filthy cage with several others, all non-humans. As far as the Church was concerned, Rheannon had forfeited her humanity when she joined in “unholy union” with an elf and so was treated the same as the elves, and the dwarves, and fae folk. Treated with mistrust, contempt, and fear. All of which stemmed from magic.

The ability to wield benisse, called aether or quintessence in other countries, was considered by the Catholic Church of France to be a blessing from God, proof of His divine Grace and of humanity’s dominion over all the world. Non-humans – the elves and dwarves, the orcs and kobolds, the vampires and lycanthropes – were inherently magical and thus a threat to ecclesiastical doctrine. The French monarchy was inextricably tied to the Church and so from the very highest echelons of French society, humankind was deemed to be supreme, ordained by God Himself. The response from the vastly more numerous humans had all too swiftly escalated from disdain to self-righteous wrath. Persecution was followed by attempts at identification, then segregation. Non-humans and half-breeds were rounded up and forced into walled ghettos called borgettes. Conditions were horrific. Many starved or fell to pestilence. It did not take long for the denizens to begin preying on each other, seeming to justify the human judgment that non-humans were little better than animals. Some escaped the borgettes, fleeing into the forests and wilder country outside the cities. Many were recaptured and executed or imprisoned for the remainder of their lives.

As the borgettes became overcrowded, the Crown and Church started raiding, snatching entire families in the night and whisking them off to ships for transport to the New World. Only the poorest vessels could be convinced to shuttle the non-humans across the Atalantic Ocean; many did not make it, foundering and sinking in the icy grey waters west of Europe. Some were rescued by merfolk, surviving and returning to France only to be placed on the next rodent-infested ship bound for Montreal.

Some desperate folk began volunteering for migration. There was a burgeoning idea in the borgettes that the migration was not exile but freedom, that the hoary vastness of the New World was largely unsullied by humanity. When Rheannon died one cold rainy morning, gaunt and hollowed, Claire volunteered to leave France and its inhuman society forever behind her.

The shipmaster poked his head out of his cabin door, breaking Claire’s reverie. The bearded man glanced about with a squint, noted the continued lack of wind or wave, and retreated back inside with a growl, slamming the door behind him.

A three-masted carrack, Tempérance was a trading vessel long past her prime. Once a proud Portuguese merchant ship carrying exotic goods from the Far East under another name, she now shuttled the unwanted, the friendless, the banished to the wilds of Nouvelle France. Her decks were worn and pitted. The sails were more patches than not. An army of cats had not been able to keep her free of rodents since transporting a family of ratren the previous year. Her captain, Jean-Michel le Croix, was an embittered former navy officer who had invested his pension in a ship, struck out on his own, and had failed to achieve his dreams of fortune. Now Captain le Croix took the Sun King’s coin ferrying migrants and exiles to Nouvelle France.

He refused no one who’s passage was paid – except for ratren – and provided only the barest minimum of rations allowed under French law. A ship’s biscuit most days, occasionally a strip of dried beef or salt pork, and water. The hardtack and jerky were practically inedible unless they were soaked for hours, and the water had to be drained off and refreshed to keep from being too salty. Clusters of passengers had taken to combining their water and rations. One in Claire’s group had brought a hen on board with him and generously shared the egg it laid on those first days of the voyage. The hen had been confiscated and eaten by the crew. Now weevils in the biscuits provided their only protein. Some passengers had tried fishing with little success. The one mackerel caught by a dwarven woman had been appropriated by the first mate and provided to the captain for his dinner.

Enraged to receive the same treatment they were sailing to escape, some passengers complained. After the dwarf woman’s fish was taken, the halfling who had brought the hen – Periwinkle, Claire remembered, Milo Periwinkle from Albion – had demanded to see the captain. He was summarily tossed overboard by two crewmen to the raucous laughter of the other sailors. The lieutenant on duty had smirked and shrugged. The halfling’s passage was already paid. That ended the complaints. The remaining passengers hunkered down and endured as best they could.

That was more than a fortnight ago. The Tempérance should have made the Newfoundland coast by now, but the seas had calmed six nights ago, and the ship had no steam engine. The captain led prayers each morning, entreating the Christian god to send wind that the voyage, carried out in His name and in His service, might be completed. Each successive morning with no wind brought a more pleading tone to the prayers and an air of desperation and fear to the crew. Whispers circulated among the sailors that their inhuman passengers were to blame. Claire had dared to suggest that their casual murder of Mr. Periwinkle might have incurred His displeasure. The first mate, a whip-thin man called Archambault, had backhanded her across the face and sent her sprawling to the deck. Only the captain, a superstitious man and not wholly unconvinced by Claire’s words, had intervened and kept her from joining the halfling in a watery grave.

Claire sat up on the deck, scratched at the nape of her neck where the rope had made her itchy, and then got to her feet. She made her way across the rough planks under the suspicious eye of the sailor on watch to stand at the starboard rail. Staring up at the moon, she considered the ship’s predicament and the Christian god’s apparent reluctance to deliver them from it. Claire was no theologian, nor historian, though she did have her numbers and letters. Her mother had been Christian, though not particularly pious, and Claire suspected she may have been secretly pagan, venerating the old Welsh gods. From her father, she had wondrous tales of the sylvan elves and their dominion over the great forests of Europe, their earthen magicks that bound them to the very spirit of the world around them.

She glanced at the masts, husks of once mighty trees now festooned in rigging. The Tempérance had a spirit of her own, Claire could sense it. Weary, so weary, and wistful of brighter, bolder days long past. Her connection to the earth, from where so much of her wooden structures came, was tenuous and faint; she was surrounded now by other elements: water and wind and the flaming sun. Her captain possessed her, employed her – a vessel and little more, a thing to serve his endeavors. The Tempérance was crowded by people and yet alone. Like Claire.

Claire ran her hand over the rail and whispered to her mother. Not quite a prayer. More an invocation born of the sacred bond between parent and child. She had never done so before, but it felt natural somehow. Her lips moved in an inaudible monologue, a silent verbal diary of her days since that desolate morning when death parted them. Looking over the rail, Claire could see her reflection in the mirror-smooth water. That high up from the sea, her face looked much like Rheannon’s. Claire whispered directly to her reflection as if to her mother, tried to express the depth of her sadness, how terribly she missed her. She wished she knew what had happened to her father.

Claire could almost feel Rheannon’s hand upon her shoulder, cool and soothing. It was too much. A sob escaped her, and from her lashes a fat tear rolled and fell into the sea. Her reflection rippled, banishing the image of her mother. There was a rush of soft movement on her face, and Claire raised her head, taking in a shuddering breath. Another feather of air brushed her wet cheeks, followed by an actual breeze. The water below ruffled. The sails shrugged from a brief gust.

Then all at once, the wind rose in a soft gale. The canvas sheets filled and bloomed and Tempérance lurched into motion. A thump sounded from the captain’s cabin and a moment later, le Croix emerged, grinning. “Ha-ha!” he laughed roughly and capered in a bit of a jig. The handful of sailors on deck cheered heartily in response. Hearing the men’s huzzahs, the captain’s cheer subsided. He nodded with a grunt and returned to his cabin.

At the rail, Claire whispered thanks to her mother. Thinking again of her father, she ventured an expression of gratitude to her fae ancestors.

It seemed only natural.

[Dragos Bee]

Alid Caliphate

Kufa, Iraq

No man ruled alone, not even the Caliph.

Hasan VI had to deal with his bureaucracy and representatives from several powerful groups within his subjects; tribal leaders, merchants, artisans and craftsmen who felt in danger from the new inventions making life easier for the common people... And the newly rich 'captains of industry', those who had grown rich from the inventions of Steam from the lands of the Romans and the Franks. As he sat on his cushions, beneath a canopy that glittered with faintly glowing gems crafted by Sufi Mystics - A piece of ostentation his ancestors would have balked at! - Hasan VI wrote, spoke, and stamped his seal onto a stream of decrees as he waited for the reports from the Horn of Africa in the southwest and the lands of Balochistan and Sindh to the east.

A messenger, a freeman and a member of the faith, was escorted into the room by the Caliphal Guards; professional men who were members of his own clan and tribe, tied to him by familial bonds. The Caliph himself looked up, trying to maintain the exalted posture and expression his father and grandfather had made a part of court ceremony, and spoke in a firm tone that barely masked his anticipation, "You have arrived. What say the Mughals and their 'Padishah'?"

The messenger bowed deeply and said, "They wish for a Princess for their Sultan; or failing that, trade concessions for their merchants coming to our ports. In exchange, they are willing to trade a nest of Roc eggs and a pair of adult Rocs, as well as a hundred Elephants, all trained for war."

A collective gasp sounded out from the courtiers, the religious scholars of the local ulema, and the chieftains and nobility who had found themselves in his throne room at that time. Hasan VI himself raised an eyebrow and spoke, "If they had offered a hundred adult Rocs and a pair of Elephants, it would have been a small price for trade concessions, but never for a Sayyida. As it is, they have decided to insult the dignity of the Commander of the Faithful and the Family of the Prophet (Peace be upon him). The refusal will be put in writing and sent to them within twenty-four hours."

Then he smiled and said, "Rest a while, good herald; Wine is forbidden here but not bread from my own table, nor water as clear as crystal."

Looking at the hangers-on at his court, Hasan VI would then say, "Look at how our fellow brothers forsake us, out of fear of loss! Far better to court defectors among the Western Adventurers coming to our ports - Let us post messages saying that those who would convert to the True Faith, and who have experience in combat and the inventions of their nations, would be made welcome and offered estates, wealth, and wives who can do more than look beautiful to the eye. Not merely that, but send a ship with a special envoy to Socotra, where the Dutch are, with a simple message of friendliness, thanking them for deterring wars of aggression against anyone, of any faith. Then sound them out on their opinions on their opinions on the infidel Portuguese..."

[Intermountain States]

Gaegyeong,
Great Goryeo State

Ye Yong-ho entered the large stable that housed his fire dragon, Namgyeong. Well, it wasn't exactly his dragon per say; all domesticated dragons, be it the sea dragons, the fire dragons, the serpentine imugis, and even the horselike kirin, are technically properties of the Imperial Family graciously donated to the Goryeo Army since the formation by Emperor Taejo to better protect the nation from outside threats. However, Namgyeong was the fire dragon he was assigned to so until death or retirement, he practically raised that dragon since she was barely a hatchling. The dragon was curled up on the floor, making growl like purrs while she sleeps with her scaly muscle tensing and relaxing after every snore. Her wings flutter a bit while she sleeps. For a massive flying beast that could raze an entire field and can take even a hit from a cannonball or two, the dragon looked peaceful at rest. Yong-ho smiled at the sight, remembering how he was first assigned to Namgyeong when he passed the written and physical examinations to become a dragon rider and years spent between the two.

As Yong-ho gets closer, the dragon opened her eyes at the scent of her master and perked up, bellowing a yawn and a stretch before noticing two large buckets of raw meat (a whole pig's worth) that Yong-ho was carrying. Yong-ho raised both buckets and shook them.

"Good morning girl, breakfast time," he announced, placing one bucket by his side and reaching into the other one to take out a piece of meat. He tossed it at the dragon which she caught in one bite.

"Good girl," Yong-ho said, getting close to Namgyeong and start scratching her chin. The dragon raised her chin up and made some affectionate bellows. The dragon almost looked like she's smiling when she raised her head. He poured the contents of the bucket on a trough in front of Namgyeong for her to eat.

"Eat up girl," he added, rubbing Namgyeong's snout. "Then it's training time."

---

Manwoldae, Gaegyeong,
Empire of Goryeo

Archery was the main ranged weapon of the militaries of Korea throughout the peninsula's history. Even before the contemporary Goryeo Empire, many dynasties such as Goguryeo and Silla spoke of great warriors and kings who were skilled archers such as Dongmyeong of Goguryeo and Bak Heokgeose of Silla. During the reign of Emperor Gaeguk, General Yi Seonggye killed a samurai commander named Agibaldo with two arrows, one to knock out his helmet and the other entering his mouth, in a fight against Japanese pirates. Although the Koreans utilized gunpowder based weapons ever the reign of Gaeguk, there were more archers than handgunners in the military for the reigns of many kings. In fact, prior to long war between Goryeo and Japan, many of the provincial militaries had zero handguns in their armories. The only gunpowder weapons employed by provincial forces were cannons and even then, they were situated at fortresses to fight against sieges.

It wasn't until after a rather forceful introduction of matchlock arquebus by the Japanese in the devastating eight year war between Korea and Japan when the reflex bow soon fell out of favor as the main long-range weapon for the Goryeo Army. Under the reign of Emperor Hongchi, Gwangmu, and Sunjeong himself, gunpowder based agencies sought efforts to improve on and mass production of the matchlocks. Pretty soon, there were more arquebusiers than there were archers, crossbowmen, and handgunners. The Imperial Court sought to focus on reforming the military to prevent the national disaster that was the war.

The reigning emperor was a fan of the weapons employed by the military and in his free time, would visit the palace armory to test out the weapons with some of the palace guards there. He would practice his aim with muskets, handcannons, crossbows, and reflex bows; his favorite range weapon being the musket. Still, he would practice with the reflex bow, it was the weapons of kings and emperors in the past. Plus, the bow isn't out of use yet in the military. Scientists and engineers have found methods of allowing arrows to carry explosives, allowing a class of archers trained since their youth to have some military usage even when muskets begin to dominate the military. There was even a mechanism developed that can carry up to six arrows that allows the user to shoot them in rapid succession, almost like the Chu Ko No crossbow but with better speed and penetration.

Pulling the reflex bow back, the Emperor waited a few seconds before letting go of the arrow. The arrow whizzed through and penetrated the bullseye of the wooden target. Satisfied, he nocked another arrow onto the bow and let loose another arrow, this time missing the bullseye by a few inches. The Emperor was relaxing after attending a court session with the ministers and court officials in regards to economic matters. But for now, it is a time of resting and he is no hurry to finish archery practice.

[Cymrea]

20 Avril 1608
Saint Dizier, 220km east of Paris

After being carefully nested and incubated for nine summers, and in one of the last years of the reign of Good King Henry IV, the first of the Bourbons to rule France, the dragon egg was finally ready to hatch.

The egg was one of a clutch of three laid by Pyretta, a famed scout and skirmisher from the Évreux Terrissage, and now one of His Majesty’s most valuable brood-queens. One egg had stayed at Évreux, another was moved to La Rochelle near the Bay of Biscay, and the third was sent here, to Saint Dizier, to bolster the number of cendresse dragons in the northeastern Haute-Marne region.

The Couvrières, skilled members of the guild responsible for dragon nurseries, had bedded the egg in a large scoria that had been carved into a bowl and filled with sand imported from the northern coast. They had diligently maintained the fire pit beneath it and ritually washed the egg with an exotic oil from the Roman Empire. The Romans called it petra-leum and they charged a fortune for it. As the petra-leum heated up, it would catch fire and burn off, leaving the dull brown egg shining like burnished bronze.

The incubation period of cendresse dragons was the shortest among the French breeds; berciels required ten years and four months and the large, brutish alouettes took thirteen years. Every dragon was precious, and every hatching was a celebrated occasion.

The couvrière on duty had watched the last of the blue flames fade out following the morning’s burnishing when she’d heard a small crinkling sound. Hurrying to the nest, she stepped up onto the wide rim of the scoria and examined every scale on the egg, squinting in the wash of heat as she leaned over it. There. Near the top of the egg, one scale had a small hole half the size of her pinky nail. The couvrière’s eyes widened and she gasped in excitement. The dry heat made her cough as she hopped down off the scoria and ran to fetch the clutch-master.

The clutch-master assembled the team that would help rear and train the hatchling, arranging the nine couvrières in a circle around the nest. One clutched a fat rabbit to his chest. The nest dominated the middle of the small room lit by a dozen sconces set high into the walls, one of several such rooms protected deep in the heart of the terrissage. Only four of the rooms at Saint Dizier were currently occupied, soon to be three. When the egg was broken open and the hatchling emerged, the team would be the first people the hatchling would see and imprint on; the dragon’s eventual crew would not be born for another couple of decades, at least. As it grew, the dragon would be cared for and trained by its team as well as the older dragons stationed at the terrissage – fed and taught how to hunt, bathed and taught how to preen, instructed and then shown how to fight.

The team waited patiently, seated cross-legged on the warm stone floor. The clutch-master sat in a tall chair in the corner near the entrance to the room, ready to record the dragon’s hatching with ink and parchment. It took an average of a few hours for a cendresse dragon to hatch once the first cracks or holes appeared, though some hatched within minutes, necessitating the quick assemblage of the team. Others lingered for a day or more before finally emerging from the shell. There was a sentiment among less experienced couvrières that those lingering hatchlings would grow to be lazy or indolent dragons, but veteran teams knew that there was no correlation between hatch time and vigor. Pyretta took nearly thirty hours to emerge from her egg more than a century ago. As it happened, this particular hatchling did not linger at all.

The egg trembled and lurched as the hatchling worked to free itself. Cracks spread across the bronze surface, shards and fragments of shell fell away. For the couvrières watching intently, the process was breathtaking, and they were eager to meet their precious charge. With a loud crack, the egg split wide, and the hatchling emerged. As it stretched its small wet wings, the couvrières stood and began to sing.

It was well-known that dragons had a love of music. All magical creatures are inherently attuned to the expression of emotions, particularly through song and lyric, and dragons were no exception. At the hatching of every dragon in France over the last century, couvrières would greet their ward with Rêve de Voler, composed by a clutch-master and inspired by the drawings of Leonardo da Vinci.

The couvrières’ voices began low, in a hypnotically measured pace that rose triumphantly as the song progressed.

Un jour tu prendras ton envol (One day you will fly)
Et tu sauras (and you will know)
Que regarder vers le ciel (that to gaze towards the sky)
C’est savoir où est ton cœur chez toi (is to know where your heart is at home!)

Une légende de l’air, vous volerez (A legend of the air, you’ll fly)
Balayant le grand Mont Blanc (sweeping over grand Mont Blanc)
Remplissant le monde entier (filling all the world)
De gloire et d’émerveillement (with glory and wonder!)

The hatchling’s golden eyes widened as it listened. It turned slowly about, looking at each couvrière, transfixed by their song.

In the corner, the clutch-master muttered inaudibly to himself as he recorded the features of the new cendresse. He noted that the hatchling was female and entered her name as Douze Fille de Pyretta. Until named by the captain they chose upon their fortieth hatchday, dragons in France were named by number, as the son or daughter of their mother. This hatchling was the twelfth from Pyretta, and a daughter.

Douze was a gorgeous specimen. Her coloring was smoky grey, mottled with bright orange that would fade as she aged and molted. She was the size of a bastard alley cat with a wingspan of nearly a meter. Four-digit talons, with a dewclaw higher up on each of her forelegs, were already wickedly sharp, as were the triangular teeth filling her mouth. Her slender tail, currently weaving back and forth to the couvrières’ tune, bore three small fins near the tip. Those would aid in the acrobatic flying style cendresse dragons were known for.

As the song rose to a crescendo, the rabbit was tossed to Douze, who hopped up and caught it in mid-air. The courvrieres’ voices faded, and the song ended. For a long, reverent moment, only the sounds of flame and wet feasting could be heard. The clutch-master stood from his stool and quietly stepped up to the nest.

“Welcome, little one,” he said, reaching to stroke Douze’s head. “We are most—ahh!”

He snatched his hand back as Douze snapped at it. She went back to her meal as the clutch-master huffed. He added a note to his parchment, saying aloud, “And bitey. Hmph!”

He could have sworn he’d heard Douze snickering softly.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

The Holy Roman Empire
Kyffhäuser Mountains
January 1648

---

The snow was thick and crunched beneath the hooves of the horses, slowly making their way through the burned out wreckage of a village at the foot of the nearby mountains. A view that was all too common now within Imperial Lands. Burned settlements, no people anywhere around them, at least none that lived. There would be even more of them this winter. The harvest hadn't been good yet again and there were many who were homeless, defenseless against the cold and snow now dominating the area. With a violent shake of his head, Hans Janus Welser cleared these thoughts from his head. No, this was most certainly not something he had to think about. But rather his ascension into one of the most powerful organisations within the Empire...the shadowy Cabal that had come out on top of this entire conflict.

He had tried for a long time to gain this entry, having found out early in his life that this Cabal existed by having found correspondence with it and diary entries in his grandfather's not insignificant belongings after his passing. None of the writing he had found was positive...yet it also always implied a certain power that this group held and that they had hoped to gain his grandfather's cooperation. They had not and so his grandfather had perished at the age of 66 years from gout and stress induced by financial difficulties. The name of the Welsers had fallen far with him. In Nuremberg there was still a line of their family with modest success...but overall they had fallen far. It was something that had eaten at Hans over the years. Had their refusal to cooperate with these Cabal caused their family's financial downfall? Would he, if he joined their ranks, elevate them once again to the success they had seen once before?

A gust of wind ripped him out of his dreams, the gust having picked up loose snow and blowing it right in his face, the cold snowflakes alongside the cutting cold of the wind itself being a good wake-up call as he pulled his scarf up even higher to protect himself. The mountain now rose before him, tall enough to blot out nearly the entire sky. Its forested slopes were white with snow and atop it he could spot the remains of an enormous castle. He had read about it...one of the imperial castles, erected to protect the lands of the Emperor. Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had rebuilt it but it had fallen into disrepair after his line was extinguished. It was the site of a siege during the 30 years war, when loyal imperial troops had garrisoned it before being sieged out by Swedish forces. Now it stood empty...supposedly. Was this the meeting place of the Cabal?

"Master Welser, look ahead! There is someone there!"

, one of his guards suddenly remarked, stopping his horse and pointing to what appeared to be a smoke trail, thin and easily overlooked, rising into the air between the trees. Was this the sign he had been told to look out for? He looked around, checking his surroundings nervously to see if perhaps he had overlooked something else. Smoke trails could mean a great deal of things, though here and in this weather it was usually a campfire. But whose campfire? Brigands? Many of them roamed the land now, former mercenaries fresh out of work due to the Empire's ailing finances.

"We will make for that fire. Worst comes to worst, we will be able to warm ourselves up a little and rid this land of some more outlaws."

, he replied, attempting to sound confident. He wasn't of course. A single smoke trail could mean one fire but one fire could mean any number of people, not to mention the quality of them. If they stumbled upon a rogue mage with his entourage, they might very well say their final prayers now. As such, he desperately hoped that this was indeed the sign he was supposed to look out for.

---

Some ambience

To Hans' luck, things had turned out fine. The fire had indeed been lit by a group of men bearing imperial colours and who had welcomed him after demanding to know who he was. He had of course expected them to take him somewhere but he had generally suspected it to be the castle on top of the mountain. Instead they had brought him to a cave opening and descended deep into a dark cave with him. They had also made him bid his escorts goodbye, adding to the fear he felt now.

Here, deep underneath the eart, a path wound itself next to an underground lake, its waters shimmering in an irisdescent green colour, reflecting the light of the torches they bore with them. But his guides had no eyes for the beautiful scenery and had instead led him deeper into the cave until eventually it opened up and Hans saw himself confronted with an enormous structure of glistening stone. Was it natural? No, that was impossible, natural formations didn't create stairs or windows like that. Yet it also didn't seem manmade, looking as though it had grown out of the rock just like that. A structure of perfect, natural beauty in a shape familiar to his human eyes. Even if they could scarcely believe what they saw.

A palace beneath the mountain.

He had felt eyes on him ever since he had entered the forests around the mountains but now he could even see their owners. Lithe, pale figures patrolling the areas, moving with an otherworldly grace, their eyes honing in on them. They weren't human. Yet they also weren't ghosts as were seen so commonly in the Empire now. No, they were Feen...dastardly creatures whose rights within the Empire were recognised only recently. Few ever got the chance to see them in person and Hans certainly never had. Much to his luck for few who ever saw them in person survived to tell the tale.

The Feen let them pass into the palace and his guides would bring him deep into it, deep into the mountain until eventuually he was brought into a great room of stone and crystal. At its center was a throne of stone and before it was a simple table of stone too, little more than a well crafted block. Yet both the table and the throne were covered in multicoloured crystals. A fiery red crystal had grown around the table like a ring, originating from the throne. Pale, white crystals sat up high on the throne upon a mount of dark crystals and at the top was a cascade of light reflected from a variety of differently coloured crystals and gemstones. But that was not what truly grabbed his attention.

The room, or rather hall given its size, was absolutely packed.

Most of them bore dark cloaks with hoods, hiding their true identities...yet there were some things they could not hide. Some of them were clearly more Feen, walking with this unnatural grace among them. Some of others...he couldn't see much but those piercing red eyes glaring from underneath the hoods certainly weren't human. And things really started clicking when he saw a man missing his head walking among them, the hood just...empty, resting on what was likely little more than the stump of a neck. Undead. A great deal of those who attended were either not human or no longer alive, which started to give Hans a good idea of the full scope of this conspiracy.

Yet if so many of those present did not breathe, why did the mist of their breaths continue to hang in the air? Hans briefly wondered about that as he looked up, watching the mist overhead. Which was perhaps why he was the first to notice that it moved. Slowly it gathered from across the hall, gathered next to the throne and the table, a misty figure, kingly and great, with a crown and long trail of hair...before seemingly condensing, shrinking until what appeared was little more than a small dwarf with long, silver hair and a youthful appearance. He seemed to share similarities with the other Feen Hans had seen yet unlike them he appeared like a child...by God, he couldn't even tell if the creature was man or woman.

"It appears that we have all gathered now."

, the childlike Fee spoke, catching the attention of everyone in the room, all of which immediately turned to face him. The present Feen quickly lowered their heads in respect for this figure and so did a fair number of the humans, confusing Hans. Who was he?

"The Emperor is now ready to hear the news you bear and grant you his justice."

, the boy continued, climbing onto the table to appear taller to the crowd and see them better. Meanwhile Hans was puzzled, not having seen Emperor Ferdinand III...though he was starting to have an idea who was being referred to. Rumours in that direction had been making the rounds among the people, a new, heretical faith that had been watered by the bloodshed of the war.

What happened afterwards felt almost like a dreamlike blur. Various petitioners came forward and brought forth news and issues, which the strange boy, which he quickly figured out to be no less than the 8th Elector, the Erl King of the Feen, would hear before providing various solutions or orders on how to deal with these situations. Naturally there were all sorts of them. The Cossack Uprising in the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth to the East, the Coronation of the new Byzantine Emperor, news which made most of those present spit on the ground, the movement of French hosts, the gall of the Dutch and Swiss to continue their clamouring for independence, Sweden's continued holding of various ports in the north...

"...now last but not least, I believe we have a new member to welcome into our ranks?"

And all of a sudden all eyes were on him, causing Hans to nervously shift on the spot. He had just stood there and listened for so long, constantly rubbing his hands in an attempt to warm himself up against the cold that seemed to seep into his very bone marrow, that he had nearly completely forgotten that he didn't belong to this gathering. At least not yet.

"Ah...uhm, yes, I mean, I-"

, he stuttered before being grabbed from behind and pushed forward, stumbling towards the stone table and nearly falling, finding himself now at the feet of that Erl King.

"The Emperor is pleased that your family has finally seen reason. A shame that it had to fall first but I suppose that is the way humans are. Only ever willing to become part of something greater than themselves when they have lost everything they hold dear."

, the Erl King snickered, likely knowing that he hit a nerve with that. Hans had been the weak link among the Welsers, someone so fed up with the loss of their former commercial empire that he was willing to do anything to get it back. Except get mocked about it. In just a second he was on his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at the snickering Fee, shouting:

"Bold words coming from a perpetually absent Erzkanzler who is busier holding secret meetings in a mountain than attending his duties for his Emperor in Vienna!"

He was breathing heavily, cold sweat on his forehea as he shouted that, as he watched the Erl King's expression seemingly struggle for a moment between even more mirth and actual rage, though at the end it seemed that mirth won out. He could hear the silent gasps behind him, the sound of blades in their scabbards being slightly unsheathed. Had he fucked up in some way? No matter, this at least showed them that he was not be played with like some toy, some mere pawn, but that he was an equal partner.

"My 'duties' for my 'Emperor' in Vienna? Please, that fool is no more an Emperor than you are, preferring to drown out politics in musical composition and when he doesn't we make sure he does. No, our true Emperor is someone else and it is in his honour that we have gathered here today."

, the Erl King explained, talking as though he was speaking to a child with a mental deficit, almost subtly encouraging Hans to continue stepping out of line, continue challenging him. Now that he had figured out that Hans had his pride, he seemed to be taking personal pleasure in hurting said pride.

"So, are you styling yourself as Emperor now? Complete with court meetings and everything?"

, Hans challenged next, though this time he seemed to have missed, not even a flicker of anger on the Erl King's face. Instead the Fee lad had to double over from laughter, wiping tears from his eyes as he finally steadied himself and said:

"Me? Emperor? Your fantasies are delightful. But no, we Feen care little for the title of Emperor among ourselves. No, your true Emperor has been with us all along, listening to us, even in his slumber. But not much longer...this war has helped us greatly...we only need so little now to return him. To pluck the feathers of a few ravens and then Europe will tremble at our might."

Hans was bewildered at the Fee's words, watching the lad practically dance around on the stone in joy and jubilation. This Emperor he had always kept speaking for was here? With them? Yet it wasn't Ferdinand III? It was almost more by chance than actual knowledge that Hans gazed past the Erl King and upon the throne.

And he saw it.

Those crystals...a crown, a face, an armour, a long red beard wrapping itself around the table. It was just how the preachers kept saying...the Emperor slept beneat the mountain, his beard growing ever longer around the table he sits at. Was this...? No, it couldn't be...! He was supposed to have died nearly 5 centuries ago!

"Yes, young human. You are seeing right. Prostrate yourself before your one and only, past, present and future Emperor."

---

To King Vsevolod VII of House Rurikovich-Moskovskyi, King of All the Rus, King of Muscovy, King of Novgorod, King of Perm, King of Kiev, Grand Prince of Ryazan, Voronezh, Kazan and Saratov, Prince of Polotsk and Pskov, Siridaar of Khimeel, Overlord of Siberia, Defender of the Eastern Faith

His majesty, divina favente clementia electus Romanorum Imperator, semper Augustus and Rex Germaniae, Archduke of Austria and King of Bohemia, Ferdinand III, wishes to send an envoy to the King of all the Russ to discuss critical matters concerning the political stability of eastern Europe, which sees itself seriously threatened with this recent rebellion in Polish Ruthenia. The Empire also wishes to re-establish the old Hanseatic trade routes between Lübeck and Novgorod and would desire to conclude a trade agreement on this.

Imperial Chancellory, Signed by
Römisch-deutscher Kaiser, Archduke of Austria and King of Bohemia Ferdinand III von Habsburg
Reichsvizekanzler Loreley von den Feen

[Cymrea]

26 Janvier 1648

Claire stood once more at the starboard rail. The misted waters of the Saint Lawrence matched the leaden winter sky. Thin floes of ice bumped against the hull of the Tempérance as Claire beheld the rather unimpressive colony.

It stood against the backdrop of Mont Royal, a round mist-cloaked hump that rose over lowlands forested with birch and pine. The colony was dominated by a large church, bright white against the deep green of frosted conifers. A tall palisade surrounded the town and extended into the river. Within the rugged walls were a dozen or more buildings constructed of logs and standing only a single story in height. Thin plumes of smoke twisted away from their tin chimneys, dissipating in the chill morning air. Sitting aground along the rocky shoreline were several smaller boats, long and slender, with curving prows at both ends. One was being carried on the shoulders of two men while a packhorse on a lead followed.

The ship pulled smoothly up to the pier. The raw timber of a recent extension stretched back to the north, where trading ships were moored. Claire tried to stay out of the way as the Tempérance crew went about the business of docking. Captain le Croix barked orders at his sailors and shouted exchanges with the débardeurs catching the mooring ropes. With a brisk efficiency, the carrack was secured to the pier and the gangplank run out.

“Archambault!” he bellowed, moving to disembark. “Get these enfoirés off my ship! I’m going to find something valuable to transport home.” Le Croix stomped off toward the town without a backward glance.

Claire looked over to the tiller where Archambault stood grinning unpleasantly and eyeing the passengers huddled on deck. “Au revoir!” He waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the pier. Shouldering her small satchel, Claire gestured at him with two fingers, something her mother had taught her. The first mate chuckled lowly and fingered the hilt of the knife at his belt. Claire stepped quickly down the plank.

Dock workers moved goods up and down the pier. One brushed roughly past as Claire made her way to where the port clerk waited. She queued up with the rest of the passengers, standing at the front with the dwarf woman behind her. Thira was her name and she had two small children clutching her skirts. Claire smiled at them and surveyed the queue, blowing on her hands for warmth. Half-starved and half-frozen, they were a fully ragged-looking lot to be sure.

“Come forward!”

Claire turned to see the clerk waving her toward him. She stepped quickly up to the thin man; he was warmly dressed and adjusted a pair of spectacles balanced carefully on his nose. Looking at his ledger with pen poised, he asked, “Your name?”

“Cla--,” she croaked and coughed. Clearing her throat, she started again. “Claire Dardennes.”

The clerk scratched at his ledger with the pen. Frowning, he turned and handed it to an assistant. “The ink is frozen.” The assistant, a younger version of the clerk, pulled a pen from his coat and handed it over. Turning back to Claire, he asked, “Age and race?”

Claire hummed for a moment. “Mmmm…nineteen, I think. And, um… human.”

Not knowing one’s age was rather common, but her declaration of being a human passenger among a shipload of non-human migrants brought the clerk’s eyes up to her, squinting suspiciously. He eyed Claire up and down. “Fully human?”

“Yes,” she lied.

After another moment of scrutiny, pausing particularly at her rounded ears, the clerk finally harumphed and wrote in his ledger. “Very well. Human.” He placed the pen into his coat to warm up and closed the ledger, a bony finger keeping his place. He held his other hand out to her, palm up. “One ducat.”

Claire looked confused and the clerk rolled his eyes. He glanced up at the queue and raised his voice to be heard by all. “Under the authority of the founding Société Notre-Dame de Montréal, migrants entering the colony must pay a customs tax of one ducat, or its equivalent.” He glared at Thira and her younglings. “Each.”

Angry tears filled the dwarf woman’s eyes as the clerk returned his attention to Claire. He opened and closed his reaching hand impatiently. “Well?”

Claire opened the small pouch at her belt. She had six ducats.

Keeping one for food, she took out five coins and placed them in the clerk’s hand.

“For myself, these dwarves, and the one behind them.” Claire gestured at a silvanesse who reminded her of her father. He had given some of his rations to the dwarf children after Thira’s fish was taken.

The clerk’s eyes widened, though no more than Thira’s. “May all the gods bless you, child,” she whispered.

“You will keep your blasphemies to yourself, dwarf!” the clerk snapped. “Montreal is a place of the One True God in Heaven. False gods may be found outside its walls. Now you,” he said to Claire, pocketing the coins. “Move along.”

She headed off the pier but lingered nearby, long enough to ensure that entry was granted to Thira, her children, and the elf before moving fully into the town.

The first log building Claire passed was the trading post. In a fenced area, stacked on rough-hewn tables, were the brown pelts of some unfortunate fur-bearing creatures. The tails were unlike anything she had seen before, black and wide and flat. Next to them were larger pelts in various shades from coal-black through browns and greys, to white. Their tails were long, limp, and thin. Like giant rat tails. One full-bearded merchant dickered with a pair of voyageurs, hard men with well-used muskets and large knives, wearing leather armor that bore deep gouges. Another merchant bartered with a copper-skinned man who also wore leather, but much more richly adorned with colorful beads and inlays of opalescent shell. His head was shaved clean but for a wide strip of long hair down the middle, tied at the nape of his neck with a cord.

Beyond that was one of the larger buildings in the colony. A warehouse, Claire supposed, with a mercantile in the front, facing the frozen mud of the street. Gendarmes patrolled in pairs, carrying muskets at their left shoulders. They were armored in rugged leather and pitted metal, a stark contrast to the ornate tabards, cloaks, and plumed hats found in Paris. At their belts were pistols and handaxes, as well as the same heavy knives carried by the voyageurs. Slanting across their backs were short pikes that looked like boar-spears.

The buildings were spaced widely and had sconces on poles between them. More torch poles could be seen lining the wooden ramparts near the top of the wall, where soldiers stood guard at regular intervals, facing out to the surrounding forested wilds. In the southwest corner, Claire could see the top of a lookout tower; secured to an attached mooring mast was a scouting balloon. The spherical envelope sagged slightly in the cold air.

Across from the mercantile was an inn, modest in size and quiet at this early hour. Claire headed in that direction. She crossed the uneven street, treacherous with hoofprints and wheel ruts petrified in the frozen mud. She was nearly to the door when it burst open and an orc came tumbling into the street.

“Nique tes morts, fils de chien!” came a voice from inside. Three voyageurs came out of the inn and squared off against the orc, who roared back at them.

“Ta race, merde vert!” the apparent leader of the trio said, pointing off to his right.

The orc glared at them, turned a sour glance at Claire, then stormed away down the street. He shouted over his shoulder. “Trouducs!” The voyageurs took no further notice of the orc as Claire squeezed between them to go inside.

The common room was large and filled with benches, stools, and tables. A pair of chandeliers hung from thick joists overhead. One was made of large racks of antlers lashed together, the other from a collection of what appeared to be oversized rat skulls. On one wall was a wide stone hearth with a low fire crackling above glowing embers. The common room was blessedly warm; the smell of fresh bread competed with that of stale beer.

Claire’s stomach rumbled.

She quickly chose a bench near the bar and sat with her back to the wall. As the three men closed in on her, a plump man in an apron came out from the kitchen. “What…?” After only a brief glimpse, he assessed the situation. “No!” he waved his arms at the men. “There will be no assailing the young lady with your hairy, unwashed faces! You’ve had enough misadventure already today. Back to your table, messieurs!”

The voyageurs did as the plump man said, nodding respectfully to him as they moved back to a table closer to the door.

With a satisfied nod, the man turned to Claire with a smile, habitually wiping his hands on his mostly white apron. “Welcome to Champlain’s Rest, my dear. I am the owner and proprietor, Remy Blouin.” He bowed slightly and gestured grandly. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Claire opened her mouth, but nothing came out right away. She looked over at the voyageurs.

“Oh, don’t you worry about them, cherie, they dare little. This is the only place in Montréal where they can sleep inside. Preferable to a tent in the cold forest, I would say, no? So. Are you hungry, dear?”

“I am,” Claire replied. “And exhausted. I’d like a meal and a room, please, Monsieur Blouin.”

The tavernkeeper sighed regretfully. “Ah, my apologies, young lady. I have no rooms available. They are all filled by voyageurs who sleep cheek by jowl and snore frightfully.” He gestured vaguely at the empty common room and the men by the door. “Up with the dawn, the other men go. These….” He grunted and shook his head. Looking back to Claire, he smiled again. “So. Stay right there.”

Blouin bustled back through the kitchen door and returned moments later with a steaming bowl and a mug. He set them on a nearby table and waved Claire over to it. She got up from the bench against the wall and sat in front of the bowl, savoring its rich aroma. Blouin sat across from Claire and handed her a wide wooden spoon. She immediately took a bite, chewed twice and paused before sighing, her lids sagging in contentment. “Mmmmm.”

The tavernkeeper grinned. “The venison, I get from the Mohawks to the west. They have a knack for finding the best deer.” Claire nodded wordlessly as she ate.

“Some turnips, onions and carrots, no great mystery. Just a pinch of fleur-de-sel… but!” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Searing the meat first, that is the secret. You must set it aside before dusting with flour, and then sauté the vegetables in the fond. A splash of wine, some good stock, add the meat back in, simmer for three hours… and voilà!”

Claire understood maybe half of what Blouin said, but the tavernkeeper was clearly proud of his recipe and it was one of the best tasting things she had ever eaten. “This is magical,” she said around a mouthful of turnip. The man beamed as she swallowed. The mug was filled with ice cold water.

“When you have eaten, I insist you go to the Hôtel-Dieu, the hospital, to inquire with the Sisters of Grace about work,” Blouin said in a fatherly tone. “Normally, I would suggest you report to the governor, Monsieur de Maisonneuve, but with so few women in Ville-Marie, you will need to remain close to God.”

Claire had a number of questions about what Blouin had just said. The least important of them leapt from her lips. “Ville-Marie?”

“Ah. That is the official name of this colony, but the tiny mountain,” he waved his hand dismissively, “is what people remember. Even in France, you know this place as Montréal?”

Claire nodded.

“Ah,” he said again. “The hospital is not likely to have any spare beds, so you must go to the church and sleep there until you have more permanent lodgings.” He leaned and spoke quietly, as if fearful of inviting misfortune. “So. You must never go out after sunset. The dark, it is a great danger here.” Claire’s eyebrows rose and the tavernkeeper continued. “Many of the non-humans, they tend to be active after nightfall, and there are occasional raids from Indigenas we are not so friendly with. But the real danger… is the Ratren.”

“Ratren?” Claire asked. She had heard the name but knew nothing more about them.

“Ratren,” Blouin replied nodding. He pointed up at the chandelier made of skulls. “Exactly what they sound like, cherie. Nearly five feet tall, they stand, these rat-people. Vicious and pestilent, they are of the Devil. Our soldiers, they keep the torches lit to banish shadows. And they protect the colony from predations while we stay safe inside. Of having our homes burned, we need not worry. The ratfolk have a fear of fire, as unholy creatures do. From their underground warrens, they creep and strike at good God-fearing people, carrying off our few children, the unwary, or the foolish. Or our brave dead. To eat them!” Blouin’s face flushed with disgust and passionate hate for the Ratren.

Claire set her spoon down and patted the tavernkeeper’s hand. “Be at ease, Monsieur Blouin. I assure you that I will stay inside after dark.”

“Ah,” he said, sitting back and taking a breath that helped return the natural pasty hue to his jowly face. “Very good.”

Claire picked up the spoon and was dismayed to find her bowl empty. Blouin quickly picked it up and stood, smiling again. “So. I shall bring you more. Meat on your bones, you will need it to stay warm in Montréal, young lady!” With that, Blouin bustled back into the kitchen and Claire considered where to go next.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Seer's Tower, Moskovskyi Kreml, City of Moscow, Kingdom of Rus.
King Vsevolod.

It was a looming complex of red stone blocks with high walls nestled against the slowly meandering waters of the moskva river. From among the Kremlin's many towers there was a thin, tall one sticking up into the air like a needle. The Seer's Tower, built over four centuries ago by Good King Boris, the man was of a scholarly disposition, perhaps explaining in some ways his failures of conquering lands in the west in the name of Mother Rus. He had let build the tall, needle-like tower to house his observatory, where he would spend his nights studying the stars and constellations. Today it was a pleasant area for sitting down, reading, relaxing and writing. King Vsevolod had found it to be one of his favorite places in the whole Kremlin ever since he was a young princeling and once again he found himself climbing the steps like many times before. Following him was the Lord High Chamberlain and onward they trudged up the spiral staircase. The King was barely winded, the Chamberlain on the other hand huffed, puffed and stopped for a while to catch his breath, the King paused and frowned, the man had allowed himself to go badly out of shape over the last few years.

"You know, Lord Kazanovsky, the scholars in the Academy of Natural Philosophy like to say that every step you climb adds a second to your life." King Vsevolod said with a faint frown as he continued up the staircase. "If I´ll climb enough stairs, by God I´ll live forever." He called over to the red-faced nobleman behind him. "Come on Alexey, I need you to help me run the Realm, I forbid you to drop dead here on these stairs." Lord Alexey Kazanovsky was a large, physically imposing man in his early forties, of a similar age as the king himself. Nearly seven feet tall and bald, with a rather noticeable stomach and often gave off the impression of a scrubbed pig. "Give me a moment, your Majesty." He heaved a few deep breaths and then follwed the King. The view at the top was breathtaking, the capital city sprawling beneath them, the manors of the rich, the Vasilyi Cathedral on Red Square, the smokestacks of the manufactories, the steamway station. But they were not here to admire the view, granted, one perhaps marred by the smoke belching contraptions that helped the vast Rus realm keep pace with it's Western rivals. The Lord High Chamberlain huffed along, carrying whole pile of paper in a leather cover.

"We have received word from the Holy Roman Empire." Kazanovsky said after he had slumped into one of the expertly carved armchairs and handed over one of the parchments to the King who looked it over. "Why did you insist we go through the day's correspondence here, if I may ask, your Majesty." He added, taking a small hankerchief out from one of the pockets on his richly colored robes.

"You didn't hear what I said?" The king snorted. "It does you good, I insisted for your sake, Alexey. Now what does the self-proclaimed Ceasar in Vienna want from us, they bother us so rarely the Germans." The king said and snatched the letter from Kazanovsky's hand, leaning back in his own chair.

"I have given it a read, the Germans would like to speak on the situation in the lands of the Poles, with Khmelnisky's uprising against Warsaw in their eastern lands, it seems they fear it may spread." Kazanovsky replied.

"Bollocks, they want to drag us into some scheme to march one the Poles I presume, or something else of the sort. Our lands in the South-Eastern Caucasus aren't the most stable themselves, and I am sure the Alids are looking for any hint of distraction to try some underhanded ploy among the heathenry that inhabits those lands. And the wide open lands of Siberia beckon, imagine the wealth we can find there, I want to reach the far eastern sea that the Cathayans speak of and build a colony of the Rus on it's shores. One day perhaps, there shall be a steamway linking Moscow all the way to those distant lands."

"To settle and secure those lands, to build a fortress on the shores of the far eastern sea will all cost good amounts of coin, your Majesty. The reestablishment of the Hanseatic trade between Lubeck and Novgorod would be a boon to our merchants and coffers alike, and the aid of the Germans, should we go to retake the Fourth Crown, one that holds dominion over many tax-paying subjects would be valuable, your majesty." Lord Kazanovski insisted. "Let us at least hear them out."

"Of course we shall hear them out! Ti's but good decorum." The king snapped before rubbing his temples. They're all in league with Katya, doing their damndest to nudge me into that mess Hetman Khmelnitsky has stirred up... "Let it be known that we are expecting an embassy from the German Empire, come now, let's pen a reply and move on to the next missive."

To His Most Imperial Majesty, Ferdinand III of House Habsburg, by the grace of God Holy Roman Emperor, Archduke of Austria, King of Bohemia, forever august King of all the Germans.

Greetings of peace to thee, most Imperial Majesty, from the land of the Rus. May our Heavenly Father hear my prayers and bless you, your great House and the people of all the Germanic Realms under your august rule.

I must firstly extend my complements to your family and most noble House as I tell you of my willingness to restore the Hanseatic Trade between our realms. Should the establishment of merchant houses in Novgorod and Lubeck be enacted, I am certain that the prosperity of both our realms would stand to benefit. We stand ready to receive your embassy in Moscow to discuss the relations between our realms and the unfortunate situation developing in the lands of our common neighbor as well as the deepening to economic ties between our great realms for the prosperity of our most noble Houses and our subjects alike, let there be good accord between the Rus and the Germans.

Signed by me, His Majesty Vsevolod of House Rurikovich-Moskovskyi, seventh of his name, King of Muscovy, Novgorod, Perm and Kiev, the Grand Prince of Ryazan, Voronezh, Kazan and Saratov, the Prince of Polotsk and Pskov, the Siridaar of Khimeel, the Overlord of Siberia and Defender of the Faith.

[Pragia]

Castle Galahad, London, Albion

In the heart of the great city of London, just upriver from the city center, the glistening white citadel of Castle Galahad stood, its two-tiered walls and spired keep moated in the waters of the Thames. While still the seat of the house for which it was named, it was often where the High King kept his council in times of peace. Ever the gracious guests, the Pendragon have kept the castle maintained and staffed for the better part of six hundred years following the defeat of the pagan King Canute’s final attempt to seize the isles.

Even now dark skies gathered over the alabaster hold threatening a storm which the skysages had not been able to disperse. The High King Uther III Pendragon was holding petitions with his council today, an activity he had taken a liking to in the last five years of his rulership. His predecessor Arthur V was not nearly as inclined, preferring to keep to working through advisors and decree. This had earned him many monikers among common folk and lower nobility, but he has held a personal preference for “The Enduring”

And Enduring he had been for his relatively short rule thus far. As Albion has watched the wars in Europe from afar, she has not been wholly without worry as she had been for most of the last few hundred years. Vain and Jealous hearts, Pride and Wrath conspired in the form of a popular uprising as Uther had ascended the throne. Led by Sir Oliver Cromwell, an ambitious knight-commander in the Royal Regiments who was twisted by the words of fel sorcerers, it had turned a not-insignificant revolt in the midlands into a proper revolution aimed at dethroning the ever-righteous dynasty of Albion.

While he had spoke of political rights and laws enshrined for the peasantry, Uther had seen the darkness that hid behind those honeyed promises when he personally led the Knights of the Round into the final Battle of Sheffield. Satanic imagery and dark magics ran the walls of the keep alongside slain clergymen, mutated beasts and alchemical hulks. This was a threat wholly different from the fey creatures or rogue magi who sometimes threatened the good people of the Kingdom: it was the darkness of sin made manifest.

And now, as cities burgeoned, that darkness still bothered the good king. Though the Pope’s orders and the local lords were still more than able to rout out those of evil intent, its growing prevalence troubled him. So here he sat, to be the ever-attentive lord before the plaintiffs of the realm.

The room was arranged similar to a Church hall, with benches laid fifty deep and three wide, the dias bore seven seats for the High King and his council. The benches were not very populated, this had been the fourth day in a row that this had been held, and many had left either satisfied or answered. The leather soles of steel boots of the Regiment of Royal Guards clattered on the marble floors as they guided petitioners before the dias.

The first petitioner was clearly from the continent, wearing ragged black robes and a lowered hood, his curled brown hair and heavy brow hung over somber eyes. Uther looked upon him, and the herald would ask for the man to announce himself and his intent.

“I am Joseph, a mage of the Rhine who has since pledged himself to His Majesty’s service. I petition my King for declaration on the matter of the fall of the Aether in Europe to darkness. The dead walk among the living, and the Aether itself bleeds for the wounds of the rituals being practiced there.”

The King would regard the man before him, there were precious few who had escaped the horrors of the Saxon lands by sea, fewer still to Albionite ports. Indeed, to confess such an origin was poignant, as Albionite prejudices against their long-held foes had only been validated as the situation soured. That a German would submit himself to the scrutiny of the Academy and Church was especially impressive.

This Earl Owen Glyn answered “The proclamation of the High King is that no Albionite is to enter the lands of the Holy Roman Empire, and.” He served as Lord-Magister, and his memory was sharp enough to remember laws far more esoteric than something as plain as this. “During the reign of High King Rhys I, a cabal of foreign magi were declared to be killed for their corruption of the Aether. Corruption of the Aether as verified by the Academy is grounds for execution.”

The representative of the Academy Archmage, Cullen, would append “While the Academy has had difficulties in determining the nature of the magics conducted on the continent due to His Majesty’s decree, it is the opinion of the Academy that necromancy and blood ritual has corrupted the aether there.” Ever formal, ever certain, an uncommon pair of traits from a mage, let alone a once-commoner.

Uther would hold his chin in one hand, his storm-gray eyes regarding the man before him. “It was the writ of my father that ended our involvement in that sordid affair on the continent. I upheld it in the face of increasingly disgusting behavior by enemy and friend alike. I had hoped as my father had that de-escalation would bring about a peace, but clearly our intentions were misfounded.” This roused glances from the High King’s advisors, who had not heard such a statement before.

“We abandoned our allies in Christ to the bloodthirsty heretics, and now the Empire may be lost forever. The Dutch have forsaken the good Lord for coin and material wealth, and they are the lucky ones. I proclaim that the Academy shall be tasked with investigating the Aether in the lands of the Holy Roman Empire.” Uther concludes. “We must also reach out to our long-held brothers in France to stand united against the Saxon perversions and if possible reverse them.”

Joseph seemed almost as put back as the High Kings advisors but quickly nods and kneels quickly “Thank you, King Uther, you have wisdom beyond your years.” He clearly had not expected any decisive action, but he had never been in the court of Albion.

---

Many more petitions would follow, but none would be highest in the minds of the council than the rising threat in Germany. After the petitions ended, the council had moved to their chamber to debrief. As with all council meetings, the chalice would be present.

The Holy Grail of Christ was not only a mark of power and royal authority, but an immensely powerful magical artifact, one who had created entire traditions around the High King. The Royal Chaplain would pour wine into the chalice and consecrate it, drinking from it first. He would wince lightly before handing it to the High King.

Uther would drink and feel that familiar warmth wash over him. Wine consumed from the chalice has special properties. Beyond granting supernatural longevity and strength with regular use, it also struck those who drank from it with a penance. Good men will feel their small failures itch and burn, while sinners will be severely disabled. This Judgment of the Grail was rendered to every knight and lord of the realm, and those deemed unworthy are stripped of their position if they are not first stripped of their lives.

The lack of pain only emboldened the High King, that his words earlier were made of good reason and not his own hubris. This was the secret behind the decisiveness of the thousand years of Kings before him. Where others claim divine right, the lord of Albion validates it every day at the risk of his own life.

His advisors would all sip from the grail, grimaces and clenched fists he came to expect. He trusted his advisors, but tradition must be upheld, and Uther liked to believe that it set a tone of introspection and piety before discussions became tense.

He would open “Good work was done today, thank you all for your patience and restraint.”

Immediately Cullen would speak, his accent giving him an airy way of speaking “I do not think the Archmage will appreciate sending mages to survey a hostile nation.”

“And I am grateful that you held your tongue until now, we needed to show resolve before the people, and I had been considering action for some time now.” Uther would say evenly

“Surely the time to act would have been sooner than after the fall of the Palatinate?” Sir Gawain of York, Knight-Marshal of Armies retorted.

“Indeed, beyond our distractions in recent years, our mistrust of the Saxon Catholics held back our better instincts. But past inaction does not justify continued inaction. This is not the end of the Saxon desire for blood and conquest, and we must be ready.” The High King said firmly

“I am confident in our ability to contain them in the sea and sky, even if they were to somehow defeat the French and the Dutchmen.” the Lord-Admiral Thomas Shackleford would declare. “The Sky-ironclads Justice and Temperance will be launched within the season, joining their six brothers. Only the Dutch High Fleet has a chance of challenging us.” Uther did not share his confidence, as this was a time of the unexpected, and powers further abroad were becoming increasingly relevant to their affairs.

“It is not a matter of seas and skies, this will be fought on the continent, and we must leverage more relevant capacities, if the Academy can understand our foe, we may be able to prevent their most foul magics.”

The representative of the Archmage would nod “By your command, my King.”

[Cymrea]

26 Janvier 1648
Capital city of Paris,
Holy Kingdom of France

A bitter winter wind lifted the wings of a white-bellied martin as it soared over the ancient city of Paris. The bird, seeking food, swept over the walls of the old city, and banked north over the Seine. Across the sluggish river, the martin passed the quay leading to the Louvre and beyond that, the Rue Saint-Honoré that led to the Palais-Royal. Movement from a cloud of steam brought the martin’s attention to a horseless carriage approaching the gate of the palace. It fluttered its tiny wings and landed upon the snow-dusted roof of the gleaming black carriage as the rudimentary machine came to a lurching stop. Another belch of steam, followed by the hissing scream of the coal-fired engine, startled the martin back into flight.

A second, more conventional carriage, one drawn by a team of six matching black Frisians, disgorged a half-dozen armed men in white and gold and two bearing the flame lily of the Inquisition upon their robes. The soldiers, knight of the Order of the Sun, formed a square next to the lead carriage as its lone occupant emerged.

Cardinal Jules Mazarin, chief minister of France and advisor to the Sun King, wore crimson, cut in noble ecclesiastical fashion and collared in white. Upon his head perched the cap of his office in the same bright red hue, with wavy auburn hair flowing out from beneath it. Under his aquiline nose and surrounding a wide-lipped mouth was a meticulously manicured moustache and pointed beard. Refusing the hand of a footman, he moved to the middle of the formation. Fully secured within the ring of chevaliers, Mazarin gave a silent nod and the party marched into the palace.

Until recently, it was known as the Palais-Cardinal, constructed for Cardinal Richelieu and serving as his residence until his death six years ago. Now, it served the Sun King. The gate was a broad stone wall, ornate with iron-fenced arches and Byzantine columns. It stretched between two tall wings of the palace, with a walkway across the top, joining the balconies fronting the wings and forming the south courtyard. Upon the walkway and manning the gate were more armed men wearing uniforms of a dark red color called maroune. They too wore the golden sashes that named them as knights of the realm. One of these chevaliers of the Order of Merovingia had a golden fleur-de-lys embroidered over his heart, indicating his rank as a junior officer. He stepped forward to meet Mazarin and his guard. As they approached, the chevalier saluted, fist over his heart, and stood aside to allow the party entry.

Inside, the sumptuously appointed palace had changed little from its time before the royal residency. Banners of blue bearing the three fleurs-de-lys of France decorated the tall interior walls. The curtains were now of the same shade of blue, replacing the crimson ones favored by the late Richelieu. Banners of the Order of Merovingia now shared pride of place next to their counterparts of the Order of the Sun. A portrait of Richelieu, two meters in height, had once dominated the approach to the hall that now served as the throne room. In its place was one of equal size, depicting the Queen Regent holding her infant son. Another pair of knights opened the double doors to the hall as the party neared. Once inside, the escorting Sun knights took positions along the walls as the inquisitors took positions behind, just inside of the closing doors.

Mazarin took in the tense tableau before him.

The Sun Throne – a larger replica of the bronze Throne of Dagobert – was made of oak, finely carved where it was not gilded. Supporting the arm rests were leopards, a symbol of the ancient Frankish kings, and the wavy rays of a rising sun crested the high back. Seated upon a blue cushion was ten-year-old King Louis XIV. The boy presided over the audience with a stiff posture and rapt attention. He was a good student in Mazarin’s estimation. He would be a good king as well.

Cold mid-winter daylight streamed into the hall through stained glass windows set high in the walls. Directly behind the king, the colored glass showed Saint Denis, the patron saint of France, haloed and bathed in golden light. To one side was depicted King Henry IV, the first of the Bourbon kings. To the other side was Carolus Magnus – Charlemagne.

Standing in front of the throne and facing those assembled, was Anne d'Autriche, Queen Regent and mother of the young Sun King. The very quintessence of regal grace, she wore widow’s black in honor of her husband, the previous king; her cuffs and collar were feathery and chaste-white. The Queen Regent wore no coronet, only a large chain of office calculated to impress upon the nobility that her son was the monarch and their rightful ruler.

“Cardinal Mazarin!” she greeted him breathlessly. “Thank God in Heaven you have arrived.”

The eyes of the men facing the king turned to Mazarin, and the cardinal understood the Queen Regent’s relieved tone. Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, a plump man dressed in gold and black, was one of France’s pre-eminent merchants. Gems were his specialty and he had travelled as far afield as Hindia to acquire the very best stones. Indeed, the Grand Sapphire, recently added to the crown currently resting upon young Louis’ brow, had been provided by Tavernier. The man was highly influential and a staunch opponent of increased taxation.

Standing with the gem merchant were several other prominent traders, chief among them was the king’s uncle Gaston, Duke of Orléans. The man had been the heir presumptive to the throne of France until the birth of his elder brother’s first son Louis. On two occasions, he had to leave France for conspiring against the government of his brother and his chief minister Richelieu. After waging an unsuccessful war in Languedoc leading to the Battle of Castelnaudary in 1632, he took refuge in Flanders. Reconciled with Louis XIII, he plotted against Richelieu in 1635, fled from the country again, and then later submitted to the King and the Cardinal. How and why Orléans had been forgiven was a mystery and the subject of much rumor at court.

Upon the death of King Louis XIII, Orléans had been made a lieutenant-général, in command of the terrissage at La Rochelle. A lull in the ongoing conflicts with dwarves in the Pyrenees brought the duke to Paris to indulge in his favorite pastimes: intrigue and flirtation with treason. He idly brushed a speck from his blue-and-white tabard and regarded Mazarin with a smirk.

Mazarin strode through the group facing the throne. “Your Holy Majesty,” he bowed deeply to the boy king. Turning to the Queen Regent he took her hand and bowed over it. “Your Highness.” Another turn had him facing the petitioners.

“How may I be of service?” he asked Queen Anne, holding the eyes of each of the men in turn. Last, he met the duke’s, meeting Orléans’ smug expression with a serene one. It was Tavernier that spoke.

“Your Eminence, as I have expressed to Her Highness, these latest customs taxes—”

“Aides, Monsieur Tavernier”, Mazarin corrected.

The merchant huffed. “Call them what you will, Your Eminence, they are intolerable. Thrice now in as many years, the taxes have been increased. We are squeezed most cruelly!” He made a choking gesture with his hands.

Mazarin considered the man. He was as loyal to France as he was avaricious. The cardinal chose his words carefully for he had no wish to unnecessarily castigate an otherwise steadfast ally.

“Monsieur, you perhaps more than any other, are aware that the long years of war – a holy and righteous war that required France to be the champion of Christ and the Catholic Church – the long years of war take a dreadful toll on the kingdom’s coffers. Those ducats must be replenished for the sake of France and her ability to continue defending the faith and the realm.”

Tavernier scoffed. “A burden shouldered by the Third Estate.” The other merchants nodded in agreement.

“And much of the nobility, as well,” said Orléans.

“So you say, yet here you all stand, well-fed and richly dressed. Destitution seems not to have found you despite being,” he smiled in what he hoped was a placating expression, “cruelly squeezed. It is no secret that the burden of aides is passed to your customers, most of whom already pay the taille.”

Tavernier and his fellows had the grace to look abashed.

“Such is our right,” Orléans said, crossing his arms over his chest. The threshold for grace in the Second Estate had ever been higher.

“Milk too much a consistently underfed cow and the result is what, Your Grace?”

“Dried beef,” the duke replied wryly.

“Of the kind to be found in the darkening lands on our eastern border, to be sure,” Mazarin countered. He redirected his attention to the merchants. “You will have found, no doubt, that your markets in the Germanies have become dried, if not perilous. I have myself received correspondence from agents in Ardennes. At night, the howls of hundreds of wolves, and something bigger. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, hale and fat, found in the morning stripped to the bone of all but the barest scraps of meat, with no blood nor offal to be found. Poisonous green glowing at the horizon on otherwise clear nights. Loyal dogs turning feral and savaging their masters. Graves emptied from the inside. And witnesses attesting to the return of their beloved dead. One man, a respected priest of a small village southeast of Charleville, spoke of being woken in the witching hour by a scratching at his door. He nearly opened it until he caught a voice pleading to be let – in, the voice of his dead son, buried last summer.”

Tavernier and the other merchants had paled visibly. One man looked sick. Orléans rolled his eyes.

“It is understandable that you fear your reduced custom threatens your profits. But it is precisely those unholy horrors in the east that France stands aegis against. Must stand against, lest we be subsumed by the malignant cancer creeping toward our borders.

“And to stand,” Mazarin spread his hands, “costs ducats.”

Orléans and the merchants left soon thereafter, mollified for the time being, though Mazarin knew that it was temporary. And unfortunately, was among the least of his worries. The intelligence coming from the eastern marches of the realm were even more dire than what he had described to Tavernier and the others. The rumors were yet more frightening.

The Sun knights marched out of the hall and took up positions outside the doors. The inquisitors remained within, talking quietly in a corner. The Queen Regent grasped Mazarin’s hand and squeezed it warmly.

“Thank you, Jules. These audiences become ever more contentious. How long before it become rebellion, I wonder?”

Mazarin patted her hands. “Such is the ardor in French hearts, Your Highness. But,” he released her hands and turned to face the boy king, “I’m afraid that matters in the east may be still worse, Sire. The spectre of war continues to haunt us, tied to foul necromancy in the Germanies.”

Louis considered for a moment before replying. “In whom might we find allies, Cardinal?”

“My agents in Albion send word that Uther is amenable to strengthening ties between our realms. We would benefit greatly from a closer relationship with that noble nation. The Dutch may be heretical, but I believe France may be able to profit from an entente with them, increasing both our trade revenues and our chances at containing the… fées noires.” Mazarin paused. About his last suggestion, he was less certain. “We may also consider making peace with the Trastamaras in Spain.”

The Queen Regent’s expression brightened. She was wed to the late king to help ensure peace between Catholic nations. That peace had not held with Spain these last thirteen years, but the eastern threat was more than great enough to warrant a cessation of hostilities with fellow Catholics. Mazarin believed the Pope would be pleased as well. An added blessing. If France and Spain could be convinced to cooperate, they might finally cleanse the Pyrenees of the dwarves. And combined with Albion and perhaps the Dutch, the unholy stain of necromancy could be exterminated, cleansed and re-sanctified in purifying flame.

The Sun King kicked his feet. They did not yet reach the dais beneath the throne. “Tell us more, Cardinal.”

“I shall, Sire. But first, I suggest that additional forces be sent to Ardennes and the terrissage at Saint Dizier be reinforced. By the Grace of God, that may be sufficient to fortify our borders while we make diplomatic preparations.”

King Louis nodded his assent.

[Tracian Empire]

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Βασιλεύς Βασιλέων Βασιλεύων Βασιλευόντων
Basiléus Basiléon Basilévon Basilevónton
King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

---

10th of January
7156 ε.Κ.
2401 A.V.C.
1648 A.D.

Constantinople
Κωνσταντινούπολις
People standing in front of the Chalke Gate of the Great Palace, the Bronze Gate with the icon of Christ Chalkites, watched as the Logothete of the Military directed his men as they were mounting a breastplate, a sword, and a shield outside of the gates. An old tradition from bygone times, symbolizing one thing - that the Emperor, great and mighty sovereign of the Romans, had decided to go on campaign and to mobilize his troops against an enemy. The bells of the Hagia Sophia started to ring as the city was sent into a frenzy, with the tagma regiments mobilizing, and with all the churches in the city offering prayers for victory. In the Augustaion, the Great Square, the priests of the city would lead processions with holy icons, while the greatest relic of them all, the True Cross, found by the Saint Empress Helena, saved from the Persians by Emperor Heraclius and brought back to Jerusalem, from where it was saved again in front of the Arabs and brought to Constantinople, was taken out of the Hagia Sophia, to be moved back into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

A fire was lit in the firehouse of the Great Palace, the Pharos, soon followed by a light on the other side of the Bosporus, on Mount St. Auxentius, and to the north on the city, on the Anastian Walls, as the beacons were lit to the northwest and to the northeast, one after the other, transmitting the message to the four corners of the empire in a matter of hours. Each and every step, from the mobilization of the soldiers, the steps they would take outside of the city, the speeches of their officers, the prayers that were to be said, the baggage that were to be prepared, which troops would move by sea and which would move by land. Everything had already been decided, everything had already been planned and noted down. Everyone would move in perfect synchronicity like the gears of a clock. The supplies that were required, the baggage train of the Emperor, even the meals that were to be prepared each day - all had been decided in advance. The beacons were to inform the themes and to put the plans into motion, while mages and dragon couriers were to do the rest. The foideratoi dwarves of the Taurus Mountains were called to arms, the elven pronoiarios of Moesia were to gather their regiments, the centaur akritai of Syria were to stand at the ready. The Mikrá Etaireía was to answer the calls, from the minotaurs of Crete, the Latinikoi men-at-arms, the gryphon koursorses of Anatolia.

The troops in the capital were to be gathered next to the city. The Basileus was to leave the city first, after attending a religious service in the Hagia Sophia, and would move outside of the city alongside his officials, servants, priests, and his bodyguards - of which there three units. The native Roman Vestiaritai, the Imperial Hetaireia, the Company, mostly of foreigners, and of course, the Varangian Guard. There he would wait as each of the tagma regiments would be prepared for inspection, and after the inspection, each of the regiments would then leave towards the imperial harbors - where some would be shipped over to Anatolia for the route by land to Palestine, while others would be taken by sea directly. The Scholai, the Schools, the descendants of the Scholae Palatinae of Emperor Constantine the Great. The Exkoubitoi, the Sentinels of Leo the Great. The Hikanatoi, the Able Ones of Emperor Nikephoros the Arab. The Optimatoi, the Best Men of Emperor Tiberius Constantine. The Tessarakontarioi, the Marines of Emperor Michael the Amorian. The Archontopouloi, the sons of the Archons of Emperor Andronikos Palaiologos, the unit formed by orphaned sons of imperial officers, raised in Constantinople. The Vigla, the Watch, the guards of the imperial palace and of the imperial camps of Empress Irene. And even the officers of the Imperial Fleet, who would come and pay their respects to the Emperor. The Empire of the Romans was going to war.


Pylai
Πύλαι
Theme of Opsikion
Tέμα Ὀψικίου

At the port of Pylai, on the Sea of Marmara, from where he was able to look at Constantinople, the Emperor rose from his couch, and stood, facing west. The young man, his eyes of amber, was wearing a golden diadem with precious stones in his brown, messy hair, was wearing a white tunic, the chiton, under a purple cloak, the chlamys, with richly embroidered tablia of gold, and fastened on his right shoulder with a golden brooch, a fibula, with a red inlay framed by a row of pearls from which three white tear-drop pendants were suspended. This military attire was completed by tight trousers, and the campagi, leather shoes dyed in purple. Fastened to the belt around his tunic was a sword, seemingly in the straight style of a spatha, sheathed within a leather scabbard richly decorated with precious stones.

As he raised his hands, he made the sign of the Cross three times with his hands over the City, and prayed in accordance with the ceremony. "Lord Jesus Christ, my God, in your hands I place this city of yours. Preserve it from all the adversities and difficulties befalling it, from civil strife and foreign attack. Keep it impregnable and unassailable, for we place our hopes in you. You are lord of mercy and father of compassion and God of all consolation, and yours is the power of mercy and salvation and deliverance from temptations and dangers, now and forever more. Amen. "

"Quite theatrical, aren't you, my Lord?"

A voice was to be heard, and the Basileus turned around, only to be faced by another young man. About the same height, the man in question had a slightly lighter brown hair that was even longer, and his eyes, of the same amber color as those of the emperor clearly implied that they were relatives. This second man was wearing a similar outfit, but without the diadem, with a more modest fibula, and with his shoes dyed red instead of purple. He was also noticeably more muscular, and his skin displayed a very healthy tan. In his hand, he was holding a simple cup, filled with wine.

"You know just as well as me, Konstantinos, that the ceremony calls for this to happen, and that this is more than just an empty prayer.", the Emperor replied seriously, before a smile appeared on his face. "Just like you know that the imperial crown isn't as heavy on my head as to make me forget who my brothers are, and to make me force my own brother call me kyrios." The Emperor's brother chuckled in response. "I know, I know, but I had to, Michael. I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing you as the Emperor. It's still difficult to think that father is no more, even if I certainly don't miss the bastard." A hint of sadness seemed to cross Michael's face. "Let us not speak ill of the dead. You know that with me gone, I count on you to make sure that Constantinople is safe." Konstantinos gestured with his cup. "You should talk with your God about that, or maybe with Manuel. I can't promise anything if your Blues will try anything underhanded during next week's races."

Both men smiled, but before either of them was able to say anything else, they were interrupted by the arrival of someone else, wearing a heavy white cloak, embroidered with dragons, crimson trousers, enchanted lamelar armor and a helmet covering most of their face. As they arrived, they fell down to one knee and removed their helmet, revealing the pointy ears and purple eyes of a female Varangian from the elven race. "My holy lord, the akolouthos has entrusted me to tell you that the guard is ready for departure." The Basileus, his expression again cold and solid, gestured to the soldier to stand back up. "Thank you.", he replied, before he turned around to face his brother - only to notice that he had walked right up to him. The two of them hugged shortly. "Make sure that you come back this time without being gutted open, right?", the prince told him, half-jokingly, half-seriously, as the Emperor grasped the handle of his sword, somewhat nervously. "I will be doing my best."

Then, for a moment, the world turned black as something covered the sun, and whirlwinds filled the air and the ground shook as a gigantic dragon landed next to them. His scales were glossy, and almost black, but shone purple in the light of the sun. Waving goodbye to his brother, the Basileus climbed onto the top of the dragon. Not a few moments later, it rose up, back in the air, leaving Pylai behind.

Nikaia
Νίκαια
Theme of the Opsikion
Θέμα Ὀψικίου

Two men were standing next to another, at the front of a large camp assembled in front of the city of Nicaea. Behind them, row upon row, were the soldiers of the Opsikion theme. Their attire was exactly what would be expected from thematic soldiers. A loose-fitting tunic with long sleeves, with its hem reaching the knees, dyed in red, and the classic calligae, the hobnailed sandals of the Roman legionaries. The tunics were decorated with woven strips, usually white, and to some of them, circular roundels known as clavi were added, which were usually embroidered with the symbol of each theme, in this case, the soldiers of the Opsikion traced their lineage to the Legio Palatina Scythae of the Magister Militum Praesentalis II, a detachment of the Legio IIII Scythica, the legion founded by Marcus Antonius in the dying years of the Republic, having crushed Scythians on the Danube, fought at Actium, and then against the Parthians, and the Sassanids, before finally fighting the Saracens when its remains were reorganized into this theme. As such, the soldiers of the Opsikion used its symbol, in the roundels, and on their flags, now that shields were no longer used. Their chests were covered in lamelar cuirasses and the pikemen were also wearing helmets, while the musketeers preferred white turbans, known as the phakiolion.

In front of them, there were two men. One human, and one a dwarf, one riding on a horse, the other on what looked to be some sort of a mountain goat. They were both wearing richly embroidered tunics, of blue and silver and gold and similarly blue turbans were covering their heads. Lamelar cuirasses covered their chests, tied with leather straps, and to them, golden tabliae were tied, identifying their ranks, the dwarf, as the komes of the Opsikion theme, and the man as the hypokomes, the count, and the viscount respectively, their honorary titles diverging from what was normal to for the themes due to the privileged position of the Opsikion, formed as they were from the personal retinues of the Emperor, back when the theme system was firstly created.

"So the breastplate has been raised onto the Chalke...", the man murmured in a rather low voice. "Indeed it has. It reminds me of Ioannes, may his memory be eternal, who also started his reign by raising the breastplate onto the Chalke, and who liberated Antioch like Nikephoros, may his memory be eternal, the pale death of the Sarakenoi. That was a war worth fighting. All the losses and the suffering of our forefathers, avenged. My father, who had fought with Nikephoros, may his memory be eternal, died shortly after we liberated the city, at peace.", the dwarf replied, his voice rough but steady. "Who do you think the Basileus, may the Lord God preseve him onto many years, wishes to fight against?" The komes seemed to ponder on his adjutant's question. "That only the Basileus himself knows, may God grant him many years. The angeliaphoroi have been spreading rumors that we might be moving against the Sarakenoi, but that we do not know - still, I would doubt it. The Basileus, may God grant him long life, is much more cautious than his father was, may his memory be eternal. But it matters not, in the end. Whatever our light-bearing lord wishes, we shall follow."

Then, again, the sun was covered for but a moment, whirlwind filled the air, and a dragon landed in the distance. As the Emperor climbed down, so did the two officers, and they were soon followed by the other leading officers of the theme, the protonotary, the tourmarchai, the droungarokometes, the merarches and thedomestikoi, all the leading officers. Most were human, but a couple were also elves and dwarves. As soon as the Basileus arrived in front of them, followed closely from behind by the Varangians who had dismounted from their own dragons, the officers fell to the ground, making obseisance before the emperor, while the soldiers of the theme remained standing.

"Well met!", and the Emperor gestured to them to stand back up, as he saluted them. "How are you, my children? How are your wives, my daughters-in-law, and the children?", he asked ceremonially. For even if the Emperor was a young man, as the great sovereign of the Romans, and the Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, he was the spiritual father of all of his soldiers. "While you live and reign, we, your servants, also enjoy health!", the officers all answered at once. And the soldiers shouted in unison, Christ conquers, Christ rules! May Christ guard the Emperor!And the Emperor replied: "Thanks be to the holy God who keeps ups in health." Then, the officers and the soldiers all shouted at once.

May the imperial power of the Romans increase!
May the victory of the Roman armies increase!
Many years for the Christ-loving army!

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the Pope of Rome

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, our one and only true God, Michael, having faith in Christ our God alone, emperor and great sovereign of the Romans, to His Holiness, Innocentius, the most holy Pope of Rome and my spiritual father.

Most holy bishop of Rome, may God grant you many years, and may He preserve all the bishops and priests and deacons and the rest of the clergy of the holy church of the Old Rome. I write to you as a matter of great importance for both the Old Rome and the New, and I ask you to please send a nuncio to Constantinople as soon as possible to discuss these most important of matters.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

---

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the King of All the Rus

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, our one and only true God, Michael, having faith in God alone, emperor and autocrat of the Romans, to my beloved spiritual son, the most nobly-born and illustrious King, by the grade of God, of the most Christian nation of the Rus.

I write to you in hope that land of the Rus will be preserved by God onto many years, and praying that God will grant to you, to the boyars, both within and outside the court, and the common people of the Rus, long life, and may he grant strength to your strategoi and troops.

Now, as the land of the Romans and the land of the Rus is once again sharing a border, I wish to send my brother, Konstantinos Porphyrogennetos, most noble prince of the Romans and Despot of Trebizond, to your court, to serve as my representative, to discuss matters most important for the protection of our Christian faith from the hordes of the crescent moon, and matters related to the trade in the Black Sea between our nations.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the King of Francia

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, our one and only true God, Michael, having faith in God alone, sublime augoustos, sovereign and great emperor of the Romans, to my dearest, beloved spiritual son, Louis, the most nobly-born and admirable king of Francia.

May God grant you many years, and may He grant long life and health to all the members of your most illustrious royal family, and may He grant strength to the knights and troops of the Christian nation of France. In order to discuss most important matters for both the lands of Francia and Romania, I wish to send my brother, Manuel Porphyrogennetos, prince of the Romans, to Paris as my personal representative.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

[Reverend Norv]

What is the price of progress?

It is that question, I think, that has led us here. We approach a sight, a story, that we have seen before. A distant light, kindled after centuries of darkness and decades of religious war, shining all the brighter for the shadows it has weathered. Once, I told you that it was a brilliant glow of hope and innovation, a nimbus of minds and hearts that have been set free to think and feel in new ways. It glows like a sunrise after the long, long night, illuminating a new world in which anything is possible.

That's still true, even in this world of unimaginable wonders, this fantastic and anomalous corner of space and time. But perhaps the very strangeness of this timeline holds up a mirror to the light of hope, of possibility. And in that mirror, as through a glass darkly, we see the question: what is the price of progress? What mysteries, what wisdom, are desiccated by the unforgiving light of reason? And who pays the price so that one tiny country can turn the wheel of history into a new age?

Come with me, then, into the mirror - through the looking-glass - and let's find out.

* * *

On the other side of the looking-glass - a city. What a city! Here, in this continent of ancient skylines - of castle towers and cathedral spires, of winding medieval alleys interrupted all ungainly by the new belching smokestacks - here, we see only row after row of tidy red brick buildings, with the frame of each window and door carefully whitewashed. Here are swept-clean cobblestone streets with broad sidewalks; here are lamplighters, carefully tending the crucible flames that set quicklime streetlights aglow; here are small parks and gardens nestled among the brick buildings, public parks with benches and hedgerows, parks meant for everyone.

Two women are sitting on a bench in one such park. One woman is round, pink-faced, cheerful; the other very tall, inhumanely graceful and elegant, her pointed ears hidden by the lace coif that both women wear. Their clothes, indeed, are the same: black dresses of the fine broadcloth wool that is reserved for noblemen in most of Europe; white lace collars and coifs. They both have little leather-bound books with them: bourgeois Dutchwomen can read, be they elf or human or anything else. But now the women have set the books aside, and they are speaking in quiet voices, and letting their children play together. There is a child-sized suit of armor in the corner of the park, and when the boys turn the crank on the armor's back to wind up the clockwork within, the dummy's arms and legs move as if it is fighting. The children shriek with laughter and beat on the armor with wooden swords - and their mothers, who were born into a war that has lasted eighty years, smile to hide their fear.

Leave the park, now; drift down the neat streets among the passersby. Pass the market, where more women in black wool and white lace are buying fine white bread - aristocrats' bread, in the rest of Europe. Ahead, the road becomes a bridge, and a canal flows beneath our feet. A barge passes by, chugging down the canal below the bridge, venting dark smoke from its steam engine: it is loaded with crates, and even over the smell of burning coal, you can detect the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and cloves and pepper. The barge behind that one is loaded with dozens of elephant tusks from the Cape; the barge behind that has hundreds of beaver pelts from New Amsterdam, ready to be felted into hats.

Walk on. Up ahead on the left is a gate of worked brass, and behind it you can hear children's voices, shrill with delight. What's this? This is a public zoo, perhaps the world's first. In rows of cages, lions and tigers shiver in the Dutch winter. A pair of elephants stands close together for warmth. An orangutan idly tosses peach pits at the watching children. In an especially ornate cage at the zoo's center, a griffin stands with stiff dignity - wings folded, gaze averted - while a middle-aged man sits outside the cage and carefully paints it. If you are an art connoisseur, you may recognize Heer Rembrandt van Rijn. A few cages away, a mo-sin-a - a child-sized, furry humanoid from Taiwan - paces in her cage and spits curses in broken Dutch at the children outside. She is not an animal, she insists. Nobody seems to care.

Walk on. Past the zoo and over another canal, we come to a square: shaded with plane trees and filled with a curious crowd of onlookers. On a stage at one end of the square, an older elven man - dressed in the same black wool and white lace as all the other Dutchmen - is speaking. Banners and placards announce a lecture by Professor Idril Carosso - the first name is Elvish, the surname is Sephardic - on the topic of the physical properties of aether. Professor Carosso stands behind a table of alchemical equipment, and although he casts no spells, he is unmistakably doing magic: a crucible heats a murky substance within an alembic, and the resulting steam is forced through a strange series of mirrors, like the interior of a telescope, that produce impossibly vivid rainbows of living, ever-changing colors. "And from this we can see," Carosso declares in accented Dutch, "that although aether is responsive to the will of wizards, it is not created by that will; rather, it is an element of the Creation, no different from the gases of the air or the minerals of the earth. Like them, it follows the laws of nature, albeit in its own unique way. Like them, it can be understood by reason and experimentation, and not merely worshipped...."

He goes on. Well, you get the idea. We have business elsewhere. But before we leave this square, spare a moment to watch the crowd: men and a few women, some rich and some poor, all watching entranced as Idril Carosso unravels the mysteries of the universe. No Dutchman in a century has been able to cast a spell, but this scientist, with his vials and his mirrors, has filled the square with magical rainbows all the same. "Prometheus," murmurs a man in the crowd, and it is hard to disagree: for to make a science of magic is, surely, but one step removed from stealing the fire of the gods.

Walk on. We are close to the harbor now: smell the salt and the reeking coal-smoke and another, stranger scent: sharp, clean, metallic, electric. Ozone: the smell of lightning, of raw energy released into the atmosphere. The smell is especially strong as we pass a peculiar tower, a seemingly spindly skeleton of metal beams looming a hundred feet above the surrounding buildings, with a gigantic mirror at the tower's top. Don't look directly; the mirror is angled to catch the sun, and it flashes with a blinding glare each time the operator moves it. A continuous barrage of flashes splits the air above this city, and you recognize something like the Morse code of your own world: the flashes are long or short, and build into cryptic phrases of their own. They must be visible for thirty miles, even in the grey Dutch morning. And if you raise your eyes and squint, you can see similar towers all over this city, flashing away ceaselessly, receiving and relaying messages from other towers far in the distance beyond the city limits. A constant dialogue of light flies above the neatly shingled roofs.

What are they saying? For that, eavesdrop on the men beside us: a portly older merchant, and his young son with a wispy mustache. The boy squints up at the flashing mirror, and then turns to his father. "The price of mahogany is down four percent."

"Damn," the merchant replies glumly. Father and son hurry on their way toward a large brick building in the distance, where one can hear - even from this far away - the hubbub of voices calling out orders to buy and sell. This is the world's first stock exchange, and it is - as much as any single location can be - the nerve center of the global economy in the Year of Our Lord 1648.

One more time, walk on. Turn the corner, and suddenly you have arrived at the harbor. Look left; look right. As far as the eye can see in each direction, you behold a continuous cobblestone plaza: the wharf where sea meets shore. From this wharf protrude dozens - hundreds - of stone piers, jutting out into the grey North Sea. Some of the piers are narrow, and next to each of them is a ship: some are shallow-draft, with cloth sails reefed to the yards; others are larger, deeper-draft, and their sails are mirrors of glass or polished brass. Many of the piers are not long and narrow, but large and square - really miniature plazas in their own right - and these are occupied by airships: huge vessels of hardwood and steel and brass, streamlined and sleek as seabirds. From channels buried within each oaken chassis, you can hear the hum of spinning aerial screws, the slow whup-whup-whup of idling ducted fans. Luchtfluyten: the famous Dutch wind-powered airships.

Cast your gaze a little further up, a little further out. Overhead, great cranes of wood and steel creak and groan, moving bales of cargo from ships of sea and air to the lading yards on the wharf. On that wharf, you see a microcosm of the whole world: Javanese laborers haul crates of spices, ogres carry bales of sugarcane, dwarven merchants shepherd a steam-powered wagon loaded with runic tablets. Note the crowd of men around an official-looking office - Dutch ship captains, weathered men in worn leather and yellowed linen. That building is the impost office, and the ship captains are registering their cargos and paying taxes. But you don't hear any coins changing hands, only the rustling of papers. The last few years, the States-General have started accepting bank drafts in fulfillment of impost taxes. Most ships are owned by companies now, not by their captains, and so the corporation's bank pays the tax. Papers change hands, a few numbers get noted in the ledger. That's money, these days. Welcome to the seventeenth century.

And if you cast your gaze out further still? Well - even for a traveler in time and space like you, the sight can take your breath away. The sea and sky teem with movement: hundreds of shapes, made tiny by distance, entering and leaving the harbor. Sails, white as floating seabirds, throng the waves. Mirrorships, moving fast and against the wind, drive across the North Sea: their reflective sails generate beams of focused sunlight to heat their boilers, and that concentrated radiance turns each distant ship into a brightly glowing firefly, a shooting star on the horizon. And in the skies above, airships come and go from their landing pads in clouds of coal-smoke and a thunder of whirling fans: flying without wings or sails or balloons, filling the sky like a flock of migrating birds. You become aware of noises and sensations: the roar of engines means that everyone on this wharf has to speak in raised voices, and an indirect heat warms your skin from proximity to so many giant mirrors, to so much intensely focused sunlight. Dizziness seizes you. It is, for a moment, overwhelming.

It should be. This is a new thing: the world gathered to a single point, all its peoples and products and wonders, condensed into one great port. For all its magic and mystery, this world has never seen anything like Amsterdam before, you know. It's seen many wondrous things, from the Roman aqueducts to the Great Wall to the jungle cities of the Yucatan. But nothing quite like this.

This is what progress looks like. And for its price? Well, come with me, and perhaps we will find out.

* * *

Look around. We are a long way from Amsterdam, now. The air feels hot and dry even on this January afternoon; the dust catches in your throat and sticks to your skin. Behind us are limestone highlands, bare and rocky, dotted with thorny shrubs and great, strange trees that look a little like giant mushrooms or umbrellas: their canopies are so densely packed that the ground beneath them is pooled in shadow. To your left and right extends a shoreline: mighty dunes of sand many times a man's height inch their way up and down the broad beach, driven by the strong ocean wind. A small fishing village clings to the waterfront, little wooden homes built out over the water. The village's one stone building is unmistakably a mosque: a little dome, a minaret, a muezzin coughing his way through the call to prayer while the sand of the beach blows into his face. On the ocean beyond, fishermen's small boats bob in the crystal-blue waters. Back on the shore, a man wrapped in a burnoose and turban leads a line of camels through the sand, each animal heavy-laden with big clay jars and sealed barrels.

And where is he headed? Why, it is obvious. A short distance from the fishing village, the coastline dips inland, forming a harbor. And along that harbor extends a sprawling compound of whitewashed stone. Long warehouses, each linked to the next by a wall or gate, form a fortified perimeter; from that perimeter, watchtowers rise into the sky and dozens of piers extend into the harbor. The warehouses enclose a plaza, which has been painstakingly paved with smooth stones: you recognize, from our visit to Amsterdam, a dedicated airship landing pad. In the harbor, perhaps thirty sailing ships and mirrorships wait at anchor along the piers - merchant vessels, from the way their crews are loading and unloading wares. They are joined by a dozen larger mirrorships, several with mirror-sails of reflective beaten copper rather than glass, all bristling with multiple decks of heavy cannon: the most advanced warships in the world, the iron fist of the Dutch States Navy. Several luchtfluyten idle in the central courtyard - military airships, heavily armed with cannon and bomb bays, not the trading vessels you have seen before. Above our heads, anisopters - they look like giant dragonflies of gleaming steel and brass, each with four wings beating almost too fast to see - fly patrol routes.

So it comes as no surprise when you see a great tricolor of blue and white and orange - somewhat faded by the desert sun - flying from a tall flagpole in the very center of the compound. This is as-Suq, the main headquarters of the Dutch East India Company on the island of Socotra. And today, the master of this place is meeting with an emissary of the Caliph of All Islam (you can see the envoy's ship in the harbor, well-made and graceful and dwarfed by the surrounding Dutch mirrorships), to discuss (what else?) violence.

So: let us fall in next to that turbaned man and his train of camels, and pass with him through the gate of the compound. Note the Dutch marines manning swivel guns on the parapet above us, note the distant drone of anisopter wings beating in the sky above that. Here, we part ways with our local friend: he leads his camels over to one of the warehouses flanking the big central courtyard, and begins unloading jars of sweet-smelling frankincense and sticky cinnabar resin, and he haggles in Arabic with a Dutch merchant over their price. Our path takes us elsewhere: to a tall, rectangular building - perhaps a kind of keep - at the end of the compound, overlooking the harbor and all the ships moored there. In that building, in a comfortably appointed whitewashed room on the fourth floor, we find Captain Anton Seghers - and his guest.

Seghers is a big man: almost six feet tall, with a wrestler's heavy arms and shoulders, and the solid middle of a man who has let success go to his gut. He wears typical Dutch black wool, but his doublet is unbuttoned at the front, and the white shirt beneath is partly unlaced too. An orange silk sash is wound tightly around his ample middle. His grey hair and beard are both cut close to the heavy, bullish head; a scar bisects his blunt features, leaving one eye a milky white. He sprawls, in the Arab fashion, on a divan of silken pillows. An Arab girl of perhaps nineteen, wearing silken pants and a diaphamous veil and little else, has draped herself with deliberate sinuousness over the frame of the divan behind him.

Well, then: what am I to tell you of Captain Seghers that you cannot already see for yourself? For better or worse, it was by such men that the Dutch Empire was built. Before Seghers came here, twenty-five years ago, Socotra was a backwater: impoverished farmers, a few fishing villages, pirates lurking in its bays and harbors. Seghers was a pirate himself, then, or something near: an East India Company privateer raiding the Portuguese, the son of a Cape Town whore. After seizing a particularly rich treasure galleon, he took his share of the profits, hired a private army of Zanzibari cutthroats, sailed to Socotra, and made himself the new pirate king of as-Suq. The Dutch tricolor has flown above this island ever since. When Socotra became the lynchpin for Dutch trade in the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf, Anton Seghers gave up piracy and became a deputy director of the East India Company, entitled to a share of all VOC trade that passed through his island. When the States-General sent a fleet of airships and mirrorships to garrison Socotra and patrol the Horn of Africa, Seghers became not only a VOC deputy director, but the official Governor-General of Socotra, authorized to conduct diplomacy on behalf of the Dutch Republic. And here he remains: with a fat wife living in luxury back at home in Rotterdam (a pensionary's daughter, Seghers' entrée to high society), and a dozen nubile concubines in as-Suq, and a personal wealth greater than some German electors. Not bad for a whoreson pirate from the Cape.

Now, Seghers lounges on his divan and, as Arab etiquette dictates, makes small talk with the Caliph's envoy. The two men eat dates and drink sweet mint tea. Seghers speaks with his mouth full. "And the hunting in those regions! Magnificent, sir, nothing short of magnificent. Lions, leopards, elephants - I cannot commend it too highly." Despite his rough-hewn persona, Anton Seghers' Arabic is flawless, with the accent and dialect of the courts of Iraq. He sips his tea. "Really, you must let me take you to the Cape sometime. There is nothing in the world quite like shooting your first elephant."

The emissary defers: Seghers is much too kind, and such a generous host as well, why - he could almost forget that he was brought here on official business. This is the signal to leave small talk behind. Seghers settles back in his divan and flicks his fingers; his concubine detaches herself from the furniture and sashays out of the room. Seghers watches her go with satisfied appreciation.

"Quite something, isn't she?" The emissary mouths more platitudes. Seghers sighs and turns back to him. "Well: what message has your master bade you bring to my little emirate?"

The Caliph, the emissary explains - the Commander of the Faithful, the Successor of the Prophet - sends a message of friendship: he expresses his thanks to the Dutch Republic for its commitment to peace, for its work to deter wars of aggression by any power, of any faith. You see Seghers' mind racing as he listens. Is this mere flattery? No, not entirely; the Netherlands are indeed committed to peace, if only because war is bad for business. What, then? A warning? The Byzantines mean to attack us, make them stop. But surely such a crisis would entail more direct overtures than this ambassador's guarded words. Anton Seghers idly scratches the scar across his face, and smiles wryly. "The Commander of the Faithful," he says carefully, "is too kind." The emphasis makes his point clear: Enough equivocation. Speak your piece.

The emissary obliges. The Successor of the Prophet wonders, the messenger remarks: what is the Dutch Republic's opinion of the infidel Portuguese?

"Hm." Anton Seghers looks very closely at the Caliph's envoy, and you see in this moment the keen intelligence hidden by those blunt features: the kingpin within the thug. "The Portuguese. What is our opinion of the Portuguese." Watching him, you realize that Seghers is struggling to keep a straight face. "Hm. Indeed." He fails: a guffaw escapes him, a flat bark of laughter like stones grinding together. "Ha! Our opinion of the Portuguese! What indeed, what indeed."

Still chuckling, he rises from his divan and turns and walks behind it, and begins to rummage in a beautiful Arabic cabinet of latticed lacquerware. "What do we think of the Portuguese? Where did it go, where did it - ah, there." Seghers turns back toward the emissary, and abruptly tosses something at the other man. "Catch."

The emissary does. Then he stifles a shriek, and drops the object in his hands to the ground. There, between his feet, lies a mummified human hand, still wearing a gold signet ring that bears the coat of arms of the Portuguese crown.

"Everything I have, I got by taking from the Portuguese," Seghers growls: voice low and deadly. "I took that man's hand and ship and treasure, and with them I took this island, and with this island I took Portuguese ships and churches and treasure-houses from here to Sofala, until I could make more money by trade than by raiding. What do I think of the Portuguese?" Seghers sinks back into his divan, and smiles broadly. "I think they are prey."

For a moment, there is silence in the room. The sea breeze stirs the rattan shutters with a gentle rattle, and the voices of haggling merchants rise from the central courtyard of as-Suq. Seghers pops a date in his mouth, and then goes on. "But the real question, Sayiddi, is what you think of the Portuguese. Or, rather, what the Commander of the Faithful thinks of them." His voice, with appalling suddenness, has lost its ferocity: it is once again courteous, knowing, almost playful. "And I think that his opinion is, perhaps, not too far from mine."

"So perhaps we can hunt together, ah? And not just elephants at the Cape." Seghers waves a hand. "Do not misunderstand me. The Republic has no desire for open war with Portugal. That would be a war in every part of the world - a world war - an unthinkability, no?" Yet some gleam in Seghers' eye tells you that to him, perhaps, this idea is neither unthinkable nor unappealing. Seghers continues: "But if the Commander of the Faithful were to seek some prey of his own - just as I did, before I got fat and lazy - why, I am not so great a hypocrite as to stand in his way. And while the Republic might not sail to aid him, we could be of help in other ways. Arms, training, money, intelligence; maybe even some of our older ships and airships. For a fair price, of course." Seghers shrugs. "After all, even the Prophet - peace be upon him - was a merchant once, sahh? I am sure that his Successor would understand."

The subtext: we will let you kill our rivals, and we will let you pay us for the privilege. And yet, outrageous as it is, the offer is not without reason. The Caliphate wants to fight Portugal, and it needs Dutch help to do that. Strategic calculus has little sense of outrage, and less of justice. Besides: in this moment, it is somehow unthinkable to challenge Anton Seghers in his own living room. This old pirate has killed many men in his life, and you glimpse the dispassionate confidence of a predator in his single, bright blue eye as he studies the Caliph's emissary. He understands how the cards have been dealt, and his gaze leaves nothing to the imagination.

And then Seghers blinks, and smiles broadly, and throws up his hands. "Ah, but where are my manners? We cannot talk business all day, can we? My cooks are preparing a grilled barracuda for dinner - you must stay. And after that - who knows?" Seghers waggles his eyebrows devilishly. "There are few limits to my hospitality, and so many delightful things to offer. Oh, you must stay for dinner." One heavy hand, hard as stone with swordsman's callouses, falls with terrible strength onto the envoy's shoulder. "Really. You must."

* * *

Enough of this. You have seen some of the price of progress. Time to see some more. We are travelers in time and space, and we can slip the surly bounds of Earth. Fly with me. Come and fly away to the southeast, over the crystal waters of the Indian Ocean, where groups of Portuguese galleons carve a phosphorescent wake and keep a wary watch for the distant mirror-glow of a Dutch privateer's sails. Pass further south, and the ships change: now the vessels below are Dutch mirrorships, steaming under the power of sunlight and boiling seawater, steaming in a die-straight line that ignores the wind, straight from the Cape to Ceylon or Batavia or Australia. Bend east, and behold an island come into view: an enormous and spectacularly beautiful island of white sand beaches and sprawling plantations, from which the aroma of cinnamon wafts up even to our height among the clouds - and beyond, a spine of soaring mountains cloaked in brilliant green rain forest.

Ceylon. The Dutch Republic's gateway to India - and the place where, today, the fate of that vast subcontinent may begin to be decided.

Descend. We find ourselves in a city - then in a palace. To the west is a lake; to the east is a river; to the north the two come together. In the triangle of land between lies a city of stone and mud brick, rising above the jungle that chokes the banks of the river and the lake. And in the center of the city is a great citadel of intricately carved sandstone, from which rise mighty towers and the graceful stupas of Buddhist temples. This is the city of Kotte, the capital of the kingdom of the same name, also known as Sri Jayawardenepura: "resplendent city of growing victory." And inside that citadel, in the throne room of the King of Kotte himself, we find a quite remarkable man.

This is not to say the king. King Vijayabahu VII - despite his golden throne and golden crown and golden clothes - is an exceedingly ordinary sort of man: much wedded to his privileges and comforts, and much inclined to mistake them for actual power. No. Look there, at the man - the European - who stands quite still in the shade of a mosaic pillar: close enough to the throne to denote his high status, but far enough from it that you would never mistake him for a great lord or prince. He is slightly built, aged about forty-five, with deeply tanned skin and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke that contrasts with his somewhat wild, flowing, greying hair. His name is Willem Teniers. He is the Dutch consul to the court of Kotte, and the commercial representative of the East India Company: quite literally the power behind the throne of King Vijayabahu. Teniers is, unlike Anton Seghers, discreet in his authority. You find him wearing native dress: a silk sarong, a white cotton shirt with toggle fasteners. The only European touch is his brass-rimmed eyeglasses.

The green eyes behind those glasses are, at this particular moment, moving restlessly around the throne room. Various ministers and noblemen are offering paeans of praise to the king, who accepts them graciously. You can tell that Teniers is listening - his Sinhala is fluent, almost unaccented - but he is not really paying attention. Still, he observes the niceties, as he must. The balance of power in Ceylon is still delicate. The Dutch garrison is five hundred States Marines, five mirrorships, two airfluyts, a handful of anisopters, and a submarine that occasionally returns to resupply after terrorizing Portuguese merchantmen. That's not insignificant, but it would be unlikely to fight off the entire army of Kotte. And most of Kotte's noblemen despise the VOC, which has systematically bought the island's best land out from under the local aristocracy, and turned those lands into monoculture tea and cinnamon plantations; an absolute majority of all the world's cinnamon now comes from East India Company fields in western Ceylon. What keeps the local noblemen in check is the king, and what keeps the king on his throne is Dutch money and Dutch guns. It is this delicate equilibrium that Willem Teniers maintains: playing the king and the nobility against each other, so that Teniers controls the balance of power between them. So he keeps half an ear on the noblemen's praises of Vijayabahu: those unwilling compliments are the proof that Teniers' position remains safe.

Eventually, the courtiers conclude their paeans, and Vijayabahu sweeps majestically off to the welcome embraces of his concubines. Teniers has other business. Shadowed by a looming Akan bodyguard festooned with blades and pistols, he makes his way out of the palace and into the streets of Kotte. We follow, unseen, and you watch the local people respectfully - fearfully? - step out of Teniers' path: the court may pretend that this Dutchman is just another diplomat, but ordinary Sinhalese know better. That changes a bit when Teniers reaches the city docks, along the lake to the west. Here, there are a great many more Dutchmen - and Africans, and Javanese, and elves, and a few trolls - loading and unloading barges of tea and spices and gunpowder, or lounging around dockside taverns in various states of inebriation. Teniers blends in better in such company.

At length, all but lost in the bustle, he slips into one of those nameless dockside taverns. Inside, only the barmaids are Sinhalese, and they hurry to and fro with jugs of strong, milky palm wine while the men of four continents grope and catcall. Teniers' bodyguard lingers by the door, and Teniers himself sinks onto a reed mat with a bowl of palm wine. He keeps his back to the wall.

After a few minutes, a young sailor - not Sinhalese, slightly fairer-complexioned, perhaps Andhra or Konkani - walks into the tavern . He casts the bodyguard near the door a wary look - then strides over to Teniers' mat and sits down beside him. Teniers pours the boy a bowl of palm wine. "Good afternoon, Daarshik" he says in Sinhala.

The sailor responds in accented Dutch. "Good afternoon, Mijnheer Teniers." The consul stifles a smile. Daarshik does not seem to care. "My money?"

Teniers reaches into his shirt and retrieves a piece of paper, marked with several wax seals and ribbons. Daarshik examines it closely: studying Teniers' signature and personal seal, studying the seal of the Amsterdam Wisselbank next to them. This is a bank draft for three hundred guilders: a substantial step toward a down payment on a small ship of Daarshik's own. Daarshik nods sharply, and stuffs the paper down his own shirtfront. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"The Noble Pact." Teniers says quietly. "Last time we spoke, you said that you were getting close."

"Yes. When I was in Mangalore, I made contact with a - a teacher, I suppose you would say. There is not a good name for this, in Dutch."

"A guru," Teniers supplies.

"Yes. The Arya Sandhi are not a - a political party. Or a religion. They are a third thing. A movement. A promise."

Teniers arches a brow. "Of what?"

"One India - one human India - without foreigners to dominate it or nonhumans to pollute it, without Christians or Muslims, with only two castes: true children of India, and everyone else. Aryavarta: the land of the Aryans restored."

"Lofty goals," Teniers notes drily. "They may find them easier to achieve with a bit of help."

Daarshik snorts. "Did you not hear me? They do not want your help. You - foreigners, Christians, nonhumans, all your Dutch menagerie of the world's castaways - you are the opposite of their Aryavarta."

Teniers smiles patiently. "Hypocrisy," he intones, "is the habitual vice of the fanatic: because an end that justifies any means can also justify any contradiction." His fingers drum on his thigh, beating out some melody on the keys of an invisible harpsichord. "Whereas I, my young friend, I am nearly incapable of hypocrisy: because I am far too mean and humble a man to afford the luxury of strenuous principles. That is a discipline for aesthetes, not businessmen."

It's a good line. If Anton Seghers had uttered it, you would have believed it in a heartbeat. From Willem Teniers, it rings false somehow. Daarshik seems to notice, and he looks thoughtfully into the older man's face.

Teniers shakes his head. "Anyhow. It cannot hurt for us and the Noble Pact to try to be useful to each other. That is, after all, how we built all this: finding ways to make ourselves useful to others, and to make others useful to us." He turns to Daarshik. "There must be Arya Sandhi here on the island - here in Kotte, or up in the mountains in Kandy. There's another four hundred ducats in it for you, if you persuade your guru to set up a meeting between me and his - brethren - here on Ceylon. Another six hundred after that if the meeting actually happens." Teniers raises his eyebrows. "And with that you can buy your own ship, and the whole world open before you - the seven seas - endless possibilities - a lifetime of seeing things you've never seen before."

It is obvious manipulation; Teniers has Daarshik's measure, and the young man actually licks his lips at the thought of escaping the confines of his birth. But there is a peculiar sincerity in Teniers voice. This may be manipulation, but it is not disingenuous. It is, it must be, the dream that Teniers himself has chased all the way from Zeeland to Ceylon. He believes his own words. He wants them to be true.

Daarshik jerks his head. "All right." A pause. "All right. We sail on the next high tide. Then, if all goes well, I will be back from Mangalore in another six weeks." He unconsciously wrings his hands. "With your meeting, Mijnheer. If they don't kill me for even suggesting it."

Teniers smiles. There is real gentleness in the expression. "You are a brave young man, my friend." He claps Daarshik lightly on the skinny shoulder. "Do me this service. We'll make a Sea Beggar of you yet."

* * *

Leave Willem Teniers and his promises and his plans. We have business on the far side of the world. Ceylon falls away behind us, and we pass among the clouds, on our way to colder and wilder lands than Ceylon. We have met Anton Seghers - the Dutch empire as legalized piracy, run by men who know every face of violence. And we have met Willem Teniers - the Dutch empire as influence network, run by manipulators so practiced that they can deceive even themselves. Time to meet Pieter Verhulst, and the Dutch empire as grand adventure, run by men too young to know any better.

This is New Amsterdam. You recently were introduced to Montreal; by comparison to that outpost of Europe, New Amsterdam is slightly larger and considerably more tame. It comprises the southern quarter of the island of Manhattan: a neat grid of streets - some even cobbled - lined by tidy homes of red brick and whitewashed wood, not too dissimilar from its namesake. There is the small brick church; there is a little public park; there are the carefully designed timber piers lining the town on three sides, accommodating a half-dozen Dutch mirror frigates, and perhaps two dozen more merchant ships from the Netherlands and Scandinavia and Albion and France. A large Dutch tricolor flies from a central, steep-gabled town hall. An airship landing pad of packed dirt has been constructed toward the northern edge of the settlement, where New Amsterdam peters out into fields of rye or grazing cattle. A few anisopters circle overhead, keeping watch on the surrounding countryside. Most of New Amsterdam's defenses - redoubts stocked with powerful Dutch artillery - face the sea; the risk of attack by another colonial power far exceeds the danger of the Lenape, who first sold this island to the Dutch and who remain the Republic's allies and trading partners.

It is, all in all, a very clean and safe and reasonable place, for a European outpost clinging to the shores of the New World. So, naturally, Pieter Verhulst hates it here.

We find him hurrying through the streets toward the docks along the Hudson River. He is a young man of about twenty-five, with a shaggy mane of dark hair and a somewhat patchy beard. He wears the same plain black dress as most Dutchmen, with white linen preaching bands at the collar - the mark of a Dutch Reformed minister. Young Piet Verhulst, you see, did not come to this far land to profit by cod fishing or beaver pelts or tobacco farming. He came in search of souls to save.

Well, that and adventure. And that is why Piet carries a bulging pack of leather and canvas, and he pants under its weight as he rushes around one final corner and finds himself, at last, at the docks. A modest ceremony is underway here: two older Dutchmen - one in a buff leather coat, the other in clerical attire - address a small group of Dutch States Marines and civilians. At a respectful distance, a few dozen Lenape men and women wait by their canoes, which bob next to the docks in the frigid waters of the Hudson River.

Piet is not too late. He has made it. You may wonder why he wants to join these tough-looking soldiers and their Native guides in paddling birchbark canoes up a largely uncharted river in the middle of winter. He is, after all, not entirely ignorant of the risks. A week ago, when he volunteered to accompany this expedition, the senior minister of the Dutch Reformed Church here in New Amsterdam sat Piet down.

"This finger," said Jonas Michaëlius, "was sawed off by the Mohawk, when I tried to bring them the Gospel. They cut first at the second joint. Then at the first joint. Then at the base. They used a sharpened clamshell. It took a long time. You must remain silent; they will kill you if you cry out." The old man unbuttoned his plain black doublet and tugged up his shirt to reveal a mass of twisted, mottled scar tissue along his side; flesh was visibly missing, as if the outline of Michaëlius' body had been dented. "This was from a Ratren attack. The creature did this with its teeth, and chewed, and swallowed. The Ratren do not care if you cry out." The older minister laid a hand on Pieter's shoulder. "Your wish to go into the wild speaks only well of you, Piet: of your courage, and your faith. But I beg you. Think again."

Yet here Pieter Verhulst is. The older Dutchman in clerical attire, who stands before the expedition waiting to address it - that is Jonas Michaëlius. He sees Piet slip into the group of explorers, wedging himself between Cornelis the mapmaker and a tough Javanese Marine named Soebroto. For a moment, you watch Michaëlius close his eyes in weary acceptance.

But although he stands in front of the assembled explorers, Michaëlius' time to speak has not come yet. The man next to him is still talking, addressing the small crowd in a firm, ringing voice. Dirck Keyser is the Governor-General of New Netherland and one of the most senior directors of the West India Company. You see a compact, square-shouldered fellow of about fifty, with short steel-grey hair and beard, wearing a buff leather coat and a broad orange silk sash and a sword on a baldric. And an eyepatch; precious few of the men who are old enough to remember when this colony was founded seem to have survived its early years unscathed.

Piet has arrived in the middle of Keyser's speech. "Now, I know that every man here volunteered for this expedition," the Governor-General is saying. "So I don't have to convince you of its importance. But when things get hard out there, remember: the hopes of this entire colony are with you. In this New World, the rivers are the only roads. We know that Montreal is less than four hundred miles from here by land, as the airship flies. It is almost two thousand miles by sea. Efficient commerce between this colony and the French - and real competition with the French for the trade in fur and pelts - will only be possible if we can discover a way from here to Montreal through the interior: a way through the wilderness, mostly or entirely by river. You are blazing a path for the prosperity of New Netherland, mijn heeren. Our future hangs upon your success."

"The weeks ahead - months, maybe - will not be easy." Keyser paces back and forth. "You are going upriver into Iroquois land. They are not fond of us, nor of our Lenape friends." A few of the Marines chuckle grimly; Piet grips the straps of his pack a little tighter. "We are sending you out in winter. The nights will be cold. Game will be scarce. You will paddle long days on a half-empty stomach. And what deer or squirrels you can hunt - well, you can bet the Ratren will be hunting them too. And hunting you, too." Keyser's one eye - you are suddenly reminded of Anton Seghers, another one-eyed Dutch adventurer half a world away - moves over the faces of the explorers. "This will be hard, mijn heeren. Everything worth doing is. But you are hard men. You would not elsewise have volunteered."

"And you are not going out there alone." Keyser nods firmly. "Our great ally Oratam, most honored sachem of the Lenape, and his brave warriors will be your guides upriver to the limit of the lands of the Lenape; beyond that point, even they will not be able to guide you. But they have pledged to remain at your side; you will be explorers together. And though they may not know all the waterways between here and Montreal, Oratam and his men do know how to survive these lands in winter, and they have fought the Iroquois for generations before I first set foot upon this island. Listen to them, trust them, and with God's grace and a bit of luck, you will not starve. You are in good hands, my lads."

"Besides," Keyser continues, "I will have my eye on you. The Skyfleet has loaned us an airfluyt-of-war, Windhond. They will follow your progress from the air, communicating with your camp each night by heliograph." Keyser raises a hand in warning. "Windhond will not be able to see exactly what lies below the treetops, and she will sometimes need to return here to refuel. She cannot do the work of exploration for you. But she will shorten your lines of communication back to New Amsterdam, and she will be able to resupply you from time to time if you run out of food or powder. And if you are surrounded by Ratren, she will clear a path for you with cluster shot." Several Marines nod soberly; Piet Verhulst bites his lip with some trembling mix of dread and euphoric excitement.

Keyser is almost done. He clasps his hands behind his back, and his tone turns less bracing and more solemn. "Remember this: for our people, trade has always gone hand in hand with other values. Where the Republic goes, prosperity follows. But so does knowledge - science - the Gospel. Among you are soldiers and merchants, yes. But also mapmakers, engineers, botanists, zoologists, geologists." Keyser's one eye rests on Piet, and the old man smiles wryly. "Even our brave young missionary. You go into the wilderness seeking a route through to Montreal, because that will allow us to compete in the fur trade. But you also go to discover new plants and animals - new rivers and forests - new minerals and medicines. You go to bring the Good News of Christ to lands where it has never been heard. And when you return - for you will return, however hard the road ahead - we will be richer for your having gone: in our libraries and our academies and our very souls, and not just in our coffers."

"So, then: there is nothing more to say, save God bless you." Keyser nods briskly. "And the good Reverend Michaëlius is far better suited to say that than I am. I leave you in his hands, and those of the Lord." Keyser pulls off his broad-brimmed hat, and the crowd of explorers follows suit, doffing hats and caps and a few three-barred helmets. The Lenape, standing at a distance, bow their heads respectfully. Michaëlius steps forward and opens a battered leather Bible, holding the pages carefully with the stumps of his sawed-off fingers. You see Piet watch with a strange expression: reverence, and horror, and nameless exaltation.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you," Michaëlius intones. The words are from the Book of Numbers: an ancient Hebrew benediction. "May the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord turn his countenance upon you" - for a moment, Michaëlius looks straight at Pieter Verhulst, and smiles with a father's fear and pride - "and give you peace."

"Amen," comes the reply from the assembled explorers. Then the time for talking is done. Within a few short minutes, Piet has been loaded onto a canoe between Cornelis and Soebroto, and the boats slide into the freezing water of the great river. Ahead, the great grey highway of water stretches as far as the horizon, flowing out of the vast winter-bare forest that has stood from the dawn of time. There, somewhere up there, Pieter Verhulst's destiny is waiting for him. He takes hold of his paddle, and smiles.

* * *

I have one last thing to show you. You have, perhaps, already come to some conclusions about this strange people who have dispersed themselves around the globe: about the progress they have brought, and about its price, and about who ends up paying that price. But before you judge our Dutch friends too harshly for Anton Seghers' brutality or Willem Teniers' hypocrisy or Piet Verhulst's naivete, come with to me to Nuremberg. Come and see the alternative.

No tidy grid of streets here; no middle-class brick homes, or public parks. The city is a densely packed web of cobblestone streets - little more than alleys - winding sinuously and seemingly at random around old medieval half-timbered homes: story piled upon story, extending precariously out over the roads below. Here and there, the steeple of a medieval church or the tower of a guildhall rises above the crazed kaleidoscope of roofs around it. Once, thirty years ago, this city had suburbs: little neighborhoods and homes that stood outside the circle of the old medieval walls. Now, the suburbs are gone - you see almost a mile of charred wooden structures, rotting and abandoned - and the Reichswald has returned to reclaim the land: dark, twisted, impenetrable forest that extends off toward the distant Alps. What remains of the city braces, in a defensive crouch, behind its ancient wall - shored up with earth and rubble to block a breach in the north, where Protestant cannon shattered the stonework back in 1632. Few dare to step outside the gates, any more. Dark things move in the Emperor's forest.

Inside the gates: a facsimile of normal life. Smiths still beat out horseshoes, though most of Nuremberg's horses long ago became horsemeat. Church bells still summon the faithful to prayer. Money changes hands in the few remaining shops, though cutpurses and murderers wait in the alleys for anyone whose coins jingle too loudly. And Sophie de Vries, owner and proprietor of de Vries & Assoc. Silk Company, still carries on her business - which goes a great deal beyond selling silk.

This wintry morning finds de Vries walking through the streets with a young man. She is thirty-five years old, handsome rather than beautiful, with a broad white forehead and eyes of North Sea grey. She wears a plain black woolen dress with white Dutch lace at her cuffs and collar, and her straw-colored hair is coiled under a lacework coif. She is not a Catholic, but she wears a rosary visibly wrapped around the belt of her dress. You will find that this is not the only way in which Sophie de Vries is both less and more than she appears.

De Vries' voice is low. "What news from Munster?"

"The peace talks continue." Her companion is in his late twenties, lanky but powerfully built, with a deep tan and dark hair and a goatee. His voice, too, is low. "The Emperor's representatives seem to understand that they have no realistic alternative to recognizing Dutch independence. Our delegates seem to understand that we cannot realistically insist upon the return of the Southern Provinces, at least not now. The remaining arguments are over caveats: the Germans want us to return to the Church of Rome some of its old properties, we want them to permit free movement between Flanders and the Republic. And so we bicker."

"I understand," says de Vries.

Her companion chuckles. "I should say you do."

"And the battlefield?"

From the young man, an expressive shrug. "The French have mostly stopped fighting, treaty or no treaty. The Protestant princes are exhausted. Wallenstein has launched six more attacks against Nijmagen; the Count of Nassau has repelled all six. If they wanted to take the city, they would be doing more. If we wanted to mount an effective counterattack, we would not simply be sitting behind four miles' worth of redoubts." De Vries nods in understanding, as her companion concludes: "We are both pretending to be at war, so that the delegates at Munster will be more convincing when they pretend to end it. But in truth, it is already all over but the shouting."

"Until the next time," says de Vries.

"Yes." Her companion pauses. "God, mevrouw, but you could drain the joy from a christening. Another thirty years of this will leave nothing of Europe but ashes."

De Vries does not reply. She has been the Committee of Safety's Resident in Bavaria - the highest-ranking intelligence officer - for more than a decade, since her husband died and left to his widow both the de Vries & Assoc. Silk Company, and the espionage work for which the silk company existed to provide cover. She has seen this city sacked three times; she has seen her friends die, or worse. There have been times when she wished for death, too, and only the iron chain of duty bound her to life: for Sophie de Vries knows too well that unless she remains vigilant, Amsterdam could all too easily share Nuremberg's fate. If she could drain the joy from a christening, she has good reason.

Now, she pauses, and steps to the edge of the street, into the shadow of a butcher's shop. The reek of rotting meat and buzzing of flies helps to repel prying ears. Across the street is a decrepit old mansion, the town house of some ancient Bavarian noble family or another, all crumbling pediments and gargoyles. "Do you know whose house this is?" de Vries asks.

Her companion squints at the heraldry carved into the pediment. "I recognize those arms," he says. "The Welsers, is it not? But I do not know this house; the branch of this family I know, their house is in a different neighborhood." Left unspoken: a better neighborhood, and a house that is more than a ruin.

"Yes," de Vries replies. "It is a sad story, Mijnheer Naalhout." Her voice is toneless, dispassionate. "Once, this was the main residence of the Nuremberg Welsers. The family was wealthy, distinguished, respected by all. Then, gradually, their fortunes turned - bad investments - the cost of war taxes - you know the tale. Nothing too unusual, except that the Welsers' run of bad luck seemed strangely consistent, unrelieved by even momentary good fortune. Until, finally, the patriarch died - very nearly bankrupt - and the family fell into near-penury, save for one cadet branch - the Welsers whose house you have seen before." De Vries pauses. "Almost as if that branch chose its friends well, while old Herr Welser chose his enemies poorly."

Gerolf Naalhout nods with recognition. "I take your meaning. None too rare a story, either." He does not utter the word "Cabal"; he does not need to. In the Empire, it is always safest to assume that there are no coincidences, and that nothing happens by accident. Naalhout should know: an orphan from Batavia, he traveled the world - studied swordsmanship with an exiled samurai, stole jewels from a prince in Golconda - before being recruited by the Committee of Safety. He has spent the last four years in the Germanies, delivering silk for Sophie de Vries - and collecting information for her wherever he goes.

Now, Naalhout nods at the crumbling mansion. "And why does the fall of the house of Welser concern you, mevrouw de Vries?"

Sophie smiles thinly. "I care not at all about their fall. I care that old Herr Welser's grandson and heir - Hans Janus - took his guards and left the city not a fortnight past. Left by road."

For a moment, Naalhout does not reply. The roads through the Reichswald are almost unspeakably dangerous; Naalhout is a lifelong survivor and one of the finest swordsmen in Europe, and yet he takes his life in his hands every time he leaves Nuremberg. For a callow, penniless nobleman to take that risk...

De Vries watches Naalhout come to the obvious conclusion. Whatever prize made Hans Welser leave the city, he must have believed that it was worth risking his life. Few in the Empire still have the power to grant so great a boon. And in Germany, there are no coincidences, and there are no accidents.

"I see," Naalhout says. There is a tightness in his voice, nothing more. But his fear is obvious. De Vries studies him dispassionately. Examining her face, you can understand the peculiar Dutch genius for espionage. What is Sophie de Vries doing, in this moment, but calculating costs and benefits? She is considering Naalhout's skill - the possibility that, because of his skill, he might succeed - the much larger possibility that the Cabal will kill him before he learns anything useful - the minimal consequences of his loss - the fact that he is ultimately replaceable. She might as well be calculating the likely profits of a silk shipment against the risk that it will be lost at sea. Emotions get in the way of business just as they get in the way of spying; learning to set your heart aside is as essential to the spymaster as it is to the merchant.

And yet, if Naalhout is caught, he could betray de Vries. But de Vries could not betray her own superiors; she communicates with them only by coded messages, encrypted using the complex clockwork cipher hidden behind a false panel in her cellar ceiling. The damage would be contained to her. And you can see in Sophie de Vries' eyes how little she values her own life.

"When Hans Welser returns," she tells Naalhout, "you will follow him. Disappear into the crowd, if you wish; or craft an alias and insinuate yourself into his counsel. I care not. But when next he leaves Nuremberg - and he will - you will go with him. You will tell me where he travels, and to whom he speaks. Let him lead you into the bosom of our enemy."

"And then?" Naalhout asks. He manages to keep his voice from trembling.

"And then," Sophie de Vries replies in a voice as hard as steel, "we will show the Cabal that they are not the only ones who can wage war from the shadows."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
Masurian Lakes Region
January 1648

---

Helmut von Leal hated Russia. He had hated it ever since that ill fated crusading operation they had attempted over there, to bring the Orthodox Schismatics to heel. It was a vast and cold place that had cost the life of many a good german knight. But now, centuries later, he could honestly claim to have changed his viewpoint to some degree. He no longer really cared about lost lives. Nor did the cold bother him any longer.

He was clad in the black robes of a monk, his bony hands hidden within his sleeves as he looked out of the window over the passing landscape. His hawkish nose cringed at the sights, now polish lands, formerly german lands, his lips pressed together in one thin line, the corners of them pointed downward, his disapproval of that particular situation all over his face. His shining, bald head featured a thick vein, making its way from his temple onto his forehead, much like a snake. Though unlike the one he shared his ride with, there were still signs of life in his body, regardless how gaunt it was.

The one he shared coach with looked both more and less alive. She was in many ways the very picture of beauty, though Helmut had to say that the Vice-Chancellor still looked significantly better than she did. Still, she was beautiful, her skin flawless, body sculpted as though by one of those ancient greek or roman masons. And that was the point wasn't it? She looked sculpted. As though she was made of stone. And while he was certain that her skin was soft, there was little movement there, no warmth, no nothing in her. Her face was almost as white as the snow, safe for the make-up she applied, her slightly reddened cheeks and the blood red lips standing out heavily against everything else.

Carmilla von Karnstein was her name. A noble from Carinthia and one of the more prominent undead members of the Cabal.

"You should try working on your face. If you cut this sort of grimace before the Ivans, they'll certainly rethink their willingness to treat with us."

, she said, her red eyes giving him a quick glance while she looked out her side of the coach, bored. Helmut could only roll his eyes at the comment, grunting:

"You try keeping a straight face when returning to the land of your near death experience."

She finally turned to look at him properly...though deadpan. Right, she had died. But he preferred not to admit to that and instead tried to quickly change the topic, asking:

"This Cossack insurrection...do you think the Russians will take the opportunity?"

"Their loss if they don't take an opportunity served so perfectly to them. But it is not our goal to leave it up to chance. The Emperor wishes to know the east secure and to that end the Commonwealth must be made unable to intervene in our affairs. The Russians should prove natural friends in that regard and if they do not...well...I am certain we will find the friends we need."

, she responded, checking her nails with seeming disinterest. The Cossack Uprising had indeed been a stroke of luck...though with the extent of their meddling, Helmut felt unsure if they hadn't been involved in kicking it off in the first place. Still, he did not quite share Carmilla's boundless optimism.

The Holy Roman Empire
City of Straßburg
January 1648

---

The Swabian Circle, one of the most heavily devastated regions of the entire Empire, had seen countless armies pass its lands in the past decades. Among all commonfolk, the ones of Swabia had it the worst, the land torn apart by religious differences and in the way of advance for the French armies. The battles and skirmishes fought here between the Imperials, the Rebels and the Invaders are without count.

Said devastation actually served in the region's interest towards the end of the war, the large armies unable to freely maneuver through it as the local supply situation was, for lack of a better word, utterly in the gutters. The peasants who used to till the fields and bring in the crops were now six feet under...in the best cases. In many others their bones were scattered over the fields they used to work while their houses remained little more than burned out husks. Their restless spirits now haunted this region in particular, joining older, more malicious undead rattled from their slumber by the bloodshed waged over their graves.

Yet despite the relative peace, despite the lacking ability of armies to march through this blasted land, the Empire maintained an army here, kept in winter quarters in Straßburg, ready to at least threaten any new french incursions. At least that was what Peter Melander von Holzappel, Imperial General since last year, had been told. His barely 8.000 men, living and breathing, were certainly in no true state to go after any french targets. Curiously enough, Generalissimo Wallenstein had provided him with plenty of cannon, a rather disproportionate amount, most likely to improve the defenseive capabilities at Von Holzappel's disposal.

As such the Imperial General, a born protestant commoner, was most perplexed when in the early hours of the morning his aide shook him out of his sleep, hastily whispering:

"G-General, wake up, please. You have important visitors."

He had half a mind to punch his aide, much like he would have preferred to throttle the roosters that woke him every morning, but his slow, early morning mind managed to come to the conclusion that something important was afoot quickly enough not to do so. He was then surprisingly quickly on his feet, accepting a warm coat from his aide before he walked out of his bedroom and into the foyer. Like much of his army, the general had taken residence in the home of a family in Straßburg, though unlike most of his soldiers it was the spacious home of a rather well off family. They were, as they said, honoured to host a war hero such as himself over the harsh winter.

When he entered the foyer, he was faced with a tall man in a dark cloak, the hood pulled deeply into his face so that one could see little more than the stranger's beard. It seemed that someone valued secrecy here which immediately woke up the still somewhat sleepy General. Visitors that scared his aide while hiding their identity could mean many things these days, one worse than the next.

"Well, you have come at a rather inopportune time but here I am. General Peter Melander, Count von Holzappel and so on and so forth. What can yours truly do for you at this late hour?"

The figure turned to meet him and, upon looking him up and down, seemed to be content, pulling off the hood. The revelation of what was below made Von Holzappel nearly jump out of his skin but due to the biological impossibility of that he had to content with jumping into his aide. The face before him, pale and gaunt as it may have turned over the last one and a half decades, was well familiar to him and the red eyes that bore down upon him had forced shivers up the spine of many imperial officers to this day.

"G-generalissimo, what great honour to have you in my house. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

, he finally said, bowing before the most powerful man in the Empire.

"I've come to check on the army I left here and whether they have been competently housed and organised. And to see if my cannons are still here."

, Wallenstein said, unblinking, not a muscle moving in his face aside from his mouth. He then turned to the aide, those red eyes bearing down on the poor man before barking:

"You! Get me something to eat. I am famished."

Melander's hand instinctively massaged his neck at those words...but he knew better than to say anything as his aide left in the direction of where the family housing them slept. Better anyone other than him, he thought as he guided Wallenstein over to a pair of chairs by the fireplace. The fire had long gone out but some embers still remained so he quickly disturbed the ash, stacked some new logs in there and blew air over the entire thing until he could see a thin flame, feeding it with some wood shavings until he was sure that the logs had caught fire as well. Only then did he sit.

"Well, Generalissimo, as you have no doubt seen, everything is in order. We have not had to contend with new french offensives since you left for the Netherlands nor have we seen an outbreak of disease or the like. If things continue as they do and if we receive reinforcements, we should be able to march come spring."

Wallenstein chortled upon hearing that, taking a bottle of wine placed on an end table between them and checking its label. He then poured a glass and pushed it to Melander, stating:

"Drink. It will be awkward for me to be the only one to drink later. As for the troops, well, it is good that they are ready and capable because we will be marching in a week or two at most."

Melander looked at Wallenstein. Blinked. Looked a little longer. Had he just heard right? March? In one or two weeks? With this small host? What was this, some sort of elaborate suicide plan? Besides, weren't negotiations underway? He awkwardly shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. Well, more uncomfortable than before.

"In two weeks? Forgive me for asking but I thought peace negotiations are underway?"

Wallenstein simply grunted disapprovingly in response before taking a log and throwing it into the fire, the flames crackling hire for that moment, their dance mirrored in his own eyes.

"They are. And the better our position is the more our envoys can press for our terms. It is currently of crucial importance to improve our military standing. To achieve some manner of grand victory that can be exploited in Münster and Osnabrück."

The logic was sound though Melander also thought about the risks, carefully asking:

"Your excellency, you have no doubt noticed that this force is, well, not exactly large. If the winter won't break us, I fear that the enemy armies will which may in turn impact our negotiations in a most negative manner."

Once more Wallenstein laughed, just as his aide also re-entered the room, pulling with him the oldest daughter of the house. The young lass was fighting back but the aide was a military man, her dainty fists barely even causing him to flinch as he tugged her into the room and towards the Generalissimo.

"Ah, breakfast is here."

, Wallenstein said, his red eyes hungrily roaming the body of the young lady who suddenly seemed frozen in fear at the sight of him. He stood and took her off the arms of the aide, his pale, almost skeletal fingers closing around her wrists as he pulled her close.

"I see that your aide has a good eye, General. Make sure to keep him closeby."

, he added before suddenly going in for the woman's neck. She gasped, in shock or in pain, her struggles intensifying for a short moment before getting weaker, almost growing slack in Wallenstein's arms as he sat down with her, his face still nuzzled against her neck. Melander gulped as he watched the colour drain from the young woman's face, watched the minuscule movements of her chest get fewer and fewer, watched her eyes slowly glaze over...

She hit the floor with a dull thud, Wallenstein, pulling out a handkerchief with which to wipe his mouth. Melander immediately noticed that the previously bony fingers had suddenly taken on a much more healthy colour and width. The face too appeared much less gaunt and even those terrible red eyes seemed to have returned to a somewhat more natural colour. The Generalissimo's true nature was an open secret among many of the officers in the imperial militaries and while some, such as Melander, found it distasteful, there were many more, often nurtured by Wallenstein, who had absolutely no issue with it and many of even darker convictions.

"Aaahhh..."

, Wallenstein sighed contentedly before looking back at Melander, grinning and exposing his fangs slightly.

"We will strike this winter, when the french are themselves placed in winter quarters, not expecting an attack as for all they know, the main Imperial Army, living and breathing as it is, is encamped at Kleve, waiting out the winter itself. We will prove them wrong."

Manic laughter echoied through the hall, laughter that Melander eventually cautiously joined.

[Cymrea]

26 Janvier 1648
Palais-Royal, Paris
Holy Kingdom of France

Cardinal Mazarin had only just finished advising the King and Queen Regent of the situation in the east when a loud knock sounded from the doors. Mazarin looked to Anne, who called out.

“Enter!”

The double doors were pulled open by the knights outside and a woman in the blue-and-white tabard of the army strode briskly in. A leather helm and goggles hung from her belt and her chestnut hair was cut short in the style currently popular with French aviatrices. Her gait, though crisp as a parade-ground march, had the swaying grace of a cavalrymen; her mount was a gryphonne, however, and not a horse. In the crook of her left arm was a white baton richly decorated in gold. Within would be a diplomatic correspondence.

Mazarin held out his hand. The gryphonne courier placed the baton across his palm, bowed to the king and his mother, then saluted the cardinal, fist over heart. “Thank you, Capitaine,” said the cardinal. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” The woman turned on her heel and left as swiftly as she came.

Breaking the seal with his thumb, Mazarin pulled the cap from one end of the baton and extracted the missive. It bore the lesser coat of arms of the Empire of Rome, which was known as Byzantium in France. The signature of the Basileus – in purple ink, naturally – explained its delivery into the hands of the chief minister rather than a diplomatic agent. Mazarin read the letter and summarized for the Queen Regent and King.

“The Basileus’ greeting to King Louis is respectful and gracious. His Imperial Majesty says that he is sending his brother to Paris to meet with the King and discuss matters most important to both our realms.” Mazarin considered the subtext and added, “The Basileus speaks to the strength of our knights and troops. I believe this may allude to matters in the Germanies. An unexpected ally, perhaps?”

Anne and Louis exchange a glance and the boy king asked, “Why unexpected?”

Mazarin nodded. The young king was astute. “Byzantium is an ancient realm, Your Holy Majesty. Venerable and righteous, both in spite and because of its long line of rulers; His Imperial Majesty is of the latter class. But the old empire has long moved at a pace best categorized as… torpid. That the Basileus moves so decisively after the long war is reassuring. And distressing.”

“But why—? Ah. Yes, of course,” said Anne. “Matters must be most grave.”

“Just so, Your Highness. We must also move apace. With your permission, Sire, I shall attend personally to the diplomatic correspondences. Perhaps a full conclave in Paris? It will be a costly gathering, but I believe the collective benefits to be worth the expense of hosting.”

Louis was visibly excited by the prospect of statecraft involving foreign dignitaries rather than the tedium and venality of petty domestic affairs. “Agreed, most heartily, Cardinal Mazarin,” he said smiling broadly. Mazarin could not help but be lightened himself by the king’s enthusiasm.

“Then, Your Holy Majesty, I shall attend to them immediately.” He bowed deeply to the king and his mother before bustling out of the hall.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the of the Holy Spirit,
Our one and only True God in Heaven,
I, Louis XIV, having faith in God alone,
By His Grace King of the Holy Kingdom of France,
Send warmest greetings to Your Imperial Majesty,
My spiritual mentor,
Basileus Michael of the holy Empire of Rome,

Your fraternal greetings have found me most grateful. May your kind wishes be returned to Your Imperial Majesty threefold.

It is with open and welcoming arms that we would receive your honored brother in Paris. Further, it is our intention to include esteemed dignitaries from realms in harmony with our ever-vigilant defense of Light and Life. As I correspond with Your Imperial Majesty, so too do I correspond with Albion, Spain, the Dutch Republic, and Tuscany.

We propose a conclave of representatives in Paris to address the growing common threat rising like the unholy dead in the Germanies. It is our hope that our realms may establish an accord by which the black menace may be expunged, the German people Saved, and the realm re-sanctified. By God’s Might and Grace, may it be so.


Your spiritual son and brother in Christ,

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the of the Holy Spirit,
Our one and only True God in Heaven,
I, Louis XIV, having faith in God alone,
By His Grace King of the Holy Kingdom of France,
Send warmest greetings to Your Majesty,
High King Uther III Pendragon,

Fraternal greetings to you, cousin. May Your Highness be blessed with many and hearty days.

It is with great hope and aspiration that I invite Your majesty or a chosen representative to attend a conclave in Paris to address the growing common threat rising like the unholy dead in the Germanies. It is our hope that our realms may establish an accord by which the black menace may be expunged, the German people Saved, and the realm re-sanctified. By God’s Might and Grace, may it be so. As I correspond with Your Majesty, so too do I correspond with Rome, Spain, the Dutch Republic, and Tuscany.


Your brother in Christ,

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the of the Holy Spirit,
Our one and only True God in Heaven,
I, Louis XIV, having faith in God alone,
By His Grace King of the Holy Kingdom of France,
Send warmest greetings to Your Majesty,
(TBD monarch of Spain),

Fraternal greetings to you, cousin. May Your Highness be blessed with many and hearty days.

It is with great hope and aspiration that I invite Your majesty or a chosen representative to attend a conclave in Paris to address the growing common threat rising like the unholy dead in the Germanies. It is our hope that our realms may establish an accord by which the black menace may be expunged, the German people Saved, and the realm re-sanctified. By God’s Might and Grace, may it be so. As I correspond with Your Majesty, so too do I correspond with Rome, Albion, the Dutch Republic, and Tuscany.


Your brother in Christ,

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the of the Holy Spirit,
Our one and only True God in Heaven,
I, Louis XIV, having faith in God alone,
By His Grace King of the Holy Kingdom of France,
Send warmest greetings to Your Excellency,
Grand Pensionary of the Republic Cornelis de Graeff,

Fraternal greetings to you, Sir. May Your Excellency be blessed with many and hearty days.

It is with great hope and aspiration that I invite Your majesty or a chosen representative to attend a conclave in Paris to address the growing common threat rising like the unholy dead in the Germanies. It is our hope that our realms may establish an accord by which the black menace may be expunged, the German people Saved, and the realm re-sanctified. By God’s Might and Grace, may it be so. As I correspond with Your Excellency, so too do I correspond with Rome, Spain, Albion, and Tuscany.


Your brother in Christ,

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the of the Holy Spirit,
Our one and only True God in Heaven,
I, Louis XIV, having faith in God alone,
By His Grace King of the Holy Kingdom of France,
Send warmest greetings to Your Grace,
Duke Niccolo Barbolini dei Machiavelli,

Fraternal greetings to you, cousin. May Your Gracebe blessed with many and hearty days.

It is with great hope and aspiration that I invite Your majesty or a chosen representative to attend a conclave in Paris to address the growing common threat rising like the unholy dead in the Germanies. It is our hope that our realms may establish an accord by which the black menace may be expunged, the German people Saved, and the realm re-sanctified. By God’s Might and Grace, may it be so. As I correspond with Your Grace, so too do I correspond with Rome, Spain, Albion, and the Dutch.


Your brother in Christ,

[Sao Nova Europa]

Uthmar of Household Lixen of Clan Seriv led his Ratren - twenty warriors all and all, armed with swords and wearing armor - through the woods. There was a human settlement nearby - a small one established by a few brave (or foolish) French settlers. It was night, and it was the perfect time for Ratren to move. Unlike humans, they were used to darkness. Approaching the settlement - really a few hastily assembled wooden houses with thatched rooftops - they prepared for the raid.

"Warriors," Uthmar said. "It's time to strike at the Whumans!"

The soldiers roared. Suddenly they emerged from the woods and descended upon the settlement. Hearing the commotion, some of the human men got out of their houses. A few of them were armed with matchlocks and tried to use them against the Ratren but they had been caught completely by surprise. Ratren blades hacked and slashed, and blood flew in the air and stained the ground as they massacred the unfortunate humans. Their battle cries could be heard from miles away, terrifying and unnatural.

With the men maimed or killed, the Ratren massacred the womenfolk and children and began pillaging the settlement. Carrying loot, the Ratren left behind them a destroyed settlement full of mutilated corpses. A reminder to "whumans" in the frontier to always be on their guard for a Ratren attack.

[Dragos Bee]

Alid Caliphate

Socotra, Yemen

The Emissary knew when to haggle and when not, and said, "The Caliph has given me the power to promise enough gold and silver for the market price of four of your mid-sized obsolete airships, one of the larger ones, and a fleet of eight obsolete ocean-going ships and trainers for the sailors and marines who would fight on them. Would that be fair?"

Muscat, Oman

The Omanis were prone to disloyalty, heresy, and dissent. They were also good sailors and that was why the Caliph kept them around. Now, their usefulness was being exploited, as letters carried by swift Djinn - Muslim Djinn - to the Governor of Muscat arrived, instructing the latter to:

In the name of the Most Merciful God

Letter of Caliph Hasan VI to the Governor of Muscat

Our Djinn in the form of birds has noticed that the Romans are sending an expedition of ships and troops to the Bab-el-Mandeb, claiming to seek protection for their merchants against pirates and raiders - As if our word is not enough! Your instructions are to return their perfidy with a taste of their mischief, and here are the detailed instructions on how to do so:

For centuries, even before the arrival of the Europeans to the seas of India, our merchants have been going to a set of islands in the middle of the ocean, harvesting the Sea Coconut, or Coco de Mer in one of the languages of the Firangi. This gives us a claim that even the Dutch will respect. Send an expedition to the islands; not of warships, but of armed merchantmen carrying several Sufi Mystics and their families - Women and children included - who are to found a town with a Mosque and Madrasa for quiet contemplation of the Glory of God.

The fact that these Mystics have an affinity for the manipulation of water and storms is to be kept discreet.

Not only that, but you are to strengthen ties with the City-States of the Swahili Coast as well as encourage conversion to the True Faith, and provide all possible support to the Somalis and other brothers in the Horn of Africa as you can get away with...

[Intermountain States]

January, 1648
Rome, Papal States

As far as the Holy See knows, the war between the Empire and the Protestant princes and their allies are still ongoing despite peace talks being held. The war was a regretful affair where millions of Christians have lost their lives. The most disturbing part, however, was the reports of the Emperor sanctioning the use of demonic sorcery to create an army of the undead. There were also rumors that the Emperor Ferdinand III has given military command to Satan's lieutenants to explain the reports of vampires and flesh monsters but these are rumors.

Even in an act of desperation against the heretic princes and their allies such as the Protestant powers and the French; it is never an excuse for one to make a deal with the Devil and practice a mockery of God's holy gifts. For a while, the Pope had bide his time, leaving it to inquisitors to investigate the rumors, not wanting to believe that the supposed Defensor Ecclesiae would be one to make a deal with the Devil. The rumors about the zombies, the undead flesh monsters, and the vampires were more than confirmed. The war in Europe over the fate of Christendom between the Catholics and the Protestants had twisted between the living and the dead. Between the faithful and the heretics against the devil worshippers.

The Pope sighed as he read through the reports one more time. It was hard to believe that the entity that was the Holy Roman Empire became so corrupted during the so-called Reformation. An excommunication must be issued, perhaps some of the still faithful can bring justice to the the Holy Roman Empire and put an end to their worship of Satan. It must be done.

Excommunication and the Revoking of Titles

The Holy Father has issued an excommunication of Ferdinand III of the Holy Roman Empire in light of investigations confirming the Emperor's sanctioning the use of Satanic sorcery with the raising of the undead and the creation of flesh abominations along with the active recruitment of demonic worshippers such as vampires in his armies. Along with excommunication, the Holy Father has revoked the title of "Defensor Ecclesiae" (Protector of the Church) and withdrew the Roman imperial title from the Ferdinand III. He will not receive communion or grant his titles back until he outlaws and dismantles the use of Satanic blood sorcery and purge his institutions of any vampires and practitioners of Satan's mockery and repent for his grave sins.

To the Emperor of the Romans in Constantinople,

May God bless his Imperial Majesty and his realm for many years to come. In light of concerning news throughout the world that grips both the flock and the shepherds, a nuncio will be sent to Constantinople. It is of great importance that such matters are to be discussed in hopes that the righteous, the faithful, and the innocent can stand against the evil that prey on us.

Pope Innocent X, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Metropolitan Archbishop of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the Servants of God

[Cymrea]

27 Janvier 1648
Above Marne

Bursting from a cloud, she dove through the cold sky.

Carnax saw her coming. The colossal red dragon growled menacingly and banked away. His meaning was clear: stay away. Quick as thought, she followed, condensation streaming off her and shining like tiny diamonds in the sunlight.

The alouette dove into a thick cumulous formation hoping to shake his pursuer, but as he emerged from the other side, she was right behind him. She flapped her grey wings, closing on Carnax like an arrow from a strongbow. In irritation, the alouette whipped his tail at her. Clad in thick black chitin, Carnax’s tail was like a massive, flanged mace, capable of knocking all but the largest dragons from the sky.

She dipped deftly below the swinging crimson tail, tucked her wings tight to her body, and spun twice before spreading her wings to glide, upside down, belly to belly with Carnax. For a few wonderful seconds she stayed there. It was not often she was able to get this close to Carnax. The two dragons may have trained together for decades at the Saint Dizier terrissage, but familiarity did little to diminish the inherent belligerence of an alouette. Carnax wouldn’t kill her, anyway. She was pretty sure.

She scratched playfully at his belly scales and dove away. Carnax roared cantankerously. The alouette gave chase now, searing the sky with an eruption of his incendiary breath. To be caught in that firestorm would have been fatal, but it didn’t come anywhere near her as she flashed through the clouds.

The trainers at the terrissage frequently spoke of Godspeed, and that was what she felt just then. The icy winds roared in her ears, and she was the fastest creature in the whole world. She was a cendresse, bred for swiftness, and very few if any other breeds could match their speed. Her scales were smoky grey and mottled with orange, still bright in her youth.

She was forty years old today. This was the day she would finally get to choose her captain.

The verdant landscape rushed past her below. The tiny village of Châtillon-sur-Broué was ahead of her, then behind in moments. She dipped lower and lower until she skimmed the waters of Lac du Der, throwing a rooster-tail of spray behind her. Pitching upward again, she flapped up to a safe altitude just above the treetops and slowed as she approached the terrissage.

To the south of Saint Dizier, a broad swathe of the forest had been clear-cut. In one corner, built into a rocky hillside was the terrisage, with supporting buildings, made of stone and roofed in tiles, arrayed neatly outside of it.

The field bustled with activity. Everywhere an exhalation was breathed, a puff of mist lingered in the winter air. Couvrières in their robes led sheep to the hunting ground for feeding time. A pair of berciels, sky blue with cream-colored undersides, unleashed their gale-force breath weapons together, sending a small army of heavy wooden mannequins flying. Another cendresse was rigged in full harness, his crew of two dragonnaires mounted and ready to fly. A squadron of twelve skylances – musketeers mounted upon gryphonnes – flew in a disciplined formation over the trees to the east. She liked the number twelve as that was her current designation, given to her by the clutch-master on her hatchday. Douze Fille de Pyretta would receive a new name from her captain.

She winged across the field toward the skylances. Gryphonnes were ferocious creatures, larger than horses and with foreclaws that made them a scourge of infantry on the ground. They were just as stout-hearted in the air, swooping down to snatch an enemy up into the sky and drop him screaming to the ground. But dragons made them nervous. It was understandable.

Douze swept in from behind and slewed around the rear flank of the squadron. The gryphonnes were then tawny hue of savannah lions, but the front halves of the beasts were feathered, most in white, but two were black, and one was rusty red. As she flew by, she reached out and impishly tweaked the tail of one gryphonne, grinning as it lurched in mid-air and bellowed, wide-eyed. Angry French curses followed Douze; with a flap of her wings, she was away, circling the field before landing near the other cendresse, Rafale.

Carnax landed nearby, his heavy thump causing the ground all around him to tremble. The massive red dragon roared at Douze and stalked toward her. He flexed one enormous claw, capable of lifting an elephant and crushing it to paste. Carnax’s crew rushed over to stand in front of him, waving frantically to get his attention and attempt to settle him. His captain leapt up the alouette’s foreleg and clambered up to his head, shouting control commands. Carnax paused, mostly placated. His golden eyes locked on Douze for another long moment, glaring. Douze bowed her head to him, offering something of an apology. With a small puff of flame for punctuation, Carnax allowed himself to be led away by his crew.

Douze looked over to Rafale, who gave her a wry look that conveyed resignation. Douze was young and spirited, that would not change any time soon. He’d had his free-flight time earlier, now it was time to work. Douze considered that perhaps she should be a little less impetuous. Wobbling her head in a draconic shrug, she headed to the terrisage. Behind her, Rafale took a running start and launched skyward with a jangling of harness.

She was met by her team of couvrières. Once, they had seemed much larger to her, but as the years passed and the members of her team changed, she grew much larger while they all continued to dwindle by comparison. She now stood two and a half meters high at the shoulder, just on the lower end of average size for a cendresse her age. Douze would be more than twice her current size when she stopped growing in a century or so.

Of the original team of couvrières assigned to Douze, only one remained: Renée. The rest had retired or died; humans lived such sadly brief lives. Renée had been the one on watch when Douze hatched and for the last four decades, had cared for the cendresse. She had provided the hatchling’s earliest training, and taught her what discipline could be instilled, though little enough of that had stuck. Renée had chastised the hatchling when warranted, even meted out punishment when required. Douze had hated Renée at those times. She had wanted to see if the couvrière was as crunchy and juicy as she looked, never mind that eating humans was strictly forbidden. But there was never malice in Renée’s punishments and so Douze did not hate her for long. Occasionally Douze even felt a little regret at her misbehavior. Very occasionally. Renée was now in her sixties, a mother of four, grandmother of eleven, and a great-grandmother of six, so far. Today was her last day with the terrissage. She had earned a well-deserved retirement with full pension.

Douze had been so eager to get to the part of this day, her fortieth hatchday, where she chose her captain, that she had nearly forgotten that she was unlikely to see Renée again. The woman was a familiar presence in her life, and comfortable. She would miss Renée.

A young couvrière led a lamb on a tether, headed for the far end of the field so that Douze could hunt it. but she was famished and still eager for the choosing. She gently took the tether from the robed man and dangled the lamb above her open maw for a moment before biting it in half. Desiring some caramelization, Douze blew a small spout of flame and scorched the rest of the lamb before devouring it. Mmm. Yes. Very nice.

After her meal, Douze’s team led her to her chamber where they scrubbed her clean so that her scales glistened like smoked glass. Her rows of sharp teeth were brushed to rid them of rotting meat scraps and even her talons were trimmed and rasped smooth. Douze was primped and fussed over in a way that she hadn’t been since the royal visit to the terrissage by King Louis XIII some fifteen years ago. A couvrière stepped forward with gold paint but Renée stopped him, shaking her head.

“Our Douze possesses a natural beauty that requires no embellishment,” she said gazing fondly at her charge. Douze slow-blinked her agreement. Renée clapped her hands loudly. “It is time!” With a flurry of action, Douze’s team returned the bathing equipment to storage. One couvrière began cleaning up; the other six formed a double line in front of the cendresse. Taking her place at the head of the procession, Renée led the team and their dragon out to the field.

Wisps of cloud drifted lazily in an otherwise clear sky. The bright midday sun offered little in the way of heat. A robed team waited for their dragon to return, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands for warmth. The berciels, Callia and Cade, were being harnessed for flight. Across the field, Carnax imm olated a pair of oxen for his luncheon. Renée wheeled the team to the left and marched them to a small group of men and women near the administrative hall.

Four dragonnaires, two men and two women, stood in front of the group: the prospective captains. Behind them were their crewmates, each a trusted partner and comrade in arms. Cendresse crews numbered only two to maximize the dragon’s speed and maneuverability, which they did while performing acrobatic maneuvers at breakneck speed. The most effective cendresse crews maintained a certain reckless disregard for their own mortality, a trait that gained them a reputation – well-deserved, in all fairness – for being completely mad. The dragonnaires wore armor like that of the gryphonnaires: metal-tooled leather with blue enamel on the left shoulder. Where skylances bore a rampant gryphonne sigil in white, the dragon crews had a stylized drake, circular with a spiky spine.

To one side stood Lieutenant-Général Turenne, former commander of the French armies at Zusmarshausen last Octobre. After a resounding victory and razing of Bavaria, Cardinal Mazarin had assigned him to command the terrissage at Saint Dizier on suspicion of sympathizing with court agitators. The man was a brilliant strategist and far too useful to waste, so now Henri de La Tour d'Auvergne, the Viscount of Turenne, oversaw one of France’s forward bases in the east. Turenne had long, wavy chestnut hair beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His stoic face was decorated with the moustache and goatee so popular with the nobility, and two sharp grey eyes that missed very little. Turenne wore the same leather and metal as his troops, with minimal embellishment, and the extended cavalry saber of a gryphonnaire at his left hip.

Renée halted in front of the group. The couvrières lined up to either side of her and they all saluted in unison, fists over hearts.

“Capitaines,” Turenne addressed the four candidates. “It is my pleasure and privilege to introduce you to this cendresse, currently known as Douze Fille de Pyretta.”

The captains nodded appreciatively. They knew very well Douze’s dam was the illustrious Pyretta, and they accorded her daughter commensurate respect.

“Today is her fortieth hatchday, and she is ready to be crewed for the glory of the Saint Royaume. So, too, is she ready to receive a worthy name from the captain of her choosing. You need not be reminded of how great an honor it is, to be chosen by such a magnificent creature. Each of you is indeed a talented commander, but that alone is not sufficient to earn the bond. I myself have never earned one and,” Turenne allowed himself a small smile of indulgence, “I have heard it said that my own talents are not inconsiderable.”

Approbative words were modestly murmured by the candidates. Turenne accepted their words with as humble a nod as could be expected from a famed and noble French commander, then waved both hands.

“Spread out. She will need space to maneuver between you and to separate your scents.” The four captains sidled away from their neighbors until they were all about five meters apart. Turenne moved to stand near Douze and gazed at her fondly for a moment. “A very fortunate one, the captain you choose. But they will need the patience and will of a saint to manage you, I think.” He patted her gently on the snout. Douze playfully – but very carefully – snapped at the hand. Turenne chuffed a small laugh and turned to Renée.

“You and your team have discharged your duty in raising and training this dragon most admirably, madame. You all should be very proud. Tomorrow, I expect your recommendation for your successor.” He nodded to Renée, who beamed. “And I expect you to enjoy your hard-earned retirement. France is in your debt.”

“Merci, my lord.”

Turenne returned his attention to Douze, sweeping an arm out to the waiting captains. “We await your decision, belle chose.”

Finally. Douze growled with pleasure as she moved to the first candidate.

This captain was a tall woman, slender but strong-looking, with lean muscle. She held her helm and goggles at her hip. Her sandy blonde hair, a little longer than was typical, was windblown and wild. Douze liked that. She moved her snout close and snuffled lightly. Turenne was only half right: Douze inhaled more than just the scent of the woman. She smelled clean, like the icy clouds high above. There was no trace of fear or even apprehension. That was new. Douze’s couvrières reeked of it upon joining the terrissage, sometimes for months before its quavering quality subsided in Douze’s nostrils.

The woman lifted a hand and hesitated, raising her eyebrows in silent question. Douze, charmed by the candidate’s manners, nodded permission and allowed the hand to stroke her snout. Her hand was cold to the touch, no surprise there. And calloused but not rough. It did not linger overlong, but accepted the small gift for what it was. Withdrawing her hand, the woman whispered thanks and bowed in gratitude. Very well mannered.

The next candidate was a squat man, heavily muscled and with a moustache so wide it looked like his face had sprouted raven wings. His head, by contrast, was bald as an egg.

“This,” Turenne continued, “is Capitaine Leobold Du Pont.” The man made a tight bow to Douze, grinning. On him, Douze scented the same fearlessness, slightly… shaky with a touch of madness. Du Pont seemed to exemplify that particular trait of dragonnaires. He also smelled of the commissary, where he must have recently eaten. Douze considered that one lamb may not have been enough today. Her stomach rumbled.

Du Pont laughed heartily at the sound and patted his own belly. “Ah!” he said to her. “I would name you Amaranthe!” A lovely name. And Douzed liked the man’s joie de vivre.

Turenne stepped closer to Douze as she moved to the third candidate. “This man,” he said to her quietly, “he is not French, per se. He is a foreigner of Albion come to France some years ago. He is most capable, but… unconventional.”

Indeed? Douze growled with pleasure and Turenne introduced the man. “This is Capitaine Rhys Wyrdragon, incidentally a distant relation to King Uther, from a cadet house of Pendragon.”

Foreign and noble. How interesting! Douze looked him over. He was quite tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair cut very short. Blue eyes, the color of the Atalantic Ocean in summer, gazed at her reverently. “Hylô, hyfryd,” Wyrdragon greeted her in his native Welsh, his voice a rich baritone. Douze tilted her head.

“Hello, beautiful,” he translated. Ah. The poor man was smitten. Understandable.

Douze moved closer and inhaled deeply. There was quite a mosaic there. Fearless, as expected. But something more than that: a boundless courage that added a sunny quality to the scent. There was a green smell, like a forest after rain. Underlining those was a scent Douze could only describe as “dragony”; the man’s connection to dragons extended beyond his being a dragonnaire. And something new to her. It was akin to the affinity she felt for Renée after long years in her care but much deeper.

She moved her snout even closer, pressed it against his tiny face and leather breastplate. A second new thing swirled within her. Not completion… culmination? Contentment. Douze had never felt such a sense of equanimity. It was profoundly pleasant. Without knowing precisely why, she lifted a claw and very delicately gouged a line in his armor, marking him.

“I would name you Excidia,” he said to her. “For you are devastation itself.” What an intriguing human.

Douze glanced at the last candidate but felt no need to explore further. Her choice was made, recorded on the chest of his breastplate. She stepped back and stood to her full height. Turenne and Renée looked on proudly as she spread her smoky wings wide and raised her head. With a triumphant roar, she unleashed a trio of fireballs into the sky.

Her saga began a new chapter. She had her captain, and she had her name.

Excidia.

[Pragia]

Castle Rhys, Maryland, Avalon

The Hampton Roads were the heart of the Albionite colonies. Castle Rhys was founded at the mouth of the river furthest south on the bay of the Chesapeake peoples. Named for the great explorer-king who christened the New World Avalon, Castle Rhys was a modern fortification; a massive fortress that dominated the north shore and acted as a center of administration for the Albionite colonies of the new world. From the northern lands of New Caledonia and Avalon Isle to the southern isles of Saint Kitts and Jamaica, all the lords of the New World pledged their fealty to its master, Viceroy Mark Willen.

Charged with the administration of the Kingdom’s affairs on this side of the Atlantic, his resources were few and stretched thin. While many eager knights and free folk made their way for the New World, few wanted to pay heed to the systems of old. Further up this river, in the city of Williamsburg, the House of Burgesses holds session. Representative government was not the way of Albion, where the rule of the righteous was known and understood, but so far from the chalice there was need for greater trust. Indeed, it had been the better part of a decade since Mark had broken bread with the King, and his eyes had never met those of his new liegelord Uther who graciously renewed his viceroyalty.

The land of Mary was becoming as populated as the lands of home, its rich farmland and gracious natives enticing many of those daring or desperate enough to make the crossing. Missions dot the coast as the men of the cloth introduce the Word of God to the natives and heal their sick. Where great storms of disease may have wiped out entire peoples, the woods now bustled with man and un-man alike. This show of power has allowed the crown lands to live in harmony with many natives, even as the newfound lands burgeon and encroach.

Indeed, the Powhatan had been incorporated as the first non-Albionite house since the conquests of the northern isles, their Lady Matoaka having broken bread with the Pendragon and found worthy in the eyes of God. Other natives were not so eager to embrace the Holy Kingdom, war parties harried the edges of the wood, their bark-clad fey allies creating new tales of horror in the colony.

The growing trade fleets riding the winds down to the isles and up the coasts were increasingly showing that these colonies were truly part of a new Empire, well beyond the shores of beloved Albion. Royal Navy sail and steam ships patrolled the waterways, wary of war parties and privateers in the Caribbean. Rich molasses and coffee drifted up into Maryland, and was joined by grand yields of tobacco and even finished goods before the stormsages guided the ships back to the homeland. Where Albion lacked the broad-spanning holdings of the Iberians and the Dutchmen, it had the industriousness and determination of a noble people to create the most developed region in the New World.

But for all the growing prosperity and dominion, the Albionites had a tenuous grasp on this land at best. The venturing knights who have pierced into the continent bring back tales and even evidence of great beast, strange peoples, and magics unknown. This was a whole continent, and many threats lurked deeper into these lands. In time, Lord Willen hoped that it would come to be under the rule of the kingdoms of Christendom in time.

The competition in the new world has invited unfamiliar problems between the holy kingdoms of western Europe. Beyond the scramble for sugar islands and good harbors, there was an uncertainty over the future of the continent only complicated by the inclusion of Dutch merchantmen from far seas. Truthfully the Lord Willen hoped that peaceful arrangements could hold, but his duty to the Kingdom demanded that he prepare beyond his hopes.

A much larger threat loomed, however. One of his vassal knights, Sir Illyd had ventured into the storied lands of Ohio and returned with reports of bipedal rats with sinister countenance and disposition. The northern colonies were not nearly as large as Maryland, and their positions precarious to the will of the elements, let alone any malicious force. A small force of knight-adventurers were being assembled to sortie forth and determine the risk of these abominations.

[Ambassingh]

Since their pact with the Mwant Yav - Yao Nawedji, the Beleguanze had not only secured an alliance with the Lunda states but also undertook a mission to solidify it. Kabaka-Nyakoka had dispatched Omulabirizi agents to the Kongo for several years to devise a strategy to reclaim the land for Yao Nawedji. However, this endeavor proved exceedingly challenging. The Kongo had long been subject to foreign influence from Europe, introducing complex dynamics. Unable to effectively counterbalance the proposals of European powers such as the Portuguese and the Dutch West Indies Company, the agents opted to formulate a plan to destabilize the kingdom.
It was the Kwilu Dynasty that the Omulabirizi decided to act upon.

[Report from the Omulabirizi 1948 to Kabaka - Karango]

The Kwilu Dynasty was distinguished by two brothers, Garcia Nimi and Alvaro Nkanga, descendants of Queen Anna Ntumba, who took power after Alphonso I. Alvaro was the more eager of the two, and after a botched coup, managed to proclaim himself king, Alvaro V. His reign was short-lived, however, as he was captured and decapitated by a cousin, who then took up the reign under the name of Alvaro VI and established the Nlaza dynasty. During his reign, Alvaro VI had to cede part of his territory and grew disdainful towards the Portuguese. It did not take long before a new contender started to emerge in their territory: a group of people named the Dutch. During their affair, they managed to interrupt the Portuguese mission, which meant a lot in the region.
The new Dutch occupation successfully stalled the Portuguese, fulfilling the wishes of Alvaro VI. Garcia Nimi seized an opportunity to eliminate Alvaro VI and forged an alliance with the Dutch.
Now named Garcia II, his plan was first to take over the Soyo Kingdom ruled by Dom Daniel da Silva. Our agent managed to interfere in this conflict by sabotaging his army, resulting in a loss for Garcia and a debt to us from Dom Daniel. And since the Portuguese are no more, the entire Soyo kingdom is now under our influence.
After this defeat in Soyo and the Dutch taking over the island of Luanda down south, Garcia has decided to lay low and sever any relations with the Dutch. Whether he will try to call for Portuguese for help remains uncertain but not impossible.
The alliance with Soyo is situational, and Garcia is at his weakest. We have rogues all over their court and could act swiftly on any demands. As for the Dutch, they are preoccupied with more pressing matters down south; they shouldn't be much of a worry, yet.

[ End of report ]

Being deeply preoccupied in the events unfolding in Luanda, Karango made the decision to reach out to Nyakoka, expressing his intent to prolong his stay in the city.

Brother.
Since my encounter with Yao Nawedji, doubts about the outcome of our ritual have lingered incessantly. While I harbor skepticism regarding his possession of the answers we seek, I am willing to extend him the benefit of the doubt. Despite personally accepting his request regarding retrieving the land for whom he calls an invader, I cannot trust him. Moreover, I have forwarded you the report of the Omulabirizi, enabling you to grasp the schemes we uncovered within the Kwilu dynasty. Yao even sacrificed his forefather for his rituals, and I suspect the Kwilu to have done the same.
The locals partake in rituals reminiscent of the Chwezi, yet on a more expansive scale. This underscores a profound thirst for power, a force against which we lack bargaining leverage, unlike with the Chagga or even the Lozi. I discern no advantage in aligning with this region. The magic here surpasses that of the east, and with foreign backing, the locals have wielded armies that eclipse our own. Hastening would prove unwise; I propose our kind adopts a more discreet strategy.
I'll extend my stay here for the time being.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

The Holy Roman Empire
Imperial Palace in Vienna
January 1648

---

The Imperial Palace had changed a lot in the last decade. Changed from what had once been the beating heart of the Empire into little more than a shell of its former self. Ever since Wallenstein's troops had occupied the Habsburg seat of power, it had become abundantly clear to most political movers and shakers of the realm that the Emperor's side was not the one to be if one desired power and influence. No, instead the Emperor did what he did best...what he was allowed to...being a patron of the arts. The number of artists, excellent musicians, sculptors, scientists and the like that now populated the corridors of the Imperial Palace had swelled dramatically, many of them seeking an audience with the Emperor, to present their works to him or gain his patronage.

"Untalented rats..."

, Loreley mumbled under her breath, the acting Vice Chancellor of the Holy Roman Empire and daughter of the Erl King navigating said corridors in search of Ferdinand III. To her eyes and ears the attempts of humans at artistry were but pale imitation of what her kin had produced...laughable, much like their science and attempts at reaching their lofty heights with coal and water.

Eyes turned wherever she went, discussions stopping as the attention of all who were present followed her. She was of an otherworldly, bewitching beauty. One she had used in previous centuries to lure sailors to their death, to drown in the Rhine. That was her realm and she was not very pleased with having to sit in Vienna instead, far from her home, from the whispers of her river. But of course precisely because she was so beautiful, her father had sent her here...so she could keep the Emperor and the remainder of the Imperial Court in a stupor, going along with anything she suggested. And she had plenty of things to suggest now.

She found the Emperor by following the sounds of a concert, an ensemble of the musicians vying for his attention having gotten together, playing a piece she recognised as having been composed by Ferdinand himself. Bootlickers and asscrawlers, all of them. Ferdinand himself was seated on a comfortable chair while another man whom she recognised as Wolfgang Ebner, the court's pipe organist, was presenting a book to him. She strained her ears a little as she approached to make sure not to miss any of what was said while she was approaching, particularly with the music going on.

"And here, your Majesty, is a pre-print version of the book I have ordered to be made in Prague. I await little more than your approval to be printing it in series so we can release this first edition of your Majesty's musical excellence to the whole Empire."

Under normal circumstances she was certain that the Emperor would have been delighted. Alas...Ferdinand's face remained like stone, his bloodshot eyes looking upon the musicians before him, listening to them. He had deep eye rings and his entire face felt...splotchy. His somewhat hunched over posture certainly didn't help make him appear any more delighted either. She could guess why that was the case. The news of the public issuing of the Papal Excommunication had hit somewhat like a bomb for the Emperor, who had previously not been aware of it having been issued. The Cabal too had been hit albeit for many of them it translated to shaking their fists at the Papacy and shouting about how they'd send all the Papists to hell. Others however had, under the guidance of her father, already recognised the chance it provided and begun to intensify the campaigning against the catholic church. Still, there was unrest in particular in the catholic dominated areas and the Cabal had been forced to redouble its efforts of scaring the populace back into submission to imperial authority. Authority they de jure didn't even have anymore...but that was of minor consequence.

"Your Majesty, is something the matter?"

, she said as she approached, the musicians coming to a sudden halt in their performance as her voice cut through the air like it was paper. Much like her beauty, it too was seemingly of another world. Sometimes she had deigned to sing for the Emperor, enthralling him with the beauty of her voice but right now was likely not the time for that as she reached him. The young man of only 30 years looked like he had aged another 10 years ever since he had received the news, his eyes slowly moving towards her as he turned his entire body, his broken voice asking:

"Vice Chancellor...are you here to wake me up from my nightmare? It taunts me so with events of such joy yet also with such a deep abyss."

She carefully lowered herself so she was level with him, an act of quite some difficulty as she was quite tall, like most of her kin. Except her father. He was short and she had no idea why he persisted with that form. She cringed at having to touch that awful wreck of a man but kept it behind her pretty facade as she told him:

"I am afraid not, your Majesty. But I have come to request your permission to engage in actions to convince his Holiness of reconsidering his position."

There was a spark there in his eyes, one of hope. Ah it was always so easy to lead the Emperor on, she thought as his shaking hand slowly gripped her, his voice equally shaky as he asked:

"R-really? Do you think we can convince his Holiness?"

He was like a puppy in her hands. An apt description given how young he was compared to her and how little she thought of humans like him. She knew that he thought nothing bad would happen. Merely some discussions between theologists and the Pope, some diplomatic back and forth. Little did he know that the Imperial Cabal had other things in mind. The Gibelline network had been taken control of by the Cabal centuries ago and the Duchy of Modena was already little more than their puppet. They had also come into contact with a coven of Vampires operating in Venice which had recently assassinated the Doge...in short the Cabal was preparing to take the Investiture Controversy up once more and strike at the Pope...perhaps via underhanded means first but there were certainly plans for armed conflict in Italy once more. And imperial planners were certain that there would be no Lombard League strong enough to oppose them.

"Of course your Majesty. Please, why don't you come along with me. There are a number of important missives that desperately require your seal and signature."

, she smiled and closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly to the side. Her soft grip became a little firmer as she pulled the Emperor from his seat and onto his feet. The news of there being ways his government worked on of getting his excommunication revoked, his title as both protector of the faith and Emperor officially restored...it was putting life back into him. With a wave he thanked the musicians for this wonderful rendition of his works and gave the approval to Ebner for the printing of the book before walking briskly alongside Loreley, barely able to contain his desire for action.

[Tracian Empire]

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ Bασιλέως Bασιλέων Bασιλεῖ Bοήθει
Staurè Basiléōs Basiléōn Basileĩ Boḗthei
Cross of the King of Kings aid the Emperor

---

10th of February
7156 ε.Κ.
2401 A.V.C.
1648 A.D.

Bari
Kingdom of Sicily and Naples

A slowly warming February sun was shining over the city of Bari, a fortress of the Angevins, clinging onto the boot of the Italian peninsula. It's honey-colored ramparts of stone were rising from the Adriatic coastline like a defiant fist fist, protecting the southeastern flank of the Kingdom of Sicily from all those would threaten it. Or at least, that is how it was supposed to be. Cannons were peeking from behind the crenels of the bastion, but despite their threatening look, they had not been properly maintained in a while. Cracks had started to show in the imposing towers of the Castello Normanno-Svevo, and the flag of the Kingdom was fluttering slowly in the wind, blue with the golden lillies and the label of three points gules, popularly known as a "rake", defacing it, the symbol of the many branches of the dynasties which were commonly known as the Angevins. Ever since the Angevins had lost their ambitions in the East, Bari had lost its importance as a port and fort overlooking the Adriatic. Instead, the Kings in Naples had looked north, first at the rest of Italy, then in fear at the madness and bloodshed overtaking Europe - that was, when they were looking.

For far too often, the Kings of the Two Sicilies had only looked inside their own court. Forever weakened by competing claims, the crown of Sicily had passed hands countless times over the past centuries. The end of the line of Anjou-Durazzo had led to endless coups and civil wars between the senior line, and the junior line of the Valois-Anjou. The complicated system of inheritance and human greed had eventually led to the House of Valois-Orléans claiming the title, and failing to enforce it, a claim which had then been given to the House of Bourbon, even if it had not been acted upon. The throne had been since then occupied by a house born in dishonor, the so called House of Anjou-Capua, founded by Reynold of Durazzo, a bastard and later legitimized child and heir of Ladislaus of Naples, the last legitimate male ruler of the House of Anjou-Durazzo, who had ousted his aunt, Joanna II. Their rule, having been started in blood by a bastard, had often been contested - much like their Durazzo ancestors, their line had broken into two, competing claims on the patriliniar and matriliniar lines, with the latter currently on the throne as Joanna III, Queen of Sicily and Naples. Her rule was opposed by various noble families within her realm that could also provide a claim to the throne. There was the House of Anjou-Bourbon-La Marche, descended from Joanna II and her unpopular husband, James II Bourbon-La Marche, who had imprisoned her and briefly claimed the throne for himself. And then, there was the House of Anjou-Taranto, a legitimate branch of the Anjou-Durazzo which had once ruled in Thessaloniki during the Frankokratia, and whose rulers claimed, besides from the title of Prince of Taranto, the titles of King of Albania, Prince of Achaea and Despot of Romaniae - the last remnants of the Latin Empire. Claims and intrigue, assassinations and coup attempts, political marriages and divorces, all in a long dance of death and dishonor.

Bari had been mostly shielded from the events happening back in the capital, but its effects were still felt. Having previously been under the rule of the Princes of Taranto, it was seen with suspicion by the Queen, its troops unreliable, and only present there to protect the city from the Barbary Pirates. Its peaceful life covered a slow but continuous decline under the rule of the House of Filangieri. Not that the regular people cared too much. In the early morning, the harbor of the city was filled with life. Fishing boats with colorful sails bobbed on the turquoise water, returning with their early morning catch. Larger vessels from Venice, Ragusa, and even the Levant were unloading their cargo of exotic spices, silks, and precious stones onto the bustling docks. The air was thick with the smell of salt, fish, and the pungent aroma of tar. Unfortunately for them, their peaceful morning was about to be quickly upended. Lacking a system of beacons like nations, Naples had no quick way of informing the city of what was about to come.

It started like a shining spot in the distance. Some of the fishermen, out on their boats, would have probably seen them first, but they were too far out to bring back the news. For those in the city, it took a while to recognize that as the shine of dragon scales in the early sun, but even that wasn't necessarily concerning - dragons were often used as couriers, and in fact, during the previous night, the guards had reported that they had seen a courier dragon from Constantinople in the moonlit sky, probably carrying with it news from Constantinople to Naples. It was only as the dragons approached that the people noticed how many of them they were, and it was only when they were too close that the garrison realized that the dragons were armored and ready for battle, just as over the horizon and the sea, the red-golden flags of the Romans could be seen fluttering in the wind on the masts of their galleys.

As the bells of the Basilica di San Nicola started tolling, warning the city and rousing the garrison, the dragons swooped in over the city. The troops in the port tried to open fire of them, but there were too few of them and they were unprepared, their cannons and ballistae not ready. The fiery breath of the dragons fell upon the Sicilian ships as they were trying to leave the port, in a desperate charge against the Roman ships, their wooden upper sections catching fire. The other dragons however continued to fly over the city, and descended quickly over the Castello Normanno-Svevo with that looked like large, military transports held in their claws, large and long containers made of wood and metal. The transports landed into the castle's courtyard with loud thuds, and their doors opened, with soldiers of the Scholai, in their white tunics and armors, quickly getting out of them, the Scholarians of the Hikanatoi and of the Optimatoi spearheading this assault. As the Sicilian soldiers were caught off-guard, their officers quickly tried to organize their resistance, but the attack had already started.

The Elven soldiers were the first to react, taking out their bows and quickly firing enchanted arrows in succession, while beside them, humans fired small darts using the hollow tube known as a solenarion The men and dwarves moved forward, the latter armed with their axes, known as a pelekion, and the former armed with swords, both the straight spatha and the curved paramerion, and the heavy iron maces known as siderorabdia. Muskets and arquebuses would have been difficult to use in the cramped spaces of a fortress, which is why as the Sicilian men tried to rally their men into formation, muskets behind, spears forward, they were too slow. Some of the musketeers, scared, fired their weapons without waiting for the order, but the Romans moved quickly despite the deaths of some of their own. The Scholarians broke through the spears, some sliding in between them, others pushing them upward with their blades, others throwing their weapons ahead, while the dwarves rushed under them. The elite Scholarians with their melee weapons quickly took control of the situation. Before the hour was done, the flag with the lilies and the rake was cut down, and the basilikon phlamoulon of red, with the golden cross and the firesteels was rising over the castle. The Romans had returned to Italy.

---

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the King of Francia

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, our one and only true God, Michael, having faith in God alone, sublime augoustos, sovereign and great emperor of the Romans, to my dearest, beloved spiritual son, Louis, the most nobly-born and admirable king of Francia.

Thank you for your wishes, my spiritual son and brother in Christ. Your proposal of a conclave of representatives in Paris is most wise and most worthy of a great monarch ruling over a great Christian realm. In addition to discussing the matters which I already wanted him to discuss, my brother, prince Manuel Porphyrogennetos, shall also serve as my representative for this conclave. May God bless it and may He help us find victory and peace for the faith and for Europe.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and the Holy and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the Caliph

To the most distinguished and noble-born and admirable Hasan, Protosymboulos, Amermoumnes and administrator of the Hagarenes, from Michael, having faith in Christ our god, faithfull sovereign, augustoi and emperor of the Romans.

As you no doubt know well, the territories of under the rule of the Caliphate are home to many Christian subjects, particularly in the regions of eastern Armenia and in the Caucasus. This is in particular problematic considering that the last true king of the Armenian Kingdom of Ani, Hovhannes-Smbat, had named Basileos Porphyrogennetos, may his memory be eternal, as his heir upon his death, on both shores of the Thospitis limne, that which the Armenians call the Lake of Van, and which became our theme of Vasprakania before it was overtaken by the Seljuk soldiers of past Caliphs through war and treachery. It is not my desire to bring war, nor is it to break the peace between our realms, but as the Emperor of the Romans and Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, it is my God-given duty to ensure the safety and prosperity of Christians. As such, I would like to reach a diplomatic solution to this solution, either by reestablishing Roman control over Vasprakania in exchange for sending Muslims who are still living in the lands of the Romans to the Caliph, or by Caliphate granting autonomy to its Christian subjects in the area, in the spirit of peace and understanding between faiths.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and the Holy and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων
Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn
The Empire of the Romans

Η βασιλεύς Σύγκλητος και ο Λαός της Ρώμης
I Basileus Sýnklitos kai o Laós tis Rómis
The Emperor, Senate and People of Rome

Σταυρὲ βασιλέως βασιλέων βασιλεύων βασίλευε
Staurè Basileùs Basiléon Basileúon Basíleue
Cross of the King of Kings, rule in reigning

---

To the Duke of Tuscany

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, our one and only true God, Michael, having faith in God alone, emperor of the Romans, to my spiritual son, Alfonso Niccolo Barbolini dei Machiavelli, Doux and Exousiastes of Tuscany,

May God grant health, long-life and prosperity to you, most illustrious Doux, and to the people and nobles of Tuscany. Matters of great importance demand to be discussed between the realms of the Romans and of the Tuscans, for which we ask you to send an envoy to Constantinople at your earliest convenience, in order to discuss these matters that concern the situation in Italy and the Mediterranean.

His Imperial Majesty, Michael Palaiologos Doukas Komnenos Ioustinianos, in Christ Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, Kaisar and Despot of the New Rome, Forever Sebastos and Sotiras, Sebastokrator and Nobelissimos, Porphyrogennetos, Viceroy of Jesus Christ on Earth, the Pious and the Blessed, Defender of the One True Orthodox Faith, Great Protector of the Holy Cities of Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, Lord of Our Sea, Sovereign of the Holy Order of the True Cross, Grand Master of the Order of Saint Andrew, of the Order of Constantine the Great and the Holy and of the Order of Justinian the Great, King of Kings, Ruling Over Those Who Rule

[Dragos Bee]

Alid Caliphate

A letter would be sent back to the Romans, saying:

To the most esteemed Emperor of the Romans, from the Commander of the Faithful, Hasan VI of the Ahl-Al-Bayt

It is welcome to receive such a letter from you, one concerned about the lives of the common folk and not the ephemeral glories of wealth and military success. We agree that the Christians of Armenia have proven loyal enough to deserve autonomy; therefore they will receive it - We have been in talks with the head of the Armenian Apostolic Church in our lands, our loyal subject, as well as local bishops of various sects, proposing greater power to the cities and their merchant classes in the area. Not just that, but the head of the Armenian Church will be put in charge of collecting the poll tax paid by nonbelievers in exchange for military protection, thus lessening the burdens paid by the Christians of the area to governors who do not share their faith.

We hope that this arrangement soothes the concerns that your heart feels towards your brethren and spiritual kin...

[Theyra]

Lĩnh Nam Empire
Hanoi
Imperial Palace
Empress Nghiêm Vi

It was an average day in the capital of the Lĩnh Nam Empire. The city was busy with life as the sun shone down on it. Humans, elves, dwarfs, and other races of the planet lived and worked in harmony and as the sun reached the highest point in the day. Did a lightly green eastern dragon fly through the sky overhead and this one was carrying the empress of the empire, Nghiêm Vi. For the empress was just flying around the city to relax after a rather stressful morning and to spend time with Haozui. Her personal dragon and a good and loyal friend she had known since she was young.

But now, after some time in the fresh air and seeing the city, she was ready to return to the Imperial Palace and flew down and landed on the balcony. There waiting for her was her attendants and to her surprise, one of her advisors, Ngọc Mai.

After climbing off Haozui, Vi greeted his attendants and Mai with a friendly tone. "Hello all and I take it Mai that you have more for me?"

Mai sighed and sounded concerned, "Yes Empress, and I am here once again to remind you about a certain problem that you need to address"

"Which one is that Mai? The empire has several of them."

"The matter of the Ming refugees."

Vi signed, "and what problem is that? Are the refugees causing problems?"

"Well, no, not right now, but it is a concern in the court that letting them stay might cause the relations between us and the Qing to deteriorate and since they might take it as support for the Ming."

Vi gave an annoyed smile, "Right now, it is what is left of the Ming that border us, not the Qing and they still have not sent us anything form of message or demand about the Ming refugees or our stance on the Ming." Vi now looking at Mai straight in the eyes. "All we did was letting refugees into our lands and until we receive anything from the Qing, then the refugees will stay where they are unless they cause problems. We are clear Mai?"

"Mai shook her head in agreement though it was not willingly. "I understand, Empress, and there is one more thing that you should know about."

"What is that?"

"The foreigner, Shimazu Tamekata, keeps getting drunk and is causing problems, and his brother has tried to help, but it is not working."

Vi sighed at the thought, "at least only one of them are causing problems and where is he now?"

"In his quarters under guard."

"I will personally speak to him about the matter."

"Are you sure? We can have someone else do it and not have it interfere with your duties as Empress."

"No, he fled here with his brother and I allowed them in my court. He is my responsibility, and I will deal with him."

"Understood, Empress, and do you want me to accompany you there?"

"No, Mai, you have other things to do, I imagine and Haozui." Vi turned to face her dragon friend. "You have any suggestions?

The mature green dragon spoke with a low but friendly voice. "Do not beat him up top much Vi, he has been through alot."

"Understood, my friend, and say hello to your mate for me."

"Will do Vi," and with that, Haozui departed the balcony, and Vi left after dismissing Mai and her attendants. Now heading to deal with a probably drunk Tamekata and remind of his status. Just a day in the life of the Empress and one that Vi has learned to live in.