Lunacy Befitting Gods (Fantasy|IC|Always Open)

[Krugmar]

Lunacy Befitting Gods
A Saga of Men, Gods, the Faithless, and the Accursed

"And I saw in his hand a book, sealed with seven seals, the first of which was broken. And behold a white horse and he who sat on it went forth to conquer!"

OOC

Story

The world of Leoht is ancient, and its story is long, complex, and often parts of it are lost. In it dwell many races, some ancient, some young, all vying for control, or their very survival. Apocalyptic wars marr its history, and cataclysmic events have sundered once beautiful and treasured lands. A great many beings, some of this world, some not, have attempted to rule over it, but so far all have failed.

In recent times, Mankind has gained authority and dominion over the world, firmly set upon worshipping itself and its mightiest heroes. Over time their kingdoms have grown weak and decadent, fewer and fewer heroes ascend to the Hojhal, and more are cursed to become reckless but well-meaning vampires. The Dwarves bemoan their crumbling empire and begin to make new weapons of war, the elven councils view the world with distaste as they mourn the passing of their Celestial masters, while the Slyrhenos eye their treasures greedily and march for war. Centaurs thunder across their steppe, and the lands of others, looking for loot and glory, and the Orcen raid the peoples of the Attria as they have done for centuries. Whispers tell of the Gods beneath the earth attempting to escape, and rumours abound that Mazdurak survived the sinking of Kastedor. The men of the Kejsersdomme speak of the Dommedag, when all shall go wrong, and the darkest of villains will fight the greatest of heroes, while the elves sing only of the withering of the world. The fate of Leoht rests in the hands of such heroes and villains, and the nations they shape around them.

Maps

Map with states
Map with states in white writing *NEW* *EXCITING*
Blank map

Posting Rules

-Try to cover about one to two weeks per post if you are a nation. For single characters, a shorter timeframe is acceptable.
-No extremely short posts, several paragraphs is preferred.
-Try to collaborate storylines with other players, this allows them to be more organic, and helps reduce any OOC arguments.
-Date posts. For convenience, we'll be using standard month names, and dating systems. The RP will start on the 4th March, 1132 KF (Kejserdomme Founding)
-Events are chosen by a random number generator, and you have to react to them. Not all of them are bad.

Events

1st set - 4th March 1132 KF - 4th April 1132 KF

-The earth tremours, and monsters have poured out of the ground in Krah Oluhm
-The people bemoan a year of bad rule, and will work less for a month in Vagh Zhuthan
-The people bemoan a year of bad rule, and will work less for a month in the Kingdom of Afallon
-Excellent trade has meant increased government revenues in Tik’al
-The people bemoan a year of bad rule, and will work less for a month in the Kingdom of Otania
-A new plague has arrived, and is killing many in Slevstrup
-The seas are especially dangerous, with great storms wrecking ships and fleets. Attempts to sail during this month will be more dangerous
-Slaver ships from Al-Arghania have been spotted heading towards the Karamanli Beylik

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Krerok Ulutiri Fortress
Kim Wohr Hold, Khar Wohr
2nd Sunsday, First Cycle, Gaiya, 85 Year Tenerlik
March 4th, 1132 KF
Captain Tronwald Isci Kintay

Krerok Ulutiri Fortress occupied the valley between Mount Teutoni and Mount Harlisle. Krerok Ulutiri stood between them, stretching from mountain to mountain. Mount Teutoni presented a steep and harsh face while Mount Harlisle had a more rolling rise until the sharp drop of Boerdharr’s Face. The Kreroki Lesser Wall stretched from Boerdharr’s Face to the base of Mount Teutoni. It stood some 10 meters high and 4 meters thick and was a kilometer long. The stout design was due to the increasing use of cannon and the stout nature of Dharric structures in general. It was composed of rock hewn straight from the mountain in large pieces. It was inscribed by the strongest Runitians every five years. Krerok Ulutiri itself was on a small hill that occupied the center of the kilometer-wide valley, standing 800 meters backs from the wall itself. The hill split the valley in two, like a rock in a river, which rejoined behind it. The hill, which bore no name, was more accurately described as a butte. It stood some 350 meters at its peak, which was dwarfed by the 2 to 3-thousand-meter-high mountains that formed the outer edge of the Ulu Range. Yet it in turn commanded the pass. Krerok Ulutiri occupied the hill in it’s entirety. Three sets of walls blocked the path from the front and back. The sides were steep and impassable, yet ringed with numerous firing holes and artillery emplacements. The first set of walls were at the base of the pass and the same size as the Kreroki Lesser Wall. This wall also ran up the side of the faces. The second wall was about 150 meters back and 100 meters up. It was 15 meters high and 5 meters thick. The third wall was 180 meters back and 250 meters up. It was the same as the one before it in sit had size. The final keep was at the peak, at 350 meters up. It was a triangular affair that dominated the top of the hill. It had four tower, three as corners and one in the center. These walls were taller and thinner, from a time before cannon. Krerok Ulutiri had dozens of artillery and cannon emplacements. There were hundreds of firing ports. The hill was hollowed out and contained lines of retreat into the nearby mountains. There were also smaller posts built into the towering mountains that would also rain death upon any invader. The Krerok Ulutiri guarded the Hinsdhar valley, which led more or less straight Kim Wohr. It was heavily fortified, Krerok Ulutiri was not the only fortress on it. But it was the first and it was the one that saw the most action. A few days’ march back stood the Great Kreroki Wall, which was thicker, taller, and more heavily fortified than anything down here.

Isci of House Kintay of Clan Tronwald was the Captain of the Day Watch on the Lesser Wall. His company, Silver Company of the 2nd Regiment of the Army of the North, was one of the most sought after units. It held much fame and glory and was one of the most experienced units in the Army of the North. Just last year, Isci has fought with his Dharrs against a Slyrhenosi bandit group that had somehow slithered into the Kharr near Khenum Ningalir. Though it was told by the bards as a grand fight, the musketeers of the Silver Company had butchered the Slyrhenosi. But the Dharr hated Slyrhenosi and the fallen Dharr so much was made of it. The garrison duty at Krerok Ulutiri was their reward, a rest period. Or so he hoped. There was talk among the officers and soldiers that war with the Telaiski was coming. Or that outer settlements in the Dharric Ancient Paths were coming under attack from the fallen Dharr. War was a coming and as usual it was Khar Wohr on it’s lonesome. To the Dharr of the world, Wohr was a land of heretics. While the humans only knew that the sole source of magical or enchanted Dharric goods came from Wohr, the other Dharr viewed those goods as evil sins incarnate. Of all the Dharric realms, only Wohr used the Dharric Runnic Arts. This sin marked them as outcasts to the Dharr. They could only count on themselves. And Isci knew that is all reality the Dharr of Khar Wohr were cut off from the rest of their kind by the fallen Dhar, the Terraik Dhar. Wohr suffered many wars by itself, bolstered only by its powerful weapons.

Truthfully, Isci was a Traditional Ancestralist. He did not care for the use of Runnic Arts, but he accepted them as a necessity. He only hoped that if there was war, it was against the humans and not the Terraik. Those beasts were scary and deadly. Humans were like lambs in comparison.

As Isci walked along the wall, the Dharr of the Silver Company saluted and carried on. His two-hundred-man unit watched the walls, patrolling by squads while other worked below. Several men from the Garrison Battery were practicing on a brand new cannon, a 24lber. It was from a foundry in the Kim Wohr, crafted from Runnic Steel and further inscribed against breaking and for accuracy. Isci marveled at the technological prowess of his people, but knew that the humans outnumbered them.

Below him stretched the fertile river valleys of Telaiski. A little under a hundred miles south stood the Telaiski city of Khonikas. The River Rynhe started farther back in the mountains and curved in front of the valley before continuing south. On the banks on the river was an informal market, where several Dharric Clans sold their wares to human traders.

“Elder Clansdharr, if you please I have a message for you,” called out a younger Dharr. She bore the markings of a fellow Tronwald Dharr. Seeing as she addressed him by clan and not by rank, Isci knew she was a civilian.

“What is it, Clansister? What may I help you with?” he replied.

“Elder Clansdharr, the Gate Commander sent me to fetch you. He says that he has a special missive for you. From Kim Wohr” she replied, before walking off.
At the Gatehouse, he noted the presence of four Boars of the Lord Protector’s Courier Corp. That was rather unusual, if these were run-of-the-mill orders. Inside the Commander’s Office sat two Couriers and the Gate Commander. Captain Isci saluted the Gate Commander, Koter of House Uity of Clan Kimjar. Then he bowed in the official style to the Couriers, with his hands over his heart. Both couriers wore deep blue robes, with a purple and gold stripe denoting their service to the Prince and black and silver stripe denoting their service to the Lord Protector. Both carried Gharrian Staffs, solid Runnic Bronze poles with several silver streaks that were their Symbols of Office. They were also spelled to inflict immense pain on those who were not meant to touch them. The elder Courier’s was also tipped in gold, thus marking her as the more senior of the two. It was she who spoke first.

“I am Wasala of House Wohrozi of Clan Wuyunta. I come to you bearing orders from the Lord Protector himself. The 2nd Regiment is being mustered at Jurukhi Ulutiri Fortress. You will be replaced by the Bronze Boar Company of the 5th Regiment. You must leave tomorrow, as soon as reasonably possible. It is imperative that you make all haste to Jurukhi Ulutiri,” said Wasala.

“The Will of the Lord Protector is mine to follow. The Silver Company will be ready to leave at sunrise tomorrow. When will the Bronze Boars be arriving? I am loathe to leave the Lesser Kreroki Wall understrength,” Isci inquired.

“Captain Isci the Bronze Boar Company is but a few hours’ march from here. They will arrive sometime after sundown tonight. Now go, gather your men and make haste. You march at dawn.” And with that Isci was dismissed. As he gathered his men and distributed the orders, rumors and questions flew through the camp. No one knew why they were being recalled.

Offices of the Lord Protector, Kim Wohr
Kim Wohr Hold, Khar Wohr
1st Dharrday, Second Cycle, Gaiya, 85 Year Tenerlik
March 10th, 1132 KF
Lord Protector Wuyunta Jimsung Geuman

“I’ve said it before and I will say it again, we cannot trust the humans of the Telaiski Aftokratoria. They encircle us completely. All our trade, save that which goes through Chardhin, goes through them. Yes, it has made us rich. But the Telaiski are on the warpath. Their coldblooded Emperor is bringing in countless mercenaries. They flock to his banners. We should be prepared for war this coming spring. I fear that they will strike us then. And if not, the Beylik will strike them and chaos will reign. The slithering bastards to our north will probably send raising parties southwards. Whatever happens, in a few months there will be blood!” shouted Jimsung of House Geuman, Lord Protector of the Confederated Hold of Khar Wohr.

The other man in the room, wearing a leather studded jerkin with silver inlays and bearing the golden chain of a Holdsjarler paced back and forth, a calmer but still worried expression also on his face. He was Jayu of House Wohrozi of Clan Wuyunta, a Guildsdharr Holdsjarler from the Academic Society.

“My Lord Protector, it is not certain that they will attack us. Our walls are mighty and strong. So too are our armies. There are at least three Great Fortresses between any of the Holds and the Aftokratoria. There are the Lesser and Greater Walls. We have cast hundreds of cannon, from little 4lbers to the massive 1,300lber Prince’s Bombard. Our soldiers are equipped with musket and pike. We have enough weapons in our arsenals and armories to equip all of our levees and militia with firearms. We have little to fear from their numbers. How well do you think their knights will do when cannon shot and bolts from the repeating ballistae rain down on them from high above? When gunpowder and ball filled vases are launched via trebuchet into their ranks, exploding and spreading death in their path. Not well at all I tell you. So let them come, with their legions of men. Instead I say this, it is likely that they and the Burned Men of the Beylik will war. Either that or the Slithering beasts of the Barrens and their subdharric lackeys will invade. We could take advantage of the chaos. Or we could aid the Aftokrator,” said Jayu.

Lord Protector Jimsung scowled and looked again at the massive map on the table.

“At this point, I would seriously consider invading the Elves of Chardhin. At least then we would have access to the sea. But alas the Chardhin is no City of Man, to fall to mere mortal siege engines. Taking that city would probably break us in the end. I see that the Holdsmeet has called up the 2nd Regiment to Jurukhi Ulutiri Fortress. I was meeting with the Mountainheart of Mam Ulum and missed the meeting. Why?” asked the Lord Protector.

“Ah that was my proposal. The Grand Army has received brand new artillery from the Academic Society and Craftsmen Guild. We worked with over a dozen Cavehearts to inscribe 20 pieces with new spells that make them far lighter and studier. These are 32lber pieces that weight what a 12lber weighs. The 2nd Regiment is being outfitted with them. There is also the concern of reinforcing Jerge Valley. They will be sent there,” replied Jayu.

“Ahh yes, the Treller Clan discovered a small ravine that circumvents the Greater Trelleri Wall. Good, the 2nd Regiment can help build a new fort covering that pass. I must go now; my wife is expecting.”
Both men filed out of the room.

[Western Pacific Territories]

Staujevco Castle, Cestica
Stuajevco Castle, Cestica I Otonacius
Kraljevina Otonane
Kingdom of Otania
4 March, 1132 KF.

---

The Duke of Cestica i Otonacius, a admittedly average sized man named, as was per a fairly long-lasting tradition in this paticular duchy, Cesticanus VI, was one of the more wealthy nobles of the realm. The reason for this was because he was the lord of one of the most wealthy regions of the Kingdom, Cestica i Otonacius. His capital of Cestica was a wealthy trading port used by traders in the south, and from the easily reachable nations just north of Otania, and had been built up over the years, expanded, renovated, burnt down once and rebuilt, and renovated again. The reason for this massive spending of wealth into the city rather than into the castles and army was because he was upholding a bet started by his great-grandfather, Cesticanus II, against the Duke of Cernik that was never finished.

"My Lord, merchants have reported that 3 ships have been lost to the sea."

The duke looked behind him. A servant, dressed in dark robes, was talking to him, with his hands behind his back. The duke looked curiously, before speaking.

"We've lost 3 merchant vessels this month already? It's only the 4th of March, are we being plagued by pirates again? I can send a fleet out to-"

"No, sir. They report that the seas are extremely dangerous and have claimed the lives of several already. One of the merchants even consulted a mage, the mage forecasted that the seas will be very rough all across Leoht for the next month or so."

"Da*n it all! I don't have piles of money to throw around, what if there's a war? We'd have to risk losing lots of men if we had to assemble our armies! We'll have to cancel trade for the month. I can't afford to have more ships lost... Let it be decreed by the heralds."

Royal Palace, Otan
Kraljevina Otonane
Kingdom of Otania
6 March, 1132 KF

---

King Volvidena, well, that's what his name was, if he was remembering correctly, walked down a staircase in the Palace. The walls in both sides of the stairwell were white, the color reminded him of bone, but the stairs themselves were draped and laid out carefully with blue carpet, with swerving patterns of gilded fabric. This would have greatly interested a younger him, but he didn't care much for such things. He was a old man now, his face showing wrinkled. They said that he was delusional, crazy, mad. But they were wrong. He wasn't crazy, he knew he wasn't. He was simply seeing the world in its true form, now that he was old, he was allowed by his ancestors to see the world just as they saw it from the beyond, the others, they were ignorant. They just weren't able to see the full picture of things.

He reached the bottom of the staircase, and entered a door on the right of the hallway. Past the door was a room engulfed in sunshine. The room had several windows, and all of them were opened up by the servants, the sunlight entering lit the room up. At the very center of the back, with the windows, was a marble balcony. The room itself was filled with tables and chairs, made of exquisite fabrics and woods, this room, he remembered, was used for him to play games with his companions.

"Oh, oh how long ago those times were..."

He said that as he walked into the room. That was a different time, as he had became enlightened he stopped playing games in this room. He just didn't feel the need to play games like Jecz anymore. He felt that everyone he met nowadays was trying to keep him down. From the highest duke to the lowest peasant. At least he took comfort in that short of death, nobody could remove him from his throne.

In through the window flew a small dragon, landing on a table next to him. Of course, this dragon was imaginary, but the King couldn't tell real from non-real anymore. He petted it's scaly head, before it flew out the window again. He walked over to the balcony.

"They say sunshine and fresh air will cure my so-called madness. They lie, but I do admit that I feel so much more alive than I did sitting in the throne rule all the time."

He took in a deep breath of air, closing his eyes and peacefully listening to the birds chirp. His daughter was serving as Regent, until he dies and she ascended officially. Sometimes, he felt that her regentship was not such a bad thing. He would not live to see a kingdom conquered in the name of Otania, but it felt so nice to, after all the years of stress and tear, know that for the rest of your life, the most stressful decision you would make would be to decide if you should eat the apple or try a new batch of exotic lemons for the first time.

It felt like he had been liberated from his chains, and he felt that he could die here. He might die here, he thought silently. But if he did, his problems were her problems. The peasantry had been upset over what they said was a year of astonishingly bad rule from the Crown, he had been liberated from his problems by then, of course, but his daughter decided to simply ignore them, they would go back to working the fields soon.

A young servant, confused and looking like he was worried, peered into the room and said

"My lord... smh, we've been looking for you."

"You come to serve me some wine?"

"Yes, King."

A second servant, holding a plate with wine glasses that were gilded and encrusted with gems from the dwarves kingdoms walked into the room and set down the plate. The two servants then left. He walked back to the table, and picked up the glass.

"'Tis not a bad life for me..."

[Liecthenbourg]

A sketch from the human artist Dens Korrel, whom spied the citadel from his boat. Its accuracy is not known.
"Nay, Lhoerdori is Elven no longer. Her innards may be, that we do not know. But her outer shell, her appearance - Guruthos* saw to change that before the dead even began to rot."
- Lúmequen, the Arch-Librarian of Mindcalen

The Dread-Citadel of Arazghuldarraman, Archduchy of the Ever-Realm
The Fourth of March, 1132 KF.
The Tomb-Keeper - An Eternity of Silence

Arazghuldarraman was an immense monstrosity of a citadel and beyond it, beyond where the city once stood did the three ring walls of the city stand tall, chipped but black stone of immense power held together through the magics of the dead, no longer of the Elven. The Tomb-Keeper had twisted her to his own end. Lhoerdori, as it once was, was a bustling Elven City betwixt two rivers of immense farmland. The estuaries were bountiful, the streams teeming with fish. The land was now dead, just as the city was. Blackened to no end, the waters of life now green and almost toxic. The fish were rare, the game rarer and the people all gone. All that stood amidst the devastation of life was the city that dread-sovereign of the Ever-Realm had twisted with his magics of black. Its spires were numerous, piercing the clouds. Her battlements were plenty, immense turrets of grandiose design dotted across. Spiked fences and gargoyles expanded amongst the length of the upper walls. Bridges of stone and brick connected outer towers towards the central keep, a continuing build that grew bulkier and taller with every addition. Yet it travelled down, too. For the Elves had burrowed much like the Dwarves had with their construction. The depths contained immense, now empty, crypts. Vaults. All barren. But they were present. And for all its magnificence, the Tomb-Keeper had yet to delve past the final magically sealed gate found beneath the main hall of his immense bastion of darkness. A final slight. A great, emerald door, twenty feet tall and fifteen across. Resistant to all the magics the Master Necromancer could throw at it, even resistant to the spells he had learned upon reading the Tomes in the Arcane Library he had restored to glory.

A lone rider made his way up the earthen ramp towards the castle's gate. A cold wind picked up, his black robes picking up in it. The horse remained undisturbed, letting out a low groan instead of a neigh as its hooves picked up the dirt beneath them as it galloped towards the entrance to the citadel. Above the long arches of the door peeked forth a sentinel, a skeletal slyrhenos clutching to a pike 8 heads taller than it. A kettle helm was strapped onto its head and as its bony hand clutched at the stony battlements above the gatehouse it glanced downwards with a decisive nod. Its eye sockets were black, empty but they housed a magic that would send a chill down the most astute man or woman of faith. A wolf howled, somewhere. The flapping of several birds, perhaps bats, filled the air. The skeleton continued to stare, not moving, merely observing.

A hand wrapped amidst tattered cloth curled up into a ball. The lone rider coughed, spittle and phlegm excreting onto the bandages before he wiped it away amidst the horse, patches of flesh moving off with each stroke. The skeleton above on the ramparts turned around, continuing its patrol along the wall and the lone rider stared up at the door. His hood swung back, the last vestiges of his white hair tattered at the back of his head. His skin was clutching to his skeleton, a sickening green coloured skin. Raising a medallion forward, up towards the gate, the rider's jaws smacked together and its mouth opened, a thin, withered tongue proffering outwards like a limp hand. Wiping the area around the chaffed lips of the mouth of its spittle, the rider spoke, a high-pitched shriek of a voice.

"To spite is to serve, to die is to live. Through my death, I find immortality." A lich. Certainly so. A member of the Aristocracy. Only they knew the words to enter upon the keep and so with a loud creak did the skull adornment on the door split in two; and forth opened the gates to the bowels within. The horse continued its gallop, moving forth into the keep as the door behind it sealed shut tight. Across the immense inner section the lich found itself in, huge statues of elves were present. On the left they faced right, on the right they faced left. Gaps were left between statues on the same side and opposite statues would fill the gap. Swords, curved blades, would cross across the ceiling and from them hung fire lamps that emitted an alien green flame that cast its hue upon the tattered statues within. In a show of mockery, all the elves had their ears chipped, their noses removed and their eye sockets were empty of stone. Nobody in the Archduchy found it humourous, to be quite frank. Humour was a concept, foreign, alien. As the lich, the lone rider, galloped through the immense chambers he caught sight of elven souls, glimmering white entities, floating around aimlessly. Broken, humiliated. It was to be a while before the horse was hitched but it was and the lich descended off of the dead-steed and made his way down spirals of staircases.

To say the citadel was not an elaborate piece of architecture would be a lie. Here amidst the catacombs beneath the citadel the lich spied his dread-master, heavily cloaked, crowned and jewelled on the other end of the room. Staff at hand and glowing an icy white, his left hand was outstretched and casting his foul spells against the door.

"T'esh, ulsamanu er'reles dar soe hense uls'hel vorshet!"* An orb was thrown against the door, and it rippled like wave amongst it. The door replied by glowing white.

"T'esh, ulsamanu er'reles dar soe hense uls'hel vorshet!"

"T'esh, ulsamanu er'reles dar soe hense uls'hel vorshet!" The Keeper's staff slammed amidst the floor and what could only be described as green lightning struck forth from it, like a viper amidst the bush, striking at the door with ferocity and anger. In kind the door shone a shade of white so bright the necromancer could be seen covering his eyes with his dark cloak. Futile. Nothing had yet to be done. So the Keeper of the Tombs turned to face the newly arrived one and he beckoned him close.

"And what say you, lich-lord?" he whispered as his robes fluttered in the breeze from within the catacombs. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the right, had he been not such an entity the lich was convinced the immense crown of undeath he wore upon his head would have snapped the Keeper's neck.

"No Tomes amidst the ruins I searched. The outpost was barren."

A blank expression made its way across the Keeper's face and he merely clutched at the staff in response. "No matter. Poldorea will fall and her secrets mine. This door will open lest I wait another 10,000 years. But that seeing stone will become mine."

---

The Siege Lines, Poldorea, Tol Poldorea
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF
The Archduke - Death Becomes War

"Keep the offensives on full ferocity."

That was the command from the Archduke as he sat atop his once-dead destrier. His cape fluttered in the wind, his armour, though old, glistened in the sun with an intense shine. Ahead of him were huge, organised legions of skeleton warriors clad in straps of armour and cloth, some helmed some barren. A mixture of races, all united when dead. Humans, elves, slyrhenos, it mattered not when the skin was stripped and all were similar when naked. The siege was on its seventh month and in those months of seven all that had been accomplished was the felling of the outer wall of Poldorea. Now the siege weapons moved closer, as did the dreaded infantry of the Ever-Realm. Every obstacle the Elves could muster was thrown at them and many on both sides had fallen to their ways of war. Banners flew on high amidst the Archduchy's ranks, huge black strips of cloth with nothing but a skull adorning them. Through some nefarious machinations, even warhorns were sounded from the camps of the undead. And forth they marched, for the wishes of the archduke. Moving from their encampment now nestled amidst the outer and shortest wall, they marched forth against the second.

Elves stood on their battlements, firing their arrows swift and true. Yet what is dead takes time to fell and their arrows were bolstered by their magics of old and light. Mages too where in the fray, and tides of fire swept through the advancing skeletal dread armies. A war of attrition was brewing. All 70,000 of the Ever-Realm's soldiery here at the siege could fall in a day and yet by the end of the week all 70,000 could be thrown at the battlements again. The armies marched more once again, pikes in the air with little abandon and even as the fires of elven mage engulfed and blackened their comrades in death, the tide of skeletons and tainted humans continued their dread march. A moat between the walls, as there had been outside the outer wall, and yet in dived the soldiers of the Ever-Realm. They marched into the blue and marched out on the other side. Rocks flew overhead, pounding like a drum against the walls of Poldorea only to bounce off with a gracelessness and crush the very soldiers whom would storm the walls. Crude ladders in their midst, the majority marched onwards and continued their mission, resting those immense pieces of metal and wood against the wall as they aimed to scale. Some were pushed, some made it, but all were for nought for when the assault was repulsed, save for the dead elves whom were added to the list.

The siege was not to end, for the Tomb-Keeper would see his legions destroyed a million times before he gave the Elves a breath of air from his deathly grip.

---

Guruthos: The Elven name for the Tomb-King, its meaning will be delved on by either me or Krug if he so wishes. Its quite humorous.
"T'esh, ulsamanu er'reles dar soe hense uls'hel vorshet!": A spell, spoken in an unknown tongue, with the rough English equivalent is "I beseech thee to open, with the powers of the Elves at my back."

[Max Empire]

Great Palace of Antipolis
Antipolis, Telaiski Aftokratoria
Year 538 After Imperium
4th March, 1132 KF
Aftokrator Maximus I of Telaiski Aftokratoria, Basileus of Telosa, Supreme Commander of the Military and Sole ruler of the Telosian people

The Aftokrator looked over the map his architects had brought to him. A wall. A big wall. Three gigantic fortresses and and a wall. His plan looked flawless, doable and very expensive. On paper at least. A giant wall along the length of the Vakhlia river, with three giant fortresses. One occupying the mouth of the river, the next in the middle of nowhere and the last in the western part of the city of Vakhlia itself. Maximus' wall or τοίχο Μαξίμου. The wall that would finally end the Slyrheno raids into the Aftokratoria and while it would intensify raids into the far western providences across the bay, it would finally allow the development of the territories north of Khar Wohr. The wall would be expensive to build and expensive to maintain, but what was the military for, if not for building?

The Aftokrator nodded at the head architect before turning to his Kanikleios and nodding at him. The latter then proceeded to role up the map and give it to someone for the scribes to replicate.

"As soon as possible.", the Aftokrator began. The Kanikleios nodded again and snapped at the boy he had just given the rolled up parchment, who just responded by running off to complete the errand.

"And the Dwarves? Will they cooperate?", the Aftokrator continued as he walked down the hallway to a window on the other side of the palace, a place he could see what the Telosans called Mount Antis in the distance. Part of the Fortress complex of Khenum was also visible from the side of the mountain. The Dwarves had been there for as long as anybody could remember, he still remembered how much smaller the forts were over 1500 years ago. When Antipolis was just a small town in the mountains shadow and not a major city like it was today.

"We've sent an envoy.", the Kanikleios answered.

"Which one? I don't need the dwarves overplaying their expertise.", the Aftokrator felt his bloodlust rise at the thought of that stupid Dwarven diplomatic tactic. The Kanikleios, seeing this, took a step back before continuing.

"Ioannes the cold.", the Auftokrator's usual angry frown turned into a mischievous smile after hearing who his secretary had sent.

"I could not have thought of anybody better. I've never seen him impressed by anything. The perfect candidate.", he turned away from the window and continued down another hallway. "Is the Megas Doux ready to meet me?"

"Most certainly. I heard the alchemists produced a brand new batch of pŷr thalássion and the engineers have tried to streamline our new siege engines to allow them to fire the stuff off. The Megas Doux will probably have more information."

"Excellent. I want to stop by some of th workshops at the Arsenal down at the docks. Make sure they are also clear of crowds."

The Kanikleios just nodded and ran off to attend to some other work while the Aftokrator began to make his way to the Arsenal down at the dock, where he was to tour the docks and view several new improvements made on several newly invented weapons, while reviewing new ones and judging their practical use. He would also check up on the Alchemists that made the secretive and heavily guarded " Telosan Fire".

Outside Citadel
Kim Wohr, Khar Wohr
Year 538 After Imperium
12th March, 1132 KF
Ioannes "the cold" Palagos, envoy from The Telaiski Aftokratoria to the Dwarven holds of Khar Wohr

Ioannes and his entourage entered the Dwarven kingdom through a pass and they had been lead through fort after fort and wall after wall. He had told one of the Dwarves guiding him and his entourage through the place that he found it all very impressive, but if it was necessary for them to actually go through all this. Eventually arriving at a citadel outside of Kim Wohr where he was greeted by what seemed like the actual Dwarven diplomats. Greeting them by respectfully bowing his head slightly and putting his right arm across his stomach. Not wanting to waste any time, he got right to business.

"In the name of Aftokrator Maximus I of Telaiski Aftokratoria, Basileus of Telosa, Supreme Commander of the Military and Sole ruler of the Telosian people, I Ioannes Palagos, envoy from The Telaiski Aftokratoria to the Holds of Khar Wohr greet you formally!", he said as he spread his arms. "The Aftokrator has an offer he thinks you will find very interesting, but if you will allow, I would like to inquire about the condition of the few human settlements within Khar Wohr. We hope that they have been treated with utmost respect and have not been engaging themselves in any criminal activities."

[Senkaku]

Chapter One: Blood in the Gutters

---

"War does not determine who is right- only who is left."

Tik'al
Khla Yad District
Krung Thep

---

"I introduce to the Council Her Excellency Ajlani Sarad, qayida of the 11th, 13th, 14th, 15th, and 17th jalan. His Excellency Sortul Qartalid, qayid of the 7th, 8th, 9th, 12th, and 16th jalan. His Excellency Fazan Alghraid, qayid of the Ag-konyek Dui." The herald bowed deeply, and the three commanders stepped forward. All three wore no armor, now they removed their tunics and climbed into the enormous, perfectly smooth reflecting pool that sat before the chairs where the most powerful shamans in the land sat, brooding. Custom had to be adhered to, after all. Once they had submerged themselves, they climbed back out, and guards came forward to help them re-clothe themselves.

"Commanders. Thank you... for agreeing to meet with us." A raspy old woman's voice rose from the shadows that cloaked many of the huge bleached wooden thrones. It was difficult to make out most of the Emeralds themselves- the shadows, the weird rippling of the slats of light that shone in from the windows, and their own dark clothing, veils, and the strange ripple of magic in the air. Outside, jungle birds and monkeys screeched in Krung Thep's overgrown gardens, but they seemed muffled, silenced somehow by the power that seemed to hum in the air of the vast audience hall.
Ajlani held a fist over her heart in salute and bowed. "You honor us with your request. What did you wish to speak of?"
"You three are the foremost of the new generation of the Eastern Tigers. Together you control a dozen jalan, at minimum. Thousands of orcen, some of the army's best formations. And you control the White Banner."
"Our fellow Tigers have given us these honors, yes," Ajlani responded.
The old shaman woman suddenly was standing in a puddle of light, near the rim of the pool. Ajlani blinked. Shaman tricks, trying to unnerve you.
"The Council feels a breaking point has been reached with the human kingdoms. Our lands are crying out for relief from the invaders who pollute our continent- but our people are fractured, riven by our own conflicts. Before decisive action can be effectively taken against the humans, and an offensive prosecuted against them, it must fall to Ti'kal to unite our people. It is the will of Heaven and Earth. But the ispahsalar does not wish to risk conflict."
"I'm sure you'll make a point eventually," Fazan drawled.
"We want you to launch a coup against Sartaq," the shaman said bluntly. "Destroy the toothless Tigers and begin seeking, through all available channels, paths to assume dominion over our sister cities, that we might prosecute an effective campaign to throw the humans back into the sea."
"You presume too much!", Sortul hissed.
"We speak with one voice, and it is the voice of the Lifegiver and the Oracles," another raspy voice said from the shadows- but this time behind them. Ajlani turned around.
"You would ask us to betray the head of our clique and risk the power of the Tigers?"
A figure walked out from the corner, stared at her with glowing green eyes, and then spoke in the same voice as the old woman had, though she remained in her place. "Someday, you hope to be ispahsalar, yes? How soon do you want that day to come? It could be tomorrow, for all three of you. The Council will not leave you to organize this coup on your own. We will aid you."
"And if we refuse?", Fazan ventured.
"Do you really think we'd let you leave this room if you refuse?", a far deeper voice said. Ajlani blinked as the figure with the green eyes vanished before her very eyes. The new voice seemed to echo strangely in the chamber. "But if you accept, not only will you achieve your own ambitions- you will be the spearhead of a new crusade, a restoration and enhancement of Orcen power. Our broken people are now as fingers on a hand. It is the will of the gods that those fingers now close into a fist, reunite in the spirit of our common relation to reconquer our lands and drive the human kingdoms out of our ancestral lands. With your jalan, those in this room are no longer a cabal of sorcerers. Now we will become your instrument- your weapon, to wield on behalf of your species."

---

The tramp of boots woke Arzam long before he was usually awake. He was always a very early riser- the fish wouldn't catch themselves or bring themselves to the Khla Pron market- but the steady pounding of hundreds of boots against cobbles, in unison, and the splash of oars woke him in the darkness. He picked up his sword from beside his bed and went to the window of the tiny apartment he lived in, looking out over the road and the canal.
Whiteshirts. The white uniforms of the secret police were rarely seen, but there was a reason that you would never find a Ti'kalan wearing white, dead or alive.

Arzam grew cold as he took in the scene. One whiteshirt was terror enough for a lifetime- but this was something else entirely.

Hundreds of them were marching down the road, and he realized there were also soldiers with them, wearing the livery of the 17th jalan. A small ship was rowing down the canal as well, rocket batteries gleaming in the moonlight.

Arzam looked towards the huge, hulking mass of the Red Fort, and shrank away from the window. Do not go outside before dawn.

---

A strange whistling noise suddenly filled the air over Ti'kal, shooting stars crossing the sky and sending tiny black dots across the Moon's serene face.

The whistling stopped abruptly, replaced by the dull thuds and sharp blasts of rocket impacts and explosions. Pinpricks of flame emerged on the ramparts of the Red Fort, and suddenly the night air began to fill with the ring of steel, the hiss of arrows and crossbow bolts, the roar of war chants, the screams of the wounded, and the blasts of bomb and rocket explosions. Canals turned into corridors of flame and streets into killing fields filled with whirling blades, and the wild ululations of shamans sent queer lights shining, burning the eyes out of the skulls of their targets or ripping their organs to pieces beneath the skin.

And before long, the fighting was dying down, and couriers were running through the streets from Krung Thep and the Red Fort, proclaiming the end of the reign of Sartaq.

---

Vale of the Hummingbird
Cenote of Huitzil

---

Priya Aryaad opened her eyes. All around her, the glowing green water of Huitzil's cenote glimmered in the darkness, moonlight mixing with its innate phosphorescence. To the shaman's eyes, it was as if she were bathing in liquid light, a cascade of molten emerald or jade immersing her. The water seemed opaque from above, like a jade slate, but as always she was shocked by its clarity from below. She could still see every detail of the hummingbirds that flitted through the cavern, even in the dim moonlight and glow from the water.

She let her breath out, a stream of sparkling diamonds, and drew the sacred water of the cenote into her lungs. The water throbbed with magical energy, and as it filled her mouth and lungs and stomach, she began hearing murmuring. Huitzil would not let a shaman who he had been acquainted with drown in his own cenote.
Priya. Welcome. She was sinking, the moonlight fading, and she could now see glittering shapes moving around, bright, curious, alien eyes peering at her.
My lord, I must send my voice and image elsewhere, to speak with Pheakdai Chulh, in Uaxactun.
Pheakdai? The same one who is the master of my pyramid there, yes?
As you say, lord.
Very well.

And suddenly, Priya was standing in a cold room, at the top of Uaxactun's Pyramid of Huitzil. She looked around- a side room. Pheakdai was not here. She waved a hand, her fingers calling forth the spells for dream-movement, and the world shivered. It felt as though she was looking at herself from all directions, watching her insubstantial, blue-glowing form pass through a brazier and then a solid stone wall. Pheakdai was alone in the main chamber, laying down, but his eyes opened at her arrival.
"Name yourself."
Priya Aryaad.
Pheakdai rose, the necklace of strange opalescent bones he wore around his neck glittering in the torchlight. "What do you want with me, Priya?"
Sartaq is dead. There will be diplomats arriving in Uaxactun soon, proposing an alliance between our two great cities. I am here to reassure you that this is the will of the gods. If you must, send your own shamans to speak to the Lifegiver, and we shall show you the truth of what we say.
She spasmed, and the world went black. Pheakdai flinched as the vaporous cyan nebula suddenly coalesced into an enormous hummingbird shape, glowing with a blinding light.
She speaks the truth. It is our will that the peoples of the jungle unify- for the greater good. The bird flitted off, vanishing through the roof.
"The greater good."

---

POST SUMMARY:

-The Emerald Council has, upon receiving indications from the holy cenotes and the Lifegiver, sponsored a coup against the ispahsalar Sartaq and replaced him with three of his lieutenants, also from the Eastern Tigers faction. Diplomats have been sent from Ti'kal to all other Orcen cities to propose a grand alliance (along with spies, to lay the groundwork for various plots if the proposal is rejected). The shamans of the Emerald Council have also been contacting their counterparts in other cities, encouraging them to support the scheme.

[Lunas Legion]

Alkorzel
March 6th, 1132

The view from the tower was impressive, even to Yebia's eyes which had seen it a thousand times before. The cracked plains of the Barrens, stretching out to the distant horizon, a brown canvas speckled with dots of white. Invaders came here, but they did not leave. They did not know the desert, how it killed, how it took life. Punitive expeditions from the dwarves in their mountains, from that supposed human 'empire', from the religious fanatics. All came, and their bones littered the lands below. Yebia sighed, and a small gust of wind left the tower. The pickings had grown slimmer. Less and less gold and magic was brought to them by their faithful devotees. Perhaps they had all the gold there was to have from the south. Fewer
returned from their raids each time. For such meagre pickings, it was not worth the price. The south had been stripped clean of all it had to offer.

Wingbeats shook the tower lightly as Sorae alighted on it. He was slightly larger than her, and purple to her silver, but the tower had been built for them both as Lord and Lady Ruler.

"You seem troubled, mate of mine." He coiled up next to her. "Care to explain?"

"The hoard grows less and less with each returning warband." Yebia sighed, breathing out. "Yet their losses rise higher and higher."

"You should not trouble yourself with the losses of the warbands. They do it of their own free will."

"I am not concerned with their losses." Yebia snapped. "Rather, I am concerned with the grand scheme of things. Eventually the losses to our warbands will outweigh anything they add to our hoard."

"You believe the south is bare, yes?"

"There is no belief about it. Over the centuries we have bled the south of it's value."

"Perhaps, perhaps. You are not one to raise such an issue with me without having already figured out a solution, however, are you?"

Yebia snorted. "I'm not. However, my solution for this matter is... Troublesome. Do you recall the Descent, mate of mine? When we pushed the Dharr into their mountains, when we were all united under the All-Clan?"

"I do, but what of it? The All-Clan fell after we sacked Lhoerdor."

"What if we were to... Reform it?"

Sorae chuckled. "A distant dream. The other clans would never agree to it."

"When did I say they had to agree to it?" Yebia traced a circle on the floor with her claws. "Volgrun, Vuzdradh, Uggegh, the others, they will all fall before us."

"And how do you propose to do that? If we marched against them, it would end in a bloody draw. We both lose, and another will take advantage of our weakness."

"You think too much of armies and wars, mate of mine. We cannot resist our own greed, nor our pride. Challenge them. Two on two combat, between the eldest mating pairs, to the death. The victor will adopt the loser's clan and all their possessions into their own. Repeat this once for every clan. They will not be able to resist such a challenge, not from their own kind."

"Bold. You would bet both our lives on this?"

"Of course. We have nothing to fear. I trust in you, and you trust in me. With the Slyrhenos united under the All-Clan once again, we can teach the invaders why we were feared in ages past. We will take their wealth, their magic, and we shall rival the fallen Gods themselves in power." Yebia stood and walked to the edge of the tower. "Care to fly with me, mate of mine?"

Sorae stood and took up a position beside her. "To victory?"

Yebia nodded. "To victory."

They extended their wings and leapt off the tower, quickly catching a updraft and soaring away northwards.

---

Vuzdradh
March 7th 1132

Unlike Alkorzel, Vuzdradh did not stand atop a great pillar of stone, from which it burrowed deep into the earth, it's size concealed by the sands of the desert, the only sight being the occasional pillar of smoke rising seemingly from nothing. No, Vuzdradh sprawled across a maze of canyons and overhangs, all centered around a singular circular plateau covered by a massive unroofed building squatting atop it.

As Sorae and Yebia approached, wings flared out, a pair of black spots rose up to greet them. They shifted their stance into a slow glide, the black dots mirroring them once they achieved the same altitude. As they closed together, the shape and colour of the dots became clear; one dark red, the other a desert brown, both dragons.

Artaxes and Thuyceli, the eldest mating pair of Vuzdradh, had flown out to meet them. Just as expected. They landed twenty meters apart, still a good distance from the city.

"Sorae, Yebia." Artaxes growled, quietly shifting off to Sorae's right, Sorae mirroring his movements. "Why have you violated our range?"

"I wished for something to do." Yebia glared at him. "And this is it."

"A dangerous choice of things to do." Thuyceli noted. "Leave."

Yebia snorted, shifting her stance so she could get airborne quicker than her counterpart. "Make us."

"Glad-"

Everything slowed down. Sorae charged forwards, jaws open and aimed squarely at Artaxes' neck. Yebia slammed her wings downwards, soaring into the sky. Thuyceli followed her, not finishing speaking, and the pair quickly faded to black specks.

Sorae closed the distance quickly. Artaxes slammed his head in front of Sorae's jaws, shielding his neck at the price of Sorae's teeth clamping around his snout.

Sorae glared at Artaxes. He couldn'tj retreat from this position without leaving a fatal opening; equally, there was no way to advance from here. No, from here, there was only one way out for  both of them.

Sorae closed his eyes. It was always a conscious decision to use the breath, and it was one that was both easier and more powerful when focusing on it alone. He visualised his magic within him, a reservoir of energy stretching around his organs. He slashed a hole in the reservoir, and let the energy spill out.

It poured down his throat in the form of a tide of lightning, and smashed into Artaxes' snout. Or it would have, had Artaxes not tried the same thing. The two waves of magic pushed against one another, evenly matched.

The two dragons glared at each other. It was now a simple question of who ran out of energy first.

---

It had been a mistake launching first, Yebia reflected, as she switched into a dive, her back being narrowly skimmed by a ball of pure force. She'd initially flown into a vast cloud, alone in the cloudless sky,  aiming to ambush Thuyceli when she pursued her.

That plan had gone wrong almost immediately. Thuyceli, not seeing her in the empty sky, simply blasted the cloud apart with her breath. Without cover, she attempted to disengage, heading up to a higher altitude from where to prepare a second attack.

That second attack had never materialised. Thuyceli had kept her from turning on her through a near-constant barrage of bolts of pure force, and it had taken every last trick she knew to prevent her wings being riddled with holes.

-WIP 2v2 dragon fight to the death-

[Nachfolgia]

Siege of Poldorea, Tol Poldorea.
Etik Onaral

Etik never imaged she would see an elven city as extensive and well protected as Poldorea. She definitely didn't expect to see such a place as a conqueror in an undead. That was her reality now, an undead soldier in an undead army. Unfortunately, it was her own stupidity that brought about this fate. She was foolish for leaving home to become an adventurer. It was foolish to let those men in the tavern get inside her head and it was foolish to hunt down a Lich in Ever-Realm. It was her fault that she now existed as a tainted human.

In the eight months that she has been dead, seven of them have been on the battlefield. That is the time it took to get to this point, the second wall of Poldorea. Despite being dead, Etik still retained most of her agility, able to fight just as she did in life. Another aspect that survived death was her memories. She remembered everything from her former life, but now she was consumed by an absolute singular purpose, to serve the Tomb-Keeper.

Etik stood in the front row of the massive undead army, a blank expression on her sunken face. Her armor, like most, was damaged and rusted from previous battles. The left cheek guard of her helmet was sheered off, exposing her rotting cheek. Her sword and shield was just as damaged and dirty as her armor.The army had marched from their camp up to the second wall protecting the stronghold. They were now about to make the push to take the wall. Siege weapons clanked and creaked as they came to life, determined to bring down the elven walls.

As the massive war machines pounded the walls, the infantry made their assualt. Etik rushed the wall along with her soldiers in a hail of arrows and rocks. Continuing the charge, Etik covered the soldiers that were carrying the latters to the walls, holding her shield to deflect the arrows. A large boulder that was flung at the wall, crashed down ontop of one of the latter teams that rushed the wall. The shockwave from the nearby boulder nearly knocked Etik over, but she quickly recovered and continued to run.

Etik made it to the wall and slammed into it with a thud, the momentum carrying her too far. " Get the latters up the wall! Go!!" Etik yelled, commanding her men to hurry. Slowly, the latters went up by a system of pullies, carrying some undead up with them. The elves defending the wall, focused all of their firepower on the latter teams, determined to keep them off the walls. Undead fell to the ground as the latters ascended the walls. Some managed to latch to the wall, allowing undead to reach the top.

" Up the latters, now!!! Slaughter the elves." Etik yelled as she shoved undead up the latters. " Archers!!! Protect us!!!" Etik yelled to the archers under her command. The archers, former defenders of Poldorea, took aim and fired volley after volley at their former comrades. Etik looked up the latter and was about to climb it when she was met by an arrow to the chest. She didn't feel pain, but the force of the arrow piercing her chest plate, knocked her to the ground.

Getting back up from the mud, Etik saw her soldiers falling from the wall, forced off by the elves. The latter that her men out up came crashing down as well. Etik moved out of the way as the latter came down, nearly crushing her. Looking around, she noticed that many of the other latters had fallen down or were set ablaze. The Arch-Duke's first assualt on the wall was not going well, but the only option left for the army was to ssucced. Death was no longer an option for them.

[Krugmar]

Gûrost, Lost Hessal City of Osthuine
The Fourth of March, 1132 KF.
Lord Orthorôl - the Heklanā

In the highest chamber of the vast and blackened citadel of Osthuine sat a figure, his head encased in a great golden mask, and body left more or less open to the elements, aside from a well made loincloth. His breathing was slow, and the lack of glow from the eyes gave one the indication that his mind was elsewhere.

“Who are you, the dreamer, or the dream?” spoke a figure in front of him, an elf with skin glowing as golden as the sun itself, yet long hair as black as midnight. His features were at once both soft and inviting, yet chiselled, stern and tough. He was tall and lithe, yet exuded a presence and strength that was not becoming of such a figure, yet suited it all the same. Dark red robes flowed from neck to toes, and a light silver crown adorned his brow. His blue-green eyes were intense, and studied him intently. A shiver of fear went down his spine.

“I am the dreamer, which makes you the dream.” Orthorôl responded confidently, the figure before him no longer existed.
“You sound so sure of it, yet I can hear the doubt in your voice. How can I be sure that you are not the dream, and I the dreamer?” the figure responded.

Orthorôl paused, could those within his dreams truly live, or were they simple fragments of his own mind, desiring life in a realm where none existed? “In the realm of dreams nothing can be sure, but know this, I am the dreamer for when in this realm I am king, while you are the dream, for in this realm you are the prisoner.”

“Interesting, then tell me, o’ King of Dreams, why are you plagued with horrors and visions that you cannot control, if you are surely the ruler of this realm?”

“A King reigns, he watches, he observes, and he requests, but he never rules. That which is his realm is separate from him, he can only influence it and ask of it, but never commands. Only the fool who dreams himself king would attempt to rule, a true king guides his realm towards a better existence.”

“Wise words, and yet here in your realm all is in disarray, are you the ruling king or no?” asked the figure.

“Even the wisest king can only whisper his wishes to his realm, it will be as it is, with or without his attempts to rule.”

“Now I am sure that you are the dreamer, but I am not convinced that this is the dream.” Around them the nothingness coalesced into a tower. It was not the citadel of Osthuine, Gûrost, but something far cruder. The stone was ruined, and in many places cracked, and it was adorned by ragged carpets and dusty old shelves.

“This is the tower, where I dwelt for eons.” Orthorôl remarked, glaring outside the window. Outside he could see only the vastness of space.
“And you dwell here once again, in this dream, or not-dream, for that we have yet to decide.”

“We have nothing to decide, there is no we, there is only I.”

“If you are the ruling king, then I bow to your wisdom. It is for you to decide.”

“I have decided, this is the dream, my prison from which eventually I escaped.” Orthorôl declared, making his way down the twisting stairs.
“Prison, and why were you imprisoned here?” questioned the figure.

Orthorôl twitched, “Imprisoned by my own folly, and the ego of the ruling king of the waking world. I should have challenged him, and prevented the calamity that shook my people, and myself.”

“Do you not fear that he will challenge you here?”

Orthorôl laughed jovially, “He is gone now, destroyed, his essence scattered. He can pose no threat to me.”

“Do the dead not dream?”

Orthorôl paused, his mouth contorting into a frown, it was a question he had never considered. “I am not sure if the dead dream, for I am not sure what happens to the mortal dead, or the immortal dead.”

“Then you are unsure as to whether he could be here, and arrive to challenge you, the ruling king, for control of this your realm, this dream as you have decided it.”

“You attempt to make me question my earlier decision, by making me hope that this is not a dream, and therefore I am safe, but I tell you once again, this is a dream.” He said, growing frustrated with the figure. He had been hoping for some silence, to meditate, to regain some of his strength.

“Then perhaps you should be alert, if you are sure of it. But come, open the door, and gaze out.” The figure said, beckoning him towards a rackety old door.

“No, I am tired of this dream. I shall awaken now, and leave this realm, and you, for good.” He declared, sitting cross legged on the floor and closing his eyes.

“You shall simply return, seeking the answers which elude you, for you elude them.” The figure spoke softly, as the tower melted away, and Orthorôl reappeared inside the citadel. His breathing became shorter, sharper, and his eyes resumed their dark red glow. He had awakened.

---

Cálëmar, Hessal City of Mindcalen
The Eight of March, 1132 KF.
Lady Sívëndilmë - Lady of the Green Lake

“Do not leave us, we beg of you, stay. We will protect you.” She pleaded, several tears slowly streaking down her face, wetting the lightly golden skin.

“We do not wish to leave. It is for our very survival. We hope to return.” Spoke the radiant light in front of her, the words forming in her mind, slowly and softly.

“Return to us soon then, and guide us.”

“That we cannot promise. You must guide your people. We have full faith in you.” It spoke, before it began floating away. Several more joined it, numbering only around seven, before they disappeared from sight, into the vastness of space.

“You must not weep my beloved, if they were to stay, we would have to watch the vile Gods rip them from us. This way, there stands a chance that they shall return.” Said a familiar and comforting voice. She turned to see her chosen partner, Kherūmaur, smiling sadly at her.

“You have seen them returning to us?” she asked, hope lighting up her face.

He shook his head, “I see only death, and war, and a great calamity still to come. The darkness clouds my vision, and I dare not look too far, lest I lose myself to the darkness.”

She embraced him, and held him close for a few seconds. His body was warm, and drew her in closer. She felt his breath over her shoulder, and his hands clasping her back. It seemed like an eternity they were together before, without warning, he suddenly disappeared. She fell to her knees, grasping at where he had been.

She looked up, tears clouding her vision, and could only see her kin screaming as fire and water engulfed them, their bodies turning to ash and being swept away. Their souls, as bright and full of life as the light of the Celestials, were shattered into a thousand pieces, and swept away by violent winds that whipped her body. She closed her eyes, as she heard voices calling to her, and all went dark.

Brightness filled the void, and she opened her eyes. It had only been a dream, one she often had, one that often plagued her. Long ago she had helped her beloved through his nightmares, and now when she needed him most, he was gone. She toyed around with the solid silver ring, and yet she heard nothing. It was cold to the touch, and did not respond to her.

He was gone, and she was alone.

---

Helluin, Lost Hessal City of Balannor
The Twelfth of March, 1132 KF.
Mazdurak Az-Galim – Chosen of the Gods

The cold northern wind whipped at the hooded figure, as he made his way through the open gate. The city was vast, a glistening maze of white towers and large villas, abandoned for thousands of years yet suffering little to no damage despite the elements that threatened it daily. Silence permeated the streets that had once been home to a proud and jovial people. Yet one could not ignore the inaudible whispers that penetrated the mind, too harsh or cruel to be that of the wind.

There had been no battle here, no great pillaging, no screaming nor raping, no murdering nor enslaving. It had simply been abandoned, and where they had gone was beyond Mazdurak’s ability to understand. Something was hidden beneath the city, something he was meant to find.
He gripped the harsh iron ring that was bound to his flesh, “My Master, Dar-Balatu, is this where they buried you? Have I found your resting grounds?” he asked, to no avail. He did not expect anything more than silence from a dead god, but hoped that someday he might gain a reply.

It did not take him long to reach the citadel, he knew much of elven design, having been a prisoner in one of their cities for two centuries. The elves were a predictable people, using similar spells for the same purposes, even in different cities, and Mazdurak knew the correct combinations. He advanced through the citadel, known as Helluin, and ascended.

It took him a great while to ascend to the top, so tall and vast are the citadels founded by the elves. And at the top was a great prize, placed upon a pillar of pure marble was a clear stone, the Gwaehedir of Balannor. He grasped it with one hand, and let his mind meld into it. Pain flew through his body, and magic currents burned through him. Cursing, he managed to pull his hand away, but the force threw him into one of the hard walls.

It would be some time before he could bind the stone to his will. Evidently, it disliked him.

---

Osthalion, Hessal City of Poldórëa
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF.
Haereleth Saelind – The Lord High Councillor

Vast high walls surrounded her, their hue a deep blue, shining bright as though made of sapphires. Beneath her the floor was as glass, and through it she could see a vortex of many colours, constantly shifting and changing. Her company moved swiftly behind her, clad in finely crafted gear, with weapons sheathed and their posture relaxed. In the distance she could see a bright light, guiding them over closer. It grew brighter and brighter, until it engulfed them, and she plunged into a deep pool of seemingly molten silver, though it did not burn as she passed through it, nor did she find her clothes and hair wetted.

Seconds later she surfaced, and made her way up finely crafted white steps. She was in a vast chamber, and before her were guards, directing other elves to the pools used for entering the Path. A face amongst the crowd beamed at her, and quickly moved to her.

“Lord High Councillor, it is an honour to welcome you to Poldórëa, and the citadel of Osthalion. Please, follow me, and I will take you to our council.”

She did as he willed, following him up the many steps to the top floor. They moved swiftly, they had no time to lose. “Inside you will find the council.” He said, opening a small set of doors for her. She thanked him, and entered a round chamber, with finely crafted benches surrounding a marble pillar with a Gwaehedir stationed atop it.

“Lord High Councillor, we thank you for arriving with utmost haste.” Said one of the councillors, an elderly elf, advanced enough to have begun growing a beard.

“I could not ignore a request for help from a sister city, in a time of such distress.” She answered.

“For seven months we have held the undead off, but slowly we lose. Everytime we claim victory, and lay their horde to waste, they are resummoned. We have been unable to destroy the liches reanimating them, nor the dark figure who leads them. We are simply too few, our numbers dwindled by fighting these fiends for several millennia.” Spoke another councillor, an elf with dark blonde hair, and bewitching green eyes.

“Mindcalen will gladly come to your aid, but if this is not a fight that can be won, then the life loss will be lost in vain. Have you discussed abandoning Poldórëa, and waiting for the return of the Celestials?” responded Haereleth.

“We have, and we have come to the agreement that it is the best course of action for our people. We trust we will be given refuge in Mindcalen?” replied the same councillor.

She nodded, “We will prepare a quarter for your people, where you can preserve your traditions and customs, and be ruled by a local council.”

“That will suffice, we thank you for your kindness. I am the Master of this Council, Brannor. We will need to direct more of our soldiers to begin evacuations, may I ask one more favour of Mindcalen, one that we promise to repay in the days to come?” spoke Brannor.

She knew what he was to ask, “We will send our soldiers through, to help yours hold the line, and aid in evacuations. I shall see if the other cities will aid in keeping the Path safe. I trust I will be allowed to use the Gwaehedir, to relay this information back to Mindcalen?”

He nodded, and she approached the stone. She gently laid her hand upon it, and felt it meld with her mind. She lost all awareness of time and space, as she flew through the vortex she had earlier observed, before connecting with the stone back in Mindcalen. She could feel another soul using that stone, and spoke to him her commands, and felt him obey. Slowly, and with great regret, she peeled herself away from the stone, and her mind returned to her body.

“Master Brannor, begin evacuations, my forces shall arrive within the day.”

---

tl;dr
-Orthorôl questions his control over dreams, and where dreams begin and end
-Sívëndilmë has a nightmare, of losing the Celestials, her beloved, and her kin
-Mazdurak arrives in Balannor, and fails to gain control over its Gwaehedir
-Lord High Councillor Haereleth arrives in Poldorea, to discuss its future with the council. They decide upon an evacuation. A description of the Path, and use of a Gwaehedir, is given.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Apartments of the Holdstrates, Kral Khenum
Khenum Hold, Khar Wohr
1nd Xidum, First Cycle, Gaiya, 85 Year Tenerlik
March 7th, 1132 KF
Holdmeet of Khenum

Occupying the uppermost peak of Kral Khenum, the Apartments of the Holdstrates had a grand view of the lands below. Built into the mountain itself, Kral Khenum stood sentinel over the Hold of Khenum. Khenum was nestled into the end of a valley, carved out of two mountains that were hemmed in by other mountains on three sides. The valley of Ghrane ran from the here to Phyrucia Pass which in turn exited into the Aftokratoria. Starting at a large spring and lake about halfway down the valley, bolstered by snowpack in the mountains and the Kaizr Glacier to the west, flowed the Doi Wun River. This river flowed for over a hundred miles, discharging into the ocean in a bay north of Antipolis. Fortresses, mines, foundries, and farms dotted the valley in-between.

Inside the Apartments were a series of Meeting Halls. The largest of them was atop the Apartments, a massive oaken table in the center of a gilded room with a massive glass wall that overlooked the valley. Around the table sat 24 of the 25 members of the Holdmeet and the Holdlord, Treller Xian Dullahan. One of the Holdstrates was in the mountains, on a religious commute following the death of her elderly father. The Dharr of the Holdmeet were deeply engrossed in their conversation. It was not a debate, that had ended months ago. Rather it was a conversation on how to best execute the project to which they had all agreed to, albeit with varying degrees of apprehension. Agreed they all had, to the damming of the Doi Wun.

“It is obvious that the best choice for damming the river, to allow us to make the most effective use of it, is to create a series of dams along its length. From these dams we will have a series of reservoirs that can serve us well for farming in the valley. We will also be able to more easily control flooding and the flow of the river than if we just made one huge dam. And my fellow Holdstrates, the Dharr of Khenum will have access to an even greater number of water-powered mills than before. A dozen new, large water wheels will power foundries, smithies, mills, mines, and more. It will also be cheaper than a massive stone monstrosity,” said one of the louder members of the Holdmeet.

Holdlord Xian Dullahan nodded in agreement, adding, “It is so, and is already so. We have already contracted over a thousand masons, builders, and laborers for the job. The small dam proposal is what is going into effect. I know this might displease some of you who were looking to make a Dharric Wonder, but we have not the time to do so. Seven dams and reservoirs are to be made along the length of the river. Construction on the first three has already started. And do not forget, that these dams bring with them immense profits in and of themselves. There is no law or agreement that says the water that flows from our peaks to the ocean must always flow so. And besides, those damn arrogant humans think that they can control our trade that flows through their lands, even our trade that flows through Chardhin. Let them pay for the water if they need it.”

Greater Cavern, Kral Wohr
Kim Wohr Hold, Khar Wohr
1st Yintersday, First Cycle, Gaiya, 85 Year Tenerlik
March 12th, 1132 KF
Holdjarler Tronwald Khazul Steelbreaker

The Greater Cavern was the largest of the three Halls inside the Fortress of Kral Wohr. It was a purely ceremonial affair, located in the base of Mount Teneru in which was the Kral. Two huge doors, hewn from marble and inlaid with gems formed the outer entrance to the Cavern. Inside, the ceiling stretched up five stories, where large chandeliers illuminated the rooms. Statues of the Princes and Lord Protectors of eras past lined the hall. Dharr from the Iron Oaks stood sentinel on the walls, clad in Dharric Steel armor and carrying ornate but practical war staves. A long granite table was hewn from the very rock of the floor and stood proudly in the center of the hall. It was here that the Ambassador of the Telaiski Aftokratoria was led. It was here that the three representatives of the Confederated Holds of Khar Wohr sat. In the center was the Holdjarler Tronwald Khazul Steelbreaker of the Hold of Ningalir. On his left sat Holdhaur Ismir Zhi Yunki of Kim Wohr and on his right sat the Maiden of Bronze, Commander of the Daughters of the Vale. The Daughters of the Vale were a martial monastic order that believed that one communed with one’s ancestors best through honing one’s physical prowess. They and the Sons of the Peak were the two largest monastic orders in Khar Wohr, and the only ones that were readily accepted by the Rangeheart. Their Monasteries were treated the same as fortresses and the Army and Orders readily worked together. The Maiden of Bronze was the third ranking Daughter, behind only the Steel Maiden and Silver Daughter Superior. Her name was stricken from the records and she served as a representative of the order.

After the Lord Palagos spoke, the three sat silently for a second pondering what the Telosian said. All three spoke Telosian Common (alongside Wohrrish and Vakhhar) and it was in this tongue that Khazul rumbled a reply. It is said that when the Varrakh Dharr spoke the languages of Man, it sounded as if the mountains themselves were speaking. Regardless of these sayings, Khazul had a deep voice for a Dharr, it was inhumanely low for a human.

“I am Holdjarler Khazul of House Steelbreaker of the Clan Tronwald. This is the Maiden of Bronze and this is Holdhaur Zhi of the House of Yunki of the Clan Ismir. We will treat with you today on behalf of the Lord Protector, the Prince, and the Holdsmeet. You ask of the humans in the Confederated Holds. They live unmolested and our no nuisance. Truthfully there are so few and their villages exist on the lowlands. They interact with us less than they interact with you. As long as they pay their tax, and they do, there is no issue. Lord Palagos, I have called for some food to be prepared for you in the Guest Chambers. A fine meal of steak and rice, along with any other delicacies you might desire, just ask the staff. I know the trek from the lowlands is long and your weeklong journey was a rather quick one. Before we hear your proposal for the Confederated Holds of Khar Wohr, I have been informed to tell you that the Hold of Khenum will be exercising their riparian rights to the Doi Wun River, as in their prerogative under Dharric Law. The flow of the river will drop…greatly. They are constructing several dams. My condolences to those affected, but you can always pay the Hold of Khenum to increase the waterflow. Now, you said the Aftokrator had an offer for Khar Wohr?”

Fort Commander’s Office, Jurukhi Ulutiri Fortress
Kim Wohr, Kim Wohr Hold
1st Yintersday, First Cycle, Gaiya, 85 Year Tenerlik
March 18th, 1132 KF
Captain Tronwald Isci Kintay

The Silver Company had marched through the massive gates of Jurukhi Ulutiri two days past. The had fast marched through the valley, taking the quicker overland route. Though Dharr preferred the tunnels below, the trails above were sometimes quicker. The Silver Company had almost sprinted to the Fortress, under the somewhat dubious orders to get there as quick as they could. Some members of the Company had been irritated when they learned why they had been called out. Inside the courtyard of the outer fortress (most of the fortress was inside the mountain) sat dozens of the new cannons that the 2nd Regiment had received. The entire regiment was at the fort.

The five Captains of the 2nd Regiment had assembled in the Office of the Fort Commander. It had been taken over by General Ismir Olak Ozori to give out specific orders. The Silver Company and the Stone Souls Company were ordered to fortify the Jerge Valley while engineers and builders built a new series of fortifications. The Jerge Valley was under the domain of the Treller Clan. A small farming and mining settlement existed there, some 1,000 or so Dharr mining iron and tin from the earth and harvesting rice.
While exploring potential tin sources and veins, Treller miners had stumbled into a thin pass that opened south of the Great Trelleri Wall. It was a potential invasion route and it needed to be blocked. A new outpost fort and wall were ordered.

Isci was the senior officer of the two Captains being assigned to Jerge. He actually hoped that they would stay in the valley for a while. It was high time that he found a wife and settled down. And Treller females were among the best looking Dharr. After spring marching all the way to Jurukhi Ulutiri, his men were granted a week long reprieve. They would then march, at a regular rate, to the valley. Already there was a 25-Dharr Squadron of the Prince’s Boarmen, some of the builders and engineers, alongside a platoon of Holdguard. They would hold the pass for now, not that there was any threat. The Lesser Trelleri Wall and Trelok Ulutiri Fortress stood before it, no common raiders would ever get there. Yet the Dharr are a cautious and future-planning folk.

[Max Empire]

Great Palace of Antipolis
Antipolis, Telaiski Aftokratoria
Year 538 After Imperium
11th March, 1132 KF
Aftokrator Maximus I of Telaiski Aftokratoria, Basileus of Telosa, Supreme Commander of the Military and Sole ruler of the Telosian people

The Aftokrator put his quill aside as he ordered the Kanikleios to refill his inkstand. The man quickly got up from his own work and ran off to get the special ink reserved for the Aftokrator. The large room was fairly busy. Scribes and administrators all writing away on whatever they were working on. This was the way the Aftokratoria was run. By a large group of people writing permits, orders and records in several rooms with archivists and errand boys running all over the place. This was the heart of the entire nation. The massive bureaucracy began here and ran all over the Aftokratoria.

Getting up and walking around the room, the Aftokrator inquired about a couple of things and helped several people with some other things as he waited for his inkstand to be refilled. The Administration of the Empire was a handful, and it wasn't going to get any easier in the next couple of months. The enlarged military needed to be payed, and he wanted the dwarves to accept his proposal so he could put them to work and send the men home again. The mercenaries would protect the soldiers while they built the entire thing and then maybe the Aftokratoria could rest a little and not worry about raids as much. Maybe the dwarves could even help man the walls and have one of the forts to themselves if they wanted to fight the Slyrhenos. It all depended on how they responded.

Not a moment too soon, the Kanikleios returned with some new ink. Returning to his desk, he continued with this months expense report. Maintaining the Aftokratoria was expensive, and it wasn't going to cost less over the coming years with all the expansions to the administration he had planned. Those expansions would have to wait. He had a stack of paperwork next to him he had to finish first.

Greater Cavern, Kral Wohr
Kim Wohr Hold, Khar Wohr
Year 538 After Imperium
March 12th, 1132 KF
Ioannes "the cold" Palagos, envoy from The Telaiski Aftokratoria to the Dwarven holds of Khar Wohr

Ioannes adjusted his collar as he thought of how to respond. He couldn't believe these dwarves. They were actually going to dam the Antis River. They were doing this just to spite the Aftokratoria, and he wwasn't going to refuse their wish.

"Why do you spiting us? Have we not been amiable neighbors? We let trade flow through the Aftokratoria to you freely without tariffs. We do not hinder trade from the outside towards your nation. We only inconvenience you and the Elves with the same official inspections the Telosian people need to go through. You are sending us a clear message by damming the river. You know very well that people downstream rely on agriculture. We can pay you to increase the waterflow with the tariffs we will impose on incoming trade if you wish! Better yet, we can pay you by allowing trade come through every now and then! We in the Aftokratoria have utmost respect for our Varakh Dharr neighbors from the holds of Khar Wohr, yet you seem to have no respect and go through the pleasantries just for the sake of it. Why didn't you greet me by saying; "Hello there Telosian scum, we're going to dam the rivers, because damn you! What do you want you lowlife?!?".", he stared at the Holdjarler with an unmistakable hatred in his eyes as he caught his breath. This was why he was called Ioannes the cold. He wasn't fooling around. The dwarven diplomat facing him better be good, because the following moments would define the relationship between the holds and the Aftokratoria for the coming future.

Not turning his gaze from the dwarf, he angrily pushed the rolled up map of the Aftokrator's plans he had just been given back into the hands of the man that had just given it to him. He wasn't going to let this stand. The Aftokratoria had plenty it could threaten the Dwarves with, even if they couldn't do so with an invasion. He now saw why he was sent to represent the Aftokratoria on this mission. This was an extension of warfare through other means. He wasn't going to leave until he got rid of the dams. Not that he could since The Aftokrator would drain him of all his blood if he failed. Not that he would even if that weren't the case.

[Vidhelm]

Eckhardt the Scarred

March 7th 1132KF,

Im not sure how much longer i can bear the rocking of this infernal ship. I was curious why we had not seen a single pirate since we left the mainland, but now it has occurred to me that they all must have been sunk by this wretched storm. We were hired to protect a small merchant fleet going from Afallon to Vatria, it was supposed to be a relaxing mission, but i'd rather fist fight a dragon than put up with an hour more of this wooden prison. However, It is quite rare to put anyone below a Legate in charge of a mission, no matter how insignificant. I was granted 150 Men, in my opinion more than enough to deal with any of the Pirate riff raff that stalk these waters. My suspicion is that this is some form of test, a chance for me to prove myself to my brothers..

For now, the deckhands call me. I shall return shortly...

---

Eckhardt's eyes opened slowly, the gritty taste of sand filled his mouth. An infinite number of things were racing through his mind as he scanned the Shore. "it all happened so quickly" he thought to himself. He could barely remember the screaming and panicking deckhands as explosions ripped through the hull of the ship. He was calm as it happened however, it was just as he thought, this was a test after all. He had seen similar things done before, Ludvig had a way of testing a persons true limits. He thought it strange from the beginning that him and 5 other men had not been placed on the Capital ship. Instead they were put on a decrepit old piece of glorified driftwood. Hell, if the bombs placed there by his kin had not destroyed the ship the storm surely would have. The other 5 men lay around him, unconscious. He figured that they knew full well what was happening, since at least one of them had planted and detonated the makeshift gunpowder bombs in the cargo hold. The crew had not faired so well, several of their corpses lay amongst him in the sand, even more covered the sad skeleton of his former ship like lifeless ragdolls, but most floated aimlessly out in the water a hundred meters from shore.

His brothers behind him began to stir, he was not sure which one of them had triggered the explosions, or even what he was expected to do, but he would soon find out. Just as one of their number began to gain his footing on the sandy ground he was shoved back down, his shining figure sending sand into the air as he impacted the beach. "Which one of you motherless bastards was it!?" Eckhardt shouted with a stoic anger about him.

"What are you talkin' about Eckhardt?" one of the armored figures questioned before being immediatley silenced by Eckhardt's furious voice

"Am i expected to believe that those merchants decided to blow their own vessel to hell?! " Eckhardt shouted, one of the men began to speak up, only to be immediately over ridden. "Oh that's right, im expected to believe that their shipment of gunpowder somehow was triggered accidentally in the middle of the biggest rainstorm of the past century!?" Eckhardt's Lothic (Scottish) accent only reinforced the anger of his tone.

"Ludvig told us all we needed to do was light the powder shipment when we spotted this island, we dont know anything more than you do". Eckhardt stared at his brother in a strange mix of disbelief and vindication. A smile crawled its way across Eckhardt's face, and it appeared for a moment that he was going to respond to his Brother's admission. Instead, Eckhardt only held his face with an armored palm for a moment, then returned his gaze to his Kin.

"Well standing around here isnt going to solve anything, lets move lads" Eckhardt said in a calm paternal tone as he started towords the dense underbrush that lay inland of the beach. Eckhardt's appearance was terrifying, but his temper was tenfold the beast his face was.


Ill continue this later, its late and i just wanted to get a post up on the IC before i went to bed

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

THE KINGDOM OF AFALLON

Long Live Their Majesties!

Whitepool Palace
Axminster, Afallon
14 March 1134 KF

Axminster was a grant city, arguably the grandest on the Continent. Its paved cobble roads snaked through the ancient city, connecting palaces to temples to rows of peasant houses. Everyone who was anyone lived in the city, at least seasonally. The nations elite would descend upon the city yearly, and anyone who served in Parliament made good use of their time. After all, that was how the Duke Wedmore managed to make his son King, even if it was indirectly. Decades of slow moving alliances were cut by the Dukes of Wedmore through backroom deals and political favours. As their list of allies grew, so did their power. The power of the Pompton family would reach its peak when the Duke cut a deal with King Stephen IX to marry off the Princess Royal to his son, Edmund, Earl Pompton. Upon the ascension of his wife, Alice, to the throne Edmund, serving as prince consort, used his familiar influence in Parliament to install himself as her co-monarch, forcing himself up onto a split throne. Alice I was opposed to this, as her father would be too. However, he was dead and Alice was outmaneuvered.

Edmund IV, as he was known upon his coronation, knew little about governance. This was why he opted to ensure his close friend and all, the Earl Hedgewick, became Lord Chancellor. As the Lord Chancellor would carry forth in agenda, Edmund could pay no attention to government and carry on living his life of endless luxury. Alice was far different. Forced to use ever ounce of authority she maintained, she quietly acts behind the scenes to ensure the bureaucracy established by her ancestors carries on. The Earl Hedgewick was a poor administrator, reflecting the inherently inept qualities of the man who appointed him. The ladies-in-waiting would describe Edmund as a "baffling fool", while the High Bishop of Axminster chose to refer to him as "vainly inept".

It was not just the elite who were disgruntled with his rule, as rumors would sweep across the land and poison his name with the peasantry. The most damaging was the widespread rumor that he was impotent, which was far too true to simply be a rumor. There would be no issue produced by Edmund, much to his dismay. As a result he became far more desperate to leave his mark elsewhere.

"I just do not get it, Bryon. I really do not" Edmund IV said as he paced back and forth. "I have provided these people with nothing but protecting and prosperity, yet they show me nothing but contempt".

The Earl Hedgewick was slow to reply, trying to conjure up a gaffe free response. "Well, Sire perhaps it is simply that while you have been nothing but benevolent, your people yearn for more. Perhaps they year for glory, perhaps they yearn for greatness".

Edmund froze in the middle of the room. "If my people want to be great again, then I have no choice but to ensure that becomes reality".

"Quite so, Sire".

The King walked over to a map of the Continent that was posted on the wall. "This" he said as he pointed. "This, this right here is the solution we need, my friend".

"Kabah, Sire?" the confused Lord Chancellor replied.

"Yes, Kabah. Afallon has done great things, driving the Orcen farther north and establishing our own colonies in the place of their fallen empires. It is time for us to continue our mission."

"Another Orcen War, you mean?"

"Yes, another Orcen War. I will ensure our people become great again, and I will lead them to glory" Edmund said vainly. "I want you to meet with the Lord High Marshall and begin drafting up plans for an invasion. These should be presented to me, only then shall we bother Alice with it. Wouldn't want her to worry about something women have no business worrying about after all".

"I could not agree more. I shall meet with the Earl Redmoor in the coming days and I will personally ensure the plans are foolproof".

"Thank you, Earl Hedgewick. I knew naming you Lord Chancellor was the right decision".

[Liecthenbourg]

The Siege of Poldórëa
A Collab Post by Liec and Krug

Osthalion, Hessal City of Poldórëa
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF.
Haereleth Saelind – The Lord High Councillor

“Master Brannor, how goes the evacuation?” asked Haereleth, watching as the various councillors of the city began to quickly exit the chamber, intending to be some of the first to leave.

“Ten thousand citizens have already left, but it is going quick enough. We can open more chambers, and enlargen the Path, but this would require drawing magic away from the defences and towards the citadel. We’d get more through, and faster, but it’d be more dangerous.” he answered, his green eyes darting all over the place as he gripped the Gwaehedir tightly. He was a talented Seer, few possessed the ability to talk while using the stone, it required an intense amount of willpower.

“Reinforcements will arrive soon, divert the power Master Brannor, then see yourself evacuated.” she ordered.

He shook his head, “I am the master of this council, and of this city. It is my duty to remain with the stone, and see that the Path remains safe, and the entrances to it sealed.”

A frown crossed her face, she had grown to admire him. “Very well, your sacrifice will be remembered, Master Brannor.”

She left him to it, making her way out of the council chamber and down into the main chamber. There guards hurried about, with citizens pouring in through the great doors. She could see many with tears streaming down their faces, carrying mementos that would remind them of their beloved city.

“Lord High Councillor, the defences on the second wall are failing! The towers have powered down, have they somehow breached the core?” shouted what she assumed to be a captain of the guard.

“The core is firmly under our control, pwer is being routed to the Path chambers, and the citadel. You shall need to send extra soldiers down to fight, it will not be long before they break through the walls.”
He bowed quickly, before barking orders at a group of soldiers stationed near the door. She watched as they hurried through the packed streets, on their way to defend the doomed second wall. As much as she wished to join them, her place was here, to defend the citadel, and help guide civilians into the Path. She could only hope that the reinforcements were to arrive soon.

The Siege Lines, Poldórëa, Tol Poldórëa
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF
The Archduke - Death Becomes War

“Do you feel that, Archduke? Do you sense it in your core? Do you sense the futility of their attempts? Do you sense… death? Good. Now, do you sense the movement beyond our comprehension? Do you sense the path? For here march the legions of the Elven into your midst.”

The individual known as the Archduke bristled ever so slightly, his bleach-white teeth clenching as he spurred his boots against the dead-mare beneath him. He was, in all technicality, being spoken to by himself. His hands wrapped around his mace tightly, the dreaded weapon that made men quake in fear and women spin tales of; how those children whom do not eat their supper and grabbed up by ‘the Archduke’, who begins to wither them through decay. Had the being been able to comprehend and express content and humour, he surely would have.

From atop his horse he peered forth, the little green eyes in his eye-sockets squinting suspiciously as he watched Poldórëa’s second outer wall seem to appear less as imposing. The white lines that streaked through its notches and crevices, that formed almost a web of magic, seemed to grow fainter.

“You know what it is, don’t you? That’s the Elven Magic, failing, for their own purposes. Now is the time to strike, we must finish our choke before the hand that comes to relieve the throat reaches us.”

With an intense creaking of wood underneath the midday sun, up rolled the catapults onto their firing lines. Crude machines of war with long arms, lobbing forth rocks and boulders towards the imposing second wall of the Hessal City. An intense beating of the drum, a thudding of rock on rock, the sound of death knocking on the door. Four more times did the catapult lines load their missiles and four more times did the Hessal Walls proudly stand in response to these felons.

Upon the fifth, Elven pride came tumbling down with their precious walls. The Archduke, upon his steed, swung his mace forward and the legions of the dead poured forth in their ranks and files, pikes glistening and shaking in the sun as they began to overrun the position of the felled wall. An intense melee, flesh versus bone, as Elven and Undead clashed amidst the rubble. Elves became impaled on the dreaded black pikes of the vanguard and the ground littered with bones as skeletons fell to their foes. Yet the tide continued and the bravest of the brave could not stare death in the eye without their stomach wretching and their knees giving way.

Cálëmar, Hessal City of Mindcalen
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF.
Lord Tînnîr - The Silent Warrior

A lonesome figure dwelt at the bottom of the pool, his eyes closed, and mind focused firmly elsewhere. He could see faint images, a flash of blood, screams, guttural cries of undead warriors. The battle called to him, but he tried to avoid such feelings. This was a time for peace.

Then he saw it, an elvish woman being cut down with her child. Flames darted around his body as his anger grew, and with a roar he burst from the pool. The sound attracted attention, and several attendants ran into the room. “My Lord, is everything alright?” one of them asked.

He ran a hand down the left side of his face, horribly scarred and ruined by dragonflame. He walked past the attendants, towering above them at a height of 8ft 5 inches in human measurements. He ignored their questions, and made his way into his room.

“Boy, I wish to know what is currently going on.” he demanded.

The attendant scuttled in, “The Lord High Councillor has requested a detachment of troops, to aid in the siege of Poldórëa, About five hundred have been sent, I think, not enough to battle the undead, but-”

“Undead? Fetch my sword and shield, boy, and help me into my armour.”

“Help you into your armour?”

“It is not a difficult thing to comprehend. I am to go to war, and I shall need my finest weapons, and finest armour. Hurry, there is not much time.” he replied, getting to work as the attendant quickly hurried off. He recited several prayers in the older tongue, joyous odes to the Celestials, asking them for help in his victory, and to guide the dead to the Silver Fields. He was about done when the attendant returned.

His armour looked demonic, and was formed from the scales of the dragons he had slain in the Fall of Lhoerdor. This was the first time he would use it, and he hoped to bathe it in the bones, and potentially blood, of any undead he came into contact with. They had defiled his city, and they would be forced to understand their greatest fear, death.

It did not take long to put the armour on, and he promptly abandoned his room, heading straight for the council chamber. The elves milling about the citadel shrieked as they saw his dire visage, before realising who he was, and quickly getting out of his way.

The council chamber was not empty, with several councillors sat around debating what was going on. “Lord Tînnîr, this is unexpected.” one of them spoke, a slight quiver in his voice.

“Today I am not Tînnîr, today I am death incarnate.” he said, and moved forward as he received no further questions. His armoured hand gripped the stone, and it resisted him at first, before realising who he was. He searched the Path, scanning and scanning, until he found a large regiment of soldiers, following the beacon to Poldórëa.

There were many things a strong willed man could do with a Gwaehedir, but only the Elf Lords knew almost every trick. Their creator, Kherūmaur, knew everything about them, but his secrets had been lost with him. The stone sucked Tînnîr into it, vanishing him from the real world, and placing him just in front of the elven regiment.

They instantly drew their swords as they saw a demonic figure emerge from the vortex above, but sheathed and relaxed as they identified who he was. “Brothers and Sisters of the sword, I have come to lead you. We will bathe the undead in flames, and make them pay for ruining another of our cities, and soon, we shall exterminate them, and send them to the graves they so desperately seek to avoid.”

With that, they continued, nearing Poldórëa, and the streams of refugees who hurried past them.

The Siege Lines, Poldórëa, Tol Poldórëa
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF
The Archduke - Death Becomes War

A scream and a squelch, followed by a clattering of bone that almost sounded like laughter. As pompous as one whom was dead could be, the Archduke wiped down his mace upon the clothes of the fallen Elven woman he had killed. Behind him, around him, infront of him, marched the legions of the dead. Their black pikes had turned hues of red. Tainted humans roamed ahead, as a screen for their skeletal comrades. Many had dropped the pikes that had made the undead legions so iconic and instead had swapped for elven swords found upon the floor. Not for their power, or their aesthetic, but a show of mockery amidst the necessity for closer ranged combat the city fighting would provide once the third wall had fallen.

“Fire, again.”

Drums now gave a rhythmical beating and overhead did rocks and boulders, pieces of debris and wood covered pitch descend onto the third and tallest wall. As he sat on his horse in front of it, well within the view of the defenders upon high. A gauntleted fist was raised up into the air, an aura as black as the banners that the Undead Legions flew wrapped around it and from behind him did the fallen Elves whom had so valiantly earned their rest for their defence rose up once more, their missing limbs, their wounds, their death - all irrelevant. Decisively did the enclosed fist become more of a point towards the walls and forth marched the former Elves, trekking even without their weapons as they ferociously began their attempts to scale the third wall.

Crashing down, even amidst their own soldiery, did the rocks from the undead engines fire. Rubble flew, chips of rock and shrapnel descended across the fields and fire spread as the pitch-ladened wood crashed on, above and behind the walls of the Hessal City.

The Archduke watched as his men were smashed, embedded with arrows or merely sliced in two. There was not a morsel within him that wept a shed of sympathy. The hands of death had gripped Poldórea this day and now they would never cease to hold onto it. To drag her to the depths of depravity and torment and then for her to be reborn anew amidst the fires of immortality.

Yet, one thing did captivate him. The architecture. Surely those whom could appreciate the concepts of beauty would find it so. All of it glistened. This ancient place, now a place of death. Yet this was the way of the world that the Gods had drawn. All came to an end, eventually. The Tomb-King was merely accelerating this process in a show of defiance. Twisting death, A mockery of it made.

The third and final wall came down with a tremendous crash. A shock. Even the Archduke himself would stand bewildered for a few short moments before galloping into the breach with his armoured steed, impacting the first few elves with the hooves of the monstrosity he rode. Behind him came the vast and varied legions of the dead, swords, shields, axes, all sorts of tools and weapons in their midsts. None was as unique as the mace carried by the commander, that green device of torture. It struck an elf on his shoulder and loud were the screams of the soldier as it began to wither, mould and harden in its decay.

Death had reached the innards of yet another Hessal City.

Osthalion, Hessal City of Poldórëa
The Nineteenth of March, 1132 KF.
Lord Tînnîr - The Silent Warrior

Tînnîr had always hated the process of moving from the Path into the citadel chambers, a strange experience as one was pulled through the vortex and back into reality. He emerged from the silver pool with several hundred men and women at his back, some of the finest Mindcalen had to offer. Standing nearby, directing civilians to the exit pools, was the Lord High Councillor.

“Lord Tînnîr, it is an honour, though I must say you weren’t expected, but are greatly welcome in this troubled time.” she said, gazing at his fearsome armour.

“We have slept in the shadows for too long. The world without us has darkened, and I fear the Celestials will not return to a world in twilight. It is time to end this madness.” he boomed, before abruptly walking past her and ending the conversation. He could feel something approaching, something cold and dark, but also empty of reason, devoid of emotion, lacking of life.

The last few civilians hurried in through the great gates, as well as the last few guards. Outside the undead horde neared, marching in slow rhythm as they found no opposition to their advance.

Tînnîr moved down the grand stairs leading up to the great gates of the citadel, followed by a large amount of his warriors. They were the elite Hessal Vanguard, made up of elves from all the cities, trained exclusively in the art of war, and deployed when needed to any city in need. And he… well, he was war and death itself, made of fire and vengeance, and a burning fury to cleanse this land of darkness.

Outside the great gates to the citadel amassed the host of the undead. Great warhosts, plenty in number, amassed in their legions behind the central figure of the Archduke whom sat above his horse. A calm wind, a southerly breeze, picked up, forcing the cape and the banners of the ever-host to flutter in the wind almost peacefully. Compared to their foes prior, these soldiery were tattered and un-uniform. Some clad in armour, some barren, some with weapons of old, some of new. Kettle helms shone in the sun, perhaps the only uniform item amidst this army of dead, elven, human, slyrhenos, that stood united.

It was Tînnîr who spoke first, his voice great and loud, with an authority that could be immediately recognised. “You are unwelcome here, Núromôr, disband this army at once and return to your realm, or I shall destroy you.”

“Your threats are as empty as what used to be your home, Lord-Elf of Arazghuldarraman.” his reply was nothing like the loud and authoritative demands of the Elf opposite him. He was calm, collected, his voice had he not been talking to someone as distant would be but a whisper. “How can one turn away those whom ring the bell of immortality, Elf? Do you value pride that much, that you turn your nose at those whom come to embrace you for eternity?” At that, several of the recently revived Elves moved forward amidst the ranks, coming to the forefront. “I do not fear, Elf. No demands of yours will be fulfilled.”

“You make the mistake of believing that I wished your surrender, on the contrary, I have been looking forward to bringing pain to those who would defile my city, and that of my kin.” he spoke, before taking another step down, his troops not following. “This immortality you speak of, it is false. I see before me only shades, clutching at the last straws of life, held together by desperate and unstable magics that will eventually fail them. But enough, I did not cross half the world to bandy words with a witless worm, an empty slave with no will of its own.” He took another step down. “I see into your hollow eyes, and I see the one who pulls the strings. You betray yourself, Guruthos, and I give you a fair warning, I shall return someday for my city. You should leave while you still can.” he spoke, taking a final step down, reaching the flat surface. He drew his shield, and gripped his shield tightly, “Now then, slave, face me in battle, and I shall let these shades, and Guruthos, watch as I break you in soul and body.”

A small, almost unnoticeable, blue aura overtook the Archduke for but a moment. A strange concept, for both it and its holder were technically the same individual. “Your city is my home now, Elf. If you seek revenge, take it out on the Slyrhenos in the Barrens.” A shake, almost an argument and the Archduke reached for his mace upon the side of his war steed and drew it, alongside his metal shield. “Let your Elves watch as their Lord perishes amidst the hooves of my steed; you will become one with this city, Elf-Lord. Nothing but a step upon the path to completion.” The horse galloped forward, the mace held high in his right hand and with a mighty swing did it come down upon the Elf-Lord as the distance drew to a close.

Tînnîr did not attempt to block the mace blow, bracing himself as it struck him, pushing him backwards a stride. He was calm, and resolute, as he waited for the Archduke to ride back, to strike another blow. He breathed in, and out, patiently waiting as he heard the horse galloping nearer. Suddenly he twisted, spinning around, and with a single mighty blow knocked the Archduke off of his mount with his shield, while sending his sword down the neck of the foul steed carrying the slave, dismembering it and sending it crashing into the ground.

Slowly standing, dusting himself down of the sand and gravel and dirt he had fallen into, he regained his calm and almost apathetic composure. He was about half the height of the Elf-Lord he was facing. A fight surely lost. It mattered not. Nothing that this pointy-ear could do would halt the fall of the Hessal City. He approached, tenaciously, behind the shield he had on his left arm and lept forward, pushing forth with the protective device.

Underneath the devilish mask that hid his face, the Elf-Lord grinned. The passion of battle filled him, and for the first time in seven thousand years he felt alive. An image flashed in his mind, of the poor woman so cruelly cut down, and it was only in this moment that he realised the foul creature before him had done the vile deed. In silence he began his offensive, slamming his sword down on the shield of the Archduke, hammering and hammering away, trying to carve through his defenses, to no avail.

Much like the walls of the city, the Archduke’s shield was beat against like a drum. A thud, a thud, a thud. Each strike more ferocious than the last, but the Archduke held his ground beneath his shield. Upon the fifth strike, did he step to the side, the sword impacting the dirt, and with little to no thought in process, did he slam the mace of his into the arm of the Elf-Lord.

Tînnîr let out no grunt, nor scream, as the mace collided with his armour, but he did feel pain. His armour was thick, but some of the dark magic imbued in the mace managed to work its way through his magical defences, latching onto his arm. Later, Sívëndilmë could heal it, but for now he would have to focus on the fight. The Archduke had made a mistake, he had actually hurt Tînnîr, and that made him truly angry. With silence once again, he went on the offensive, smashing at the shield. The Archduke was methodical, but extremely efficient, managing to deflect every blow and not seem to grow tired, nor worried. Yet Tînnîr managed to find a hole in his defences, feinting another attack to the shield, the Archduke prepared to parry it with his shield in the usual manner. Faster than a striking snake, Tînnîr slashed his sword at the now unprotected chest of the Archduke, sending it racing across to do as much damage as possible.

A slash most foul, carving through the chestpiece he wore so close. A stagger back, upon the field, ribs clattering onto the floor as his armour split open in two at the ferocity and power of the blade. Yet Tînnîr’s moment of opportunity came clear and with his sword did he strike at the Archduke once more, severing an arm before decapitating the vile creature. His head came off, the immense crown adorning it flayed back into the sand and seemingly disappeared. The body came shortly after, but the Elf-Lord knew that one such foe was not defeated as easily as that. The magic that held him together was present, the aura of death still clung.

Magic weaved seamlessly through the body of Tînnîr, becking to his every call and command. Like the Celestials, and Gods, he was a creature of pure magic, and did not have to speak incantations or master runes to use magic. Yet before he could fully place his spell, one that would shatter the soul of the Archduke forever, a crossbow bolt flew straight into his mask, thudding into one of the eye sockets, made of a very enhanced glass. More thundered into him, and he lost his concentration, sending his spell into a small group of several skeletons, smashing them to pieces but not sundering their souls.

The soul of the Archduke had slipped away, likely to one of his liches to build him a new body, and Tînnîr had lost the initiative. Cursing, he quickly put up a vast spherical shield, upon which the crossbow bolts floundered pointlessly, before making his way back to the steps, and the guard he brought with him. Fire incinerated the bolts hanging onto his armour.

“My Lord, the citadel has been completely evacuated. Master Brannor is beginning the lockdown, we must go now.” stated the captain, and Tînnîr merely nodded. He had been robbed, but it was not a total defeat. He had made the Archduke have a taste of death, a fear that would linger with him for the rest of his damned days. The Elves retreated into the citadel, before disappearing into the path, as the great gates of the citadel locked themselves, sealing with great magical spells. Master Brannor’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

Núromôr means Slave of Darkness, a reference to the Archduke being a part of the Tomb-Keeper
Guruthos means “Fearer of Death”, an insulting reference to the Tomb-Keeper’s quest for immortality through necromancy.
Tînnîr means Silent Warrior, a name he chose after his old name became too sad to bear, for it reminded him of better times.

[Shark isle]

Cal Sinto let out a grunt as he threw his pack full of supplies over his back. He was about to begin the biggest treasure hunt of his career which hopefully, would insure that he would live the rest of his life in comfort. He had come into contact with a deity calling itself Diter, who had promised him a grand treasure if he would only find it's prison and release it. Before leaving his cottage Cal walked into his room and picked up a golden ring and put it on. This ring was the only tool he could use to contact the deity and receive it's instructions. He then walked out and waved his hand towards a group of men who also picked up packs and started to follow Cal. These men were people whom Cal hired to help in this treasure hunt and as protection. As he walked out of the village he and his group were in he looked into the ring and whispered into it," Master, where do you want me to go first?"

[Western Pacific Territories]

Royal Palace, Otan.
Kraljevina Otonane
Kingdom of Otania
16 March, 1132 KF.

---

Two men, dressed in shining chain mail armor, wearing helmets that showed their faces and with blue and white capes made of soft fur, the capes showing the banner of Otania looked down at the table. They wore the uniform of a Otanian general, and they certainly were. These two men were both co-commanders of the Army of the Kraljevina, the army that consisted of all the 'Vasjals', Vasjal meaning something along the lines of 'elite footman' in the Otanian language, meaning that the Army of the Kraljevina was made up solely of all 18,000 of the army's truly professional, full time soldiers.

It was rather odd, but these two men both led the Army of the Kraljevina. They were both in command, which was contrary to the single general that almost always led a army, but that was due to a custom within the military that the professional infantry always had to be led by two men, so one didn't decide to revolt and take the army with him.

The first man, Count Melschlavask of Calotanyia, was a man who had served many years as a commander of various army's, and took the time to study battles and devises strategies for winning battles. He pointed towards a island west of Acharne.

"You see this group of islands here, to the very left of the Acharnean colonies, right next to them, yeah, the one labeled Muirink Lands?"

The second man, Duke Varlosavn of Ilarica, nodded and replied, saying

"Yeah, I see it. So, what do we have to do with them?"

"We're going to conquer these islands. We have to expand, you know, make a name for ourselves in Attria. And that starts here, on these islands."

"You... You do realize we need the Regents approval to do anything with this idea, this plan of yours, you know this, do you?"

"Of course she'll accept this idea of ours. They're a bunch of savages from what the tales say, they're unsophisticated and we need to become a power in Attria."

"And why don't we just go for the Orcs, eh?"

"Valid question. However, there's a couple of advantages. If we attack one Orcen kingdom all the others will show. The tribes of the Muintir don't have any friends, they're stuck on that island of theirs. And don't worry, we'll deal with the Orcs soon enough. You know that king of Affalon, Edmund? He hates Orcs with a passion, just like us. Acharne's been taking a beating from them too, and I'm going to take a erm... guess, and say that they have the money to finance a war. Regardless, men will soon band together and kill the Orcs."

"Gotcha, gotcha. So, how do we erm... get rid of the Muintirs? I mean, it's obvious we will have to sail to the islands, but it's too deadly out there to sail. Hearsay says the weather will be like this for another month or so at best."

"We wait the storms out. We can at the very least use this time we can't sail to get our army ready for the invasion, of course, if this gets approval."

"Well, let's share our idea with the Regent already then."

---

The Queen Regent sat on a throne at the very back to the room, being elevated on a platform. The two generals stood in front of her, with two servants in the back, near the doorway holding a table with maps, charts, and notes written onto pieces of paper.

She began to speak.

"And... Why should I spend this years military budget on your war? The Kej will assemble tommorow to decide the years budget, and if the past is anything to go by, they view trade and prosperity as being much more preferable to war."

Count Melschlavask replied back.

"Quite simply... My liege, it is time for man to take this whole continent. Up to the north, we have a Orc menace that I suspect will in short time be the subject of war from several Kingdoms, the conquest of the Muintir means several things for us. Firstly, we begin to establish that we are a power in Attria, and as well, the conquest means we have a base from which to launch attacks against the dam*ed Orcs, should the time come. As well, I imagine our merchants will find some way to make the lands economically valuable."

The Queen Regent spoke again.

"These are good points... I'm not exactly fond of using this, but many, many years ago one of my ancestors gave Regents the authority to override the Kej through a direct decree. This authority means that I have the ability to declare war, regardless of the opinion of the Kej. This power is... extremely unpopular and has resulted in the rebellion of vassals beforehand. However, I'm of the opinion that doing this is the better decision to make for Otanias future, and this is for the greater good of Otania."

The silence in the room was deafening. The Queen spoke again.

"And thus, I, Queen Regent Šolaviç I of Otania, do declare that by the will of God granted to me through my ancestors, that war is to be brought soon upon the tribes of Muintir by the Kraljevina Otonane, ignoring the will of the Kej for the greater good of Otania, and that the Dukes and Counts of the realm shall be informed of this."

The queen stood up.

"We should plan further in the War Room."

---

The two generals and the queen were now in the room they started in, the Queen sitting down at a table, drinking a glass of wine.

"Remember the mercenary group, the Sons of the Storm, I believe they were called?"

"Yes, I do. Didn't we let them build a fort in one of our islands a few decades ago?"

"Yes, yes. I believe that we could use their aid for this war of ours, perhaps we should request that they loan us a Crusade?"

"We could use the men. I will write a letter, and if God permits the messenger ship carrying that message will make it to the fort we have let them build."

"Sure then. Now, let's get to planning again."

Message of the Royal Soverign of the Kraljevina Otonane

To the proper receiver of this message, the commander of the fortress of Vaal' Árēch, owned by the Sons of the Storm, he and the other proper recipient, Ludvig the Great, are to be informed that the Kraljevina of Otonane soon marches to war, and that we would desire the loaning of a Crusade from your organization to the Kraljevina.

[Ublia]

The Isle of the Heathens, Blencourt, Kingdom of Acharne

March 4th, 1132 KF

Flames arose high into the night sky and the screams of heathens filled the air as the pyres blazed across the Isle of the Heathens enlivening the masses gathered for the spectacle. Men, women, children they all shouted curses and called for the pyres to grow at the sight of the screaming heathens who writhed amid the flames. Many were witches, worshippers of the foul and accursed Old Gods or heretics in one way or another, yet they alone did not draw this crowd which seemed to outdo all others as the Bridges of Sorrow and Despair bustled with throngs of onlookers, no a greater spectacle was promised. One a certain man had waited three whole years to achieve, the burning of the Abbot of St. Odo and his tight-fisted brothers. Yes, how I’ve waited for this moment, Robert X Nerra the King of Acharne grinned at the sight of his men-at-arms prodding the prisoners to the largest of the pyres, unlit and waiting as the Inquisitor stood by torch in hand. Looking down from the royal gallery, Robert could already see the broken faces of his latest opponents, those who dared refuse his call to end the Orcen scourge through a generous donation to the crown. Such a refusal was not to be tolerated. After all if one monastery slipped through his fingers today tomorrow it would be a hundred, yes a few burnt priests were worth it to see God’s righteous cause against the Orcen completed, he told himself.

Finally they approached, the Inquisitor ordered them bound to the poles and turned to a hushed crowd as the last of the writhing heathens expired their corpses slowly turning to ash.

“We gather here, as humble servants of God so we might do his bidding. For through his bidding do we ascend closer to heaven!” the spindly Inquisitor bellowed in his shrill voice.

“These men would prevent us from reaching heaven, from joining our beloved God! For they are agents of the foul Orcen, monstrosities born of only the blackest womb to the most reviled devil! Beasts who ravage our lands, who spit in our Gods face all aided by these men! These heathens who have sold their faith for the monsters yoke!” he went on.

As he did the crowd was caught in the holy man’s thrall, their eyes wide with religious fervor.

“So now we shall send these traitors to where they belong! We shall send them to the foulest hell!” the Inquisitor cried.

At that crowd burst into a frenzy. New insults were thrown and with them all manner of items, at the pyre as the Inquisitor looked to the King for the signal. All to eagerly the King raised his hand lazily, his signet rig glittering in the afterglow from the other pyres. As he did the flames took hold and the priests with their lashed and tortured flesh, garbed only in sackcloth began to scream a guttural scream at that to Robert’s smirking pleasure. Yet one half-ruined face filled him with the greatest pleasure the flames built around him, that of the tall and seemingly unbent Abbot Victor Ongers, his sons godfather. Indeed his refusal to bend to the will of the crown had been the greatest insult, one now he would pay dearly for. As their eyes locked Ongers tried to raise his voice, undoubtedly to call some divine retribution upon the King yet his voice was gone replaced with an animalistic sound.

“He’s a demon!” someone in the crowd cried and so they bellowed that he be sent to hell all the quicker.

That brought a new delight to the old King, wrapped in his furs and stroking his greying beard as the flames built around Ongers all the more.
“A wise decision Conon. Had you not torn out his tongue he would not burn all the quicker.” The old man laughed cruelly as he reached for his wine.

As he did the hazel, serpent like eyes of Conon Nerra, his grandson, the Bastard of Varie, glinted with fire as they looked down from beside him.
“Had he kept his tongue, grandfather, he may have laid some curse upon us. Something the simple minds of the peasants hardly need be concerned with.” He smiled his tone curt and patronizing.

Indeed Conon knew how easily the peasants saw misfortune as some supernatural thing, all the more reason he’d watched each of the priests tongue torn from their throats with hot pincers. A vile task, yet an all too necessary one, the dark haired and cunning youth noted as the light of the flames danced across his pale face.

“You burned a holy man, Conon, does God not terrify you?” Lord Dagobert Nerra inquired haughtily.

“Hardly, though I know how much a charging Orcen does you, my Lord Cousin.” Conon retorted coolly with a smirk.
At that the blond pretty boy royal glared.

Humph, a sly one this bastard, Robert smiled sipping his wine. The perfect kind to repair whatever damage this fool does, the old King glared beside him to another chair.

In it a corpulent mass of balding fat, his graying hair done in ringlets pouted as the screams of the dying killed his appetite for the food laid before him. Roasted quail and duck, fine wines from Vignoles and rich fluffy cakes, all spoiled for Crown Prince Roland as the dying men’s screams resonated across the Isle. Indeed he’d already turned from his favourite pass time, eating to his second and third, praying while he with poor discretion stroked the hand of a young squire at his side. Who was it now an Aizy? The King wondered in disgust before he turned back to his triumph, yes it soothed him to see the writhing men burn away for with every scream he could hear the endless tide of gold that entered his treasury from the now confiscated monastery. Its gold, gems and other such things all used for his greatest design, the final Great War. The war which would purge the Orcen, the war which would bring him eternal fame and glory!

All it needed was the right support, he grinned.

---

The Palace of the City, Blencourt, Kingdom of Acharne

March 4th, 1132 KF

“A Great War?” Vivian de Herstal repeated.

“A Great War.” Her husband, Victor Nerra nodded his eyes never leaving the window.

For across the River Conches he watched the flames on the Isle of the Haethens burn more brightly. The monastery of St. Odo was no more, he knew closing his eyes for a moment to remember his godfather the venerable Abbot Ongers. How I tried to save him, Victor recalling his request that the abbey be granted some leniency, father disapproved of that, Victor knew recalling his father’s glare. The glare he’d seen from his childhood as his father struck his mother, or barked at his children for some failure and yet how we press ourselves into his service, Victor thought never able to break his father’s spell, the spell of his approval. When he is dead, Victor suspected, but that was a grim thought for other days, now he had to ensure the realm remained strong and stable.

Turning his chair from the window, Victor leaned forward on his desk, fingers steepled as his yes met those of his wife, the formidable Vivian Herstal.

“It is inevitable. The Old Gods may they be forever damned are stirring, the world is in chaos and the Orcen will stir with them. A final Great War must be waged for the very survival of mankind, my love. And my father intends to be the one to win it.”
Vivian paused at that, how she loved this man, this unyielding, clever man so eloquent with his words. He may very well be the death of me, she knew.

“The royal coffers I’ll admit are more than ample for five years of campaigning. Your father’s confiscations ensured that.”

“And your taxes.” Victor added.

“Our taxes.” Vivian noted.

At that Victor waved his hand. Ours on paper, yours in reality. He’d never been skilled at finance, no law and diplomacy were his areas of preference, hence his appointment to the Lordship of the Palace, had he never met Vivian the realm he would’ve abandoned the post long ago with the unceasing demands of the treasury that came with it. Better to admit your own faults then try and ignore them, Victor mused, that was the true sign of leadership.

“Our taxes,” he nodded, “Five years’ worth of campaigning though, to believe it could be accomplished. Still Acharne cannot do this campaign alone, therefore we require allies.” He began, unrolling a map at his side.

On it the continent sprawled in dark ink, the human Kingdoms of Acharne, Avallon, Frater and others all surrounded by the Orcen menace lined in dark red. An alliance between these Kindoms would end that though and with it bring about peace. How long had it been since true peace had been known from the unwavering Orcen hordes? He wondered quietly. However long it had been, it would be known once more!

“I require a scribe.” Victor noted.

At that his wife merely nodded, her lively green eyes smiling at her husbands enthused look. Oh true to others he may look like a statue, hard and unwavering, but in those grey eyes, Vivian saw his passion inflamed and that passion was something not even a hundred thousand demons could destroy. Yes, the Age of the Orcen would end and with it Man would truly be ascendant.

To: King Edmund and Queen Anne of Afallon
From: Victor Nerra, Prince of Acharne, Count of Varie and Lord of the Palace

Your Majesties,

As you are both well aware war is on the horizon. The Orcen menace still stirs on our borders and even now the drums of War can be heard from cross the Bone Mountains. Yet this threat not only stirs against Acharne, it sirs against all Men whether they be King or commoner, at the behest of my father King Robert X I write this letter with one intention, a final Great War. A war unlike any in our recent memories to purge the Orcen from our frontiers and to once more restore peace to the realms of Men. As a result my father invites you to join us here in Blencour so we might plan this noble enterprise and in time find other Princes and Lords of Men willing to join us. I pray you will accept this call noble Sovereigns.

Written on behalf of His Majesty, Robert X Nerra, King of Acharne, Count of Narthoux, Defender of Men and Destroyer of the Accursed, by:

Victor Nerra, Prince of Acharne, Count of Varie, Lord of the Palace and Most Loyal Son of the King.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Vatria, Magesti, 18th of Harvest Moon
Mercanti Janus Vefin

Janus remembered the first time he had come to Vatria, how he had wretched every time he was forced to move through the crowded streets of the half-maintained Metropolis. The white stone streets had long since been worn to a dull grayish-brown, mud and donkey droppings mixed with putrid water and the runoff from a thousand homes and shops to form an unearthly stench that clung to ground level and nearly smothered those who weren't accustomed to the atmosphere of the city. Vefin had traveled well across the world and Magesti was still the largest city he had ever seen. He remembered as a child when he had crested the hill behind his father and laid eyes on the sheer white walls that seemed to be forged from the bones of a god. Even more imposing than the walls was the gothic, white spire that stretched far above the many towers and domes of the old city and seemed to part the clouds.

The Heroes Spire, a port of tranquility and order among the chaotic and often lawless landscape of Magesti. The flawless white hallways and arches that lined the well kept rose gardens were a hard place for a child to find any sort of fun. Janus could remember how his and the other childrens antics would often be snuffed by the angry shouts of Spire Guards. In truth, despite the cleanliness and security of the Spire, Janus had always hated being there. His preferred place of residence was his family estate outside of Tufani, in the cool shadow of Mont Rerst. The keep had long since forgotten the touch of war, its thick walls and towers were crumbling and being swallowed by ivy and thick willows. The keep itself had been enhanced with additional living space and luxury and comfort had taken priority over defense. The cool mist rolling off the mountain trapped the smell of ivy and pine trees, which mixed with the smell of chestnut duck and venison over the fire to cast an air of peace and homeliness over the entire estate.

Alas, Vefinsted was a half fortnights travel away and Janus was up to his knees in obligations in the Spire alone. More important than petty obligations however was the agenda for todays meeting of the Council of Five. Typically discussion between the Five Houses and the Plutarch was done via correspondence or lower diplomats, so it was only for important matters that Plutarch Aman would convene the Council in the flesh. Janus had been wondering over the nature of this meeting for days, but his curiosity would soon be sated as the heavy ebony doors of the Council Chamber swung open and he strode to his place on one side of the six sided table.

Directly across from him sat Satio Pastell, something of a friend to Janus or as much of a friend as a competing politician could be. They gave each other a nod of recognition then turned their attention to the final arrival to the meeting, Pultarch Aman. His presence had always been imposing, bleach white hair contrasted sharply against the black felt doublet he wore and the intricate crown he wore at any official event. Aman surveyed each of the five assembled before him and then gave a satisfied nod. The ebony doors clunked shut and he cleared his throat.

"As all of you may know, the belligerence of our neighbor Vayabar has all but crippled our trade across the sea with the Western Kingdoms. Asaul and Barsesti choke as trade fleets sit idle in the ports, so it is with a heavy heart that I ask for your blessing in the pacification of the free city of Vayabar."

Janus was stunned for a second before immediately joining in the rapid questioning of the Council.

[Krugmar]

Gûrost, Lost Hessal City of Osthuine
The Twenty-Fourth of March, 1132 KF.
Lord Orthorôl - the Heklanā

Deep in the chamber of Gûrost, a solitary creature worked in the darkness. His golden mask seemed to draw in the light around him, cloaking him in an unnatural darkness. He was very tall, reaching 9ft by human standards, and did not seem to be well made at all. His arms and legs seemed too long, stretched even, his hands were terrifying claws, elongated and feral, while his feet were hunched, possessing fierce talons. The skin was a light ashen grey, covered only by a sophisticated loincloth and golden bands in places.

“Master, we have created everything you have instructed.” Spoke a voice behind him. He turned to see an elf of great stature, at around 7ft by human standards. It wore an embroidered beard, unlike most elves, and shared his skin colour. The strangest thing about it was the third red eye in its forehead, one that never blinked. This creature was one of the Muinwë, his topmost lieutenant, Êphalak, one strengthened by the rampant mutations caused by the Rupture, and the degradation of the land around them.

“We will begin the birthing process soon.” Spoke Lord Orthorôl, his focus kept on the strange device in front of him. It was of his own making, a crude artefact that allowed him to commune with the pods he had created. Out of all his brethren he was the finest crafter, the only one with the vision and resolve to make what was necessary.

“Those who are created from these pods, from this magic, will they be whole?” asked Êphalak.

“Some will, others will be mindless ghouls. The source of bodies here is insufficient, eventually I will need more bodies. Those of humans will do, though with elven stock I could produce more like you. I have had a vision, of great flying stones, able to link with the Path.” Replied Orthorôl.

“There are some Maurlië who reject your vision, my Lord. Not many, but enough to disrupt us. Shall I assemble our forces and destroy them?” he asked. Orthorôl nodded, and waved him away, and with that the lieutenant quickly made his exit.

Inhuman cries sounded out as the pods began to reuse the matter below them, crafting them into crude shapes at first, before refining them. The process would take a long time, the matter they were working with was insufficient, of a low quality. They would need slaves, and many of them.

Several hours later
“You have returned to the centre.” Spoke the golden figure, the reflection of Orthorôl himself, though a far younger version.

“I do not return to this dream out of choice, it seems I, the dreamer, have been defeated by my own dreams.” He replied.

“You return because you must, and only at the tower can you find the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That the tower is at the centre, and the centre is where it began, and where it ends.”

Orthorôl sighed, “You speak only in riddles, and convince me more and more that you are not myself. What are you, demon?”

“I am here to help you, guide you. Ultimately what I am matters little, and you have chosen to designate me as a figment of your dream.” The figure replied. “I must ask though, why do you seek an army? Is it conquest you are after?”

“I care not for conquest; the army is for my defence. If the world, if the Hessal cities were to learn of my plans, they would attempt to disrupt them.”

“Your plans?”

“I seek the end of the Gods, of mortals, once and for all. I shall craft a mighty weapon, one capable of extinguishing the life of those I see as unworthy, and transferring it to my kin, the elves, to make them truly immortal, to share with them my own power and everlasting life.”

“Those unworthy begin everybody but the elves?” it queried.

He nodded, “An unfortunate sacrifice, and I shall spend many days grieving for them, and writing tales of their deeds to honour them. But it must be done. Once I have forged an eternal army of a newly empowered elven race, we shall take the fight to the remaining Gods, on Leoht and in the stars, and reclaim all for ourselves, and the Celestials.”

“Some might call this noble, others… delusional. As a dream, it is not my place to judge. I will ask, however, how you plan to accomplish such a great magical feat as this, as you are not powerful enough alone.” It pointed out.

“I will recover the Master Stone from Kastedor, if possible, and if this proves impossible I shall reconfigure my own stone. I shall delve deep into the heart of the world, through paths made possible by the Rupture, through the great mountain of fire near my home. There I shall find the magical core of the world, and channel it, through the stone. With such a limitless amount of magic by my side, I shall be unstoppable.”

“And the other elven lords?”

“They will try to stop me, but to no avail. I am stronger than them, while they have withered away in depression I have emboldened my resolve. Perhaps I shall win them to my side, with promises of recreating the more peaceable races that have been lost. Elves were formed of humans, after all, it should not be too hard to reverse the process. My intentions are pure; my will is focused. Leave me now, I must rest and gather myself for the upcoming trials.” He said, crossing his legs and sitting in the centre of the room, eyes closed and with slow breathing.

---

Cálëmar, Hessal City of Mindcalen
The Twenty-Eighth of March, 1132 KF.
The Three Lords

“Perhaps you should have shown more caution, Tînnîr, our enemies know that we still live, and that we are still powerful.” Spoke Sívëndilmë. She wore a long and elegant white gown, and a small bronze tiara upon her head.

“They knew that already; they grew bold at our inaction. They believed us to be broken in mind and spirit. I have shown them that we are not.” Replied Tînnîr.

Hrávadî intervened. “What happened has happened, and I think that it is good. We can no longer sit inside this citadel, lamenting the fate of the world. Our inaction has now led to the loss of another city, blessed Poldórëa. Our plan to wait out the other races is not working. The world darkens, the younger races war far more than they have done in the days past. And I am not alone in hearing the whispers from the dark depths of the world. Gods awaken, and those enchained beg for their freedom, while those free begin their slow march to the surface.”

“The world is not ready for their return, it is too divided, and we are too few.” Said Sívëndilmë.

Tînnîr stood. “We must send messengers to every human and dwarven realm, and even to those of the dragon-sovereigns. None of them serve the Gods, and I believe that they will stand with us.”

Sívëndilmë remained seated, “We will need everyone. The Tomb-Keeper commands a considerable force, and is a talented magus- “

“You would work with that abomination? He would betray us the second he could!” shouted Tînnîr.

“Sívëndilmë is correct, we should use him. He fears death above all else, and the Gods would annihilate him, they dislike those who mock the natural order of things. He would only betray us once the Gods are defeated. We would have to be ready.” Spoke Hrávadî.

Tînnîr shook his head in disgust, but not disagreement. “Fine, but first we must convince the High Council. We are their Lords, but they no longer fully trust us, nor do all elves. We failed in the War, we failed in the Rupturing, we failed Poldórëa. They must know that we will not fail now.”

“We will speak to them soon, until then, we must continue planning for the approaching apocalypse. I hope and pray that the Celestials return to guide us, we could sorely use it.” Said Sívëndilmë, pushing herself out of her seat and to the table that her two companions were now busy using, preparing various documents.

[Rygondria]

Tahtali, The Karamani Beylik

Sultan Faheem Abdul Karamanli sat on a rug in deep meditation, ever since his vision he saw while in pilgrimage in the homeland he had grown deep in the faith of the flame, the old pleasures he had participated in before his spiritual awakening are now to him distant memories, now all to him was pleasing the flame. His Vizier walked in carefully and said," My most serene sultan, have i interrupted your time of study, i have news that needs your attention". Faheem stood up with a groan and said," Of course Palan, what is it"? Palan cleared his throat and said," Well there is slaver ship that has been spotted near our waters, I believe they are from the homeland, something needs to be done before our people are captured and sold into slavery in the homeland". Faheem stood up and said," It is a leaders duty to protect his people, as the flame as commanded, do you know where they will land"? The Vizier nodded and said," Somewhere near the western coast my Sultan". Faheem then said," Send a contingent to chase them off as soon as they land, I will not tolerate any of my people to be thrown into slavery, Those men do not follow the Flame properly you are only permitted to enslave Heathens, Not fellow followers of the flame". Palan coughed and then said," Yes my sultan, i was also proposing that these holywars he are doing, we might need..Assistance". Faheem look at him and said," What do you mean assistance, is the blessing of the flame not enough for you Palan"! Palan then said with a nervous cough", No,no,no Sultan you confuse my words sultan, Does it not say in the book that is is permissible to hire mercenaries, Shadowling or not"? Faheem said," Fine Palan, do as you see fit, i am still awaiting the call of the great prophet to begin the illumination of this barbaric land, the days of their heritical hero worship and the other false religions, hell even worship of the usurper and his rebellious servants well end, and the world well be illuminated by the flame".

Farms near Hyarmentir

"Be silent you fools, the shadowlings still sleep". A masked man said as he slapped a wagoner," Now Abdul you will wait here until we collect the shadowlings, try to stay hidden we cannot be spotted these elves will sound the alarm". While the wagoner hid the wagon the rest of the raiders slipped on masks traditionally worn by Agrabian Fire dancers and sneaked their way into the farming village," remember are task, no witnesses.". They then began to enter into variety of houses and began to bind up sleeping elves and placed rags in their mouths. The job was almost done when a town guard stumbled upon the raiders, before he can raise the alarm the elf was stabbed multiple times with scimitar," No witnesses, he must get these slaves into our lands before daylight". To make it look like a bandit raid the lit a couple huts on fire, killed some remaning elves and stole some valuables, then they left the village with their newly captured cargo, they are to head to the capital of the Beylik to be sold as either, farm laborers, craftsmen,or over lighter jobs since they considerd elves to weak and decadent

Antipolis

" People of Antipolis, the flame yearns for your embrace"! Yafir yelled as a group of telosans gathered around to hear this man talk, some to laugh and jeer and him and his foreign religion, others with genuine interest," The hero's you revere are not god's if they where gods would they leave you for hundreds of years feasting in their great hall while most of you scrounge for food, and it that hero fails in his prideful goals they become...Monsters, blood sucking demons that will drain you and your children dry, the prophet himself has saw it with his own eyes, now tell me do people who can turn into...Monstrosities deserve your worship". Some just laughed and walked up while others remained to listen to what else he had to say," But the Embrace of the eternal flame guarantee's your a place in his heavenly hall, it does not matter if your are man, woman,rich or poor the flame views all mortals equally, Those that embrace the flame will be illuminated and saved from eternity in the frozen nether where will be cold with no warmth, your heroes that do not embrace the flame, the heathens who worship rebellious servants, those who look down on the poor are scorned by the flame and those who where wronged by them will be avenged, be it in life or in death".Some left shaking their heads, how can the city guard allow a heathen like him to preach, yet he is not new, for months missionaries of the flame have been entering Telosa to spread the embrace and seeing as some of the people Yafir preached to where converted, it seems to be a trend that is slowly having results.