New Civilizations [IC | Closed]

[G-Tech Corporation]

---

World Map | OOC Thread

---

The year is 2926 B.C.

Seventy-four years ago, the world was changed forever. In a strange set of events that will echo through the ages, history is now being rewritten by the arrival of men and women from the far future: The Authors. The Authors were average men and women from the year 2016 swept up by unknown and supernatural forces and sent back five thousand years, naked and alone, but in possession of all the knowledge of their old lives. Made ageless by whatever force has cast them in to the distant past, the more apt and adaptable Authors used their ability and their wits to craft for themselves a new life in this time long forgotten. As the decades have progressed, the primitive villages which they once inhabited have now become civilizations in their own right, castles, palaces, marketplaces that teem with men speaking many tongues. These civilizations were the product not of the organic and natural flow of time, but by the intervention of the Authors - New Civilizations! This is not human history as we know it, this is the new history - formed by seemingly immortal, yet very human men and women. Humanity's story has been changed; in five thousand years' time what will the history books say - who shall be its Authors?

Hello and Welcome to New Civilizations! If you didn't understand the premise of the OP, you shall be playing as you (yes, actual IRL you) swept through time and space back to the year 2926 B.C., somewhere in the world that is our history and now your present. You shall be playing as yourself, or someone very similar to yourself: your Author cannot know things that you do not know in IRL prior to your being transported back in time. Your Author is immortal, in that they are timeless; however, wounds and physical damage can still kill you, so value your years wisely. In addition to being immortal, your Author is also capable of speaking any and every language in existence instinctively, changing automatically depending on whom it is you are talking to. Now keep in mind, that depending on where you land, you may land somewhere with a history very different from the one you may be familiar with. You could land in say Eastern Germany and find yourself surrounded by soldiers totting crossbows and wearing chainmail - or you could land in southern Russia and find yourself in a silkroadesque trading city dominated by horsed warlords and a Space Pope. The world is not what it was in three thousand BCE, not anymore.

[G-Tech Corporation]

The Tale of a New World
Viktor Nemtsov - Part 4, Chapter 1: Blood Calls to Blood

February 9th, 74 AG

Through the light winter blowing snows the column of soldiers trudged, thick greatcoats of sable thread holding back the chill down from the Arctic. On either side of where I sat rode women, to my left the Empress, Lady Adria, and to my right my wife Tanya, she who had been my companion through these many long years. Both women rode with thick cloaks cast about their shoulders which were dusted with a coverlet of the white that was lazily drifting down from the gray skies overhead, much like myself. Indeed, I pulled my heavy cloth-of-silver cloak closer about my shoulders as I thought of it, for the day was not yet warm enough to go without it, and as I had brooded in thought I had let it go limp and so chilled myself.

But there was much about which to think. The marriage of my great-grandson, Mikhael, and what it would mean for the Imperium- ah, those were matters of grave importance, matters which had only gathered in scale with the passage of the last decade. Thus we wound on the road to Havenhall, where the King of Rhone, aged Fremjur the Just, sat on his throne. Rhone had sat as a buffer between the good people of the Imperium and the pagans of Norsca since the Rising when Fremjur gone from petty jarl to self-proclaimed king, but the king was now without an heir, and the vultures gathered. Norsca did not look to her south- no, by all accounts Monroe was still fixed on his conquests to the west, upon the Isles of Britannia where only Imperial traders were known, and not soldiers. That fascination with Britain was not one I understood, but it was one that I and the Emperor had been content to allow to run its course; less Norscan competition for prime ports and anchorages along the northern shores of Europe had been all for the best in the interests of the Imperium of Man.

My reverie was interrupted by a roan mare trotting back along the column towards the circle of Blackguards which enfolded the royal party; we traveled with horse enough to put any attack to flight, but Ser Malimund would not have sent one of his scouts back of the line if it were not for a matter of some import. Indeed, the young warrior in the livery of the Great Anchor spoke in level tones to one of the dour soldiers that rode with me at haste, and then passed onwards. His mien was that of one from far away from these snowy climes- the provinces of Italia or Greece, perhaps, a swarthy man whose eyes were as dark as his hair. But he seemed not to feel the cold, the breath hissing from his mouth in steam as he half-bowed to myself and the Imperial ladies.

"Lord Hegemon, news. Ser Malimund has come upon the Prince's party, and Prince Mikhael himself would speak with you at length, ere we draw near the ramparts of Havenhall."

An eyebrow rose in my face, deep brown like the shock of military-cut hair that adorned my aged head, betraying my surprise at Mikhael's presence here. True, it was not many furloughs now before the stone walls of the capital of the Kingdom of Rhone would be in sight. Still, his place should rightly have been at the aging king's side, and with his daughter Astrid. From a young age the two had been friends, and thus it was that Fremjur's bargain had been struck, the reason I rode now for Havenhall; Rhone was of good Christian faith, after the Imperial Creed, forsaking the pagan ways of their forefathers that had been infested with the lies of Norsca and her false deities. Now that her first king, Fremjur, was soon to partake in his eternal reward, the guardianship of her peoples and their interests was a matter which had to be resolved.

Some nobles of his kingdom sought to replace Fremjur with one of their own, to maintain Rhone as its own entity as it had been for the last decade and more. This may serve them well, perhaps; the Imperium was a land where power flowed far more unequivocally from the White Throne than from the local petty families and jumped up chieftains, as compared to Norsca or Rhone. Where Connor balanced the needs of upstart nobles and their ilk, the Firstmen of the Empire were appointed by the Citylords of their attached urban center, themselves raised up by the Governor-Generals of each Imperial province, who were given their positions and titles by only the explicit hand of the true Emperor that sat in Mara, Vladimir the Builder, of the House of Nemstov, which was my lineage. It was a meritocratic system, but also one which had room for experience; a Citylord appointed poorly reflected on the Governor who raised them, who served at the pleasure of the Emperor.

Yes, the nobles of Rhone would not like to see their lands taken and apportioned by property right to their current tenants. But Fremjur saw the wisdom in being bound to the Imperium instead of going it alone. I had personally met with him many times, and found the blonde warrior a man with wit that was uncommon in the martial North, able to perceive that though feudalism was the only system most of Rhone had ever known, or tribalism before it, the material wealth and enlightenment of his neighbors to the south stemmed from the emancipation of the average laborer, from social mobility and the Imperial hand which watched over all. My words had done much to sway him to his current course of action, for to hear the accumulated intelligence of a century come from the lips of a man and his wife who looked no older than two and a half decades was to marvel at the miracle that our God had bestowed upon this ancient world, and to wish to partake in it.

"Very well. Tell the Prince that he should join with our cavalcade, I would be most pleased to see him again, as, I warrant, would his mother."

Adria smiled at me from under her hood, and the scout nodded, turning his horse around to ride back from where he had come. With the wedding of Mikhael to Astrid, Rhone would formally be integrated as a province of the Imperium of Man, and the dominion of right-thinking minds over all Europe and the world would be advanced a pace further.

[Republic of the Cristo]

Issac Dueringer: Expansion

Dnieper river, Grellstag - border between Holy Scythia and the Imperium of Man

Winter in the western lands was harsh, the open plains blew torrents of wind carrying razor sharp ice. Nights are long and days are short. Only hardy beasts brave the weather - and Scythian traders. The frozen road to the city of Grellstag was surrounded on both sides by a wall of snow no shorter than a foot. The sky was a startling gray color, which in turn shaded the whole land. A chilling wind blew against the side of the caravan, but if the animals were bothered they showed no sign of it - certainly not the merchant, who road along side his load. Dressed in a thick sheep's wool, he sat atop a tall and shaggy camel. He looked down upon the great steads who pulled their carts of concealed cargo. Other paid men did similar behind him, ensuring that no animal collapsed from the cold.

They moved through the dreaded cold until they reached the outer limits of Grellstag, the largest Scythian city along the border. Grellstag was built along the Scythian side of the Stasia ( Dnieper ) river, opposite an Imperium city. Between a single great bridge, the two cities did trade with each other - it was the most profitable city in the whole west of Scythia. Squat two story buildings surrounded the outside of Grellstag; they were hotels established specifically for far off traders to rest and house their cargo until they were ready to strike the market either in Grellstag or the other city. The caravan moved into the city, noticing a distinct rise in temperature upon entering. The road was not the frozen gravel of the country roads, but a cool stone layout. The first two hotels which they had passed had their gates closed - indicating they were full. A turn of the corner however revealed a set of open gates, marked by burning torches. The merchant lead his caravan and paid hands into the walls of the hotel. Waiting for him was a short man who had wrapped himself in thick wolf hides.

Upon approach the merchant looked down at the man, presumably the hotel owner. The hotel owner's face was concealed by the furs. He tried speaking up to the merchant, but his voice was drowned out by the wind and muffled from his mask. The merchant, still atop his camel, pulled back on the hood of his coat to reveal an aging Scythian man with graying hair. He yelled over the wind in tradespeak to the hotel owner, the universal language of business. " Do you have room for 10 mounts and 4 men? " The hotel owner simply nodded in place of trying to yell over the wind. He then raised his ring finger and his middle up for the merchant to see - this indicated that such a request of lodging would cost 30 teck. The merchant nodded in agreement, and signaled for his men to forward. Three more men came from out of the hotel's main quarters and helped to wrangle the mounts into a near by barn. The Scythian dismounted and helped with the work, taking great care to ensure that his carts of cargo were unmolested by the hotel's staff.

Once the beasts had placed in the barns, and the cargo stored, the paid men of the caravan trudged inside to the hotel, grateful to finally have rest. The merchant stayed in the barn though - only for a moment longer. He looked about the small wooden structure, to ensure that he was indeed alone, before proceeding over to his carts. Gingerly, he pulled back a small corner of the cart's tarp to peer at his haul. Stuffed into the cart were bales upon bales of white, pure, and fluffy cotton. He had travelled to the far South East months ago, making his way acrossed the most remote and dangerous of mission routes to discover this plant. The natives of the South East used it for the creation of cloths at a rapid and splendid pace - something which would marvel most textile workers in Holy Scythia. The merchant was an Entrepreneuring man and knew an untapped market when he saw one. He already had a group of buyers lined in Scythe, Akrane, and Kuls, but now he wished to see if the Imperium shared similar interest in his special crop. By morning tomorrow, he will have single handedly created an entirely new international market.

Scythe

The Holy King of Scythia, Issac, was amused by the fighting dogs in the corner of the garden. Two gray and black hounds pouncing and nibbling on each other, barking playfully - both young and full of energy. Both were only a year old, and yet they were already rather big for their breed ( a name which slipped his mind at the moment ). " You know, their was a tribe of far eastern people who held a kennel of blue dogs? " Issac's grandson Edward had said the question. The two sat acrossed from each other under an open gazebo. They sat in the garden section of Issac's Scythe palace, and the garden itself was surrounded by a medium sized wall. Issac turned towards his grandson genuinely curious, " Really? "

Edward smiled mischievously, " No, just trying to grab your attention. " Issac smiled back, glad that his grandson had inherited his sense of sarcasm. " I'm sorry, I really am glad to see you, it's just that I have had a lot on my mind recently. A lot has changed since your trip. " Issac was referring to Edward's diplomatic/mission trip to the far east, which had begun some 3 years ago. Scythia's way of introducing itself to locals as their future trade partners. Edward nodded, " I've noticed. The crossbows are new. " He stuck his thumb out towards a patrolling guard on the wall. He wore chainmail underneath a suit of studded leather armor, on his helmet was an etched in bronze bolt indicating his unit class, and in his hands sure enough was a crossbow. Issac nodded in acknowledging the patrolling crossbow man, " Kimbred bows are superior, but not every man can hold the string long enough to shoot it well. We let smaller and more novice soldiers use the crossbow. Say what you will of the Imperium, they do have some good ideas. "

Edward stared for a moment at his grandfather, a man who looked a full 15 years younger than him, but who was possibly the oldest man alive in the world. " Is it the Imperium which bother's you? " Issac dismissed the statement, " It's a lot of things. Mostly what direction Scythia is taking, the path remains unclear to me and I am concerned that I may be unwittingly creating the world I had been saved from years ago. " Issac stared off into nothing for a moment longer, before looking back at his grandson - he looked so much like his late father. Issac smiled, " I read your messages, but I must ask, how was the East... truly? " Edward leaned back into his chair, glad that the topic had changed to something lighter. " Savages, all complete savages... though I must say that they have this thing called Yaksma, it could get a horse drunk just from the fumes. " Issac chuckled out loud, Edward continued. " They were... rough. They lived in the dirt, and they were terse as a principle. But they were all curious, of the knowledge we brought them, and the promise of Jesus. It will take many years, perhaps when my grandchildren are men but we shall make them Scythians yet. " Issac nodded, content with the words of his grandson, and content that he has grown up to be such a proper man. In the event of his untimely death, Issac intended for Edward to take the throne, but until such a time he served as his Prime Minister representing Holy Scythia to the world.

" Have faith Edward and God shall deliver. " Issac looked back towards the playing dogs, who now simply sat next to each other and breathed tiredly. His thoughts travelled once again, and in turn so did the worry of the unknowing.

[Ulls]

Twilight's Gate,
Ego

The large ocean settlement was vibrant at the sight of the full moon. People were at the wooden temple as young teenagers went to the submit with wooden spears and shields to form ritualistic combat as they show off their martial powers to their god made flesh. It was a large arena that had people fight in solos and groups of three as they show off just who was skilled and strong in their ways. These teenagers were among the first generation of Native Americans to fight for Ego, their were more teenagers but the Grand Campaign weeded them out. Many of the teenagers had became indoctrinated in the fervor of battle, the idea of their shamanistic religion and the immortal leader that led them into battle to carve out an empire that was worthy of the ancestors and the Night Owl.

Little Star was different, she had grown around Jeb and stood by his side as the greatest warrior that Ego has. She became known as a cunning commander that had been able to even outsmart Jeb at times. Because of this, Jeb made her leader of his elite units until she is old enough to give tactical advise but he already knew that she had more battlefield experience than any child that should have. This made him give a large sigh about the idea of child soldiers but this enforced the warrior culture as it would be needed for the large ships that were being made for their voyage.

After the fighting is done, they all stood like an army as they stood like a horde ten years ago. A feint smile rose on the face of the Warlord before he returns to its stoic look. Three-Feathers and Parathuan stood next to each other, the adviser hold her hands together over a pregnant stomach of five months. Three-Feathers held her tight around her waist with a loving embrace as they watched the young warriors who are awaiting for their god to order them.

" Young warriors of Ego!" Jeb yelled out to the warriors.

" Ten years ago, you were taught that the battlefield was not for you and it is not to seek glory. You have shown that you were fighting not for the glory of the fight, but for the survival of our culture and the expansion to complete our goal."

He pointed at the large unfinished longships on the docks.

" Twilight's Gate and the longships that rest on Bay of Hud point towards the sea. You contribute to the settlement, to the ships that are our destiny and secure our place in history. You fought with your Night Owl, your god made flesh, and you fought with your other people for the ancestors. It is with my joy that you have became adults and the new elite warriors that will fight under your new leader."

He turns to Little Star,

" Little Star, you have grown by my side and I have already made you leading my elite force, but I want you to know be my Morning Star and lead these elite forces as soon our destiny will be in sight and you have proven that you are strong enough to join the trip. As of right now, enjoy yourselves, drink and eat but not too much for tomorrow will begin even tougher training than you have even done before."

As Jeb said that, the army bowed and then disperse, many of them cheer and whoop as they express their admiration of being made adults but still goes about like children. Little Star, now named Morning Star, turns to her Warlord with a smile but it showed her discipline in her stance until she returned inside the temple.

" It seems she's happy" Parathuan spoke.

" Yeah I know, she has grown despite her parents being killed in the Campaign." Jeb said with a heavy sigh of remorse.

" Once your done with everything Warlord you should come down for and enjoy the party that they set up for the children." Three-Feathers said with a hand on his friend's shoulder.

The Warlord put his hand over Three-Feathers' as he gave a smile and he spoke," you two should have fun while you can because once the baby comes out then all that gets thrown out the window."

He walks into the temple and saw the various copper statues of idols and totems with each being a god, a couple of spirits, or the ancestors being worshiped. He noticed that among the gods, the Fox god Iluti was missing but since it is the patron god of spies, tricksters, and thieves then he would understand his intelligence branch not wanting to openly worship.

He saw Morning Star look at one of the totems that were artistically carved and painted with dye with copper emplaced in some areas. Two grey wolves are laying beside each other and one comes to the Warlord. Jeb pets the wolf as he walked to the young girl.

" You know they are happy with you." Jeb said as he looks at the totem.

Morning Star nodded and spoke," I know, they are with the ancestors now. I have already mourned their passing."

" Then why aren't you celebrating with the rest of the people?" Jeb asked.

" I don't want to talk about Jeb." She sighed.

The Warlord puts his hand on her shoulder.

" You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to but you should try and mingle with your new warriors. Understand that we are about to make the biggest journey that we have taken. We don't know what may happen to us but our future lies beyond the Bay. So go and enjoy yourself."

Mourning Star looks up and gives a smirk.

" Ok, only if you find a girl or someone to mingle with. God or no god, you are still very human despite the immortality."

Jeb rolls his eyes," don't need to tell me twice but fine, I'll go mingle with some people, try to get them to treat me like a normal ruler instead of a godlike being. Tomorrow will need to start working on Ego and the internal rebels before we make our journey across the sea."

They both call upon their domestic wolves to follow them as they walk among their respective peoples for the next night will be the return of trying to fix their empire as the longships are being built.

[Conwy-Shire]

Amadeus Mulcahy | Part 2, Chapter 1
January 28th, 12 C.R.

Nestled amongst the tranquil ridges and spurs which marked the extremities of the Colchis Plateau, high-above and far-away from the bustling cities of the Phaesos, a war host had been assembled. Brigades had been lifted from the major staging grounds - their stabilising presence replaced with civil defence teams - and were directed to Ctestaphur, the furthest east the Ashturi Rule of Law had reached over its decade of expansionism. Situated outside the sleepy hamlet sprawled a camp the size of which had never been seen in these lands. Brigades and Battalions had been drawn from as far west as Armizuus on the Black Sea coast, and as north as Sokhumos at the call of the Lord Constable. Whilst a citizen amongst the lower reaches of Ashtur would have no clue of the reason for such a mobilisation, amongst the mountains and valleys of central Georgia an undeclared war raged, its terror straining the resolve of even the hardiest mountaineer.

At the centre of this terror stood the king of Tbilos, his petty kingdom sitting between the Caucasian Ranges and squarely east of Ashtur. The border has been drawn and assented to - years ago - and garrisons established over the uneasy line separating us from them, but it was no good in the end. Perhaps it was jealousy, maybe insecurity, but for whatever reason the line in the sand had been crossed, and spilt blood screamed for the spilling of more blood.

Evening had descended suddenly upon us, ending yet another day of boredom. I walked amidst the tents as was my wont, absent-mindedly flicking clumps of ice from their points of accumulation. It was set to freeze again tonight, and even as the thaw clawed its way across the Colchis plateau an icy grip held sway here. The tramping of feet on frosted turf broke my reverie with a crunch, and I pivoted on the spot, a hand dropping to the familiar pommel hanging by my side. Though my life had not been dominated by the clarion call, apprehension and fear were fast teachers, shaping my lax persona into a mind which never drifted far from battle-readiness. This time there would be no violence, I noted sheepishly, as the tail-end of a squirrel darted away from me and further into the rows and grids of the tent city.

Standing up from the ever so slight crouch I had adopted, it was easy to catch the evening post as it was brayed out over the camp, calling those off duty, myself included, over to the Mess-tents. The time for the evening meal was important for any army, which lived and died not by the sword but by its' stomach. Not much had changed concerning that maxim between the two worlds I occupied, and it was telling that the king of Tbilos dared not muster his army in the twilight of winter, when the food stores neared empty. For Ashtur such concerns were made more trivial every season, and whilst I never recalled an agricultural powerhouse coming from the Caucasus in any of my Geography classes from times past, such had been accomplished thanks to the miracle of indicative planning.

Even with such a post-agrarian society, all that fell into the bowl I offered was a single, if large, helping of oat porridge. I felt the amused look on the cook's face as I lingered, perhaps wishfully, but even the Lord Justiciar wasn't senior to an army cook, and thus cowed - with the faintest smile on my face - I slid my bowl along the serving table to the next station. Arriving there I was met with a happier sight: quickbread scones and honey. Though there was no jam to be found - it existed in these parts as a luxury - the natural sweetener and scone were enough to bring back memories of home, faint though they were, before the line moved on, spitting me out of the food tent and towards the nexus of the encampment.

"Hail to you, commander" came the greeting from under the Burgh helmet of a passing watchman.

"And to you," my response rolled out naturally, before a wince came to my eyes as I realised the poor man's misfortune. "Try and get some sleep after duty, we'll be marching with the morning rouse." With a conciliatory pat on the shoulder I continued on and through the linen oilcloth panels of the command pavilion.

Whilst many of the rank and file took their meals in the mess tents, staying close to each other for warmth as much as company, my sensibilities oft directed me towards the command tent and the small corps of Brigadiers huddled within. Amongst the men whose heads turned as I stepped inside were officers who - by merit - had carved out for themselves a place of command amongst the Brigades. Whilst many were city-born, all stood above the average height for the times, their visages moulded by years of service and sacrifice. Of their number about half bore the shoulder-ensign of a Gendarme, marked by an Ash-tree superimposed over three stars on a black field. Such men were of par with the officers, but instead served as bodyguards to the Great Offices of the Realm.

"Justiciar!" A lone voice called out above the hubbub and chatter, drawing my eyes to the only man not of the earlier categories. "We saved a seat for you here," the speaker waved his hand to a vacant gap on the benches next to him. Ahead of me I saw the path open up as men moved to let the commander through, returning to their conversations with singular intent.

"Davirt," the sigh came out as I sat down next to the Earl Marischal. "Boisterous as ever are we?"

"Of course Amad, how could you be unhappy with a life of soldiering?" My eyebrow rose at the sarcasm, for whilst he was amongst the men who put their lives on the line in glorious battle, it was hard to say that he and his huszar contingent laboured under the same responsibilities as the rank-and-file. "It is hard so far from home, I must admit, perhaps accepting that land-grant on the Red River was a poor choice."

As part of the aggressive reforms pursued a decade prior, a major liberalisation project had been undertaken to alleviate the population stress rising in the Colchis lowlands. Land zoning and property rights only scratched the surface of those reforms, and their spillover - taxes, metrics, market forces and the like - had led to a pseudo-modern Interregnum State emerging from the shadows of the Caucasus. These days the government operated by Dirigisme rather than requisition, and a well-oiled bureaucracy powered the cogs of the state with vigour.

"At least," the pastoralist continued "One can now move between my estate and the capital by land, rather than by one of those cursed liburnians. Even if the land still sits between the Imperium and our largest iron deposits." The last part came out as an aside, the usually jolly man's eyes glazed over with a perturbed look. The Imperials of the West were worth being perturbed over, and their accelerating expansionism in Anatolia precluded all but a mere Battalion of Armizuus' soldiers from mustering here.

Many a moment passed before the Earl Marischal spoke up again, reacting to the slowly-emptying pavillion. "It seems the Brigadiers are looking forward to their early start, and I might join them. Don't sleep in." With the pastoralists familiar joviality returned, I was content to see him off, waiting for the last of the officers to slip out between the tent-flaps before slinking off into my private annex. Furnished with little but my panoply and a cot, there was little to do but catch some sleep before the morning to come. As oft happened, my thoughts drifted to the abstract, flittering amongst the possible outcomes of the war to come. rising from the unkind embrace of the cot, my eyes drifted naturally to the lustrous panoply by my bedside, and a long wooden box at its feet. Within it lay my blade, a piece of steel finery gifted from the forge of Hallur's eldest son for the five-year patent he had been granted. That patent was set to expire in a year-and-a-halves time, yet the blade, far superior to the bronze and iron employed equally by the army, sat untested - bar the rigours of its creation. Upon its encompassing lid was a quote from Kipling, one that would more likely be found today amongst the schooling institutes of Ashtur rather than on campaign. The words were all that I remembered from my past life, and as the final line rolled of my tongue with a sigh, I lowered the box back to the ground and spent the night more restless than ever.

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
 Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
 If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
 With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
 And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 4, Chapter 2: Blood Answers Blood

March 1st, 74 AG

The trumpets sounded on either side of the great hall, buglers greeting the arrival of the Prince that would soon be their king. Their clarion calls were harsh to my ears in the enclosed space, braying without the rich warmness of sound that was the mark of a well-made and well-maintained instrument, but in truth it was merely an indignity that would have to be lived with. Caught between Norsca and the Imperium, the people of the Kingdom of Rhone had spent their lives resisting the Monroe Dynasty that crouched like a wolf at their doors, and had little coin to spend on luxuries like properly formed brass instruments from the utter south.

Still, music aside, it was an impressive ceremony. I shifted in my dress greatcoat, as black as the eyes of a shark; though winter's bite still touched the air beyond the keep here in the greatest city Rhone boasted, these Northerners had a habit of heating their buildings to the discomfort of a sauna's embrace when the cold winds blew, and had yet to step down their roaring fires in accommodation to spring's gentler climate which beckoned. As the trumpets' sound faded the doors at the far end of the great hall opened, and with a rush like a river in flood the assembled notables of the kingdom bowed, taking a knee or dropping in to an appropriate courtesy. I stood, as did the Empress, and my wife; these folk might be bound to show homage to their king, but in the reckoning of nations I sat above his station by far, and the Empress as his equal. Still, my eyes darted over the audience, drinking in the individuals that were slower to kneel to Fremjur- no, all was not well in Rhone, and some dukes and notables knelt with faces that were masks that I surmised held back frowns of disapproval.

"All rise for his Majesty, King Fremjur the Just, Lord of Rhone and all her dominions!"

With an answering cry of Hail him! the nobles and generals rose to their feet once more, courtiers more smoothly than men of far holdings who were accustomed to being laws unto themselves. And thus the King entered the hall, his only daughter with her hand lightly placed on his arm.

Fremjur was a man I accounted as a warrior, less a scholar, less a ruler. His reign had been marked by stubborn resistance and a taciturn nature more than great insight and competence, but I had to give credit where credit was due; Rhone remained an independent nation here, between the two most intractable powers of the known world, in no small part due to his efforts and the will he had instilled in his people. Our overtures to the kingdom had never been overt, never resorted to force or threat of violence. I mused as I watched the king's measured tread that that was, perhaps, the reason he had proven amenable to this match. Though the Imperium's coin was strength where it was needed, time was my ally more than most men. A decade another ruler would have considered intolerable affront, but with my untrammeled years ahead and the patience I had instilled in my progeny, we had been afforded the ability to wait.

And now here was the fruit of that labor. Rhone was bound to the Imperium much as its lands had formerly been bound to Norsca; where the northmen had tried to return the rebellious fiefdoms to the fold by force, here I had given loans to prominent businessmen backed by the Iron Bank, opened trade routes, offered scholarships to sons of prominent lords. Half the folk of this land, if the Eyes were to be believed, spoke Common as easily as their native Germanic tongues. And more than that in the noble classes had taken at least part of an Imperial education, especially those merchant families who did business across the border, or between Norsca and the vast lands that marched south to the wash of the Middle Sea.

Yes, a warrior was Fremjur- but this was not an age for wars, not if I could help it. His heavy brow, weighed down by age and a thick golden crown that glittered with precious stones, it would not hold that weight of rulership for much longer. Minutes, in fact. Such had been the agreement hammered out between my lineage and his desires; there would always be a branch of the line of Avarhind in the blood that was mine since decades ago, and the aged king would return to his country estates in peace, and his lands and people would be cared for by the Emperor of All Mankind as if they were his own, for his son would sit upon the throne of Rhone until his ascent at last to the Seat of Steel.

Astrid's pace beside her father's was less measured, less of a warrior's march, more the eager steps of a maiden. Her eyes, as blue as the seas which Norscan wolfships roamed, glittered with a light that made me smile to myself and reach over to take my wife's hand. Tanya stirred from her imperial reverie, sending me a questioning glance, but her question turned in to a smile itself as I gestured subtly with my head towards where Mikhael stood awaiting his bride. Blood of my blood, the passion and excitement in his face had flushed his cheeks near scarlet with joy, and even his coal-black jacket that had been so finely pressed with hot irons the night before seemed almost incapable of imparting the young crown prince with proper decorum. Though his polished jackboots and slate-gray trousers, trimmed with scarlet cord and white, made him the picture of a military officer of the Great Anchor, Mikhael's sheer vitality marked him still a youth, and moreover, a youth very much in love.

It was a good thing. This was a political marriage, by some markers; the history books would look upon it as such, certainly, if they were written by the scholars of my past that now was not. A marriage arranged by the hands of kings to fulfill their ambitions with the lives of their children, to unite kingdoms that otherwise would have been natural foes. But here was what the scribes and historians would not see, a love that I had seen growing since youth, carefully allowed to blossom with avarice and kept away from the poison of politics. And it would bode well for both members of the union, the flaxen-haired Astrid who would one day raise her children in the White Palace, and the son of my son's son, who would rule with a woman who loved him at his side, not a cold empress whose passions had been sacrificed on the altar of ambition.

The march of father and bride reached the end of the path cleared for them through the great hall, and Fremjur stepped up on to the low dais where my party and the groom stood. Fremjur's dress was a curious mix of the influences Rhone found itself subjected to, his trousers much of the cut of an Imperial officer, but his long cloak more of the Norse that lay in his past, his crown set upon a short iron helmet like a raider or trader who plied the waters of the cold black North Sea, not a circlet like that I myself wore and which graced the brow of his soon-to-be son in law.

There were no speeches. A monk of the order of the Furled Rose, who came from an abbey but a short distance south of Harrenhall, spoke a few passages from the Bible as both of those betrothed inclined toward him, passages that exhorted faithfulness in husband and wife, and told of the joy of Christ to see two hearts made one, joined in holy matrimony before the face of our eternal Father. It was in the finest of traditions, a new one, to make all who attended the wedding sure of the faith that joined both man and woman not only to each other, but to their Creator. And then the vows, also simple, which only made my heart grow fuller; there was beauty to commitment, to desire, to choosing a life-partner to live out the ages together with. It was not good that man should be alone, and now Mikhael would never truly be so again, for the blonde beauty at his side would be bonded to him no matter how far apart they should be.

And then it happened.

As the Crown Prince slipped the band of white-gold on to his bride's finger, a flicker of movement in the crowd caught my eye, tearing it away from the climax of the wedding. A man had stepped forward from the crowd, on to the carpeted walkway which Fremjur and Astrid had trod so recently. In slow horror I watched as from beneath his cloak he produced a small crossbow, barely more than a hunting piece, but lethal to an unprotected man. Yes, so lethal.

Ivan saw the crossbow a moment before me, and as my mind struggled to process its presence the leader of my bodyguards was already shouting a warning.

"Weapon!"

The burly Swabian tackled me to the earth as other men in black greatcoats surged in to the room with shouts, making for their principles, but it was too late- with a soft thud-thud that would haunt my dreams for months to come, the crossbow spoke. It was a repeating model, a Rhonish model. Not up to snuff for actual battlefield use if you compared it to those produced in the armories of Kniepper or Himtalas, but it didn't need to be. Three bolts before the mechanism sent one off target. One sailed through the air that the Crown Prince's head had occupied a mere moment before. It would have killed him instantly, if it hit, the lucky shot that killed the heir to the most powerful nation on earth; the other two bolts were less accurate, but no the less impactful to the course of the world.

Fremjur pitched forward on his face, his neck and back pierced by the white-fletched quarrels. The physicians said he died instantly, one of the shots severing his brain stem from his spine, but in my mind it seemed as if his eyes looked towards me in those last moments, their gaze beseeching, betrayed, laying their dying to treachery from one of his own even as I smothered under the bulk of Ivan, loyal Ivan.

Roars of dismay and anger tore from throats across the chamber, and to his credit Mikhael was up in a moment, his sword clear of its ceremonial scabbard and wild murder in his eyes in an instant. Cries of "Death to the Imperial!" and "Men of Rhone will never be slaves!" quickly cut through the confusion as several dozen of the guests drew weapons and tried to elbow their way towards the platform. It was what we had feared, the news Mikhael had brought to me even as we rode for Harrenhall. There were those in the nobility of Rhone who would not accept the deal that had been struck with their king, would not give up their vaunted noble rights to the system of merit and appointment that ruled the Imperium. I had meant to deal fairly with such men, compensate them for their losses, but now my blood ran hot; no, no accommodation. I would have blood for the blood that now stained the dais upon which I stood, the blood of a good man murdered for trying to choose what was best for his people.

Ivan rose, making as if to bundle me towards the rear exit of the hall, but I shrugged off his attempts and locked eyes with him. He had guarded me for most of his life, and almost immediately the Blackguard took my intent, though I saw a barely perceptible sigh pass his lips. Tanya and Adria were quickly surrounded by a sea of black-coated men, heads enclosed in gleaming helmets of soot-streaked Maran steel, blades naked in their hands, but not I. No, I took a crossbow from one of the men who surged forward towards the attackers, and calmly worked the loading mechanism before raising it to my shoulder.

It spoke, ramming back with force as I prised the lever to and fro in rapid succession. One bolt, two bolts, three bolts, four bolts... the tattoo of death was added to by a salvo from those of my men who bore the lethal weapons, glittering wedges of metal burying themselves in the chests, heads, arms of the attackers. Men fell clawing at their eyes, or frothed blood at the mouth as they pushed forward through the press of scattering nobility, lungs suddenly punctured through by the special-issue compact weapons which my elite bodyguards bore.

Then I had to stop firing, for the ring of steel on iron filled the air, and nobles who had loved the good King pressed against the would-be assassins. Not all men would so easily abandon his legacy for personal gain. To the ranks of men in lace drawing their ceremonial shortswords were added warriors of the castle, liveried attendants who with cut and thrust and wordless snarl avenged their employer, and most terrible of all to behold was my grandson. His face was as white as a sheet, but his countenance that of one whose rage could boil the oceans. Fear of death avoided? Terror turned to anger at how close his beloved had come to death? It mattered little. Fighting as a unit with the dour-faced Blackguards that had rushed to his aid, the Crown Prince- nay, King of Rhone, for king he now was- passed through the knot of plotters as a heated blade parts cloth, his face now sprayed with arterial blood as his sword rose and fell, sending miscreants and traitors reeling back with cloven heads or stumps of arms. His Maran steel blade, once a gift to his father by myself, cut through the bog-iron workmanship, as fine as it was, for such was its nature. And beside him Astrid too strode, her face not one of anger, but a mask that said she would personally send all those who had taken her father from her down to the fires where they belonged.

It was over in a matter of minutes, all those who had thought to set themselves up as the rulers of the Kingdom swiftly either slain or captured. Outside the sounds of battle still raged, the clamor of shield and spear and sword. This was a rising carefully planned, armies meant to move against those who would support the transition. But for now I and mine were safe. I passed the crossbow back to its owner, and turned my grim face towards the south.

There would be a reckoning.

[Ulls]

City of Ego,
Land of Ego

It has been twelve years since Ego was built from a weak tribe into a large confederation of warriors with a culture around them. The primitive stone age village became a beacon of civilization in North America. The city was built around mudbrick and wood surrounded by three large walls with each distinct classes that help the confederation. This made the city larger than what was going to be Oconto in the future in both population and size as thousands flock to the capital for commerce, security, or culture.

Many of the important officers and generals of the Night Owl gathered in the palace which had been built where the longhouse use to be. They centered themselves around a wooden table of ornate design as they sat and discuss with their deity about the rebel tribes and the lack of population in their lands left after the Grand Campaign.

The generals were disciplined yet Jeb can feel their zeal for the spirits, ancestors, and the Night Owl made flesh. Jeb gave a sigh but didn't say anything to try and dissuade them from their views. The meetings were mostly of finalizing the state of leadership and administration of the confederation before the Warlord leaves on his voyage to the Land Beyond Hud with the largest fleet that they ever constructed. The Warlord's advisers had express a deep skepticism of the Land despite Ego's main mission to try to reach it for resources that were mystical but all their worries were only "noted" by their leader's belief that the large amount of wood, cloth, and blood will be enough to make a successful expedition.

Within the meeting, Jeb told them with the victories over rebel tribes that they have been able to secure the last amounts of wood, cloth, and clay lanterns to make the voyage that will secure Ego. Jeb also started to explain that there other islands close to the land they were going to sail towards. He called them the Frozen Sisters, which were two islands close to Bay of Hud and west of where they were sailing to the Land. He told the story of legendary warriors of the north by the name of the Norse who settled on the Frozen Sisters in his world as they colonized a part of the land that Ego had settled on and named it Vinland.

He told them that they will be traveling the same way but the main fleet will be heading straight towards the Land. They will stop at the Sisters and build markers for the rest to colonize so that it will be easier for them to get the ships back-and-forth when they do make it. The generals still didn't like the idea to not send an exploration fleet to see if the stories were true but they also knew that their god hasn't let him down and has been right so far as Twilight's Gate sits on the Bay itself.

On the final notes, he assigned his second-in-command, Three-Feathers, to rule over the confederation in his name as he leads the expedition across the sea. The generals nod and gave their prayers to their ancestors and the spirits to the Everworlds as their god is ready to go with the voyage across the sea.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 4, Chapter 3: Blood Paid for Blood

March 9th, 74 AG

Creaking filled the air, ropes straining against precisely engineered confines, lengths of bound twine and reinforced steel voicing their disapproval as their masters unleashed them to do what they had been created to accomplish. In the air over my head black objects rose swiftly as the lever-arms of the catapults hit the apex of their arcs, some scant spans higher than the mounted cavalry. Then the objects fell to earth once more, gravity's tender embrace acting upon them as it does upon all matters of this little planet of brown and blue, and in the serried ranks of the assembled nobles fire burst in its wicked devouring cacophony.

The screams of the dying and burning were not pleasant to hear, as the crying of the crows and carrion-eaters that were all too common a sight in Rhone these days. But I hardened my heart against the pain and suffering the machines of war inflicted; these men were pawns, yes, pawns in a game larger than themselves. Even so, they were pawns which followed their masters' commands, and pawns with hands of steel which could bite yet upon those I held closer to my heart. Every scream was one man maimed or taken out of action who the host that faced them across the plain would not have to pay for in blood and bone, and so a cost well counted despite their obvious agony. Men gasped for breath in pain and filled their lungs with nothing more than burning petrochemicals, and they died as moths to the flame.

These men of Rhone knew nothing of battle-fire. It was well. Soldiers of Fenis might withstand the blast of heat and blazing naphta, as any flesh could be inured to hardship, minds steeled against horror. But here on the northern border of the Imperium, save for those few survivors of the sack of Cansivar that might have made their way in to the service of Lord Paramount Monital and his lackeys, these Norsemen could not conceive of the terror of being set alight, of fire that burned even when it was smothered and beaten at, flames that ate skin and armor with equal appetite.

Those ranks had been uniform, imposing lines of ironclad warriors marching to the melee. Now they shattered with the pounding of the catapults, uneasy men hearing comrades burn like devils and turning back towards the following marching companies to seek safety in the numbers of their fellows. Flesh could only endure so much that the mind was not set against. The forward elements of the army that the rogue nobles had marshalled fell back towards the main host, and that was when I heard the word I had been waiting for.

"Cannons, give fire!"

It was a command that was of great interest to the noble who sat scant yards from me atop his warhorse, and the white-bearded Duke of Parvis leaned forward to observe the conduct of war firsthand. I did not trust him, Lionel of Parvis, but he had been loyal to Fremjur, and now was said to be loyal to Astrid and her husband. By all accounts he was one of the cat's paws that would work to good effect in showing all Rhone the virtue of kneeling to the Imperial Throne. At any rate, here he would at the least observe the folly of resisting the Imperial Will, and my will at that.

The front ranks of the soldiers of black and white opened at even intervals along our lines, and in a matter of moments the guns concealed there spoke. Through the air with the sound of a whining drone the spheres of leaden cast-iron shot whistled, before striking the densely-packed masses of men-at-arms and feudal levies that the reticent nobles had raised. Their effect was not as dramatic as the battle-fire, with its plumes of greasy smoke and flaring doom, but no the less important for its less than showy nature. Cannonballs sheared through men like cloth, armored soldiers who would have thought themselves fairly safe from the weapons of a foe of their own caliber, leaving bloody furrows of broken warriors in their wake. Holes were rent in the infantry formations as if by a divine hand, and they were not filled as quickly as before, men hesitant to march over the maimed bodies of comrades whose brilliant crimson and sickly white bone were all too clear to see.

Yes, these warriors of Rhone were prepared for medieval warfare. Their suits of iron cast against sword and spear, though, did not protect them against the weapons which their foes now wielded. Breastplates might turn crossbows, but they would not resist shot propelled by several pounds of coarse-grain artillery-grade gunpowder.

Behind the infantry, horns sounded. Someone in the ranks of the notables which would be king had realized the danger that was presented by engaging at range with our host. More men did the brigands possess than the Seventh and our allies, who had taken the field first; perhaps they had meant to take the time to assemble their own artillery, after the fashion of warfare they had learned from their betters, and then pound us in to submission. But these water-weak gentlemen had not fought a real war in ten years. And those ten years had meant much to the banner of black and white.

"They will charge." mused Lionel in thickly accented Common, his first words he had spoken in my presence after joining his host to our own. The gray and red banner of Parvis waved away to our left flank, the light infantry there meant to delay any movements in the quadrant so the Seventh Great Company could react. Just because he was taciturn, though, did not mean he was wrong.

The skirmishers came first, loping in open ranks across the field, here and there a cannonball sending a man sprawling in death. They too bore crossbows, an art they had learned from us over the years. But the crossbow was a weapon built for static warfare, for receiving an enemy. Without a proper pavise or screening infantry, to advance with such a weapon was fraught with danger. The infantry driven back in to the host by the catapults might have been such a force, but now the skirmishers came forward without any protection, urged forward by officers on horseback.

Yes, it was fraught with danger. The crossbowmen of the Great Company advanced at barked orders, each paired with a shieldman carrying his pavise and a short sword. Such maneuvers and the swiftness of the reaction of the line officers filled me with pride; five decades ago I had spent day and night devising the strictures and training regimens that had created this army, and now my child was grown up indeed. The lines of fire for the cannons left open, the shieldmen knelt in close lines, and above their heads soon came the crash of bows. It was a volley-fire, I perceived swiftly, meant not to let the foe have an opportunity to fire unmolested, but also with the weight of death and destruction that broke armies.

Soon the skirmishers, the lightly armored hunters and infantrymen bearing crossbows, advanced with their heads down, as if against a strong wind or a driving rain. A rain it was, but not of harmless water; of quarrels shot with lethal intent that all too often found its mark. The rebellious skirmish line melted under that withering fire like a candle before a torch, her main spent even as her own weapons came within range. A few men, desperate or simply stubborn, returned their own bolts and arrows against our lines. Here and there a soldiers in their slate-gray greatcoats or white and black surcoats fell to earth, wounded or dead. But the skirmishers were swiftly enough folded in to the main host, swallowed up like a rivulet before the onrushing tide.

And that main host was now charging.

Their war horns rent the air, brash cries of warriors mixed with battle-yells meant to unnerve the foe, and under it all the rumbling of thousands of feet on earth, punctuated by the steady firing of the cannons. They came on like a wave, faces painted with grease to minimize the glare of the sun, a motley assortment of helmet styles, carefully dyed tunics bearing the colors of their liege-lords, and glittering weapons. No answering cries came from the lines of the Great Company, though from our flanks the auxiliaries bellowed similar war-chants, nerving themselves for combat. No, the Great Company was silent, even the cannons- for there was one more surprise that had yet to be sprung, something which would teach the rebels the error of their ways in a manner so much harsher than that of the schoolmistress.

I leaned over towards Lionel, my tone conversational. "This is where you discover that, in truth, you are fighting on the right side."

He looked at me with a glance that tried to conceal his confusion, but it was not an emotion that lasted long.

As the crossbowmen and their escorts retired back to our lines, and the enemy came within range in their undifferentiated mass, the cannons spoke again, almost together at the tone of overlapping orders. It was a different sound this time, less solid, but the havoc it wrecked on the enemy could not be understated. The true bane of the massed charge; canister shot. As a housewife might sweep away the scraps of her husband's carpentry, so too did the light pounders remove the enemy from the field. Each gun was positioned in our formation so it's shot might overlap with that of the gun next to it, and so the effect was nothing short of devastating.

In an instant the charge was turned to a route, for the enemy army evaporated as if it were smoke and the cannonade the wind. A thousand pieces of shot to every cannon, each capable of turning a man to a cripple or a corpse, all fired simultaneously in their specially designed containers. My describing it as a shotgun would not have meant anything to the people of this world, but they saw clearly enough the effects that gun makers would one day struggle so hard to achieve. I would be surprised if one man in a hundred on the front lines of the enemy charge remained standing, and even those who staggered onwards were mostly wounded. The rest sprawled in various states of ruin, even as their friends scrambled forward over their bodies to get to grips with their foe.

And the guns spoke again. Again the front of the enemy charge disappeared, ten men deep, cut down as wheat before the scythe. Nobody could deny the bravery of these peasants, pulled from farms to fight for their lords, but that was too much for them. The charge petered out, not even the most suicidally foolhardy wishing to be at the front where death was assured. And as was often the case in war, the army that could not go forward had no real choice except for to retreat. And that retreat was pursued by quarrels from the crossbows, who began their bombardment anew, and hastened along by battle-fire falling from the reactivated catapults.

I nodded to Lionel, and then turned to motion for the bannerman to wave the pursuit.

From the rear of our lines, where they had been held in reserve, the cavalry of the Seventh along with the light riders of the Rhonish nobles came forward. Horns blared out the orders, and the ranks of formerly implacable infantrymen bearing the Great Anchor opened, allowing a clean charge between cannon, crossbow, and shield out across the field after the foe. Even fine Maran steeds couldn't carry full knights in armor yet, but the somewhat armored horsemen we had marshaled would serve just as well with the enemy host so thoroughly turned to flight.

Retreat became a rout as lances spitted fleeing peasants, others throwing down their arms in knots and suing for mercy. Mercy they would have this day, for the quarrel of myself and the Imperium was not with them, but with their masters, whose banners had already quit the field even as the charge went awry. For them there would be little mercy. I wondered to myself where those nobles would hide, now that their forces were scattered.

Time would tell.

[Ulls]

Twilight's Gate,
Land of Ego

The longships were ready after years of building and advancing their knowledge of shipbuilding on the Great Lakes. However, Jeb knew that this was a major task and a challenge in of itself. The sailors of Ego never did do open water sailing and, while Jeb had some idea where Greenland was on a map, he never sailed to the country.

This will be the blind leading the blind. He had gotten on the ship and felt hesitant about roaring an oar and trying to locate the Frozen Sister. It was this fear that he decided to leave the majority of the young warriors at home for experienced shipmasters.

Morning Star didn't take that standing as she argued with Jeb but no matter what he said she just got angry. But she also knew that he was truly afraid about sailing. He never wanted to lose a lot of people but he had to show how he was the god made flesh and complete his promise to his people that he boasted years ago.

The small fleet of longships were stocked with supplies, sailors for the oars, and clay lanterns that hanged from the ropes. The primitive sails had the violet image of the Night Owl as the sailors grabbed a oar and heaved against the water.

Captains and Morning Star followed their Warlord but it was a blind travel and Jeb said a silent prayer to his pagan gods as the settlement got ever closer to the horizon.

[Revlona]

Robert
Near modern day Brest
Brittany
Day 1
I was awake, but i was yet to open my eyes, weird, my feather bed is feeling rock hard, opening my eyes i decided i was still dreaming, that is until i stood and tripped over a branch bumping my head, when the pain left i reasoned that my friends must be playing some kind of joke on me, leaving me naked in the forest, I'll just try to find my way to the intersection, though, its oddly quiet.

Day 2
I'm Really starting to freak out, the calm that held me yesterday is gone, I've yet to find the intersection, or any signs of life at all. I picked some berries that looked kind of like blue berries, though im not sure.

Day 5
I stumbled across some houses today, well, you cant really call them houses, they were more like mud huts, there was nobody around but there was some sign of life so I have decided to come back tomorrow. I hope one of these hunters (that's what I've guessed they are though I've heard no gunshots.)

Day 6
I had to run for my life, I went back to the village of huts to still having no one there, so I helped myself to there food and I stole some clothes. I was leaving as there people returned, apparently they where at a gathering of all the local tribes (they where talking about it before they spotted me) and when they spotted me there men charged at me with stone spears attempting to gut me. I luckily got away.

Day 9

I was approached by one of the tribesmen, he invited me to talk to the chief, I asked if they planned to kill me and he swore by his god (called him Guntha) that I wouldn't be touched.
I geuss I'm gonna apologize for stealing.

[Kelmet]

Royal Palace
Valkenheim

The energetic buzz that had inhabited the capital showed no sign of settling since the King announced the Norse peoples great migration to the Isles to the west. It had been ten years since the official announcement and start of this grand project yet so much work still needed to be done, the initial resettlement efforts were difficult as many times ships that were to arrive together to insure a successful settlement ended up miles apart. Now however, with practice experience and coordination from the planned new capital of New Valkenheim (Edinburgh) the settlement effort was stronger than ever but as I sat at a desk in my personal chambers my thoughts drifted back to the night in that imperial chapel after the battle of Cansivar how I felt, the words I had said. I had talked to the members of the Cabal and the high preists of the Norse faith to insure everone was on the same page and I took an ink quill a piece of apartment and began.

Lord Hegemon of the Imperium,

I write you during an eventful time for the Nordic people, since our unorthodox alliance to crush or mutual enemies the Cansivars Norsca and the Imperium have been have been the most prosperous of neighbors and it is my deepest hope that it continues to be that way for decades if not centuries to come.

By the time you have received this letter I would have already left Valkenheim en route to Mara, before you get the wrong impression of my intentions there is something you must know. That night in Cansivar after the night of celebrations I sneaked into your encampment to your chapel and for the first time in a long time I felt a connection to my old life, our old life before all of this and it brought me as close as I could ever get to someone I loved. I took one of your bibles as well, one witch now looks old and worn in my hands now after endless hours of reading.

Victor, I come south to be baptized by your hand in the sight of the citizens of Mara, of the imperium and of god.

Respectfully yours -Monroe

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 5, Chapter 3: The Reckoning of Accounts

April 4th, 74 AG

The stink of misery and fear hung in the air, a cloying scent that revolted the senses of those unaccustomed to it. I was not lucky enough to be one of those people for which it still held mystery; in my years on this sundered earth I had made many hard choices, choices I perhaps would not have juxtaposed in my former life. But fate does not ask men what they would wish. We must only deal with what is, and try to change what will be to give ourselves future more to our liking.

A man in chains thudded up the stairs to the judgement seat, in all likelihood wondering himself if his future might not have been different. If those assassins had been more successful with their shots, if that blasted retinue of the pretender Prince had not been so prepared for trouble, if the dratted Imperials had stayed south where they belonged. Then the old king would have died in peace, his daughter married to some ambitious noble, the rights of the feudal lords preserved for another generation at least.

But those wishes had had other wishers involved in their outcome. And King Fremjur had made his own way in the world, his own provisions for his people to be carried out one day when he passed onwards. It was a shame that those contingencies had been so rudely thrust to the foreground through the actions of the conspirators, but that was the past now. Tragedy could not be undone by revenge, but justice could be dealt, at least earthly justice.

Footsteps sounded as the herald stood forward, a large ceremonial scroll unfurling in his hands as he cleared his throat. It was a matter of pomp and circumstance for the everyday person, but that was how the men of Rhone did such things. Feudalism was founded, in no small part, on appearances. Smoke and mirrors to keep every man and woman convinced of their artificially constructed place, endless indoctrination to hold them there despite any indignities or grievances which would normally cause them to question that posture. Before the dais upon which I sat, the King of Rhone and his Queen beside me, a field of peasants and merchantmen had gathered, their voices a tumultuous cacophony that only slightly abated as trumpet blared shrill in the gathering evening air.

It took several minutes for the burly crier to fully declaim the crimes of which Lord Thrasmar was accused. Treason against the crown and rebellion in arms were the most serious ones, and charges which really could not be disputed. I looked over at Mikhael to find him leaning forward with rapt attention, attention which I assumed to be an act. Training the next generation of House Nemtsov was no small task, and knowing how to look every inch an Emperor at all times was only part and parcel of that education. Next to him his wife did not fare so well, though I doubted she lacked for similar training. The Norscans did not stand on propriety as much as the folk farther south. Something about not having the time for good manners? The cold, no doubt, was to blame. Astrid was not exactly slumped in her high seat, but she did not exactly look as interested as her husband, idly tracing her nails across the small of his back.

Distracted love-birds. I couldn't blame them. It had already been a full day, and by the count I had seen ere ascending to judgement after lunch, we had not dealt with a half of those accused of capital crimes.

At long last the scroll was completely furled, and the crier looked expectantly towards the lord and lady that sat upon the rough-hewn fir platform set slightly above where the swaying Lord Thrasmar stood.

"Lord Thrasmar, you served your King well once. You held his shield wall at the Battle of Jan River, and were accounted his trusted confidante since the foundation of this kingdom. How do you plead to the charges now laid against your person, of plotting regicide and treason?"

Mikhael's voice held what might have been curiosity, sonorous Norse rolling off his tongue as if it was his birthspeech. The lad had a gift for languages, that much was true. But he had also been speaking Norse off and on almost since the days of his entry in to primary school, to the sons of northern notables at court, and to visiting dignitaries; Common shared many words with the tongue and much of its inflections, for the blood of the kindred of Mara and the lineages of the northlands were not far removed.

It was defiance that was visible in the noble's eyes as he raised his head. His cloak was in tatters, stained with mud and blood, even his doublet beneath a display of hardship. The men who had captured him had not been gentle, nor was I really unhappy that they had been so rough. Let the locals see their former notables cast down, their leaders and mighty men spurned in the dirt. The quicker they thought of Rhone as a kingdom that would be better off as part of the glorious and victorious Imperium they had witnessed, the more thoroughly they would one day think of themselves as Imperials, not as the citizens of the short-lived kingdom in the north.

His words were harsh, the braying of crows, and uninventive in my thinking. Putting in time to legitimize these judgements was necessary, though.

"I curse you, southern dog. King Fremjur was a good and fair man, a lover of Rhone and her peoples, before you poisoned his daughter with words of weakness, and his daughter bent his ear towards your master. Yes! The man who sits beside you, the demon-hearted puppeeter who thinks to make the world dance on his strings. It is he who judges me now, though you call yourself King of Rhone. You are a puppet dancing on strings, all of you."

The nobleman spat blood, and I noted that some of his teeth were missing. Not an entirely inaccurate statement. I had never thought to set up my great-grandson with the heir of the Kingdom of Rhone, but neither had I been dissatisfied once the two young people had come together by themselves. Mikhael did not glance towards me, but I knew at times the lad felt disquiet over the fact that he was a very mortal heir to an empire forged by a man who would outlive him. Even now Mikhael by some measures looked older than me; my beard, though carefully trimmed and cultivated to give the appearance of age, was still that of a man in his twenties, as it would be until the day my creator took me home.

But he did not voice those qualms, assuredly not before a murmuring crowd that had only recently begun to think of him as their king, and before a sniveling jumped-up noble whose eloquence was no greater than the two dozen that had met the headsman's axe before him. His voice was hard, a touch of winter in his breath as my progeny pronounced the sentence of the traitorous conspirator.

"Lord Thrasmar, you offer no defense of the charges against you. How do you plead?"

No response, save more defiant glaring. Did they thought men would remember them in the years to come for their feeble gestures? Perhaps. I would, if I had anything to say about it, ensure that the histories contained no traces of their existence save their villainy. Once I had been a scholar of history, devoted to learning as much of the truth as could be obtained from the past. Writing that past, though, had given me new perspective. The future was forged in the control of the past, and that was a weapon I wielded not bluntly or crudely, but with a surgeon's precision.

"Before the light of Our Father, then, I strip you of your titles and your lands, and declare your name attainted. For your crime of treason against the crown, and the commission of the crime of murder, conspiracy to murder, and conspiracy to regicide, your neck shall be hewn with an axe until breath leaves your body and does not return. May the Lord have mercy on your soul."

With those words the man wordlessly snarled, and the baying of the crowd began anew, loud enough to drown out the crier's proclamation of the judgement. The two guards that had accompanied the prisoner- now the condemned man- to the judgement seat now pulled him forward and to the right, where also at an elevated platform the headsman waited. It was a barbaric method of execution, in my opinion, but that was the law of the land. King Fremjur's premature death, prior to the retirement of Vladimir in favor of his son as Emperor, had left Rhone for now an independent polity that just happened to be ruled by the dynasty of her much larger neighbor.

Still, it was quick. At the end they had to drag him to the block, which was common enough. Men, even men with bravery in their veins, commonly faced death with fear. I did too, for that matter, perhaps even more so now that I knew that only violent death could claim me. An eight year old man perhaps accepts death as his fate, knowing that his span of years is filled, and his life run out; I, on the other hand, had been given both the curse and the joy of agelessness. If I died, I lost a future without end (not technically- the odds are good that fate will catch up to me at some point). So I too feared the approach of the end, and as that gleaming heavy axe was raised I knew a moment's panic at the decision to snuff out a life for its actions.

But mercy was not mine to give, even if I would wish it. As the noble's lifeless, headless, limp body tumbled on to the stage, I hardened my heart anew. These men, by their actions, had condemned thousands to death in their pointless rebellion. For every son without a father and wife without a husband there would be justice, and it was not my place to let weakness erode the sword of righteous retribution in her swing. They would have ended the trial, if I had spoken. Such was my power in this world, to bind and loose, to save and slay. But there was a higher power still that I answered to, and justice was His province, not mine.

At the end of the long day I retired to my tent, barely in the mood to eat, to find a missive waiting for me next to my bedside. It bore the wax seal of Norsca, and my tired mind almost sighed internally at being bludgeoned in to continuing to function after witnessing such slaughter and blood steadily throughout the daylight hours. But this was my role as Hegemon, the burden I had taken on myself, partially unknowingly, when I had allowed the good people of Dniepper to set me up as judge over them so long ago.

I opened the envelope with my belt-knife, and read the rolling Norse script.

Lord Hegemon of the Imperium,

I write you during an eventful time for the Nordic people, since our unorthodox alliance to crush or mutual enemies the Cansivars Norsca and the Imperium have been have been the most prosperous of neighbors and it is my deepest hope that it continues to be that way for decades if not centuries to come.

By the time you have received this letter I would have already left Valkenheim en route to Mara, before you get the wrong impression of my intentions there is something you must know. That night in Cansivar after the night of celebrations I sneaked into your encampment to your chapel and for the first time in a long time I felt a connection to my old life, our old life before all of this and it brought me as close as I could ever get to someone I loved. I took one of your bibles as well, one witch now looks old and worn in my hands now after endless hours of reading.

Victor, I come south to be baptized by your hand in the sight of the citizens of Mara, of the imperium and of god.

Respectfully yours -Monroe

A puzzlement, and no mistake. Connor, the sojourner from my own time that had so emphatically rejected the Lord as to lead his people in to iniquity, wished to be baptized in to the faith he had spurned. A marvelous transformation indeed. It caused my heart to sing, and almost it lifted the weariness of the world from my limbs that had sat there unnoticed in the mundane concerns of politics and war. One soul, one life, redeemed, was a triumph of ineffable magnitude by itself- but for the immortal ruler of Norsca to embrace the truth of forgiveness held implications not only for his own salvation, but for that of the uncounted thousands that made their homes in the lands his "dynasty" called their own.

I did not write a reply, save to step out of my tent and speak with Mikhael at length. He would have to carry on here as best he could, which would be well enough I was sure; I was needed in Mara.

[Revlona]

Robert
Near Modern Day Brest
Brittany

Day 52
We raided the Clinsha again, we killed three of there guards and set some of there huts afire, Chief Poto rewarded me for leading the attack, he gave me a new spear with what looked like a bronze spear head. Thanks to my knowledge of military strategy our tribe has been able to incorporate 4 other tribes since i joined. I have been teaching my tribe mates to read and write, I have been carving the letters onto trees for them to learn, and a couple days ago we cam across a ship wrecked on the shore, we found a rough map of the area, i guess i am somewhere in Brittany.

Day 55
There are now almost 4,000 tribe members, there have been calls for a different form of leadership.

Day 60
Chief Poto and his entire family where murdered in there sleep by the Clinsha, factions have already formed vying for control, the biggest two are my own and the former chief of an incorporated tribe.

Day 62 I am now chief, the leader of the other faction disappeared in the night when it became evident he would lose. Since we are in Brittany I am thinking of forming a kingdom, but first the other tribes in Brittany must be incorporated or destroyed.

[Ulls]

Greenland

It had been weeks since they left Twilight's Gate but it had been the most dangerous journey that he had ever done. The waters themselves were turbulent and capsized longships that strayed to far from the fleet. The winds themselves of the Northeast Passage ripped through sails and tossed ships against each other and into moving icebergs. Others couldn't have make it because they got weak and stayed in the middle of the sea where others could pick them up.

In the grand total, 40% of the fleet was lost before they reached the landmass. Jeb cursed to himself for being so unprepared and blind to the sea but he did make it to Greenland. The longships were perched on the land and they explored the frozen landscape. Jeb told the stories of his world that Vikings would use this landmass to explore around the closeby lands and that this was the stronger, more brutal of the Frozen Sisters. When Morning Star asked what was the name of this landmass, he decided to rename Greenland into Esweld, which is the warrior of the Frozen Sisters and the hearty sailor.

Jeb told the men to build a totem and mark this on their map as a place for colonization as they sailed back home.

[The Orson Empire]

Tulsa, Oklahoma

Turner Jackson had been deep in sleep in his bed, resting comfortably after arriving home from his job in fast food. It had been a particularly long and unusually busy day; he worked at a rather slow location, but today, it was filled to the brim with so many customers hour-after-hour. Though he did not know it yet, the day was about to become much stranger. After finally arriving home, he was so tired that he collapsed straight onto his bed, not even bothering to take off his work uniform. Turner figured he would wake up later and change into some more comfortable clothes and just relax; lucky for him, his next day off was tomorrow, so he did not worry about having to get up early for work. However, Turner did not wake up in his apartment; for all he knew, he was no longer even in his home city of Tulsa.

Banks of the Octono River, City of Ego

In his sleep, Turner could feel himself inhaling water and gasping for air, as if he were drowning. Finally, he jerked up and opened his eyes, seeing that somehow, he was underwater. Had he passed out in the shower and not even known it? Was the water still running?! As question-after-question ran through Turner's mind, he panicked and jerked his head out of the water. He coughed violently, spitting out the water that he had inhaled, and collapsed on the ground. His eyes were blurry, and he was missing his eyeglasses, but he could still see that he was not even in his bathroom- he was outside, on the banks of some river.

Turner began to panic even more. He was completely naked, and more importantly, freezing. The water and the air alike were ice-cold, and Turner was certain that he would freeze to death if he didn't find shelter soon. As his eyes finally began to clear up, he saw his glasses, miraculously in the dirt to his left. His glasses had came along, but his clothes were bizarrely gone.

Have I been kidnapped? Has my apartment been robbed? What the fuck is this?!

These questions continued to race through Turner's mind at a rapid pace, even as he tried to calm himself down and think logically about his situation...that is, until he turned around.

Behind him was what appeared to be an ancient, large city, filled with various buildings (some of which he identified to be longhouses), along with nearby walls made of mudbrick and wood. Turner couldn't even stop to think right now- he simply acted, out of curiosity and the desire to quickly find shelter to avoid an icy death.

He wandered through the city for what felt like hours to his delirious mind. All around him, people (who he identified to be Native Americans) simply watched, some in disgust and some in curiosity at this dark-skinned foreigner.

Turner began to consider that he had somehow been sent back in time. It certainly wasn't Tulsa in ancient times, as this city clearly had fully developed fortifications and an advanced civilization. Turner even began to consider that he had ended up in Cahokia, a pre-Columbian city near St. Louis, but the river Turner had almost drowned in was too small to be the Mississippi. Even weirder was the fact that he could understand what everyone was saying around him, as if he was fully fluent in whatever language this was.

Eventually, Turner was finally overcome by a mixture of exhaustion and hypothermia. He collapsed near a large palace in the city center, right in the middle of the road. A crowd began to gather around him, believing that he was dead.

[Ulls]

City of Ego

The people were gathering around the body of the foreigner. The guards came through and quickly disperse the crowd while they look over the body.

" Someone get the adviser and the healers." A guard ordered another.

After a few minutes the boy was carried to a large wooden building that had a number of healers that were tending to small local sicknesses and some injured. One of them took Turner and put him on a cot where they started to examine him.

" He is a strong one," the healer examined him," water had gotten to his body and he is cold. Warm blankets by a fire and some soup will restore his soul."

The healer grabbed the glasses," I wonder what this trinket is?"

The adviser grabs it," it was on his face, we should leave him be. When he do wake up then send him to the palace."

The healer bows and she walks to one of her slaves.

" Send message to the Warlord when the fleet lands in Twilight's Gate, he would want to see to this personally."

[Revlona]

Robert
Brittany

Day 225
We stood facing each other, my warriors of the Brittany Tribe,Some 1,000 brave souls, and the warriors of the Franc Tribe, 500 in all.
I had demanded there allegiance but they had refused, we met on some barren field in Brittany, it was my first true battle.

Battle Of The Bloody Field
The battle of the bloody field was a battle between the Brittany Tribe (Later called the Kingdom of Brittany) and the Franc Tribe. The numbers of this great battle are sometimes exaggerated but most historians agree that the Brittaninic numbered at least 1,000, while the Francs numbered half that.
The first blood was spilt when Robert chieftain of the Brittany tribe led a charge to the center of the Franc lines killing a few dozen before falling back, this tactic continued for several hours though it was mostly a failure since these warriors where undisciplined, before any more attempted skirmishes could happen the Francs surprised the Brittans in a last ditch effort charge, there plan was to kill Robert leaving the Brittany tribe leaderless. The plan was destined to fail from the start, Jean, right hand of Robert broke the right flank of the Francs during the pitched battle that followed there mad charge, and to destinies obvious amusement, Robert and the Chieftain of the Francs Yoku met face to face,both wielding bronze spears and wicker witness reports tell us that there duel was quick and to the point when Robert rammed his Bronze spear through the wicker shield of yoku mortally wounding him. Yoku lived long enough to surrender his tribe to the Brittany Tribe.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 6, Chapter 3: Waves against Stone

April 7th, 74 AG

Drumming impeded my thoughts, the click-clatter of aligned wheels against forged steel. With every tie that bumped along the ribbons of metal headed south, the carriage I was in swayed slightly up and down. Mass produced they might be, to save on labor, but the railroads here out at the far ends of civilization could hardly be thought of as comfortable. Still, it could have been worse; my personal coach, laid on for the transit back to Mara, had better suspension than most. The wounded men and soldiers being rotated out of the line were doubtless having a less comfortable journey than I, though much swifter and more restful than marching the long leagues to Sindral would have been otherwise.

I sighed internally looking at the sheaves of correspondence that were piled neatly next to my traveling desk. It was at my own request that I was kept up to speed on the affairs of the Imperium, I supposed, but it still became a chore some days. As committed to my task as I was, the one set before me by the Almighty, at the end of the day I was only human.

For the moment I resisted the delight of the mail, leaning over to peck Tanya on the cheek. Her eyes fluttered up in amusement from her sewing, and my wife smiled. As pretty as the day I had placed that band of burnished white-gold on her finger, I reflected, a virtue of the boon granted us by the one who had sent me here to trouble her and the rest of the ancient world. My eyes must have betrayed some of my thoughts, for that raven-haired beauty stopped her treadle for a few moments, leaning in to my chest and making a proper essay of that kiss.

As her lips broke away from mine, her purring voice had amusement in it.

"Why so distracted, mighty and puissant Hegemon?

I laughed. Tanya never failed to make that title feel ridiculous, but then again, she had known me since I was a humble guard captain in a backwater trading town.

"Truth be told my love, some days I wonder at the immensity of the task before me. Today, for instance, I counted the amount of letters I have to read." I gestured toward the pile.

"Spoiler alert: the number is over three dozen."

My wife slyly snuck a hand inside the buttons of my shirt, playing idly with the hair on my chest. It was distracting, more distracting than she normally was.

"I have always believed in your vision, Viktor. So do you; that's why all these documents are here even when we are out at the end of the world, so you can keep abreast with the doings of the polity you have created." She waved her free hand around the train car, indicating the rolling machine and the countryside that was spinning past. "You did all this, from a beginning of a man who could make a bronze plow. Your hands hold the reigns of mankind, and you are leading us to a brighter future."

It was a heady thought, and I smiled at Tanya, kissing her alabaster face before turning back to my missives. Next to me the whirring of the treadle resumed, my charming wife working at a bit of embroidery for her great-grand daughter's birthday. I drew a small penknife from the inner pocket of my shirt, and set to work.

Admiral Hrorin reported that his fleet was putting to sea against the Barabaton pirates. That was good news indeed. The remnants of the land of Fenis had troubled the coastlands of Italia for a generation, burning and pillaging and selling slaves along the North African coast to barbarous traders. It would not be an easy battle, without a doubt, but with heavy carracks and siphon-ships brought west from the more placid waters of the Ionian, the Emperor thought his chances of triumph worth the risk. The corsairs could deploy only numbers, and burning their foremost ports to the ground would be a great boon to the ease of trade in the Western Mediterranean (or as the folk of this timeline were wont to call it, the Middle Sea).

There was also a missive from the Explorators Guild, telling me of the sailing of the Southstar and her entourage as of the last day of May. That was one of the pet projects I had been working on, gathering worthy men on the shores of Thrace to map the eastern Mediterranean coast and establish outposts there. It had required no small amount of capital to provision and supply the thirty ships that would sail, but now during the calm seasons of summer they stood the best chance of reaching the Levant and Egypt beyond unscathed.

Other matters crossed my eyes as I read; steel production figures, miles of track laid through the Alps, cotton production figures from Greece, even a report of some Scythian cotton entering the eastern markets, a point of some surprise for the Agrimaester-General. But most of the mail was just routine updates, relocation reports from the Ministry of Nations, even accounts of the colonization up the River Rhine from the south. Most of it I merely skimmed, noting in my mind the implications of the updates, before consigning to the flames or passing to Tanya. My wife liked to stay abreast of the news, but I knew what would interest her and what would not.

Eventually, the day's missives dealt with, and my spirit not quite up to writing replies, my mind began to wander again. The conversion of the king of Norsca held much detail in its nuances; the penetration of Imperial culture even in to the cold northlands was now beginning to gather pace, as I had predicted it would many times to my grandson. As the ocean wears away even the hardest stone, the sheer numbers of men devoted to Almighty God had their own impact on the world. To avoid the preaching of the Gospel, the ideas of fealty and prosperity, of moral virtue, was impossible. With every year that passed the folk of Norsca became more like akin to the folk that lived beneath the Great Anchor, and thus civilization advanced while barbarism decreased. In time, indeed even now, the people that served the Monroe Dynasty saw how the one true God had blessed the Imperium and her Emperor.

The Ministry of Relocation had reported an uptick in the number of Norscans crossing the border to seek homes in the cities of the north. Feudal serfs and peasants for the most part, either released from their lands as freemen or fleeing under the cover of night, they did not have great value to Imperial society save as unskilled laborers. But making a wage was a novel experience to most, and the sprawling factories and shipyards of the Germanic north coast had plenty of demand for hands willing to work hard- in time they would come to love the land they had come to, appreciate the sturdy homes, security, and opportunities for a better life their children possessed. In equal measure, the Ministry noted with interest that the number of landed Imperials passing north over the border was rising too; artisans and craftsmen were certainly known in Norsca, but the simple truth was that many of their techniques seemed rudimentary to academy-educated men or those accustomed to the division of labor that existed in Imperial society. In some ways this worried me, for with that flow of craftsmen came ideas that had sprung from my own mind in past years, things like the sawmill and the lathe, innovations which would over time make Norsca more competitive with the Imperium economically- aye, even militarily. But good Christians and mostly still loyal Imperials, hmm, there were possibilities there. Rhone had once been part of the Northlands, until her folk thought to be otherwise. I fell in to contemplation of the future as Tanya's treadle whirred away, a comforting back-rhythm to my pondering mind. Thus we passed pleasantly south, perhaps along the same route the young Connor had taken not too long ago.

[Revlona]

Robert
Brittany

Day 228
We have gathered the dead from both sides, 372 in all, most come from the Francs but 121 come from us, we expect more to die in the coming days from there wounds. We built a giant Pyre which the dead where burned at, i went along with the rituals laid out by the healers. The weapons where gathered, a mixture of stone,copper,and bronze spears. They where put into the hands of the next generation of warriors, the remaining Franc warriors have sworn there allegiance to me, though rather grudgingly. I have instructed my warriors to learn a more disciplined fighting style and for my builders to make thicker shield capped with copper or bronze.

Day 229
There was a gathering of the women who's husbands died (both Francs and brittans) they comforted each other after losing there husbands and they asked me to find a more peaceful way of incorporating other tribes. A man was brought in front of me today, one of my warriors caught him speaking ill of me and requested that i give him permission to cut out his tongue, instead i preached to him and several of the village chieftains under me bout the ideal of free speech and ordered them to preach it to there people. Some looked more excited than others but all did as i said.

Day 231
The first schools have been built in my capital village of Brest. The children age 5-16 are required to attend where they will learn things from reading and writing to battle strategy. Boys age 14 and up will learn the ways of the spear from the Elite warriors who are my body guards.

[The Orson Empire]

City of Ego

Hours had passed since Turner passed out. His dreams were bizarre, filled with vibrant and weird hallucinations, not unlike a near-death experience of someone on the verge of dying. Despite being exposed to the icy conditions outside for a considerable amount of time, Turner was strong and he survived. He gradually awoke from his coma, while at the same time not remembering anything that had happened earlier. For all he knew, Turner was still in his apartment, and it was just a nightmare.

No...this is far too real to be a dream, Turner thought as he finally opened his eyes. Even though his vision was blurry, he knew he was not in his apartment- he was in some wooden building. He was laying on a rather uncomfortable cot near a fire, and covered in blankets. He saw several people standing around him, dressed in weird clothing.

"What the hell...is going on here..." Turner said weakly. He wondered if he had been kidnapped, or if this was just some sort of sick joke.

He gazed around, still delirious and tired. He touched his eyes and realized that he was missing his glasses.

"Where are my glasses? Did...one of you take them?" he asked.

[Holy Tedalonia]

November 21st, 74 AG
Ted sat on a rock along the river. The air was cold and bitter, and the wind pierced through Teds armor. He sat there thinking about home. He yearned to go there, but the ocean divide him from his home sits in his way tauntingly. How easy was it to get to Europe! Ted thought, now if only I can get out...

As Ted pondered deeply on how he'll get to America, one of his soldiers walks up to him and says, "sir it's about time for the patrols. I'm about to prepare the horses you should to."
"Yeah, your right thank you lieutenant Rusov," said Ted as he got up and stretched.
"You don't typically like the cold air Ted, something wrong?" Rusov asked starting to head to the camp.
"Thinking about home. I haven't been there in a long while," Ted responded follow Rusov.
"Hm, I guess that what happens when you join the military... well, I'll see you when your done," Rusov said as he ran off to prepare the horses. Ted walked into his tent and opened up the container holding his weapons. He grabbed his crossbow and his copper spear. Even though spears aren't standard equipment Ted preferred to have the extra defense. It also held emotional value. After that he quickly joined up with his company.
Teds other lieutenant greeted him, "Ted what took you so long? We've been waiting forever!"
"Oh stop it, Kielev. You shouldn't complain when I'm only 2 minutes early," said Ted, and he looked around.
Seeing that everyone was there he shouted, "ok men, let's saddle up!"

After everybody got into there horses and started patroling, Ted started thinking about the men who fought for him back when the imperium was expanding into Italy. How they were willing to fight for him to defend their lands, but he failed to defeat their enemies. Looking back it seemed almost impossible to even injure the Imperium, and only in situations that was in their favor they were able to kill Imperium soldiers. Now the Imperium holds Italy and rebellion seems impossible. Either by fear or joy Italy is shackled against the empire. Enslaved to the rest of its days unless something's done.

Seeing figures in the distance forced Ted to stop thinking on the past and focus. His lieutenant’s flanked him, and he gave orders, “Rusov, you to grab your platoon and focus on the right flank if things get out of hand I want you to wrap around and hit them in the back, and Kielev I want you to do the same, but on the left. I'm going to approach them with the final platoon and try and talk. They nodded and rode to their squads as the approach the distant figures.

As they got close the figures revealed to be some tribal people crossing into the Imperiums territory, there appeared to be no woman present, and since traders typically pop up on the east side of scythia it was likely they came to raid.

Ted’s company approached them they instantly readied their spears. Ted spoke aloud, “Men of the North why have you come here? You know raiding the Imperium will do you little good in the long run. You should head back while you can.”

A old man walks forward. Obviously being the leader he spoke, “Go back you say, after you chase us out of home and home again? When will you stop expand I mustered this small force of people so the imperium can think twice about exspanding!”

“Look don't be rash, or you'll end up getting yourself killed…” said Ted.

Before the old man could respond one of his warriors lunges forward, and one of Ted’s soldiers shoot him, then to avenge their comrade the rest charge at us. Being very close it could be dangerous, so Ted orders his men to fall back. As they retreat, his lieutenants wrap around and start shooting the enemy. Each man shot his crossbow repeatedly pelting the tribesmen one by one. Teds squad quickly turned around to began shooting too now that they had distance. It didn't take long before the deaths took the bravery out of the men, and started running. Ted’s men who had been engaged in battle were ready to chase the stragglers, but Ted told them to hold fire.

They of course were use to this and held their fire knowing that their commander wished for no more bloodshed. The casualties on the enemy side were heavy while there were no casualties for the Imperium, since their technology was superior, he knew that the raiders had no chance. He knew this was not how battles are supposed to work and sometimes he will have to not give the enemies the option of retreat, but if he can spare lives as he went up the ranks he would gladly take that chance.

[Ulls]

City of Ego

Hours had passed since Turner passed out. His dreams were bizarre, filled with vibrant and weird hallucinations, not unlike a near-death experience of someone on the verge of dying. Despite being exposed to the icy conditions outside for a considerable amount of time, Turner was strong and he survived. He gradually awoke from his coma, while at the same time not remembering anything that had happened earlier. For all he knew, Turner was still in his apartment, and it was just a nightmare.

No...this is far too real to be a dream, Turner thought as he finally opened his eyes. Even though his vision was blurry, he knew he was not in his apartment- he was in some wooden building. He was laying on a rather uncomfortable cot near a fire, and covered in blankets. He saw several people standing around him, dressed in weird clothing.

"What the hell...is going on here..." Turner said weakly. He wondered if he had been kidnapped, or if this was just some sort of sick joke.

He gazed around, still delirious and tired. He touched his eyes and realized that he was missing his glasses.

"Where are my glasses? Did...one of you take them?" he asked.

One of the healers rushed to the small wooden table and got the young man's glasses.

" Here is your trinket," she handed to him," it is a strange one, never seen anything like it."

Another of the healers rushed out to the palace while the another brought some clothes.

" Here are some clothes, it would fit you better than having nothing on."

[Aidannadia]

Fox

Cold. Wet. My eyes- I can see the surface. I beat my arms and legs, desperately trying to break through to the surface.

I wipe my face, maintaining a drift at the top of the river. Where-where am I? I cough a few times, slightly faltering a moment. It's wet. The water is warmer near the top here, like a bathwater, but it's flowing. There's a definite current. I continue investigating, noticing that I was floating on a river.

I swim my way to shore, and rest on the riverbank, slightly dazed and immensely confused. "I don't understand. I was just in bed- No, there was something different this time. It was like rising, and then falling.... Did I die?" I look down at my palms, soft and pink in the sunlight, contemplating my mortality for a moment. The sun begins to beat down on my skin, and I can almost feel a burn coming on.

I'm in shock. I need to find shade nearby, and figure out where I am. As I stand up, I notice a small breeze caress my-

"Oh my god, I'm naked right now. Christ." I cover myself with my hands, and look around, happy to find no one in my vicinity. In this moment, I finally realize I'm at a point where two very large rivers meet. "I suppose that's useful but I'm definitely not near Cape Girardeau in Cairo, Missouri. Hell, for all I know, I'm in Cairo, Egypt." I joked, knowing all too well that Cairo was much more near the Mediterranean; judging from the position of the sun, the desert region is to the north, while there seemed be more green to the south. The problem was that the river was flowing into the desert itself. This made for complications, for it actually did follow the pattern of the nile, and it made for navigating the river to be more difficult as previously anticipated, as following the current would mean potentially going through a large desert.

The area to the South was his only option. Perhaps I could stay in the area and signal a passing plane with rock patterns in the hard earth below.... That would have to wait though. I need clothes and shelter for the night. At the very least, I need a fire.

---

It has been a few weeks now. I've found some of the natives, whom for some reason I can speak to. They don't speak much, but I can now confirm that I'm somewhere in Africa, probably at near the confluence of the Nile. I know this because.... well, they explained it to me. Apparently, there are some cities downriver that the people here avoid, seemingly because of their slaving culture there. That doesn't sound like modern Egypt at all, but they do not speak of pyramids or of a large civilization all across the river, but isolated hubs of agriculture that trade with one another.

I have been contemplating my presence here; What I should be doing, what I shouldn't do... My very presence here is dangerous close to colonialism, and I don't want to continue that trend to a people that have suffered from foreign rule, if not before than what would have been centuries from now. I hesitate to show them anything beyond basic tools, such as pump drills for fire, removable heads to spears, etc. I know a bit about this stuff, but the issue is that there isn't much to farm in the area, and so I have not told them of how to engage in the practice. I think I may explain to them soon who I am exactly, but I am fearful for what lies ahead. This world doesn't make sense to me anymore.

---

I've taught them that the food from the city-states is good to raid and harvest; The actual fields are hardly protected and during the night, we slip in and steal their grains. We've been watching them for a while now, studying how they use the grain, but we're still not sure what to do. They don't seem to mind their life thus far, and have no large need for such a practice, even if I have a personal interest in it.

In the meantime, I have created a small, shabbily built cottage for myself, in which the others took interest. I've begun using small pottery, again, shoddily crafted, to carry water to my home for boiling, tending to a small garden that includes Egyptian grains. The natives think I'm some sort of madman with my practices, but I explain to them that this is how thing are done in my land.

---

Some of the former tribes here have decided to emulate on my designs, even improving on my shoddy craftsman shift. We live just south of where the rivers meet, and share our resources where we can. Together, we've been able to develop a good, permanent area to live for the time being. Some of the pastoral nomads have asked me to help them with keeping the animals nearby, so I've shown them a general idea behind a fence. In fact, they've taken to stacking rocks with mud between, then charring the mud so that it hardens, leaving a crude fence and wall.

I've incorporated this practice into my own home. Additionally, it seems a good portion of the tribe has followed suit and grouped up. We grow weary however- it will nto be long before someone comes up the river with ill intent. Perhaps I should work with our weapons crafters to see if we can design some sort of forge. I know it's a very specific ventilation pattern that's needed, so we'll start some design soon hopefully.

[The Olog-Hai]

Abraham Meyer
Franklin
Unknown date

Ten years. Give or take a few. That's if his calculations were correct, if he had remembered to mark down every day, if every mark hadn't faded, if he didn't miss a day or two. Abraham felt like it couldn't have been. Ten whole years. It really had to have been that long, no matter how much he refused to believe it. It felt like it was only yesterday he had landed in this place, yesterday that these people had adopted him in. But, gazing out at the people of this tribe, his people now, he could see just how far they'd come.

It was honestly truly amazing what sort of difference his knowledge, primitive society, and about a decade of time could make. The tribe was large enough he'd almost call it a town, definitely a village, It was a long way from the small group of tents, struggling to stay alive, that he'd encountered during his first days in this new, yet old, land. That was another thing. He was certain this was New Jersey, he'd mapped out what he could very carefully, and it had the same general shape. But there was nothing here, other than the scattered tribes. Something was definitely up. Whether this was some sort of military simulation he had unknowingly been transported into, or that he had actually traveled back in time, he couldn't say. But what he was able to determine that these people were the predecessors to some of the Native Americans that were among the first to encounter the Europeans. Perhaps not his tribe would have been, not before he intervened, and brought them into a position of power.

A small fishing village to a burgeoning town. Who would have thought. It was pretty easily, to be honest. Those who had sought to steal the fish of the tribe, which was their lifeblood, had no reason to expect anyone to resist, much less resist with tactics like Abraham had employed. It had been basic stuff, to him, but to these Neolithic people it was something they had never seen before. Needless to say, using both his large height and superior tactics, and even superior weaponry from stuff he was able to cobble together from vines and wood, such as a bolas, he was able to beat them back. They learned from this, but so did he, and he grew in strength, so that he was able to match them. Over time, people from other tribes came to join them, hearing of their success and they quickly grew. Many things had happened in the meantime, but here he was.

Abraham gazed out upon his tribe. Well, it wasn't his tribe per se. Technically, he was only an adviser to the chief. But the last time time the chief hadn't listened to one of his carefully worded suggestions was nearly a decade ago. The chief had learned to trust him. However, he was growing old, and soon his son would take over, for better or for worse. That was another thing. As far as Abraham could tell, he hadn't aged at all. He should be 28 now, and with his genetics he should be going gray, but he hadn't. Not one bit. Except for the gray streak he'd had at the back of his head for a while, his hair was the same color. There were no signs of aging on his face. But those thoughts are for another time, back to making sure everything works as it should in the town.

The new palisade was under construction. Good. This was the first he hadn't had to participate in the build of, as these people had finally gotten the grasp of it. The town had a series of palisades, each corresponding to the major expansions of the tribe's settlement. No, he needed a new name for it. Tribe implied something small. This was... bigger than that. Almost a city-state, he'd say. There was an extra palisade, beyond each of the expansions, creating an area similar to the inner keep of medieval castles. This was where the chief and his extended family resided, in a series of wooden houses. Most of the houses in the settlement were made of wood, and because of the risk of fire, Abraham made sure than any fires had to be made in a designated area outside of the town, and a safe distance away. Additionally there was a large clearing in the woods around the town to make sure no fire started in those woods traveled into the town, and in each building there was a bucket of water to stop any minor fires that may occur.

It is to this clearing outside of town that his attention is drawn, for this is where his workshop lies. He had better go down there and make sure his latest attempt at successfully smelting iron was going as planned. He had a pair of assistants that he had been training, but they were too young to work the makeshift forge yet, so he had another tribesman doing the work for them. He wasn't the brightest, in fact no one in this tribe was particularly bright, so he required Abraham's supervision sometimes. As he watched, a fire sprang up and engulfed the building. Quickly three screaming tribesmen ran out of it. And this was why he built the workshop outside of town. Setbacks like these. Abraham sighed, and headed down to his workshop, to recover what he could from the mess.

[Ulls]

Twilight's Gate,
Land of Ego

The time to get back to Twilight's Gate was better than going to Greenland. The sailors were met with warm hugs and cheers as their Night Owl was met with worship and escort to a temple bed. At night he got up and chatted with Morning Star with what he had learned about the sea and the lack of knowledge that the sailors have about the open water. He was going to make Twilight's Gate home to a school and open forum of naval study. It would used similar to the schools in Ego for use of the study of warfare and shamanistic study and medicine.

It would be a large project since the great undertaking of naval maneuvering will be one of the most important obstacles in Ego's path. Sailors form the settlement and Third Thunder will also be able to meet one another and exchange ideas. Though he also was thinking of exploring to the East Coast of America to Plymouth, which can help him see if anyone was there. When he was talking, a messenger came from the capital and explained that Parahoutan needed him with personal business.

Cocking his sideways he looked at his adoptive daughter and she looked backed when they heard the report of a dark-skinned naked man with a trinket on his face came running through the city. Jeb's eyes widened at the reports as his mind was racing thoughts that he hadn't had in a decade. He quickly got up and got his gear and his wolf as he marched to Ego to see for himself. If he was right then this is something that he must attend to personally.