Gaea, Songs of Yuletide (IC) REBOOT

[Imperialisium]

OOC

The World is changed; From the Northern Wastes to the Blasted Deserts of the South, to the never ending plains of the East, and the West---the boundless Ocean; The Old Order is fading. The realms of old that survived the Century of Chaos are but shadows of their former selves. Yet, as the Invaders seem to recede from the lands of the Continent, the darkness has not left with them. Monsters, demons, and all manner of creature haunt the lands of Man, Elf, and Dwarf alike. Pogroms by day, pyres by night.-Alberecht vas Settinghof, Professor at the Imperial College of Regensheim.


Late February, 779 AL, Old Forest

The jingling of chainmail and the compacting sound of snow under foot rhythmically sounded along the gapes in the trees. The column of men walked through the white snow, leaving a path in their wake, as they trudged onwards in an easterly direction. The cold morning daylight broke through the tree boughs as they moved ever onward. The air only broken by their personal conversations. In the middle of the column, a young man, aged no more than sixteen. Marched with spear resting on his right shoulder. Shield held in his left hand. The weight of his helmet pressed on his brow. the man next to him, middle aged and sporting a great brown moustache, muttered, "We've been out here for a damn week. Found horseshit." Indeed, they had been patrolling the woods for a whole week as they hunted for brigands, and remnants of the Frostling invasion years prior, for a few still haunt the Northern reaches of the Empire.

Behind them another soldier muttered, "I think my balls froze an hour ago." Laughs abounded as the men's spirits lifted at these small remarks. The chirping of song birds providing a natural orchestra to their passing. The column continued onwards until they reached a small clearing. The lead man with white feathers pluming his helmet turned around and shouted to set up camp. The men broke ranks to do just that. They needed a break, a day to recuperate their strength, and forage teams would be sent out as soon as an organized camp had been set up.

"Has it got colder?" the young man spoke through gritted teeth, "Dietman!" The older man turned around and exhaled. His breath came out in a great vapor. "Aye, it has Erik." Some of the men began to mutter about the cold too. Something was off about this place. Not a bird chirp, not a rustle of rabbits, nothing. It had all gone dead quiet. "Oi, where the hell did the birds go?" said another soldier. It was then some of the figures that had been at the back of the column. Wearing half-plate with their armor emblazoned with a star wreathed in flame began to move outward as if to investigate.

Thunk.

White arrows erupted from the woods. "TO ARMS!" The men broke into action as they drew steal, angled their spears, or raised shields. Moving to the man with the white plumage they formed a rough circle with shields raised like a turtle. "Steady men, steady!" The men with the with the star-a-flame insignia remained where they stood. Any arrow that struck simply glanced off of their heavily armored forms. Only taking slow steps back to be closer to the formation of men. The thudding of arrowheads, vibrating hafts, as they sank into the snow about the men being the only sound. A whistling danger.

Silence.

Erik looked to the left and right, then he saw them, moving from the trees like wraiths. Their blue-white flesh and cold eyes. They where surrounded by at least a dozen of the things. They had far greater numbers but still fear gripped many a man's heart. "COMPANY READY!" Erik and the rest of the men readied their weapons. Spears forming a hedge of steel and swords rasping out of their sheaths.

Shrill cries erupted from the woods as out of the gloom came dozens if not hundreds of ghastly sights. Rotten bones, yellow teeth, decaying flesh, tattered muscles. The horde of the dead came. The warriors of the flaming star lifted their weapons in answer, "THE GODS ARE WITH US!" Erik saw one swing his battle axe in a swift over the head swing. Shattering a zombie's skull. The dead still came. Crashing into the ranks of the living. The men chopped, slashed, and stabbed with their weapons. The dead pressing in around them. The man next to Erik stabbed his spear into a zombie's chest, driving it to the ground, and with a cry drew his knife. Getting down on his knees the man met the horror. A dead child, her long matted hair made her out to have been a girl, no more than eight years old. The knife sunk into her exposed skull and her body fell onto the white ground. A white ground becoming covered in death and gore. Erik thrust his spear out, catching a zombie in the side of the face, yet it still came. A sword from Erik's right lashed out, decapitating the abomination, putting that lost soul to rest.

That was when they came. Silent and deadly. Like hunters stalking prey. Engaging the warriors of the Starlight Flame. Their duels where fierce and deadly. These warriors had trained for years to fight this enemy, and the Frostlings only cared that the living join the ranks of their undead minions. The battle carried on with each Frostling slain being matched by a warrior of the Starlight Flame joining the after life. The dead still came. Undead and freshly dying falling unto the virgin snow. Only to rise again, and be put down by their former comrades, it was merciless. Erik jabbed, blocked, and stabbed for what seemed to be hours as the company held their circle against the abominations. But for how long can they hold. A zombie lunged and he felt something heavy hit his side as he momentarily exposed himself to lunge at another zombie.

Blackness

Erik awoke. A pain in his side. "Oi, this one's still alive." A pair of hands grabbed him, hauling him up, frozen blood covered his face. It was Dietmold and a warrior of the Starlight Flame, Heinrici from some southern city Erik thought, and he blinked twice. "Took a Warhammer in his side he did." It was then Erik felt the pain his side flare up. He grimaced through his teeth. "Boy's lucky he didn't get mauled while on the ground." Dietmold's reply was plain, "Boy's lucky he didn't see the last of it. He'll be screaming during the nights as is now."

Hardly ever did a man come from battle, from war, from such horror without bearing permanent scars. Erik still remembered his father, back on the farm under the eves of the Great Forest, crying as the sound of metal striking metal. Such was the dreadful memories he bore from his own time.

Palan's Landing, March 779, The Present

Burn

Chime

Burn

Chime

Burn!

The chanting grew louder as the cart trundled along the flagstones. A young woman, brunette, no more than twenty years of age wore iron manacles in the cage fitted to the wooden wagon. She was dirty. Her face covered in grime and dirt. Her hair matted and wild. Her skin deathly pale. The sunlight strike her with a wince from her young visage. A pair of mounted, mail girded, guardsmen followed on brown steeds. The crowd lined the winding path to Coin-Counter's Square. One of the largest city squares in Palan's Landing. Their fists where in the air as they chanted. The wagon trundled by. A middle aged woman ran up and hawked spit at the woman in the cage. The yellowish glob of mucus and spittle striking her hair and face. She gasped. The crowd roared with approval. The wagon kept going.

Moving under a low foot bridge that ran above the cobblestone street the wagon pulled into the square. The crowd packed every inch of it except for a small path held apart by patrolling constables. The wagon turned and abruptly stopped. The guards dismounted and drew back the bolt fastening the cage. The young woman kicked and screams as they hauled on her chains. Dragging her from the cage and she fell down the steps ungainly. Hauling her up by the neck and arms they dragged her along the path. She kicked and shrieked, trying to lash out with teeth and nails, prompting the guards to throw her to the ground. A savage kick to her stomach. A second to her back. The crowd jeered and the guards stepped back. The woman tried to stand. A rotten tomato smacked her in the face. A torrent of produce and whatever the peasantry could get their hands on struck her in rapid succession as the crowd unleashed a torrent of abuse.

"YOU GONNA FUCKIN' BURN TODAY CUNT!" a man cheered as he pelted an apple at the woman who fell back on her buttocks. Drenched in rotten juices, bruised and battered from thrown objects, the guards hauled her up. She didn't resist as tears slowly ran down her cheeks. They where not gentle as they threw her up the rock steps. Her chains brought forth, wrapped around the wooden stake behind her, fastening her to it. Wood and kindling was laid about her, under her, and around her legs in great amounts. A man in a black cowl poured a thick, black, oil about the wood. A man dressed in the priesthood of Avalar, all black garments with the dragon stitched on the front of his robes, stepped forth and muttered a silent prayer. The crowd went silent.

The woman's head shot up as she saw the flickering flame of the torch come into her periphery. The man in the black cowl raised it in preparation. The priest spoke, "Anise Il'deara, you have been found guilty of egregious heresies in the eyes of the God's. Vampirism. Consorting with heretics. Carnality. Murder. Any last words?"

The girl looked to her left and saw a man looking on grimly. By dress alone one could tell he was bourgeoisie. Her father. To his right, her husband. She could barely speak and merely mouthed a feeble, "Please." The priest nodded to the man in the cowl who touched torch to oil. The flames sprang and began to spread rapidly. The girl started to shriek and wale. Elongated canines protruded from her mouth and she snapped at the man in the cowl who took a step back in fear. The flames moved upwards. The heat reddening her skin. The flames licking her toes which began to blister and bleed. The flames leapt higher and her shrieks turned into a horrific wale as first her feet, then legs, and her body burned in agony. Her hair shriveling and disappearing to reveal a peeling, blistering, raw scalp. Her clothes burned and fell away along with parts of her flesh. The crowd was silent for the many minutes it took until the flames died down. They cheered as blackened bones and remnants of charred flesh was all that was left.

[Shadowwell]

Iron Mountain Hive

High Queen Tamara walked into a chamber off of her own, or the Throne Room, it was fashioned up like one as the few visitors of most races only understood certain things. They would not understand why a Queen, did not have a throne room, nor why everyone was basically equal, despite the division of the various Castes. Soon enough she arrive at the far end of the Chamber, she appeared to be alone she called out in the chittering clicking language of the Nah’ni. From the ceiling a figure dropped down, he was taller than the Queen, but as he arose from his landing he gave Tamara a bow before speaking. “What do you need of me My Queen?”

She gave what amounted to a smile, before responding, “Walk with me My Vizier.” She then turned from the chamber and started walking, her chitinous feet clicked against the impact ground. Soon enough the Grand Vizier fell into step next to her. She then directed a question towards him, as they walked. “How are the renovations and reparations going My Vizier?”
The Grand Vizier gave what amounted to a chuckle, and in a normal Nah’ni it would be near indistinguishable from normal Nah’ni speech. “They have been going well, the damage done in the Chaos after the previous High Queen vanished, has since been repaired. We have also recently restarted trade with Baedcove, which is good. We are still too few however, but with time that should be remedied.”

The High Queen gave him a done and a chuckle before she responded. “Indeed, thank you for humoring me, you can return to what you were doing if you so wish to. I will most likely return to my Chambers later if you have need of me.” The Grand Vizier nodded before he jumped onto the wall of the passageway and climbed up through one of the holes that lead elsewhere throughout the Hive.

Pelopan Hills Hive

Within one of the many larger chambers a conversation was taking place, which in a conventional monarchy would be considered borderline treasonous if not treason outright. The Vizier of the Hive was smaller, standing shorter than many Viziers by many inches, he was pacing in front of his seated Queen. “My Queen, I am worried about the whelp that has become the High Queen, she is untested and far too young.” He paused in his pacing as the Queen began speaking.

“She was the only choice, our race has been ravaged, and neither I nor the Jungle Hive Queen wished to fight amongst ourselves for dominance, so Tamara, was given the role. We will wait, if she does well, then that is good, if not, we could perhaps arrange an accident, though such a thing would be difficult with the Bond. For now however, we must do what we can to ensure our Race Survives." The Vizier nodded and listened further before scuttling off to do his Queens bidding.

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Verize Neacloro/Fabri Longway, March 779, Palan's Landing

The crowd stood around him jeering as the sound of a cart grew closer. Though most people in the crowd who knew him as Fabri thought he had just stumbled upon the execution. However, Verize had meant to be here. Most people came to watch a vampire burn, but Verize came to see how the people would react to this kind of situation in the first place. He was young for a vampire from one of the two great cities but still older than most of the fledgelings you found outside of them. He knew to watch for signs of a location being too hostile for establishing a lair. Still though, the past month he had spent in Palan's Landing had been very interesting and the slums had provided him with a steady source of food, especially near the location in which he had set up as his temporary lair. Now his real work in establishing himself began. This first fledgeling had been a test, a random creation of Verize's to see how the populace would deal with having a vampire roaming their streets. It was the usual fanfare, public trial by burning. Even in the year, Verize had been wandering the world, that much pretty much remained constant.

He watched as the Woman he had infected a week ago in her sleep was brought before the crowd, given her last rites, and burned. Verize joined in the cheering when at last it was over, then began to file out with the rest of the crowd. Taking a turn into a dark alleyway, he followed the backstreets to the seaside part of the docks district. Arriving at the back door of an inn called Sea Rat's Hollow, He snuck in before creeping down into the basement where he kept his "bed", which was actually just a box of dir with blankets and a pillow. He planned to move out soon enough, but this would do for now. He decided to rest a bit before night fell. As he lay in his chambers, he remembered when he first arrived in this city

Early February, 779

The cold wind blew against his face as the ship he was aboard pulled into the docks. He was returning from a brief trip to Vampyra to gather some cash before heading off again. Now he headed for Palan's Landing, a port supposed to rival that of Venizia back in the day. So far he wasn't impressed. The ship waited until very early in the morning, before the first rays of dawn, to dock and allow it's passengers to disembark. Verize roamed the back alleys for a little while before finding an inn tucked far away behind two other larger warehouses. Deciding that this would be an excellent temporary lair, Verize opened the door to find a woman sweeping up the place. She was humming when she turned around and noticed Verize.

"I'm sorry, but we're clo-" was all she got out before the Neacloro Scourge rushed forward and shut her mouth with his hand. The woman bit down hard and tried to struggle but Verize easily overpowered her. He extended his fangs and bit into her neck, injecting the potent vampiric venom. The woman stopped struggling and calmed down. Verize released her and continued to feed for a little longer, before withdrawing and wiping the blood from his lips.

Staring at the woman, he asked: "What is your name?"

The woman stared off into the distance, half-heartedly answering "Ilsa, sir."

Verize waved his hand, saying "From now on, you will refer to me as master, do you understand?"

The woman nodded. Verize smiled and said "Good. Now I will set up my lair in the basement of the building if that is all right. Is there anyone else here right now?"

The woman nodded again and pointed upstairs. Verize quietly prowled up the stairs like a cat before arriving on the second floor, home to two rooms. In the first, he found two men in twin beds, likely a pair of adventurers. He drained the two of them dry before dragging their bodies to the basement. In the second room, he found a woman. As he was stuffed with blood at this point, he quickly gagged her and likewise took her to the basement where tied her up using some spare rope he found. She would make an excellent first candidate.

Returning upstairs, Ilsa was still in her trance. Verize walked in front of her and said "Ilsa, when I snap my fingers you shall wake up and everything shall be normal, except I now live in the basement. No one is ever to go down there except for me. When you are awake you shall refer to me as Fabri, but you will still follow my every command, and you shall not reveal what I am, do you understand."

The woman nodded. Verize snapped his fingers, awakening her. She shook her head once before saying "My Fabri, it's awful late. You should get some rest."

Verize nodded and said, "Of course. Goodnight Ilsa." before retiring to the basement to begin preparing a lair.

March 779, Present

The following evening after the execution, Verize pulled away the crates hiding the entrance to his true lair. Pulling them back aside to hide the entrance once more, he found himself in a large cave, filled with several prisoners shackled to the wall with materials he had stolen or bought over the past month. Stepping forward amongst them, he asked them, "Which among you are willing to join me now? Or do I have to get out my toys again?" One woman towards the back meekly raised her head. She had been the first Verize had acquired. Walking over to her, he asked: "You wish to share in the Eternal Night?"

The Woman nodded weakly and said "Yes, my lord, I... I will serve you... just stop... the pai-"

Verize cut her off saying "Oh, indeed I will stop it. I will stop it and replace it with bliss."

A man yelled across the cavern, saying "Traitorous Whore, you would sell your humanity to this monster?"

Verize laughed and said, "Well it appears your first meal is already ready. Here, hold out your wrist." As he unshackled the woman, she obeyed, holding out her wrist for Verize. Biting his own wrist for a moment, he then bit into the woman's wrist, draining her furiously. When the flow began to slow significantly and her heart began to pump weakly, Verize sucked blood out of his own wrist and forced it into hers. The woman fell to the ground convulsing, before getting onto her hands and knees and looking wildly around the room, her new fangs at the ready. Verize pointed at the man who had spoke up just moments before, and the new vampire obeyed. She launched herself at the fellow, ripping into his neck with hunger. Verize laughed and said to her "Drink your fill, we have much to discuss, my new lieutenant."

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Tzardom of Lechya, Near Axebite Pass, Foothills of the Ice Fangs
January 779

Captain Andrzey Sarnowich sipped on some of the finest vodka in all Lechya as he studied the maps of the local area that were laid out on the table in his tent. As a Captain of the Strzelcy it was his duty to bar any passage across the Ice Fangs and down into Mother Lechya, no matter what came at them. Axebite Pass was a small passage through the Ice Fangs, and it did not have a fort or castle guarding it. Sometimes a small band of Wild Man raiders did come through to burn the homesteads below the pass, they usually stayed clear of the mining towns and villages though, as the parties were regularly few in number and even small villages near the mountains often had a band of warriors guarding them. The Wild Men were decimated however, Sarnowich had not seen any Wild Man raiders in four years, he had seen some Frostlings and their Undead minions come down the mountains, but no Wild Men. No wonder, they probably all died at the fortress of Wegorzewo and in Szarvard during the Great Slaughtering, Sarnowich thought to himself.

The Captain could hear movement and the neighing of horses outside the tent, it had to be the patrol he had sent out a few hours earlier to scout the pass that were now returning to the camp. The Captain strode forth from his tent. "Yuri, report... what is that?"

The Captain made a gesture to the small figure that held on to the bearskin cloak of the patrol leader. Yuri gave the commander a small salute but did not answer. The Lechyan salute was a two-fingered one, which gave rise to the suspicion by some Alfheimr officers under the last years of the Great Slaughtering that the Lechyan warriors in the expeditionary force that fought at Palan's Landing were mocking them rather than saluting them.

Yuri dismounted his horse and then Sarnowich could see the small figure behind him, a young girl, no older than sixteen, clad in tattered fur clothing covered in mud and blood. The strzelec helped the shivering young girl from his horse and covered her in his cloak. "We found her near the pass Captain Sarnowich, sir. She has been alone for Lady only knows how long. She's terrified and does not speak, I don't even know if she speaks Lechyan or not." Captain Andrzey Sarnowich nodded. "Fetch her some warm stew and a mug of water, she must be starving." The Captain commanded and one of the men walked of to carry out the command. Captain Sarnowich looked at the girl, her face held an expression of sheer horror, yet, she was so pretty. While she was probably a Wilder from beyond the mountains he could not avoid being moved by her innocent look, for she reminded him so much of his very own youngest daughter that waited for him at home.

When one of the soldiers brought her stew and water, she ate nothing and drank only very little, she was clearly still terrified at which point Sarnowich tried to comfort her, speaking softly. "Do not be afraid, we're all friends here. Friends, do you understand what I am saying?" The girl gazed up at him and nodded, apparently making sense of his words, he smiled. "I'm Andrzey, what's your name?" Sarnowich asked. "Mildrith, me Mildrith." Captain Sarnowich smiled once again, even though he could not begin to recognize her strange accent, communication was apparently possible. She had to be part of one of the farthest removed Wild Man tribes. "Where is your family, Mildrith? Mother? Father?" Her big, beautiful eyes opened wide. "Mountain... Monster... Die... All die, Mildrith no die."

At that she started crying, shaking violently with each sob. The old Captain hugged her and lulled her until she stopped crying and fell fast asleep, obviously exhausted from her terrible ordeal in the Ice Fangs. As he scooped her into his arms and as he carried her out of the tent he directed his gaze to the sergeant. "Bronislaw, have the men raise a tent for her. And double the watch for the night, she spoke of some monster and I'm afraid the group she traveled with were set upon by one of the beasts of these mountains, she seems the only survivor. Whatever it is, it could be close, we can't let it take us unaware." The sergeant responded with a quick salute. "At once Captain!"

And then, night fell across Lechya and the encampment.

Captain Sarnowich woke up to a horrible scream piercing the air of the cold winter night. In a split second he was outside his tent with his sword drawn, but... where were the guards? And why in the Lady's name did they let the campfires die down? He moved closer and closer to one of the tents where some of his men slept, entering slowly, his blade at the ready to lash out against anything that might hide in the darkness. In the dim light from the brazier he saw that it was too late, his men were dead and everything was soaked through with blood. Some of his men lay in their beds, their throats not slit but forcefully torn open. A few other were on the ground, ripped to pieces and dismembered by a beast of fearsome strength. A troll? He thought to himself, no, a big lumbering brute like that could never sneak up on experienced warriors like this, but... what was it then? Then a thought struck him like a hammerblow. The girl! He had to protect the girl! The captain rushed to her tent only to find it empty. By now Captain Sarnowich's mind was a mess of fear and anger.

Suddenly a scream erupted from the nearby woods, some of his men were still clearly fighting, and once of the voices was that of a female, she was alive! He rushed through the snow and into the dark woods and saw the faint light of a torch ahead, he made his way toward it and almost tripped over the lifeless body of one of his men. Then, as he approached the light, he saw her, leaning against a tree, her clothes were covered in blood and a crossbow bolt protruded from her shoulder, but she was alive, and that was what mattered. She looked at him with hope and relief as he took a few cautious steps toward her. But then, her expression twisted into sheer horror as her gaze fixed upon something behind the Captain's back.

"Behind you!" She yelled out and Sarnowich turned in the blink of an eye, ready to face down any terrible beast, to protect her and to claim vengeance for the lives of his men. His eyes scanned among the trees as he tried to see the beast.

Then, he heard a voice just behind him, it was not that of a terrified young girl but the languid, sensual voice of a grown woman speaking in a slightly mocking tone.

"I told you it was behind you."

---

Tzardom of Lechya, City of Visegrad, The Frozen Citadel
Present, March 779

Prince Kazimir opened the door with a slow, heavy hand. His daughter's room was as luxuriously furnished as that of any royal princess, and while the room's occupant indeed carried that title she did not act proper of a woman of her age and rank. She was sitting on the carpeted floor in a dress whose cost could feed a peasant family for over a month, more if you added the cost of the jewelry while playing with a colorful toy horse, prancing it about over the carpet. She was 19 years old.

"Hi sweetie, how are you feeling?" Prince Kazimir said as if he was talking to an 8-year old, his tone warm and not the stern baritone usually associated with Prince Kazimir. His poor daughter, her mind had never been well, not at all. Everything had come slowly to her, and while her body developed into that of a comely young woman with hair as red as that of her mother, her mind was still very much that of a child. What had he done to deserve such a curse from the Gods upon his child? And what had she ever done? The Prince often found himself thinking, his Kazzandra was the sweetest girl on Gaia, the Gods were capricious indeed. She did rise however, like she had been taught by her tutors, and still was for that matter as things took a long, long time to stick. She greeted her father with a gauche curtsy.

"I'm okay." She said standing up. "But it's been so boring today! I want to go do something, can we go down to the lake papa? I want to watch the boats." She said in her simple-mindedness.

"Not right now sweetie, we're going to go eat with everyone else, aren't you just as hungry as I am right now?" The Prince said and smiled to the girl. Princess Kazzandra frowned. "But I want to go play papa, can I at least go see Alya?" Like a typical child, despite her years, the woman crossed her arms.

"I said no, Kazzandra." Kazimir said, this time in a sterner tone. "Grandma is doing some very important grown-up things right now, but she wants us to be there and eat with her as soon as she is done. She told me that she had something very important to say. So why don't you promise me you'll eat all of the food, and then we can go down to the lake for a while, do you think you can make me that promise?"

Kazzandra looked down at the carpet before shyly meeting her father's eyes. "Will you come to the lake too? You've been away so much and I don't want old Lady Topor going with me everywhere, she's so boring and she's mean!" The Princess said, stamping her foot to convey the full extent of her tutor's black heart. Her father took a gentle hold of the girl's shoulders. "Promise me, and I'll come down to the lake for a while and we can guess what the boat's are named. Now wouldn't that be so much fun?" He said giving her a warm smile.

"Yes, yes, yes!" The Princess said, nearly jumping with joy before composing herself. "I mean, yes I promise papa." She said while looking down at the carpet sheepishly. "There you go." Prince Kazimir said. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" And so he took his daughters hand and they left for the small dining hall near the center of the Royal Apartments. To be fair, he had missed his poor daughter terribly as he had been up north in Szarvard, planning for an expedition to reconnoiter, secure and rebuild the ruined fortress of Wegorzewo which guarded one of the largest passes through the Ice Fangs, it remained a notable gap in the Lechyan defensive network, a gap that had to be plugged. But now he was back with his family in Visegrad, he would savor the moments that he could spend with his daughter. It was just a shame that he could not spend any time with his other children... he barely knew them. But that would just make the rumors worse, and nobody needed that.

---

[Ithalian Empire]

Aier'sodvin
United Antivarian Republic, Year 1000 Fifth day of the Fifth Month

Aier'Sodvin was one of the many little forts that the Republic had constructed along the frontier with the Mari Mari tribes. There was little love between the Antivarians and Mari Mari. The Antivarians had come as invaders nearly a thousand years ago, a fierce army of strange looking foreigners who drove the Mari Mari out in a vicious war of near complete extermination. Since those early days the Mari Mari and Antivarians have been mortal enemies.

Mari warriors sack a village, Antivarians slaughter a clan. And on and on the cycle of violence between the two peoples went. Recently the Mari tribes had been quiet. This had been welcomed by the villagers of the small frontier farm communities, but it made the Dies Cer'to, Commander of Aier'Sodvin nervous. To him it was like a calm before a storm, and his gut told him the storm would change the Republic for generations.

He was standing on the walls of the fort, tall and made of wood and stones, the tribal barbarians would have a hard time taking it. To the west was the Great Savannah stretched out in a golden flame as the setting sun blazed upon it, glaring in its intensity. This is were an attack would come, there would be little warning if the watchers could not see the enemy. They could slip by unseen till it was to late, from there the could loot the farm lands beyond the fortresses protection. That was if the Antivarians only relied of the watchmen on the forts, patrols covered more ground and went deep into Mari Mari territories. As Dies tried to shake the feeling of apprehension that was coming over him, the second in command of the 400 strong garrison came up.

"Feel it to?" said the more weathered Antivarian, Kine So'to was an old peace of meat in tearms of the Antivarian military went, serving two enlistment he was well into his lat 40's, his fur turning grew and thinning were he took many wounds during raids and counter raids. Bulls like him were married to the service, it was his life, and one day it would be his death.

"Yes. Not even a shepherd has been spotted by the patrols. I fear the Creator may soon see fit to test us soon."

"A good dip in the fire hardens the steel, sir."

"Just so, but sometimes the steel cracks."

"Only if it is poor steel sir, the Creator promised us this land, I do not think he would let us fall."

In the distance the sound of rustling grass was all that interrupted the sound of the clinking metal and the sounds of the night. The air was still, not even a breath of wind to move the fur the Dies. That is when the peaceful evening was rent with the sound of screaming. Mari Mari warriors rose from the grass and attacked, shields raised and spears ready.

"TO ARMS TO ARMS!" Shouted Dies, Creators Name, how did so many of the cursed savages get so close?

Archers took to the walls, bows coming out of oiled leathers and strings were attached. Pikes were grabbed and swords were drawn. The sound of stomping feet and the shouting of orders all battled against one another to be heard above the rest. And over it all was the demoniac scream of the Mari Mari. Arrows answered spears as the Mari warriors drew near. The halted before the gates, why in Creation are they halting?, Dies thought. Than the answer revealed itself.

A women steeped out as the ranks of warriors parted. Dies could see she was no Mari, fair of skin and and hair, she was like no other human he had ever seen. In her right hand was a staff, ebony colored wood that twisted up to a hand like cup that held a blood red jewel. It was than that Dies realized what she was, a mage, one who could channel the arcane. Something that in his service he had never seen the Mari use, something that scared him.

The air went cold as the witch began chanting in a voice that was both sweat, and terrifying to to bone. She raised here staff and all Dies could see was bright wight and all he could hear was a titanic clap as the world shook. The gates to the fort were blown away, the gate house a smoldering ruin. Peaces of Antivarians and the wall came tumbling down upon the defenders of the fort.

The Mari Mari rushed in, more and more and more of them, there savage war cries and the bellows of the Antivarians were all that was heard for hours. Dies found his men slowly getting pushed into a circle, many were already dead, the few that were left were wounded, weak, and exhausted. Soon the were surrounded by Mari. Kine was nest to Dies, holding a wound on his neck that gushed blood with every heart beat. And so the fought to the last.

The women walked amongst the piles of dead Antivarians and Mari. The commander of the fort was still alive, barely. She walked to him, a spear protruding from his chest. He was afraid, he knew he would die, but she knew thats not what he feared. She had seen enough of theses creatures to know that most did not fear death, the were to noble for that, to sure that the Painless Realm would welcome them when they gave there last breath. No, his fear was what would happen to those that he was to protect, that he had failed.

"Dont feel so bad, you did better than other." her voice was still the same sickly sweet voice, she bent down and sat next to the dieing Antivarian. "I know this might be hard for you, failing you people like this. Must really sting your pride. Oh, your bleeding, tell me does it hurt? "

Dies tried to move his hand to his sword, he was going to slice this bitches head off if it was the last thing he would do. She saw, and moved the blade just out of his reach. "Oh no furry man, cant let that happen. But enough of this idle talk, I have to go now, these Mari wish to move forward." Her face was the last thing Dies would see before the world went black for one last time.

Tinasha
Year 1000, Sixth Day of the Fifth Month

The capital of the Republic was a bustling city, near 60,000 called it home. The city was once one of the most wealthy in the region, second only to Kerere. But the Republic has gone through hard times, famine gripped the land seven years ago and the agrarian based economy of the Republic had never truly bounced back to were it once was. Slums had appeared outside the city walls, Antivarians were living in poverty and squaller. For Consul Ashri De' Creen it was a situation that needed to be changed. There were two options for the nation, expand farther down the Oro River valley and deeper into Mari Mari lands, or open up more trade with the Northern States of the Wolo and the Duchy of Sans-Marseilles, or farther west to the strange lands beyond the Savannah. And thus an emergency meeting of the High House and the Commons. Nearly 200 Antivarians were shuffling into the Parliament Chamber.

"Brothers, I have called this meeting to discuss our currant problems. The effects of the crop failure seven years ago have driven many of out people into property. Crime has gone up, the common people fear to walk the city streets. The the West the Mari Mari still occupy land that our Creator promised us, to the north lay the Wolo Kingdom and Sans-Marsilles. We can raise our armies and march into the west to seize the wealth we need, or we can open up more trade with our northern neighbors. We must make a decision on the course we shall take, and we must make it soon."

Ashri stepped down from the dais. Antivarians argued back and forth, some wished to take care of the Mari, other favored trade. When the vote was cast and the last stone counted there was a tie. And so orders were sent to raise more troops and for the militias to bare arms while an envoy would set sail to the Wolo and to the Dutchy.

[Beiarusia]

The Followers of Myrrh

Cistern, March 779AL

---

The nighttime sky was alight in the warm glow of lanterns, countless in number, as the festivities continued well into the evening, a celebration to the passage of life and to what lay beyond, the Great Cycle of Life, Death, and Rebirth. One of many yearly events dedicated to Myrrh and to the afterlife in which he lorded. Offerings were made to appease the god, trinkets and charms, the many shrines overflowing with men and women and children having come to Cistern on pilgrimage to show their devotion; the air was that of merriment rife with food and drink and play, an exuberance that would persist until the early hours of the morrow.

Ophelia Azarain, the young head of House Azarain, was accustomed to such a jovial atmosphere, having been a priestess-in-training before her father's sudden and untimely death mere weeks before. Now she observed the goings-on from a distance as was her place despite her fervent desire to do otherwise. The heads of the five houses — Descendants whose heritage could be traced to the origins of the Followers — were to oversee their own sacrament in honor of Myrrh. Ophelia, too, was Cipher, the direct descendant of Feleele Azarain (being his granddaughter), founder of the Cult of Myrrh, and as such she served as the figurehead to the Followers. The title was ceremonial in nature as the Council shared authority amongst themselves but her opinions carried considerable influence nonetheless. So, with festivity in the air, she and the others traveled to the most sacred location in the city: the Ruins of Myrrh, and within it the Obelisk.

"Relax your soul," cooed Ophelia's personal servant and friend, Ruruia Delain. The elven girl was slightly younger than Ophelia herself with a nymph-like appearance and a cheerful personality. Her clothing was simple, a bit crude, but with its own charming elegance befitting her position. Her hair was dark and her eyes muddy.

Ophelia took a shaky breath to calm her nerves. "I am relaxed. I simply hope I do not disappoint." Her attire was more elegant than her friend's but maintained its pleasant simplicity. Her hair was pale and her eyes were like polished copper.

"No disappointment if one's faith is strong," came a deep and foreboding voice that almost didn't seem real. Galan Thiorin was leading them all deeper into the ruins with only the blue light of a small lantern to guide their way. Galan served the Followers as the Head Shaman, an old man that was never seen without the ox-skull mask representing his position and who had forsaken his life in his dedication to Myrrh. Aside from the Descendants, Galan was the most respected of them.

So Ophelia took comfort in his words.

Galan, too, was rumored to have traveled alongside Feleele Azarain from the mainland to the Isle of Graves over one-hundred years ago. He nether confirmed nor denied such accusations, which further deepened he enigmatic presence.

They eventually came to the chamber that had been discovered by the first to heed Myrrh's beckoning. Only the shaman and the closest of the Descendants were allowed inside, forcing the others to wait in the darkened halls of the ruins until the ritual was complete, although the mischievous Ruruia was not above stepping as close to the boundary as she dared if only to offer her friend a sign of encouragement. The chamber inside was circular with a high ceiling that was lost to darkness. Five tombs stood equidistant against the outer walls, each holding the mortal remains of the five originators. In the center was a raised altar and a pillar of darkened stone. The Obelisk was carved from an unknown mineral, five-sided with beveled edges, and was adorned with ancient runes that seemed to glow ever-faintly with an ethereal blue shine. Each of the five Descendants took their place before their ancestor — Ophelia standing opposite to the doorway — while the shaman removed the gems giving the lantern its ghostly luminesce so as to place them in a pattern atop the alter. Done with the task, the shaman removed a ceremonial dagger from his blackened robes and then went to each Descendant to collect a blood offering in a small wooden bowl by slicing the skin of the palm. The blade stung but Ophelia did her best to mask the discomfort, watching as the shaman returned to the altar to mix the blood with a deep-coloured powder that smelled of chrysanthemum.

"We honor our ancestors as they have honored Myrrh," the shaman said, his voice sounding far too loud within the chamber. He went to each Descendant and, using a finger and the blood mixture, marked their face with a sigil. "We offer life so that we may know death. We know death so that we may cherish life."

Each face marked, the shaman returned to the altar and used the remaining mixture to create a rune in the center of the glowing stones before connecting each with a line.

"We have been shown the way, and so we must remember our beginnings."

Ophelia tried her best to stay her nervousness as she spoke. "Azarain."

"Favaro."

"Helik."

"Realn."

"Turik."

"Myrrh," finished the shaman.

It was subtle, a trick of the eye, but Ophelia was certain that the already glowing runes of the Obelisk now shone brighter.

[Ithalian Empire]

3 Days ride West of Gertaga'Shep

The little trade caravan crept along the rough path the cut through the savannah. 20 Antivarians and around five wagons pulled by wildabeast. The lead wagon was driven by the owner of the small trade company. He had built a career based in selling exotic hard woods and silk to Westerners, and was a seasoned carravaneer. With him was his Dwelling Mate and two young pups, a bull of ten and a doe of six.

They had made good progress from home bass, nearing the frontiers if the Republic. There goal was to meet with other caravans in the village of Shesa before heading into Mari lands. The Mari didn't bother Antivarians when they travelled in mass. Shesa was about five days away from Gertaga'Shep, the last real settlement to be considered a town till you got outside of the savannah and into the lands the Antivarians considered the west.

There was the squawk of a culture, gore still covered it's head, it's belly still filled with putrifing meat. Something had died recently. This indicated the possibility of a fresh kill. All manner of terrible beasts lived out in the wilderness, the caravan would have to set watches tonight the Caravan Master thought. He was taking no chances.

They trundled along for a few more hours before smoke was spotted on the horizon. The smoke of Shesa should not have been visible for another day. Thick and black was the column of smoke, rising and billowing as the wind twisted it into new shapes.

Night came when a visitor came, an exauhsted Antivarian militia captain, his armour nicked and dented, fur matted with blood and burnt in places. With him came a horrible tale. Shesa was no more, Mari warriors to numerous to count had sacked the town, burnt it to the ground and put all who failed to flee to the sword. The village militia could only hold them back long enough for a third of the village to escape. The captain had ran to find help for hours before reaching the caravan.

All through the night refugees came into the camp. Abandoning all but there food the Caravan made it's way back to Gertaga'Shep, with them nearly 200 survivors of Shesa, and the beginning of a crisis.

[Relikai]

Knightdom of Aesyra, March 779AL
Ninth Grand Crusade
Gates of Thargon

This was it. Spending the entire winter stocking up supplies and sending them ahead to forward camps near the Rullen Swamp has allowed for the rapid interception of a warband emerging from the Silent Forest. Initially built to counter the monsters emerging from the swamp, the Aesyrguard has now a good launchpad against the vanguard of the invading tribes, where the clashes of weapons and armor could be heard as they battled nearby.

The tribesmen came with a fury sure to rout the greenest of men, with a ferocity enough to break the freshest of recruits. Only the experience of fighting hundreds of their kind gave the Aesyrians the confidence to take the battle to the Gates, a thousand archers standing behind deep rows of spearmen and foot lancers. Shiny pointed spearheads faced the enemy as the Tribesmen taunted with their continuous warcries, the men of the Knightdom holding the center while fierce fighting erupted by the flanks of the armies.

"The fifth day." A man dressed in heavy plate with furs covering his body commented from a tent perched on the high ground. It was a fixed encampment, specially designed to give the commanders better battlefield command during the fighting. Beside him were two other armored knights of the Aesyrguard, fierce warriors trained and educated in the ways of war, tactical commanders in the field as they fought and directed allies to assist in the fighting.

"Maybe today they will come out from the forests." Another muttered, turning to the back to view his concealed cavalry, nearly five hundred riders encased in heavy armor ready to ride. It was an open plain, and the charge would do much to wreck havoc on the Tribesmen...

Inside the tent, the Grandmaster sat with his fellow colleagues, a map splayed across a lowered table as they tracked both the progress of the Tribesmen with a series of wooden pieces, and the march of the main army coming from the heartland of the Knightdom. This Crusade was special. Not only was it meant to stop the barbarians at the Gates of Thargon, but for the first time the Knightdom would march south, and check out the forest for the very first time in history...

[Imperialisium]

March, 779AL
50 Miles off the Sunset Coast
Rhedan-Paletine trade lane

Aboard the [i]Mary Anne[/i]

"Its getting closer captain?" The periscope blocked most of the right side of the small, diminutive, slightly malnourished form of fifteen year old boy. The ships cabin boy. The boy's dull brown eyes, shaggy hair, and dirty body was clad in loose fitting pantaloons and vest. The fabric rough and cheap. All dull browns and patches of rough cotton white stitched in with pieces of horse hair twine. Behind him, a man wearing a dirty tri-corne squinted in the general direction of the periscope.

"Aye boy, been followin' us for a good fif-tay leagues." The captain, burly black beard and wearing slightly better clothing, turned his head. "Sebastien! Soun' general quarters and begin a hard tack North-West." The Captain looked at the helmsman and leaned in closer. "We can'nut ou' run'em but maybe if we cross anutha' ship they'll bugger off." Sebastien, a Venezian from the eponymous city, his light brown skin glowed in the sunlight. He nodded silently and began to navigate a hard tack North-West. A bell chimed a moment later to sound general quarters. The crew broke into action as they armed themselves with whatever they had. Small single hand crossbows, dubbed alley-pieces, a famous gang weapon in Venizia and Paletine. Sabers, cutlasses, polearms, fish hooks, a halberd, and dirks all were drawn. Others had designed improvised weapons in their time as sailors. Wooden bats festooned with barbed wire or featuring a large nail. The men manning the crow's nest had bows and a couple quivers full of arrows with them ready.

The Mary Anne was a fat, round, slow bulk hauler of a ship. Of Rhedan build. It's crew compliment of 96 was about average for running the trade lanes of Paletine to Rhedan. It's papers and name would mark it registered with the Neacloro Merchant family. Its manifest and inventory would confirm it as shipping Paletine products to be sold to Rhedan nobility. Finely crafted furniture, jewelry, exotic foodstuffs, over three dozen wine casks from the vineyards on the foothills of the Tresamin Mountains. The brig cut to the North-West in a round about turn. Behind it and closing fast, a dark three master, cruised along. Gaining on the commerce vessel swiftly, perhaps swifter than one would think for the larger vessel, as it cut through the water like a hot knife on butter.

The cabin boy returned to the spy glass and squinted into it's lenses. The trailing ship turned to adjust, shadowing the commerce vessel, and still gaining on them. As the ship turned the boy could make out the letters on its side. "Cre---Crescent....Crescent Moon?"

"What was that boy!?" The Captain snatched the spyglass away from the boy and held it to his own eyes. The blood drained from his face. For not only did he recognize the name. But also the black banner that now rose from the following ships deck and up to its main mast. A black flag, a white fanged skull, the Bloody Roger. They where not just ordinary pirates. They where about to be assaulted by vampires. The captain grasped the boy's shoulder. The captain did not look at him. "Get below decks. Hide. Do not come out for anyone ya here. Go!" The boy ran. Disappearing below decks.

The boy ran down the dim pathways of the ship. Dodging crew and support beams as he made his way into the belly of the ship. He knew a post. A crawl space he could tuck himself in total blackness. A row of casks between him and anyone else. The boy tucked in his legs as he rested his back against the dank wood. For several minutes the boy heard nothing but the shouts of the crew and the patter of their feet above him. Then it ceased. Then the drums started. Battle drums. Not from the Mary Anne. The boy closed is eyes and listened. A roar, a cacophony of voices, erupted to the starboard side. A heavy thud above sounded. The crew of the Mary Anne yelled and the clash of steel on steel exploded above the boy. Sickening cries, wails, thuds of what could only be bodies, and the sound of spilled viscera. The boy closed his eyes and began to shiver at the thought of the men he knew, considered family, meeting gruesome ends in the defense of the ship.

Rapid foot falls came down the stairs. The boy opened his eyes and looked off into the gloom. Sunlight pierced through from the above decks. It was dark and damp down at the bottom of the ship. Heavy breathing, panicked, the fighting had not even gone on for five minutes. Somebody tripped and fell. The boy could see the portly shape of the ships cook. Mr. Tumnus. Someone was coolly following in what was most likely body armor. The glint of steel. The second figure grabbed Tumnus and wit ha sudden jerk. A sword erupted from Tumnus chest cavity. The blade receded a moment later. Letting the cook fall to the floor with a sickening thud. His coughs, dying muscle spasms, and the stench of his bladder letting loose mixed in all about his portly form. Blood, piss, and saltwater spread about him. Lapping at his face, mouth, and clothes. It was in his last moments that his eyes darted up, as if locking with the boy, a final cough of blood and spittle. The cook moved no more. It was then that the boy realized that the battle above had gone deathly silent. The armored figure approached. Cautiously. Peering over cargo and around corners. No doubt searching for more crew. The figure came into view fully now. Armored in three quarters plate, all black, bat effigies all about the armor. A visor obscured the face. A saber clenched in a mailed, plate articulated fist, red eyes glowed in the dark as it passed through the shadows like a wraith. The boy clasped a hand over his face as the armored figure stepped up to the casks.

*DOOM DOOM DOOM*

The rapid beats of drums caused the armored figure to turn on its heel and rapidly recede back into the gloom. The boy exhaled and tilted his head back. Cold, armored hands, grasped his legs and the boy screamed as he was pulled from the crawlspace by inhuman strength. Into the shadows.

March, 779AL
Old Sarin

The Empire of Alfheimr, once the greatest realm of men in the Northern half of the Continent, sat a quiet calm. Its current Emperor, Leopold I, sat uneasy on the Imperial Throne. The realm had suffered much, having suffered immensely in the last century of chaos and bloodshed, from civil strife to the inhuman Frostling hordes. Yet, hope had never truly faded from the lands of the Rythfae, or the Saerheasta as the Elves would call them. Their faith in the Gods, themselves, and Empire had stood trying times. Yes. The Empire had lost territory. Its population a shadow of its former self. But where as fifty years ago the streets of the capital slept weary, cold, and in fear. Now, children ran down avenues, merchants peddled wares, and the slow march of patrols marked every day life. Things had returned to normal within the cities and villages of the realm. The Army of the Empire, mostly deployed North, kept the remaining Frostling warbands in check. Systematically hunting them down with the help of the warrior monks and knights of the various Holy Orders.

Internally, the pyres of burning witches and wizards had died down to embers, for the Conclave policed the Mages Guilds, with respect to the Emperor of course. Supplying him with arcane warriors for the Imperial Battlemage Corps. A unit of sanctioned, Conclave trained, magical users meant to defend against magical attacks on the Empire and its armies.

But, despite this air of relaxation and relief, the endless intrigues of Court life played out daily. The Empire needed allies more than ever in this day and age. The realms of Elvrion, so far loyal allies of the Empire, could only be counted on as their rulers saw potential for gain in this arrangement. To the South, the fractured, squabbling realms of the Volyorians and Ungarn was a mess the Empire could ill afford to intervene on. But, to the North, the Tzardom of Lechya was present. A potential alliance could anchor the Northern Frontier on an impressive bulwark. Therefore, a letter would be sent North by raven to assure speed of its delivery.

To Her Northern Grace,

I, Leopold, First of His name. Emperor and Son of Emperors. Protector of the Realm. Hereby wish to rekindle the feeling of trust and friendship between our two peoples. By sending my eldest daughter North as an official Imperial Ambassador. To act on my behalf, that of Alfheimr, and in the best interests of both our realms. She will be escorted to Visegrad by Imperial soldiers. She had heard many tales of your beautiful land and brave people. I trust that this will be the first step in securing a lasting bond between our two great peoples.

Signed,
Utmost Sincerity
Leopold

[Tagali Federation]

Battle of the River Pass
The Savannah


Two armies stood on opposite sides of the Lesser Songze. On one side of the River stood the defenders of the Oromoko lands, over a thousand Oromoko Warriors, clad in white togas and armed with spears. Those in the front of their formation were armed with bronze shields, forged in the interior of the Oromoko lands. They were organized in clan based formations, under the command of local chieftains. Normally, it'd be impossible to rally so many Oromoko together, but they were defending their homeland against a common threat. A force that had been sleeping across the river for a generation and had now awoken and turned its gaze west.

On the Eastern side of the river rode an army of 8,000 Wolo Horse Riders, grossly outnumbering the Oromoko, as well as better equipped. Underneath their red turbans and tunics were chainmail made of iron and steel, armed with iron tipped spears, lances, and scimitars. For ranged fighting, they carried packs of javelins to pelt the enemy from afar.

At the head of this horde was their King or Mansa, Issa Amat. Today would be the day he would realize his Grandfather's dreams of a Wolo Kingdom expanding across the Savannah. Today, these two armies were fighting over a river pass into the Oromoko lands. The crossing was shallow enough for men and horses to simply walk through, and lacked the many dangers found elsewhere across the river. Whoever held this crossing would control access into their respective lands against the other side.

Issa rode out in front of his army and yelled out to the other side, speaking the common tongue.

"Proud Warriors of the Oromoko! You stand here in defense of your villages, your herds, and your families, and to that, I salute your bravery. However, there is no need for violence! Let my army pass and no harm will come to you or your people! Go home and tend to your crops and family and let me claim what is mine!"

The Oromoko were silent for a few moments, pondering the request. Then, the Oromoko gave their answer, a loud war cry echoed across the plains, there would be no peace today. Issa shook his head and ordered his men forward. Thousands of horsemen rode across the river pass. The Oromoko warriors readied themselves for a charge but were dumbfounded when instead, the Wolo just rode in circles around them. Fearing being flanked, the Oromoko grouped together, spears out in all directions, but this would prove to be their folly. When the Oromoko were as close together as they could, the Wolo began their attack.

As the Wolo continued corralling the Oromoko Warriors, they began to throw javelins into the Oromoko mass. In such a tight formation, it was easy for the javelins to find their targets. One by one, the Oromoko warriors fell as they could do little to stop the barrage. Finally, Issa determined that they had enough and called for his men to pull back, hoping to bait the Oromoko into routing. As an opening appeared, the Oromoko seemed to take the bait. Tripping over the piles of their dead comrades, the Oromoko had seemed to flee. Once enough distance had been made, Issa ordered his men to run down the enemy, with he himself taking the lead once again.

Issa prepared his lance, aiming for a young Oromoko warrior in the rear of their fleeing forces. The Wolo were soon gaining ground on them. Issa readied his lance to impale the Oromoko man. Elders and story tellers would tell of this day for generations. "The mighty Issa the Jackal ran down an army of 1,000 without losing a single man. Opening the way into the Oromoko lands for Wolo Expansion.

But suddenly, the situation changed. The Oromoko man quickly turned around, spear and shield at the ready. The tables had turned and the Warrior speared Issa's horse, flinging the King off of his mount. Issa flew a few good feet away from his dying horse. the impact knocking him unconscious temporarily.

Issa came to a minute later, stumbling to his feet. He first thought that the warrior was alone and that he and the rest of his comrades were being killed by Wolo lance, but that was not the case. Either by plan or renewed vigor, the remaining Oromoko had about face and turned the tables on the Wolo. Issa was in a daze as he watched his men killed by the Oromoko. Some were in similar positions as him, knocked off their horses and either dead or crippled by the impact, or meeting their fate at the hands of the Oromoko descending on them.

Issa was brought back to reality by the war yell of an Oromoko warrior charging him, the same one who brought him down to the ground. Much like his enemy, he too had regained his vigor. This was not how Issa Amat, Mansa of the Wolo, Grandson of the Great Ibrama and the blood of the lion running through his veins, would meet his end. Issa drew his scimitar and gave a war cry to match his opponent.

His opponent drew near and lunged with his spear. Quick on his feet, Issa pivoted and with his lightning reflexes brought his scimitar down on the spear, snapping it in half. Now disarmed, fear came across the face of the young Oromoko warrior. Issa gave him no mercy, descending on his foe like a lion lunging for its prey. Issa made a horizontal slice with his scimitar across the man's neck. The Oromoko warrior was decapitated, blood staining Issa's dark skin and raven black dreadlocks.

Two more Oromoko Warriors noticed the king sped for him. Issa picked up a near by spear and impaled the first man, dropping him to the ground. Seeing his friend die before him, the man hesitated, giving Issa an opening. Issa slashed across the man's stomach, the man slouched to the ground and cried out has he tried to keep his blood and innards within him. Iss looked around to find his men had regained the initiative, as they began to overpower the Oromoko once more.

But life would not be that easy. Over a nearby hill, the war cry of more Oromoko could be heard. On the horizon, Oromoko, mounting their own horses, appeared, charging along with more spear men. Issa grabbed the lance of one of his fallen soldiers and rallied his men. The day was not won yet.

---

Hours later

Under the setting red sun of the Savannah, Issa killed his last man. The day had been won. Men and horses littered the plains. Issa's men were busy collecting and paying respect to their dead and killing any Oromoko survivors who laid injured on the battlefield. On the outskirts of the field, Hyena's, Jackals, and all sorts of Savannah predators and scavengers began to feast on the dead. Those that died near the river bank were being dragged into the water by crocodiles who had been attracted to the crossing by so many men and horses moving across.

Adrenaline had finally died down in Issa, who collapsed to the ground, exhausted from the day's fight. Surrounding him were over a dozen Oromoko dead, all slain by Issa's hand. The King laid there, the dirt cooling his blood stained body as one of his Captain rode up, now branded with a scar across his left cheek. Issa gathered his breath before speaking.

"How many did we lose?" The Captain hesitated before giving his response.

"We killed over a twelve hundred Oromoko. The rest are scattered across the Savannah-" Issa interrupted, not in the mood for sugared words.

"How many did WE lose?" The Captain lowered his head.

"Around the same, my Mansa. We now number over 7,000." Issa brought his hands to his face at the news before standing up.

"Get me my spare mount and give 3 quarters of our loot to both our gods and the Oromoko's. No need insulting the Spirits of our soon conquered enemies. Split the rest between our men." The Captain nodded in agreement before riding off to spread the order. Issa was about to be on his way until he saw a peculiar sight. a pride of lions was watching him, as if expecting something. Lions were held in high regard in Wolo society. Killing one was a great insult and punishable by death. Not wanting to insult the lions, Issa kicked over a dead Oromoko, seeming to offer it to the beasts. The pride let out a mighty roar in unison and ran up to Issa. Luckily for him, the Pride descended on his fallen foe instead of him. A good omen for him and his army, for it was blessed by the Gods.

Issa went on his way and returned for his men. Tonight, they would celebrate their victory and those to come. The next day, they would be on the move, for the rest of the Oromoko lands laid before them, ripe for the taking.

[New Minahasa]

January, 779AL
Engarian Forest

A human convoy was passing through the outskirts of the Engarian Forest. The branches would occasionally click and snap around them, but the convoy of men would only ignore it. Truth be told, this was no ordinary convoy. An Engarian princess was being safeguarded within this escort with men numbering close to a thousand. They've most likely prepared themselves in case of an attack or an ambush, as the bickering lords of Engaria loved to prey on each other over their petty political games, and the daughter of a lord would prove invaluable to his rival. These spoiled men often considered themselves as the hunters, crushing and defeating anyone within their paths. But they've been made ignorant of the true hunters lurking within their own woods and forests.

The Oguins that dwelt within the forests of Engar had been disregarded the past few decades. Their raids and small attacks could only be seen as no more than a nuisance and neglectable. A small, unimportant threat compared to a rival neighbouring king that they've had a feud with for ages. Unbeknownst to them, the decline in Oguin raids was just a part of a smarter, more important Oguin's plan. Khagaar had ordered his men to attract as less attention as possible. Their raids were now only to help the beastmen live through the day with enough food. Though some disobedience occured here and there, Khagaar was quick to make an example of it. Some of his warlords and lieutenants disagreed to this strategy of course, but none dared to challenge him after he defeated a rebellious warlord in single combat and had his whole herd feast upon the loser's corpse, and made the other herds watch the brutality.

But Khagaar was wise enough to heed the warning. His warherd was going restless and impatient. They needed to sate their bloodlust. Without further ado, Khagaar had decided to make the first move, and this day was his lucky day. After further inspection, the princess was actually not the only thing the convoy was escorting. Food, equipments, jewelry, they were all present within said convoy. Receiving reports from his most trusted spies, Khagaar had learned that the Engarian princess' father lost a war against a rival king. Instead of executing his rival, the winner decided to vassalize the loser, and in turn forced him to pay tribute. The Engarian lord had sent these supplies as tribute to his new king, and a beautiful daughter for the young king to marry.

The tall and large trees provided good cover for the ambushing party, and Khagaar had planned well to utilize this. His raiding party was already set up even before the convoy had reached the forest. The smaller, more agile Oguins hid within the bushes and was the main vanguard of the force. Behind them were the larger and generally stronger Oguins, hiding inbetween the tall trees and large rocks. The last of them was a small contingent of centaurs to chase off fleeing enemies. Khagaar had no intentions for any survivors that day. His herd was hungry, and he'd need every piece of human meat he could find.

A single horn was blown and the trap was sprung. The smaller Oguins jumped out of their hiding spots and charged at the unsuspecting convoy. The humans, being caught off guard, was quick to be organized by their leader and formed into a battle formation, but not before their unwary comrades were stabbed and sliced in front of their eyes by the ambushers. The leader of the convoy was caught by surprise. The ambushing Oguins were well-prepared in the ambush and remarkably organized. This was particularly odd as the previous Oguins were always undisciplined and completely unorganized in their attacks. This expectation of the Oguin race made the Engarians to underestimate them, as every 'major' attacks of an Oguin herd had always been so easy to repel. The first layer of the Oguins attacked the now organized humans in waves, but being outperformed by the more heavily armoured humans, was forced to retreat. The second layer of Oguins, significantly stronger and overall better than the first layer of smaller Oguins, charged and roared at their enemies.

Walls of spears and shields were pretty effective in countering the waves of attacks, but not a few moments later they were greeted by a rain of arrows. The first layer of Oguins that had previously made their retreat were now equipped with bows, and they numbered in hundreds, completely encircling the surrounded humans. One by one they began to fall and wither like leafs in autumn. As effective as their shields were, they still could not protect themselves against hundreds of arrows and javelins simultaneously assaulting their position. If they would raise their shields high enough to shell themselves from the arrows above, they'd only be met by javelins or even more arrows in front of them, as the Oguins were well-positioned so that they could literally shoot at their enemies at point blank range. If they would charge at their enemies who were literally less than a hundred feet in front of them, they could risk disbanding formation that the Oguins could just easily outnumber them.

The leader of the convoy called for his own skirmishers to no response. They were all completely decimated, their corpses revealing that some of them had their throats slit in the first assault, cleaved in half by an Oguin in the second assault, or had an arrow stuck somewhere in them in the third assault. Seeing that he no longer had anything to counter the enemy skirmishers, he made his final order and regrouped the best of his men to guard the princess' wagon. The rest of the human footsoldiers, completely derived of all hopes, tried to flee from the battlefield only to be met by an Oguin arrow or ran down by a centaur. The last of the defenders put up a ferocious last stand, but their cause was a lost one. Khagaar trotted forward to claim his prize, approaching the princess' wagon as his troops claimed their spoils of battle, the more savage and barbaric of them devouring the corpses of their dead enemies right on the spot, whilst the smaller and the generally more unaccepted of them dragged their own share of corpses to eat in the shadows.

Opening the wagon, Khagaar found a young teenage girl in royal clothes complemented with pieces of jewelry decorating her bodyparts. She was pale white, completely terrified, hiding in the embrace of what appeared to be a man, much older than the girl; her tutor. Khagaar opened his arms, signalling that the man should hand the girl over to him. The princess and her tutor looked at each other for a brief second, before her tutor started to reach forward, intending to give the princess over to the intimidating centaur in hopes of securing his own life. The princess squealed and squirmed, trying as best as she could to escape from the terrible man-beast presented in front of her, to no avail. Tears ran down her cheeks like waterfall as Khagaar embraced the princess in his arms, his troops cheering and roaring at the sight. With clicks and body movements added with some guttural sounds, Khagaar ordered a couple of his men to deal with the princess' tutor. He was hacked to death and his limbs devoured right at the spot.

[Sarejo]

Cyn Arthwr Penrose
February, 779 AL
The Cyn was rudely awakened from a peaceful slumber by his steward knocking on the door to his chambers. "Sire? Sire you really must awake. There is an urgent matter to be attended to," came the calm voice of the steward, an elderly man who had served Arthwr's father as well as Arthwr in the office of steward.

Begrudgingly, Arthwr pulled himself from bed and pulled a rough pair of trousers on and a pair of boots on, leaving his torso naked, and exited the room. The steward, dressed in an elaborate set of robes, ignored the half-naked ruler and continued with what he had been meaning to say. "Sire, we have disturbing reports from the south of Brywan. It seems the peasantry of Kaledan have taken it upon themselves to riot, and the town guard are besieged in the keep. Leord Purcell has requested the any aid we can deliver to him," the steward said, remarkably clam for the severity of the situation. A successful riot could lead to a full-blown revolt if not checked.

"How many troops do we have garrisoned nearby?" Arthwr asked, pondering the situation. "None that the records show, sire, save for the White Roses. Shall I ask them for assistance? They are a holy order, and not a royal regiment, but I do not doubt they would deny aid to the crown of their country," came the reply. Arthwr simply nodded and the steward bowed his head and left.

Arthwr stood there in the hallway, half-naked, praying to the Penna that his old friend, the Bryn of the order, would help him now.

[hr]
Bryn Gwenalt Beynon
February, 779 AL

"And through the light of the Penna, am I made clean," Gwenalt said, finishing his prayer, and rose from his place on one the ceremonial mats that lay on the floor of the chapel. He made his way through the dimly lit hallways of the chapel, before arriving outside and in the bright sunlight of the day, dimmed only slightly by the last few clouds of winter. Shielding his eyes from the stark change of light.

"Bryn Beynon!" came a call to his right, and he turned to see one of his most-trusted sergeants, Rhyder Leorc Shadden, hailing him. Gwenalt went over to him, to see what was the matter. "Fahe, (Literally "father", a sign of respect in Byrtan culture) I've just received news that there is a riot in Kadelan," Leorc said, sounding a bit worried. Rioting in Kadelan? That's only a day's right from here..., Gwenalt thought to himself. He knew his friend, the Cyn, would undoubtedly be unable to spare the troops from the borders necessary to put down a fullblown riot.

Gwenalt looked to Leorc, and without saying a word jist nodded. Leorc nodded in return and left to give the order to prepare to move out. The Thyns were on the march again, this time against their own people. "And to think we're a 'holy order'," Gwenalt said to himself, half-chuckling, before going to gather his equipment and armor. When he returned to his quarters, he dispatched his Novyce to go ready his horse.

[Elerian]

And the Giant Awoke

They’d left the last vestige of civilization behind several days prior. Since then there had only been the largely deserted highways and an occasional huddle of border dwellers and their accompanying dwellings. The previous Doge Pirazzo had ordered the settlement of the frontiers of Albania years ago. Yet, after his death, Pirazzo’s successor Doge Vespero had quickly lost interest in such things. Yesterday, the huddles had degenerated into pairs or even single dwellings. Today, there had been no dwellings at all. Regardless, they’d made camp in a clearing under the stars.

The bonfire glowed softly, dying embers in the darkness. The Lieutenant Elod Hunyadi and his unit had stopped for the night. The embrace of the flames was a boon beyond all others. The gentle warmth caressed the mishmash of cloth and bits of armor he adorned himself with. Though it was no proud work, the limited protection it offered helped to ease his mind. These were dangerous hinterlands to find themselves in, yet the urgency of their mission assuaged the need for caution. Yet he wore his armor for another reason beyond simple paranoia. Elod had painstakingly carved ancient runes he’d learned from an equally archaic book he’d purchased from a hedge mage in Venezia.

No, the armor would provide him protection from the ethereal. Or so he hoped. Elod carefully rose from his bedding beside the fire, and walked past the horses to the sentry, a young man from Palan’s Landing by the name of Balder. He was wearily stalking around the perimeter of the camp with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other.

“I’m off to take a piss”

Balder nodded briefly and resumed his routine. Elod however, was not going for a piss. For the past few nights he’d been trying in vain to make a successful conjuration. He’d gone so far as to practically abandon his old Discipline in pursuit of this one, which he had thought would prove more useful. Yet, with each passing day, that possibility seemed ever more remote.

Elod had been warned by the other members of his Cadre that conjuration was dangerous, and thus should steer clear. Elod understood their concerns, and took them to heart. That was why his armor was imprinted with runes. That was why he’d purchased an amulet of protection from a soothsayer in Genese. That was why, he’d gone to great lengths to study and research the Discipline before he dared dabbling in it. In spite of all his caution, he still felt guilty hiding his studies from his fellow Cadre mages. But it was necessary.

Necessary to regain his family’s honor, to repay Eygon for saving Elon and his brother from certain demise, but more importantly to prove to himself that he was capable.

Elod continued walking until he finally decided his comrades wouldn’t be able to see what he was up to. He removed the leather glove from his right hand before reaching between the fabrics in his armor. Close to his heart, he retrieved a small leather bound book. Speaking a few words of power, a small orb of twinkling light materialized above his head, shedding light on what lay on the pages. While referencing the illustrations in the book, Elod used twigs and sticks to form a rough recreation of the summoning circle within the book. He quickly replaced the book behind his armor and retrieved a pouch at his side, grabbing a number of items and placing them in the circle.

With everything prepared Elod gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts, and then softly began speaking the words of power. Halfway through the incantation a slight breeze began rustling the leaves in the trees. But by the end nothing else out of the ordinary had occurred.

“Damnit!” Elod cursed.

He dashed the circle into the brush with a kick of his boot and stomped angrily back to the campfire. He’d gotten the same result the past three nights, and his patience was beginning to run thin. As far as he could tell, he’d done everything right. Within a minute he could see the familiar glow of the campfire, warm and inviting. Elod stormed past a bewildered Balder, and laid back down in his bedding. As he got comfortable a strange feeling crept over Elod. A feeling of deep unease.

A shiver went down his spine as a slight breeze set the brush to rustling. All at once the dwindling campfire guttered out, blanketing the camp in an unsettling darkness.

Then all hell broke loose.

---

Briefest Respite

Never in the life of Előd Hunyadi had he felt such gripping terror. He’d been running through the brush for what seemed like an eternity, shredding his travelling clothes on thorn and briar. He wheezed heavily as his body demanded respite, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop running yet. In his years he’d never witnessed such a fearsome foe, not even the wildmen of the Shadowlands could compare to what horrors he’d witnessed in the camp hours prior. Előd had prayed to any God that would listen for aid and safety, and mistakenly believed he’d been saved when he had run across a group of bandits in the early morning hours.

They’d only just had enough time to raise from their makeshift bedding and get half an explaination out of Előd before It had found them. The bandits had barely lived longer than ten seconds.

Looking back, Előd couldn’t see his pursuer, but he also couldn’t know if It still gave chase. Nothing seemed able to stop It, not the battle hardened mercenaries that had accompanied him, not the band of raiders, not even the considerable sorcery and magic at his disposal.

His terror came anew as leaves began rustling back the way he’d come. Előd let out something resembling a whimper and pressed on harder. Unfortunately, after only a dozen more strides, his feet snagged on a root and sent him sprawling. Előd quickly scrambled to his feet, but he knew it was too late. The rustling had been too close for him to escape now.

Turning towards the rustling only several dozen meters distant, Előd used the last of his reserves in preparation for one final blast of pure Ethereal energy. The rustling grew closer and closer until It could only be just a dozen meters distant. Előd firmly planted his feet in the dirt, readying for the recoil that this spell would cause. Finally, and to his genuine surprise, none other than Balder came crashing through the brush ahead of him.

With the same terrified look as a deer running from a pack of ravenous wolves, Balder fell in a crashing heap a few feet from Előd’s feet. Confused and dazed, Előd used his magical reserves instead to try and ascertain whether this was some sort of cruel trick being played on him. But to his wonder, Előd could find none. Balder was the same man that Előd had seen the previous night, albeit exhausted, afraid, and injured.

Előd looked around to make sure nothing had followed Balder before he stooped down to roll the man over onto his back. Balder had none of his weapons, and much of his armor had been abandoned, but he looked otherwise whole. The sorcerer removed the mostly empty canteen from his belt and held up Balder’s head to take a drink.

Coming to his senses, Balder greedily drank the last of Előd’s water. Now seemed as good a time as ever to stop and rest for a bit. They couldn’t afford to stay here, but both men were spent. The sorcerer plopped down in the grass in silence. The two men said nothing as they sat, trying not to think about the events that had transpired.

---

Promises Kept

The shadows gradually shifted across the long table of the Captain’s tent as they waited for Galvian. A squire had told Eygon that he wouldn't be long, but the poor lad underestimated Galvian's ability to try everyone's patience. Eygon finally pushed himself from his chair and began to pace up and down the tent, cursing in an undertone.

"Could you tell us what it is this is all about?" Auguste finally asked. A few hours ago, Eygon and Galvian had returned from a day within Genese and Eygon had asked Auguste and Siegward to come forthwith. The typically stoic third Captain of the Wayward Company shook his head and glared at the vibrantly dressed Orleinian..

"I can't, Galvian must be here. Where could he be?"

Siegward and Auguste were certainly not responsible for Galvian’s lack of punctuality but as usual, Eygon lectured them over his tardiness. It was how things worked:

"Tell us," Auguste insisted.

Eygon froze and turned on him angrily.

"I told you I can't, because Galvian is not here!" he bellowed.

A movement in the tent canvas made them turn around, but Eygon growled in discontentment when he saw an old sergeant sticking his head in through the tent flap. "They're here, Captain ser."

"Send them in," Eygon grunted.

Confused, the other two Captains watched as men of ranks ranging from Corporal to Lieutenant came through the flap and into the spacious tent. Lieutenant Urswyck, Sergeant Gaedric, and a number of other men of the Wayward Company. They recognized that nearly all the men gathered were Volyorian or Ungarn. Why are they all here? It couldn’t have been some strange coup otherwise they would both have already been dead.

"What of Gellert? And Cadoc?" Eygon snarled.

He seemed offended and the men standing in front of him, weathered or young, looked at each other hesitantly. One stepped forward and finally said he didn't know. Eygon stared angrily at all the men – including Auguste – then he walked to the hearth. The fireplace wasn't used for some weeks now that the sun warmed the island; he nonetheless took the firebrand with a sigh and moved the cold ashes.

Another rustling of the canvas made Eygon spin on his heels. The flap peeled open and Galvian came in unfazed. When they saw his rather disheveled look, the soldiers probably thought he had run through the encampment. As Galvian sunk into one of the remaining armchairs, the rest of the men sat restlessly in their seats, wondering what they’d been summoned for. His back to the hearth, Eygon cleared his throat and looked at the assembled men.

“As many of you know, the Cathilwyd house was nearly extinguished at the hands of the Mad King of Volyoria. Only Galvian and I remain to carry on our family’s legacy, but it is our sworn duty to avenge our fallen fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends” he said as he nodded to several of the men gathered. “Our renowned Company has a long history of taking in we of Gentle blood who have fallen into ruin. But our Company has also a history of re-installing those who have legitimate claim to our ancestor’s hard earned titles.”

Some of the men began murmuring to each other and themselves, as they realized where Eygon was taking this. But with a hand, the muttering ceased.

“I have gathered each of you here to ask of you something with which you should not take lightly” Eygon continued. “Many of you have suffered as I have, lost as I have. But we have been given a chance by the Gods themselves to win back what is ours, and exact justice long overdue on those that have wronged us.”

He regarded each of the men before him with a mix of curiosity and excitement but held no doubt regarding his following words.

“The path that has been laid out for us is not an easy one. Struggle is the father of all things and true virtue lies in bloodshed. But we will not tire, we will not slacken, we will not falter! In the blood of every one of us comes the price we must pay. Blood alone moves the wheels of history. We must fear no sacrifice and surmount every difficulty to win our just triumph. So I ask each of you here, what say you? Will you help me to kill a King?”

The air hung still for the briefest of moments before a shout of agreement erupted from the throats of the men seated at the table. Many of the Ungarn and Volyorian exiles rose from their seats to draw their swords and pledge themselves to Eygon.

Eygon had expected that response from them, which was why he’d brought them. All of them had either served with him in the Crusade, or their family’s had been extinguished by the Mad King. What Eygon was really anticipating was the reaction from his other two fellow Captains, specifically Siegward. Auguste de Montfort and Eygon rarely got along, and he would only agree to this if Siegward lent his sword to the cause. The two Captains remained where they were until the other men had calmed down and reseated themselves.

Eygon and Siegward locked their steely gazes for a few seconds, searching the other’s eyes. Siegward was the first to make a move, as he stood with a grin to clap Eygon on the shoulder. Relieved, Eygon did the same and turning his gaze over to Montfort was greeted with a wan smile from the perfidious third Captain. With Siegward already backing Eygon, Montfort had no choice than to go along with the plot.

Eygon would have to watch the man. Watch him closely.

---

In Good Company

The distant glow of a sky teeming with lanterns had been their first clue that they’d finally stumbled upon civilization. It was a literal beacon for the two men, a sorcerer and a lowly commoner mercenary. An unlikely duo, but one made out of necessity. The two had barely said a word since setting out again by midday. Neither was in much of a mood to talk.

Yet, once night began to draw near, they did their best to quicken their pace. And, with the lanterns showing them the way, they made good time. So much so, that by the time night was truly upon them, they could see what could only be the town of Cistern in the distance. As they neared, they came across a number of townspeople in the midst of a celebration. As if the Gods themselves were mocking the two men after the death of their comrades. Any townsperson that saw them shied away from the men. As they neared the gates, the local guard must have already been alerted to their presence as a contingent of militiamen were waiting to greet them.

Elod assumed that the militiamen thought them rabble rousers, but he presented himself to them without a fight. Leaving Elod and Balder to wonder what would be done with them.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Tzardom of Lechya, City of Visegrad, The Frozen Citadel
Present, March 779

Towering above the city of Visegrad was the Frozen Citadel, a tall, mighty and menacing fortress perching above the city that sprawled out beneath it. The Citadel was built upon a plateu rising in the North of the city proper. Not the graceful spires of the Academy or the majestic towers of the Grand Cathedral rose higher than the highest of the Citadel´s turrets. Most people who laid eyes upon the great fortress and seat of House Kazanowski would agree that the Frozen Citadel looked haunted even from a distance. Deep within the dark walls the steady sound of wood knocking on the smooth stone floor was heard through the hallways, moving closer and closer to the Little Hearth's Hall as the small dining hall near the Royal Apartments was called.

The doors swung open and the two servants responsible bowed low. It took a while for the diminutive, wizened old crone, Tzarina Natalia II of Lechya, to come through the doorway. She was clad in a voluminous gown and swept into the pelt of a great snowbear, both of these made the old woman look even smaller. She had white hair and the gaunt, thin fingers of her hands clutched the finely carved silver handle of her cane. The Lechyan Tzarina might not have been the most physically imposing specimen Mankind had to offer but the gaze of those blue eyes of hers revealed that her mind was still very, very sharp as she swept them over her seated family. Prince Dalimir, the Tzarina's eldest son and heir raised his large, overweight form with a sigh of effort and bowed to his mother. As did the Prince's wife, the tall, stately and dignified Lady Annelea of House Rossokowski alongside their four children. Natalia's second son, Prince Kazimir rose and bowed to his mother as well, followed by the gauche bow from his poor daughter.

Two knights of the Tzarina's Own clad in finely forged and richly decorated plate armor walked up to the head of the table and one of them held out the chair toward his ruler who slowly ambulated towards it and took a seat. "You lot can sit down." She barked and her family obeyed, sitting down and beginning to indulge in the food served, today it was a creamy mushroom soup for starters, seasoned with herbs and then there was fish freshly caught in the waters of Lake Silvermere and cooked with fiery spices from the lands of the Anotans. "Left! The letter if you would." The Tzarina barked as the soup was being served. The Knight on her left took a few steps forward and handed her a small note which she unfurled. "We have a visitor coming to our home it seems my dears." She handed the note over to Prince Dalimir who took it and started reading.

"What is it, husband?" Lady Annelea asked, leaning back in her chair, goblet of wine in hand. "The Alfheimr Emperor. He is sending his eldest daughter here to treat with us as an official representative of the his House and Empire." Prince Dalimir said and rolled up the scroll, passing it to his brother who quickly read over the words.

"What do we know of this girl?" Prince Kazimir asked nobody in particular, not taking his eyes away from the words on the scroll. "Not too much sadly." The Tzarina said with a sigh. "A sharp dresser, no doubt about it, a striking beauty, undoubtedly." She said before leaning back in her chair. "It is in their interests to keep Lechya as strong as possible so the filth from the Ice Wastes doesn't start seeping into their lands as well."

"So you say they are trying to formalize the Grand Alliance, mother?" Prince Dalimir said, laughing at his own jest with a slight bounce, amplified by his layers of fat. The Grand Alliance was a darkly humorous way in which Lechyans sometimes referred to the relationship between the Motherland and the southern nations. An alliance in which the Lechyans constantly fought the horrors creeping from the Ice Wastes so that the Southerners could live safely in their warm lands.

"We cannot be drawn into a war in the South, least of all now." Prince Kazimir said darkly. "The Alfheimers fought a bloody civil war with frostlings massing on their very doorstep. We need to keep that in mind when dealing with them and not tangle into their internal feuds. We have much more important fights here." He concluded in a decisive tone. "It did not say they were seeking an alliance, not explicitly." The elder brother replied.

"Boys, boys, boys." The Tzarina said, silencing her two sons. "Stop bickering over things known to all. I did not raise fools and don't prove me wrong on that now." She said snidely and took a sip of wine. "We shall hear what the Alfheimers have to say, even if it means I will have to trip over Southron knights for a few weeks while their Princess is here. It is not in their interest to pull us from defending the Ice Fangs to help them fight in their petty little civil wars."

"Now." The old monarch said and leaned back in her chair as the servant entered the hall with the fish fresh from the kitchen, the strong aroma of spices filling the room. "Would you care to handle preparing quarters for the Princess and her retinue, Annelea dear?" The Crown Prince's wife replied in a graceful tone. "I certainly shall, mother." The Tzarina replied with a cold, cackling laugh. "Don't call me mother. I would certainly remember if I had given birth to you or not my dear." Lady Annelea returned to her food, sometimes she forgot that it was foolish to leave an opening for the Tzarina to offer her snide comments and jests. The family ate and made mundane conversation. The Tzarina however mostly ate in silence, her thoughts turning to her duty, and how the Alfheimr Emperor's proposal could help in that regard.

Indeed, while her father, Tzar Borys the Great had done immense amounts of work to try and restore the realm in the wake of the Great Slaughtering, there was still so much left to do. Natalia had spent her whole life trying to finish what her father had begun, but she would not see the end of it in her lifetime, oh no, the Catchfyre had seen to that and even without it, it would have taken her much more time to rebuild and restore what was lost. Lechya was still a shadow compared to what it had been before that fateful day in 631 when the Great Slaughtering began. Be that as it may, the fact remained that the Lechyans were still here and still fought on with their spirits unbroken, they had gone through all the terrible trials the Gods had seen fit to test them with and they had passed each one, proving themselves worthy of the land that the Lady of the Lake granted to them. Indeed, this land was theirs by her divine will, and if they could not live here, then they would die here.

---

To His Majesty Leopold I vas Valkyr, Emperor of Alfheimr, King of Sarin and Protector of the Realm.

Greetings to you, good and gracious Lord, may the House of Valkyr and Empire of Alfheimr know great and good fortunes. Speaking on behalf of all my people, I can only say that it lifts the heart to once again rekindle to friendship between our two nations, united by our harsh struggles in the Kelzmere under the watchful eyes of the Vaulted Ones. Her Highness the Princess will be welcomed with open arms and warm hearths, and I am sure we shall come to an understanding that will benefit both our peoples, standing closer together so that we may better overcome our struggles.

Signed with the warmest regards.
Her Majesty Natalia II Kazanowska, Tzarina of Lechya, Queen of Ungolov, Knyazka of Korona, Boyarka of Visegrad.

[Ulls]

The Grave Sight of the Mad Shaman,
Central Engar

It had been months since the search started, years since their homes had been overtaken by Oguin,The Cult had establish their rule in the east and started to seep into the west as the dangers of the Warhorde had made kings and chieftains find security among the cult but only very few believed that the prophecy of werewolves in Engar.

Now the answers of the past was about to be unfolded as Crac and his cultists had been digging the supposed grave of the Mad Shaman and the power of the Totems. They had dug a spot where the Shaman had believed his ancestor rested. It was fruitless until one night that there were screams and growls.

" Werewolves!" One of them shouted as they gathered their weapons to defend against the threat.

Crac got up from his cot and saw the beasts. It was strange since Engar wasn't known for werewolves despite being densely forested yet he was seeing them with is own eyes. Most of them had black or brown fur but some had blond. Their eyes were those of the color workers. They were tearing through the men but they had their wounds.

He walked through the people and stretch out his staff. The wolf skull attached to it started to glow and a magical cone washed over the charging werebeasts. The power seemed to calm down the feral minds.

"How did werewolves enter the sight?" The Shaman coldly asked.

" They appeared from the dig sight, a flash of light came where they were and they transformed into those beasts." One of the workers said.

Crac turned to the docile werewolves still under his control. He walked towards the crave sight and saw what he had been looking for. A glowing aura lights up the surrounding night better than any torches.

"The Totem is true!" He holds it up to the sky but quickly dropped to the ground.

The workers try to gather around the mage but his mind was somewhere else. Crac couldn't hear them or even see them as it felt he was being pulled into the light of the Totem and his spirit bathed in its warmth. Within the omnidirectional light he heard a deep snarl as a beastly figure walked upright and it formed a waving shadow of a werewolf.

"You are the one who has found a part of my bones." The shadow sniffed the Shaman," your blood is that of that foolish mage who tried to make a new bloodline from my bones and his magic."

" I need to complete the prophecy to save Engar!" Crac answered like an echo.

" You think I care about your petty kingdoms! My spirit has been chained and scattered for centuries longing for rest as the feral anger of the beast seeps through the cursed magics of those Totems to complete some long forgotten 'propechy'."

The Shaman thought for a minute before he spoke," if you help me complete the prophecy and complete the Totem of the Werewolf, then I will free your spirit from the powers of my ancestor."

The visage charges near and his shadowy maw came close and Crac could feel the beastly hunger and bloodlust that the spirit radiated from its very presence.

" Very well, I will indulge in this quest of yours. I care not if you succeed or not but if you do then I will give you what your cultists have been longing for."

As his mind returned to reality he saw the group of cultists surrounded him with worried looks. He got up and gathered his staff, the sun was rising and the workers who had been turned into werewolves last night. Crac covered up the Totem part with a piece of torn cloth.

" Don't let any Totem be hit by the moon's light or it will temporary turn anyone in its glow as werewolves. Now, follow me for I know where the next pieces are as the prophecy is within our grasp!"

[Krugmar]

Cheers went up as a drink spilled, the tankard clanking across the floor as its contents swept across an already stained rug. Hama cheered along, it was unlucky not to and though he were not a superstitious man he was one for traditions. He returned to his small scroll, a directive from Bothvarr. Hopefully it would give him a clue as to where he was, Bothvarr had not been seen in months and there were rumours the Grizdapo were on to him.

Fly High
Human's Land Swiftly
Harm Undone
Bold Move Unchallenged
Bloodied Gold and Glory
Spreeks in the Walls

So the rumours were true, Bothvarr was in hiding in Palan's Landing. Clearly the Grizdapo were not aware of his identity, or they would have seized his assets, which meant that he was being trailed by a lone agent seeking to crack the greatest case of his career. Hama had no doubt that Bothvarr would have this lone agent slain in a freak accident. The rest of the message did not reveal itself immediately, though he had an inkling of what Bothvarr was hinting at. Clearly he'd have to do some investigating.

"Ho there, you must be Geim." spoke a voice in front of him. He moved his eyes upward, gazing upon a middle aged dwarf with a messy brown beard, darker than his own, and permanent smile upon his face.

"Aye that's me friend." Hama responded, "how can I be of service..."

The dwarf chuckled and tapped his forehead, "how rude of me, I'm Berad, but most call me Baz."

Baz's green eyes had a certain spark, a twinkle of happiness that was certainly lacking in many dwarves these days. Hama's own brown eyes conveyed only sadness and a longing for better times to those who might read them. "And how can I be of service Baz?" he replied.

A smile lit up upon Baz's face, "I reckon I have a few business ventures that may interest you, what with the upcoming games and whatnot, now is the perfect time to make- oh, is that a poem you've got there?" he asked, and Hama nodded, passing it to him.

"Ha, a poor work, and the sod didn't leave his name, definitely not as good as my favourite poem, the Slaying of Dosh'Kahor." Baz said, passing the scroll back to Hama.

Hama smiled back, "I would certainly be interested in these ventures, though I fear here is not the place to discuss them."

"No, you're right. Come to my manor this evening, and we shall discuss it over dinner." Baz replied, turning to leave before whipping back around. "Oh, you'll find my manor in the 16th block of the 3rd section, Durog atrâd"

"Durôog atrâd" Hama replied, watching him leave. He downed the rest of his ale and slammed three dovs upon the table, exiting the tavern as it became considerably more noisy and packed as dwarves came in after a hard days work. On most occasions he would have joined them, drinking until the the bells tolled for the sunrise.

Outside the tavern Durognarin awaited, and what a view it was. He had been living here for three years, yet still he had no reconciled himself to this fact. Foreigners had found Dur-Karz to be a vast and bustling place, so unlike their pithy 'cities', which were more like towns really. A gaping chasm greeted you as you stared down, and only those with good eyes could make out the endless slums that made out the 1st section below.

Those entering Durognarin would find themselves in the 3rd section, the quarter of merchants, smiths, knights. A vast ring which took an hour to walk round. The 1st to 4th blocks were packed with both dwarves and foreigners alike, browsing the shops and stalls for wares both local and exotic. If Durognarin did not have it, nowhere would.

Below in the 2nd section was a vast housing quarter, though one could find a spree of less reputable shops, of those merchants hoping to climb the rings, so to speak. And above the 4th section was home to the nobility, a ring closed off to those who had neither pass nor invitation if they lacked title or gold. Foreigners had to learn that lesson quickly, though every day a few fools believed their passes allowing them access to the city gave them to right to tread wherever they wished. Their punishment depended on the guard's mood, a quick kick up the backside if they were lucky, or an afternoon in a cell if they weren't.

But Hama found what he was looking for, a vast coliseum stretching across four blocks, the Thoradrin Arena. Rumors abounded that the Grand Secretary was planning a vast set of games in honour of his daughter's birthday in a month hence, and that nobles and royals from all over, dwarf and non-dwarf alike, had been invited to take part and view the spectacle. No doubt the Grand Secretary had ulterior motives, and no doubt this was what Bothvarr had been referring to. Baz would likely know more.

A cold shiver went up his spine, though whether it as an omen of fear, or from a cold March chill he did not know. "I'd best head home, and prepare myself for this dinner." he said to himself, heading to his manor in the 36th block, a long walk away but one which would give him time to clear his head.

He imagined them scuttling about like ants, down below in the deep abyss that some of them insultingly called home. They moaned about their station in life, shouting that they had to toil hard hours merely to survive, yet he had no mercy. Though he had never shared their apparent anguish or misfortune of birth, he had been on the lower rung of his own caste, an outsider amongst the nobles, and one too noble to socialise with the merchants, though that was a thing of luck in the end.

Birth does not equal power, only ambition does. That was the lesson hard learned, and because it was difficult few bothered to learn it. Where once he was a simple lord, now he was Grand Secretary and father to a queen, all through ambition and work. So why did the vermin complain, and force his thoughts to topics such as these constantly?

A searing flame burned through his skull and he cried out in pain, hitting the table on his way down. It took a few moments for him to recover and pull himself back to his feet. He drank some wine, something they had fetched for him from the bowels of the keep, an elvish bottle from Valtmeris though the date was missing from the note which looked like it had seen better days.

Eventually they would stop bickering and scheming, those venomous merchants and damned peasants and cartel members. And when they did his pains would finally leave him, and he could rule in peace.

The darkness gazed back at him as he observed the lightless depths. What did they do down there, how did they live? It was not something he needed to know, but something he wanted to understand.

A lone figure drifted through the darkness, his cloak illuminated only by the weak torches scattered around. The slums were always dark, light being a valuable commodity those on the surface took for granted. Those down here had to see with more than just their eyes, if not a shank in the guts and the sound of some scum making off with what little you had would be the last pain you felt in this world.

"Yeah, some nobleman wants us in the arena. Planning something big I reckon, didn't give us any details." Someone said from within a shack, probably called home by another.

"Not just any nobleman Kham, the Grand Secretary himself!" said another, this news grabbing the figure's attention. He hid himself in the shadows, away from the open door and any prying eyes.

"Shut it Bol, not everybody needs to hear that. But yeah, bigwig wants us and the gang to do something and is offering a lot for it." replied the Kham.

There was some shuffling around, and the sound of ale being poured. "Interesting, and what does the Mahabkai know of this?" asked a third figure.

"Nothing." said the one known as Bol.

"Make sure it stays that way, or you'll end up dead. Or worse." replied the third figure. Green eyes pierced through the darkness, before vanishing completely as the hooded figure continued on his way.

"What do you see in the flames human?" asked one of the Khundarim, a dwarf with black hair matted with grey spots, and weary brown eyes.

For a few moments Ugarth did not move, continuing to stare into the flames as he had done for the past hour. "The seers of my people were once able to see the future in the fire, or events which had already passed but had been forgotten. Yet I see nothing."

The dwarf gave a quizzical look, "then why do you stare into it for hours every day?"

"If I don't look, how can I be sure that I won't see? I must look, for I'm the last who will." Ugarth replied, returning his attention to the flames.

"Bah, typical human superstitions. Worse than the damn elves I say." the dwarf said, leaving Ugarth to his watching. One day they would understand, the flames in their halls still shone bright but one day they would crackle and fade. They would all eventually fade.

The slums were a fine place to be for an up and comer, someone like Bol, someone with a smile on their face and some determination to make some money. Sure they weren't for everyone, being dark, smelly and a bit dangerous, but then again that basically described Durognarin as a whole. Slummers got shanked, merchants robbed and nobles assassinated, a lovely cycle of death on a scale that would make elves weep (not that such a thing was difficult). Why Bol was in such a good mood that neither bad news, nor a shiv in the belly, could damped his spirit.

"Ol' Dhorin better have my money, 'cause this one needs a drink." he said to himself as he strolled down the empty alley. Usually he'd take the main street, it was safer and he could do a few jobs on his way, but he really wanted to get to Dhorin, and get his ale quick.

"Need money for ale?" said a voice from a figure shrouded in darkness.

Bol chuckled, "Doesn't everybody friend? What can Bol do for you?"

"Information, Bol, that is what you can give me." replied the figure, inching out of the darkness to reveal a deep grey cloak covering him, his face fully concealed.

Bol's smile faded slightly, "I ain't no snitch, but I can give you some info. Depends what it is really."

"Word on the street is that you and your boys have a job from the Grand Secretary, something to do with the upcoming championship."

Bol became visibly startled, then his confusion turned quickly to anger. "Who the hell do you think you are, you better answer quick before-." he said, though he became speechless when the figure removed his hood. "Mahabkai, please I was going to tell you I swear. I'll tell you everything, just let me live."

Green eyes pierced his soul, drinking deep his fear and draining him of all emotion, memory and will. A crooked smile emerged, and Bol's screams became a symphony which was carried upon the stale air of the slums.

[Ithalian Empire]

Tinasha
Tenth Day of the Fifth Month

The port was always busy, ships laden with goods moving in and out, bringing the wealth from strange lands to the Republic. Off all the ships there were three that were by far more grand than the others. They were long and lean, war ships of the Antivarian Navy. They were in fact they only three ships in the Antivarian Navy. Recently built they would bring the first diplomat to the new king of the Wolo. The ships were filled with gifts to the new king and his queen. Bows built of the finest woods, armors inlaid with gold in the designs of lions and other savannah beasts. Silks from the east, perfumes from the south and chocolate from the jungles of the south. The missions plan was two fold, secure Antivarian security and to show the Wolo the advantages of the Republic as a trade partner would be.

To lead the delegation was an old Antivarian, Terig Vo'theth, nearly 95 years old he had lived a long life. Longer than most of his race. He had been a child when the stories of the Wolo uniting first came to the Republic, he had lived through the reign of the mad king. His father had been a merchant who did trade with the north. Off all Antivarians he had the most ecperiance with the tribes of the north. It would rest upon the shoulders of this old Antivarian to secure the resources his people needed to recover from the famine, and the security needed to grow strong.

By the late afternoon the ships were loaded and slipped the ropes. With the good winds and the power of the oars they would take about five days to reach the Wolo capital.

[Beiarusia]

The Followers of Myrrh

Cistern, March 779AL

---

Cistern was isolated, not often visited by those without reason, so word traveled quickly of outsiders on the lonely road which carved a twisting path through the Mist Woods, and although free to come-and-go suspicion was not easily overlooked. Militiamen were there at the gate to greet the outsiders. "State your business," one commanded, human, tone as cold as ice. "Troublemakers aren't welcomed here," another added, a young elf.

The interrogation was interrupted before it could even begin as they were approached by five individuals dressed in dark hunter's attire. Rangers, and leading them was their local commander Aelith Uveerel, an elven woman with deep-coloured hair and sharp eyes, youthful but with a wisdom that made her exact age hard to pinpoint from appearance alone. Her voice was low but cut deep: "We welcome all here. Even outsiders." The militiaman that had taken charge tried to argue that outsiders arriving in the dead-of-night during such an important festival was queer, and Aelith agreed, it was indeed queer, but her stance remained the same. All were welcomed by the Followers so long as they came with good intentions. Aelith bowed her head and apologized for the man's disrespect and properly welcomed the two men, Elod and Balder, to Cistern. The outsiders were led deeper into town to meet with someone more diplomatically inclined.

The town was simple, lacking all the grace of Genese or any of the older cities dotting the mainland, and could aptly be described as rustic if only a single word was allowed. The buildings were mostly wooden given the abundance of the resource, but some stone-working could be spied here-or-there, but more striking were the glyphs that could be found adorning many locations or banners, sigils of Myrrh and the lesser gods underneath him. Aelith said little as she and another Ranger escorted the two through crowded streets. Eyes still turned to gaze upon the strange men, but with their companions the looks were mostly curious now as opposed to distrusting.

They arrived to an nondescript building near the center of town, and although the streets around it was packed due to the festival the interior was nearly vacant. A few men and women were inside busying themselves with some droll task and looked delighted to have their work adjourned by the sudden arrival of guests. A blondish man, elven, approached with an air of genuine affability. "We don't get many outsiders this far north. I do hope you've come with a matter that isn't too urgent. The Council is away and will be gone for some time still, but perhaps I can be of assistance. I am Ornnes Azarain. What do we owe the pleasure?"

[Ulls]

Northern Engar

The moon was high in the camp and cultist shaman was up in his tent working on the two pieces that were now recovered. The aura was stronger together than separated but his power was keeping the magics of the Totems at bay. Still, he had started to have different feelings about the prophecy, such as the werewolf talking to him through his head and having dreams about a running around in a wolf form, howling at the moon, and feasting on humans.

" It seems that the damn spirit is seeping into me." Crac said in silent as he studied the totems.

The Totems themselves were a set of werewolf arms and legs that were tied together by magical thread that came from the runes inscribed in the bones. The shaman was trying to translate the runes to understand the spell. Something in the back of his mind compelled him to find and study the nature of the Totems. Something was speaking in a whisper within his skull as he studied.

The Beast thinks he'll win this battle.

Crac quickly turns his head behind his back and saw nothing in his tent. He shrugged and went back to work but then he heard the ethereal growling of the spirit but it was cut off by the same voice again.

The Beast is cunning, yet desperate for being free from his shackles. Don't let him out before your ready.

The shaman ran out of the tent with cold sweat that was coming down on his face.

" Who's there?" he screamed out but only a guard heard him.

" Do you need something Master?" The guard asked Crac.

" Was there someone here other than you?" He asked worryingly.

The guard looks right and left and shook his head," no Master, there are only those in the patrols."

The werewolf cult leader just went back to work in his tent but he saw the faint visage of the werewolf towering over his work and the man working on it. His growl was deep, demonic even as he breathed. He walked towards the shaman and grabbed him by his throat. The strength of the beast easily lifted the human up in the air to the wolves eye level.

" A fair warning shaman," he growls at the mage in his claw," don't listen to every voice that enters your little mind. My bones attract a spirit that should've never came back. If you let him enter your mind then our deal will be broken, then I will break you."

The spirit drops his grip and disappears into the Totems as the shaman tries to catch his breath. He then looks around to see if anyone saw that and continues back to work. In the shadows outside the camp, a man is watching Crac's tent.

Don't worry Crac Oren, the Beast will not harm you as long as I still linger on this plane. Engar is in trouble and the beast must be tamed by one of my family in order for my lifelong goal to be complete.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Tzardom of Lechya, The Plains, Close to the Village of Kozatyn
March, 779

The cold winds blowing down from the Ice Fangs in the north whipped the four riders hard as they rode down the muddy dirt road toward the dark shape of the village ahead of them, whose palisade and wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys were a welcome sight after days of traveling through the great plains. Hienrik shivered in his furs and was deeply grateful for arriving at some semblance of civilization. His horse stumbled in the mud and he could hear Torzin curse as his own beast did just the same. The dwarf did not like the idea of riding but if they were to catch up to the band of Rozboyak raiders, the bounty for which they were trying to claim, they had to ride. "I swear to you, this monster is deliberately trying to unseat me". The dwarf grumbled. Nobody replied, not even their witty fencer Markus who usually never missed an opportunity to jest at the expense of the dour warrior from Dorgul-Zen.

The sunlight was dying and with it the warmth, or whatever warmth there was to be found on the Great Plains in the earliest spring when blotches of snow still dotted the lands and the roads had yet to dry. Hienrik had grown up in Lunderdorf, a small village in the Old Forest populated by hunters and woodcutters. The ancient trees tended to narrow a man's view of the world around him but here, in the plains. He had heard tales of men going mad from the sheer open expanse before them. Being here now, he could believe it. Their guide, a short, squat Ungol man with a bristly black beard and cheery gray eyes named Ruslan Dimchenko shouted toward the village as they approached, waving his hand.

"Fat chance of 'em letting us in with a Rozboyak party running about." The dwarf said bitterly, mentally preparing himself for yet another cold night in the plains. "Don't be so dour, friend." Markus replied. "We're only four riders, what harm could we possibly do them."

"Aye. We know that, but they don't." Hienrik said pointing toward the village. "For all they know there's a hundred Rozboyaks hiding just beyond the hill, waiting for us to block the gates once opened."

"Bloody Lechyans." Markus spat. "Don't they ever relax?"

The dwarf looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Would you, if you lived this far north?" Markus sighed. "Stop being so damn logical. So you're saying it's another night in the plains for us. Fuckin' great that is."

Heinrik opened his mouth to interject but stopped himself when he heard an answer to Ruslan's call shouted from the gates. He tried to follow what he could of the shouted conversation between Ruslan and the guards on the palisade but what little Realm's Lechyan he had picked up over the last month was not adequate to the task. As they slowly trotted closer he could see the village in greater detail, it was built on a low mound of earth and upon the sturdy palisade he could see men with bows and long spears watching them, clad in furs to protect from the cold and with kettle-helms on their heads, one also seemed to be wearing chainmail, probably the village constable. The hair's on the back of Hienrik's neck rose to attention as he realized there were probably a dozen arrows ready to fly right at their hearts.

Ruslan circled his horse, a small, broad-chested roan with a mean temperament as he laughed and spoke to the guards. "What in Wudanuz's name is he doing?" Markus asked. "Well, he is obviously laughing." Hienrik replied.

"Oh, that it. The plain got to him." Torzin said in an almost lamenting tone. "The bugger's gone mad and we're all going to die out here in these fuckin' steppes. It's no way for a dwarf to die, not even a half-decent mountain in sight."

"Don't think we're going to die out here." Hienrik said and pointed toward the gate as he could hear the creak of the heavy hinges and the sound of a stout locking bar being removed from the gate. The gate slowly opened outwards and Ruslan beckoned them forward with a smile on his face. "What did you say to them?" Hienrik asked. "How did you manage to presuade them to open the gate?" Ruslan shrugged. "Persuade? What mean?"

"Why are they letting us in?" Hienrik asked. "Oh. Ruslan just ask to spend the night." The Ungol said as if explaining something to a simpleton. "Is very rude to refuse hospitality of house to stranger. And Woyt of Kozatyn not want to dishonor himself by leaving us out on the plains, is very cold."

"Too cold to stand out here wasting time." Markus said with a smile as he made his way toward the gate. "Is true." Ruslan replied, forcing his own mount forward. "Come, we go pay respects to Woyt, then eat and drink by warm fire." Hienrik could not argue with that and so the small party made it's way inside the village. The houses were the same as he had seen in most of the country. Built from logs on a stone base with a sloped roof of small wooden shakes or shingles or just rye straw. Looking up to the inside face of the walls Hienrik could see a dozen or so men patrolling the timber ramparts watchful for any signs of Rozboyaks from the deep steppe or, for a village close to the northern ends of the plains, even worse things. After seeing to their horses, the constable, a man named Goslaw led them towards the largest house in the village, situated on a small earthen mound by what passed for a square where the well could be found. Curls of fragrant smoke rose from the chimneys and Hienrik thought the buildings very much reflected the Lechyans themselves. Dour, suspicious, uninviting and practical. Goslaw hammered loudly at the door and soon enough it opened, them hurrying inside.

Hienrik was assailed by heat and blinked in the sudden light. Two fires burned in wide hearths and filled the whole space with a warm, inviting orange glow. The mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat on long spits over the fires filled his nostrils and the sound of song filled his ears. A group of people seated on colorful pillows and blankets sat sunken into mirthful conversation while another group, only of men sat by a table, singing rowdy songs and passing a bottle of vodka one to the other. In a corner a man was dancing with lively jumps, squats and kicks into the air with a wide smile on his face while he was cheered on by laughing women clapping their hands to the rhythm of the wild music that was being played on harp and violin-like instruments. The riot of joy and color was in stark contrast to the with the grim and unforgiving severity he had seen in both the lands and the people since coming to Lechya, Heinrik was rendered speechless by the vivid sight before him, a sight he had never thought he would see here. At the far end of the long hall a large, powerful man with a shock of reddish-blonde hair and a long mustache sat on a finely carved chair atop a small wooden dais, he had a long-hafted axe resting against the steps and clapped along with the music.

Hienrik could feel and hand grasp around his arm as Ruslan dragged him forward toward the man on the dais. "Come, we must pay respects to Woyt." He said as they approached the man, now rising from his chair. The colorful clothes were unable to hide the impressive physique beneath them and his martial bearing. Hienrik, Ruslan and the other gave him a respectful bow. "Me Radowid Marmadov." The Woyt boomed in thickly accented and broken Rythfae. "You are welcome in Kozatyn, my home is your home."

"We are grateful indeed." Hienrik said. "My name is Hienrik Pfielmann, you honor us with your hospitality and we shall of course compensate you for the food and drink given to us." The large man looked perplexed. "Compensate? I not understand." At that Ruslan waved his hand with a lively motion and said something hurried in Lechyan before turning back to Hienrik. "Not offer coin!" He hissed in the Alfheimr's ear. "This is not inn, is great insult to hospitality."

"Oh, apologies." Hienrik said. "Tell him I did not know and I am sorry." The Ungol shook his head. "No need, I did not say you offer coin. I say you will tell tales of your lands. That is price of shelter."

"Hah!" The dwarf exclaimed loudly. "Now that we can very much do. I have a decades worth of stories from the mountains of Dorgul-Zen to share." Torzin said proudly. Marmadov stepped closer to Hienrik, the Alfheimr could smell the vodka and szaszlyk on the man's breath. "Come Southman, eat, drink, tell me, why you travel this far north into the Motherland, you not traders."

"We are tracking a band of Rozboyak raiders who attacked the village of Poronin." Hienrik said. "The Woyt's daughter was kidnapped, among many other villagers." Marmadov's face darkened and he nodded in understanding, spitting with disgust into the fire. "Rozboyak no good filth! Prey on people of the Motherland and give nothing back." He said with anger and contempt. "But why Woyt of Poronin send Southmen and Dwarf to save people? He has no sons? No warriors?"

"His sons are dead, slain in battle." Torzin said grimly. "And his warriors are few."

The woyt of Kozatyn nodded. "Is good way to die. When you find Rozboyak, you kill them all. Kozatyn village will share supplies, and I will send some of my warriors to help you hunt."

"Thank you." Hienrik said, bowing to Marmadov. "Is of no matter." The large northman replied, giving the Alfheimr a skin filled with vodka. "Rest, eat and drink." He said and slapped a heavy hand down in Hienrik's shoulder. "For tomorrow, we hunt Rozboyak!"

[Imperialisium]

Mid-March, 779AL

Old Sarin to Bayren, a small town under the Crown of Sarin on the Western shores of Lake Ramiene. The Alfheimr side of the lake. Was approximately a seven day ride by carriage. Bayren, followed by barge along the river Ramia, the elven name for the tributary that fed into the Atanos, whom my people called the Vesar; three days along the swift currents up past Elmont Castle. Whereby we convened for a nights stay at the hospitality of the Count of Elmont. Arising early morning, my escort and entourage, moved into the Atanos and made land fall at the small village of Kieldorf. The people there came from the fields and woods to see the passing of their Imperial Princess and her retinue. Thence along the dirt road we moved East along the Atanos. Following the river for four days until we came in the vicinity of Bolasgrad. The Lechyan's Southernmost city. Already, I can feel the air in this land is colder. While the days are warming as we get closer to Spring. The nights North of the Atanos are still frigid. I am oft left to sleep in thick bear furs to stay warm. I can hardly understand how my Knights and Men-at-Arms my father sent with me can stand to camp outside. Laughing and singing by the fire. Of course many of them are veterans of past campaigns. I wonder how the Lechyans are, even now, as we come within sight of the city.

Indeed, the fortnight of travel was arduous. But the Imperial Entourage had made good time, ahead of schedule, they where not expected for at least another four days given the time tables. But her escort was full of experienced travelers and campaigners who were adept at route marching. The Imperial Princess was the Emperor's second child. The younger sister to Crown Prince Franz. Taluria vas Valkyr, named after her maternal ancestor and wife of the first Emperor of Alfheimr: Maximilian I. She was much in her image. Possessing golden hair that would put any Dwarven gilded jewelers to shame. Her eyes showed like gems. Mismatched gems at that. The Imperial Family had a peculiarity with their eyes that appeared in the children of Maximilian I. Their eyes were of different colors. Taluria's left eye shown like the deepest emerald. Her right like grey ice. Her skin was supple, unblemished, and soft to the touch. Her attire was that of a deep blue dress. Conservative in style. Not opulent and covered her legs down to her ankles. Her corset was rather loose in the Venezian fashion. Allowing her to breath but shaped to her slender and lithe form. Her bosom bulged but was covered. Her hair was done up with braided bangs cinched at the back while two large golden braids ran down from the back of her head. One down each shoulder almost to her elbows. She craned her neck as she peered from the carriage window. She made out her escort. A squadron of Mounted Kyzergaard in their polished white-silver-gold armor, festooned in red cloaks and robes. Six in front and six in the back. Behind them trailed a second, longer, carriage full of a dozen maids and servants. While on each carriage were crewed by the driver, two foot men, and the valet who rode up front with the driver. The footmen bore crossbows.

A trumpet signaled their arrival as the city came into view, the convoy cresting a low hillcrest.

60 Miles off the Sunset Coast

The cabin boy woke up screaming. Something heavy smacked him across the face. Blackness. The next thing he knew he felt a cold splash assault his head. His head ached. He squinted as sunlight stabbed into his eyes. Blinking he craned his neck. He was on a different ship. A black ship. An armored foot smacked down next to his face. Strong hands grasped him, hauled him up like he was a feather, and his vision swam momentarily. He leaned forward and coughed spittle. His stomach empty. That was when everything became clear to him. He looked about and saw some of his old crew. The captain, the quartermaster, and a few others like the Boatswain.

Around him stood various pale figures. He looked to his left and right quickly. They barred fangs. He screamed. "Shut that maggot up!" bellowed a deep voice. The vampire on his right socked him across the face. Oof. The boy looked up again meekly. That was when he smelled a fragrance. Raven Shade. It was expensive. It smelled so sweet, aromatic, stimulating. Harvested from a rare plant found in the Kalzmere mountains. The flowery fragrance was intoxicatingly arousing to his nostrils. A slender, sensual, figure stepped into view. She wore black armor, etched with red gold and rubies. Etchings of bats, skulls, and dragons wove along the plates of her armor. It was extremely masterful work that could rival the smiths of Durognarin, Valtmeris, Old Sarin, and Paletine easily. Yet, the suit was entirely functional. She moved like it was nothing. The armor must be extraordinarily light for its strength. What strange, eldritch, qualities did this black metal possess?

The slender figure reached up and lifted the helm from her head. Raven black hair fell about her in a perfect raiment. Her skin was perfect like ivory. Her eyes shown like sapphire gems. She was impassive.

"This isn't the first time we've taken a ship and found a curiosity." Her voice was sultry, sensual, seductive. Just as intoxicating as that fragrance she wore. She peered at the men. She was beautiful, some were clearly enthralled, others could only look at the decking feebly. "I see that your holds had been altered. Quite cleverly I might add. Carefully hidden behind the usual manifests and inventories that all checked out. A reputable shipping company as this....why would it be trafficking humans?" The captain looked up at first in shock. As did the quartermaster. "Well?"

Her inquiry was met by the small voice of the captain. He seemed so weak. Powerless. "I do not know. I...we are told they are prisoners....debtors to Palan's Landing....I" The slender woman grabbed the captains head and hoisted him up like he was a soft Anotan pillow. "Debtors? Do you partake me a fool?"

"I...no! I..."

She dropped him to the deck and turned around. She eyed the boy. "This one is mine. Throw the rest over board. Helm...set course for Palan's Landing." A second punch and the boy was out again.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Tzardom of Lechya, City of Visegrad
Mid-March 779AL

The city of Visegrad rose up from the ground with the setting sun reflecting off of Lake Silvermere in the background. The walls of red stone, the tall towers of the temples and the menacing, haunted-looking spike of a fortress that was the Frozen Citadel towering above were all bathed in the golden glow of this early spring sun reflecting from the lake. Clinging to the face of the outer wall were a few dozen houses, mostly clustering around the gates. As the Alfheimr party crested the hill and sounded their trumpets as they made their way down the paved road toward Father Bear's Gate, the men on the walls spied the fluttering banners and pennants of the Empire in the South. News of the Imperial arrival had spread around the city some time ago and the southrons had made very good progress, arriving days before the appointed time.

A runner was quickly sent by the guards to bring the news of the Alfheimr princess´arrival up to the Citadel. The guardsmen at the gate, clad in deep crimson surcoats bearing a shield parted in four with two golden chalices and two roaring bears, the sigil of House Kazanowski, bowed and the gate commander, a landless knight led them through the gate and down one of the city's main streets, the Rawicki Prospekt which led from Father Bear's Gate and through the Podolany Quarter, a part of the city mostly inhabited by wealthier burghers and traders, lower nobility, mages and the likes. The cobbled streets were kept clean and the brick houses with flowers in the windows were huddled side by side on the narrow streets. The guards did not need to shout to the people to make way for the Imperial procession that moved down the street, men, women and children did so by themselves and thronged the sides of the Rawicki Prospekt and turned their eyes to follow the imposing Alfheimr Kyzergaard knights and the impressively decorated carriage.

They emerged unto the Salt Square which bustled with life and trade under the shadows of the Cathedral of Our Lady Triumphant, a large statue of Vaemidia was situated on a fountain in the middle of the square. They would later turn up the Prowancalski Porspekt, passing through the one of the inner wall's gatehouses and further through the Stalgrad Quarter, inhabited by the city's elites. Here were the colorful townhouses of rich nobles where they would stay when attending court at the Frozen Citadel, which now loomed even larger as the Alfheimer party moved ever closer until finally arriving through it's gates and coming to a halt in the courtyard. Servants clad in finery soon came to assist them with their horses and their baggage while a rather round-set man in a fine red Zupan decorated with golden weave, a well combed mustache on his lip and with a long finely carved staff in his hand introduced himself as Honorat Szolkowny, Boyar of Koscian and Castellan of the Frozen Citadel. It was he who led the princess and her attendants in through the great wooden doors as men clad in the well-decorated armor of the Tzarina's Own swung them open and bowed to their Imperial visitor from the South.

---

Tzarina Natalia II sat down in the throne upon the dais at the end of the throne room. The throne was an heirloom from elder days, it was an heirloom from the old Shaman-Queen, first ruler of Lechya. It was among the cultural treasures that was carted along with the rest of the Royal Court when the city was evacuated during the Great Slaughtering. It was one of the first things to return to the city after her father, Tzar Borys the Great retook it during his Purges. Upon the smooth, dark stone of the Obsidian Throne the Kings, Queens, Tzars and Tzarinas of Lechya had sat for nearly 700 years. Natalia was clad in a voluminous blue gown studded with pearls and decorated with intricate silverweave patters forming into birds and flowers. One of the large, imposing knights of the Tzarina's Own held onto her finely carved walking cane and another swept her into a warm fur as she sat there, ready to receive her guest.

Standing on the dais was the ruling branch of House Kazanowski. Her two living sons along with their own families and her fallen third son's wife and their two children, twelve people in total. In addition to that the Court was standing arrayed along the colonnades that held up the vaulted roofs that in their turn were painted with vivid scenes from Lechyan history. The gilded doors to the Throne Room gracefully swung open, and at the head of the Alfheimr party there walked a woman of striking appearance, indeed, the elven blood of the Valkyrs was quite notable in her. The courtiers bowed to her as passed and the knights of the Tzarina's Own stood to attention, halberds held high. A short fanfare of a trumpet sounded in the hall as the Castellan raised his voice.

"Her Highness the Princess Taluria of House vas Valkyr, daughter of His Majesty, Emperor Leopold of Alfheimr!" He boomed in announcement.

The Tzarina waved to one of the knights standing behind the throne, the man who held on to the cane more specifically. The knight approached and handed it over to the Tzarina with a respectful bow. The old woman took a deep breath and rose from the Obsidian throne, her bony hand clutching the silver handle of her cane as she used it to support her weight. She gave a respectful bow, as did the other members of her family before she straightened her back, as much as she could at least and raised her voice.

"Your Highness, welcome to Lechya, and welcome to my hearth and home." She said with a sweeping gesture of her hand. "Good of you to come and visit us, child. Despite it still being a bit cold in this Motherland of ours this time of year. I hope your speedy journey was without major complications?"

[Relikai]

Knightdom of Aesyra, March 779AL
-
Azgaard

The bustling marketplace was full of people, children running around doing errands for their households, butchers and fishmongers peddling fresh cuts of fish and poultry. The windmill near the market provided fresh flour to both households and bakers, while the tavern provided people with a mug of warm ale as part of their daily ration. The marketplace was the heart of the city, located right outside the castle where servants would do the shopping, while soldiers occasionally bring their weapons for sharpening by the city smiths. Castle smiths often charge their services for a premium, and using them for simple steelwork was a type of overkill when a whetstone could work the metal.

Most of the castle smiths themselves were away too, for the period just before a Grand Crusade was a period of immense profits. Outfitting new knights, making new weapons and armors, and repairing existing equipment was sure to bring in huge amounts of profit, for only those smiths possessed the skill needed to properly work weapons of better materials. Half of the castle smiths would travel with the crusaders to support them during the Crusade, while others would enjoy free time with their families, arriving back to the castle just in time for another period of profit as soldiers seek to repair their damaged armor, and lords requesting their broken or damaged armor to be restored.

There were few brothels in the city, for tourism wasn't Azgaard's specialty. However, they provided job openings for female prisoners captured during the Crusades, and there were many single laborers and soldiers who needed to keep warm. Instead of having their libido satisfied through crime of non-consent, the brothels were a needed place to seek relief, some raiders even going there to buy a whore or two, or have a romp before a reave.

The docks however, would be the busiest of places. Fishing boats, transports and trade ships were backed up against the harbor which lay a short distance from the city. Wide roads were maintained in order to allow the long supply chain to move uninterrupted, and dutiful harbormasters guided deliveries to where they were supposed to go. Apart from that, a section was cordoned off for the military, where a small detachment of raiders assembled, axes sharpened and painted black, as were their clothes and armor. Climbing onto a longship, a snekkja medium boat, the departure of the warship attracted no fanfare, for it was a common routine of the Aesyrians.

[Shadowwell]

Nah'ni Warrior of Vaemidia

Within the expanse of the Mist Woods not too far from the Sacred Ruins of the Cult of Myrrrh a figure lurked. The figure would be tall for a human, if they were indeed human, but their features and appearance were obscured by the hooded cloak he wore. The fallen branches and foliage cracked and bristled under the figures weight, occasionally an oddly shaped indent would be left behind him. He was a Nah'ni Variant Vizier, who had no Name, more importantly though, was that he was a Blessed of Vaemidia, a Warrior of Life. He is charged with cleansing Gaea of undead filth as well as those that worshiped or were affiliated with Dark Ones.

That Mission was why he was on the Isle of Albania to begin with, he had heard whispers of a cult worshiping a god different from those usually worshiped. Though not unheard of, there have been instances in the past where a Cult similar to this sprung up, but beneath the pleasantries and such they worshiped Dark Ones, he was here to investigate to see if that was the case. He had been keeping tabs on them, for a time, and many of the Followers of Myrrh would make there way to a set of caves or ruin. They were also open to the public, but he was conspicuous enough without blindly stumbling around an unknown ruin. He approached the entrance he was heading towards, one of the least guarded ones he had seen.

As he approached the entrance, a guard came into view,the man was lightly armored and carried a sword, but before he could do anything the Vizier was upon him. With one set of arms he bound the man, with the other set, he grasped the mans head and breathed out a greenish blue mist that caused the man's body to relax and go slack. He sat the guards still concious but sedate form to the side and headed in. The Carapace on his feet made clunking sounds on the stone floor, there was not much he could do about that yet. Though he could handle himself, he had chosen to go with the non violent option as of yet, but should the Cult of Myrrh be associated with a Dark One, then Albania would run red with their blood.

[Imperialisium]

City of Visegrad
Tzardom of Lechya
Mid-March, 779 AL

The Imperial Princess looked about the city as her coach and convoy meandered through the city. Taluria vas Valkyr, peered out of the carriage at the crowds that had gathered to watch the procession. Lechyan soldiery having joined them to being escorting the Imperial Entourage through the city and up to the citadel. There, she would meet the ruling Tzarina of Lechya, and she gulped. She was nervous beyond all comprehension. She had had diplomatic training, observed court politics, and having gone on a couple mission before. But not to any outside of Alfheimr. For the only nation she had been to previously was that of Elvrion. Specifically to Ramiene, the home of her maternal ancestor and namesake, and the seat of the Valtmari House of Tamerian. Taluria looked at the streets, the people, and the buildings lining them. The streets where clean, the people seemed fed, and the overall mood to be at least amicable. One could tell many things about a nation based upon the demeanor of its people. The entourage made their way through the districts and the Princess could see the expanse of the Salt Square. Like a clearing of cobblestone to keep the forest of buildings at bay. A singular, looming, and impressive statue of Vaemidia was present. The Cathedral of Our Lady Triumphant dominated the cityscape adjacent to the Square. Finally, the coach creaked through the inner city defenses into the Stalgrad Quarter. There Taluria spied the mansions and courtyards of the realms elite. Finally, the Frozen Citadel.

The coach door was opened by one of the footmen on the carriage. Standing at attention. A pair of Kyzergaard Knights had already dismounted and stood on either side of the door. A third approached bad bowed. Removing his steal gauntlet he delicately took the Princess hand and led her down the few steps of the coach onto the cobblestone ground. The air was indeed colder here. It was cool in the Northern half of Alfheimr with some smattering of Snow in the higher hills and mountains. But overall having given way to Spring in full despite the calendar saying otherwise. A Lechyan footman approached with soft furs, clearly cut for a woman of her frame and thoroughly washed and perfumed, she would have to give credit to the skill of the Tzarina's Household servants for their astute attention to detail and speed of services. She put her slender arms through the holes in the furs which hugged her upper back, shoulders, upper arms, and neck. But left her bosom open. Even in the North there was still a fashion sense. Taluria nodded in thanks to the Lechyan, the young footman kept his respectful composure and bowed, though she saw the slight red of blushing. Not from the chill air either. Before her the impressive doors of the Frozen Citadel loomed with Honorat before them. The remainder of the Imperial party seemed content to help in the baggage, watch the horses, and the guarding of the Princess' personal affect. A team of four Kyzergaard followed the Princess closely. Resolute. Formidable. Vigilant. The doors of the citadel yawned open to reveal the long, expansive, yet modestly kept Throne Room.

On a raised dais throne sat the Tzarina. Taluria noted twelve people with the Tzarina. She had been told descriptions of them, had seen portraits of them, in her preparations for this venture. Taluria followed her Lechyan guides into the Throne Room as the trumpets sounded and the herald bellowed.

As the elder Tzarina approached with her cane, Taluria gave a deep curtsy in respect, her fine elven blood that flowed in her veins from the union of Tamerian and Valkyr in a time long past evident. She rose and met Natalia's gaze respectfully. "I thank you, on behalf of my Father, and myself for your kindness. Our adventure from the Imperial Capital to your hearth and home was swift. I must thank the skill of my escort for that and without trouble." Taluria stroked the furs given her. "I must also comment on the quality of your household servants. Their attentiveness even in my first moments here are of high esteem."