The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sat Jan 05, 2019 11:23 am

The Price of War

As the bearers laden with the riches of two city-states trudged out from the walls of the city in the desert lands, many faces as dark as soot and the night sky looked upon them, expressionless. It was a fine affray, graven objects, household idols, raw gold glittering like entombed fire, opals resplendent with the prismatic glory of their nature. And yet the assembled warriors of the horde seemed less than impressed by it. Perhaps they had seen finer hoards in their years of plundering and devastation. Perhaps their masters valued wealth but little when set against the might of arms and the beating of hearts.

Either way, the Herald that stood forward seemed at least placated, if not satisfied. He spoke, and the man beside him spoke too, addressing the representatives of the twain city states.

"This is a fine offering for the Lord of the Earth, but he craves subservience, not merely trinkets and a merchant's dressings. Words and finery are written upon the wind. In blood is loyalty given. Send to his armies three hundreds of your strongest warriors, to serve as shield-bearers and mighty men in his vanguard, and then you may swear the oaths of fealty."

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Sat Jan 05, 2019 3:03 pm

((I'm sorry I'm really uninspired. I'll make the big post when my orders come. This was approved by the Aslani player))

300 Aslani Peasents are called up to be shield bearers.

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Sat Jan 05, 2019 3:14 pm

The Imperial Republic of Saladonia
Streets of Salli

Daros gazed arcross the crowded less populated streets. Nearly half of the refugees were sent away to join the horde. Less and less of the populace was Saladonian. A portion given away to the horde. As per demand of the Bloodright two years ago.

Daros observed this diverse street, men from distant lands, some men of Serrith, some men of the ever distant land of Aslani, and those stalwart sons of Salli, the Saladonians. Daros took in this scene, considering policies for future management of the city.

It was then when he heard a cry, "someone help!" It beckoned. Daro went to see and address the issue, however he walked a comfortable pace keeping in mind his age. Then he saw it, Damien Lazos lying dead in the street with his wife holding his hand in tears.

A week later, in the Senatorial.

"The attack that took place ago, has questioned the security of this city. However with hard progress we found the culprit, they call themselves 'the Sons of Vallenian,' a radical group that spits on the name of Tibus and believes in distorted beliefs of saladonian culture. To kill a unarmed senator dishonors not just them, but all of Saladonia," Daros pauses and checks the senators expressions. All had firm anger over the matter, even those that hated outsiders, "we must destroy these soon to be gladium, and execute them at once. I have discussed the matter with Khafra Tjenu, and he will take the matter to the council of the Chosen. Hopefully in time we will come up with a plan to deal with this newfound cohesion problem that bring outsiders and Saladonians alike to lunge for eachother throats. Discussion on the cohesion matter will be dealt with after the Sons of Vallenian are dealt with."

by **Olthenia** » Sat Jan 05, 2019 3:49 pm

Fᴀsᴛᴀǫᴜɪ

Queen of the Skazahad Delta
________________________________________
The Second Matriarchate of Salika the Gilded
The Fourth Day of the Arc of Songs, Year 353 of the Common Era

“The Hall of Many Mothers.” Shoreg’s tone was about as reverent as a wet rag. “It’s not really very…” Her words trailed into pregnant silence. “Motherly, is it?”

“It’s the seat of our councils and debates,” remarked Salika. “Fastaqui is ruled from this place.”

Behind her, her fellow crones murmured assent. Back in the days of Ocanda’s matriarchy, their sort would scarcely have done anything but laugh on command. Yet now? With the likes of that reed-singer Salika in charge? Well. Times change, Shoreg knew. And blood will out. As would disapproving murmurs – which, frankly, amused Shoreg to no end. Salika was a riverman’s daughter; a girl born and raised in the miserable clan-slums of Ambering Way. Grime and poverty were in her eyes and her heart and her soul. Her voice too, as it happened – a voice that could make all the Tiers listen. Especially when Salika and her allies were forever harping about the ‘proper’, ‘true’ Fastaqui – as though everyone else had suddenly forgotten.

“Aye,” Shoreg agreed. “It is ruled from this place. And yet it stinks like an amberman’s shack.”

From the corner of her eye, Shoreg could tell her fellow Crones exchanged meaningful glances. Calling them ‘Crones’ may have been a misnomer, though. There had been a time – a different time – when the Hall of Many Mothers could seat the matrons of all Fastaqui under its great wooden roof. These days however, the tiered seats barely held enough room to stand. Awkwardly.

“Our mothers have debated here since the founding,” drawled Kibwesi. Because of course she did. Shoreg steepled her fingers, gimlet eyes fixed on her old friend. Natty, ancient Kibwesi was a fixture of the Higher Tiers and had used a wicker-wood staff for support since Ocanda had still been Matriarch. There was nothing infirm about her voice, however – and that made Shoreg smile. Old friends did not spare harsh council. “To speak ill of this place is to speak ill of who we are.”

“It’s a good thing that I’m not, then – or I’d probably offend you,” remarked Shoreg. “But, my ladies, I am not. I am not speaking ill of who we are, let alone the way we rule. I am, however, speaking ill of this hall! Not only does it stink, but the benches sag. The roof leaks, the floors creak, and I think someone’s dog died under the outer stairs! Why is that?”

“Because dead things smell?” called one of Salika's wits. Her fellow crones tittered waspishly.

“I mean, Mother Rhinna, why do we put up with it? Listen, we’re clearing out the shacks along Amberman’s Way these days. We're raising a wall higher than even this humble hall, and by the sweat of our brows and the toil of our sons we've already built good huts in place of those miserable slums. We saw something ugly, and we made it better. We saw danger, and we made ourselves safe. When are we going to make THIS better?”

After that, the rest was easy. For the first time in what felt like a year, the Tiers were actually listening. They were certainly laughing, and right where Shoreg wanted them to. Wise women and clever crones spoke of how to make copper bubble or the secret of raising a stone tower. Yet to hold a crowd as Shoreg did? To shape your words and your voice into something that made your listeners eat meaning from the palm of your hand? That was a different secret altogether.

Salika might be good, aye. But Shoreg still had her bested.

For now.

by **Toaslandia** » Sat Jan 05, 2019 9:57 pm

(Just assignments)

by **Ralnis** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 1:52 am

Xcotl, Land of the Dead

Administration was hard to do. With a lot of work between hearing problems of poor housing and the other problems of Xcotl. However there was more good being done. The wizards of the Magnum Opus had started to work on introducing the city to Geolicus magic, which had been slowly been introduced in the cultural myth. It was more in the way of the Ancestor-Spirits and shamanistic ideas but people have started to accept it. Then the Shambling Legion had started to build a church crypt in order to gather more support and undead for the city. It was a good call as it will start to get the Cadmian culture changed to those of Xcotl.

This was coupled with the opening of their gold mine. This allowed the laborers to get gold easier than what it use to be. The Gate Council itself looked at it as a means to fund the fledgling state they were crafting. However there was still a threat, much bigger than Shoval ever was. The Sandwalkers of the Desert. Those who had nearly brought killed the entire civilization. Those demons of sand that many believe to be myth were real, real enough that they refuse to enter the Ancestor Region for the tin deposits.

However many believe that the demons are gone, that they haven't seen them in close to a century and change. It was these people who demanded that they do an exploration of the Ancestor Region to find out if there's anything out there. To see if the Sandwalkers are alive or if they are gone into the desert. If they aren't then there was a problem, a problem that needed to be solved very, very quickly.

The Gate Council decided that it was time to seek out the Ancestor Region and recover the region in the name of their Ancestors. It was better that they do so as they needed the tin in order to make bronze once again after the centuries of losing the knowledge and the alloy. It was a good idea to do so and this brought up another resource, stone.

Stone was a need that they have been looking forward of getting. The housing project called for it and Cadmian knowledge of construction allowed them to start making up new housing projects that produced new advancements that showed off the artistic side of their culture. Still, they needed the need of stone and a quarry is what is needed.

by **Kelmet** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 8:18 am

The Kingdom of Lordaeron

Year Twentyeight of the Reign of King Varian Menethil

Turn 14

*Will be Edited.

by **Nuxipal** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 11:36 am

The Chosen of Neferkara

There was unrest in the city. Because of this, the Chosen kept part of their undead close by. The 36 were given their shields and spears and stationed around the Chosen's complex. Because of this, the Chosen have convened another meeting. Arguments raged between the two sides, but with the current situation in the city it seemed significantly more even on the debate side.In the end, a tie between two major groups. Instead of breaking the tie Setnakhte calls a general vote in the chosen's ranks. After a few hours of debate and trying to convince the lower ranks of the chosen to support their point of view.

In quite a surprise victory, Neferata's faction won the vote. They would start looking beyond Saladonia for their future. To begin this they send the Gladium and 100 Undead down to Sarrith to trade for wealth and recruit scholars to the ranks of the Chosen. With this win, Neferata was now poised to ascend to the leadership, unless Khafra finds a way to further the chosen's influence.

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 3:49 pm

The Honori People
A new occupation

The Gates of Mara slowly opened that fateful day. As the history of the city would forever differ. Unwilling to let her people be put to the sword, just as so many others had, the Matriarch of the city laid down their arms. Chests upon chests of gold and jewels, jewelry and coins, were dragged out of their coffers, tribute for the Chief of Chiefs. To the very last drop the wealth they had stored for so many years was taken from them, gobbled up by the immense serpent that was the horde. The gold, the jewels, the coins, the wealth, was all carted off to lands far beyond the horizon, years of hard work now for nothing. The sight brought many to tears. But they demanded more. "More! More! More!" The hungry monsters called for, and shook the very gates of Mara with their greed. The serpent called for young boys to feast upon, to fatten itself off of, and the people of the desert vale shrieked and recoiled in horror. By divine mercy then, was their Aslani allies able to come to them in this time of need, and offered to send forth their youth instead, to be taken to lands unknown, and to fight for a king they had never seen. But still they called for more. They grew fond of the land, and found the concept of leaving the breasts of the Honori people unpleasant. They had found the labor of packing up and leaving with their bounty too much effort, their feet too tired from years upon years on the march. And so... they refused to go. They stood outside the walls with one final demand. "Let us inside thy walls, if you are loyal subjects to the throne! Let us live in your city! Then we will truly know your submission to the Cheif of Cheifs!"

What other choice did they have? The Honori people were not of fighting breed. They had already given up so much- would they incur the wrath of these barbarians, to pillage, and rape, and plunder the city, for not taking one more step? They called them barbarians, but they were disciplined. Their commanders kept them in line, with the fierce whip and sword the warriors had obeyed their betters, and not stolen a piece of the loot pile brought before them, had given it all away to their king so far away. Atleast... should they live within their homes by consent, they would keep rank, and respect their laws and customs. As best as a foreign and occupying force could, that is. The Honori people, eventually, agreed. These men, of strong and brutal stock, could guard their city from any other roving bands looking to get rich. Their walls would finally be defended. Their people... safe? Perhaps? It was justification enough, the little they needed in addition to not being pillaged. But what they were given in compensation truly astounded them. As the gates opened, the band of warriors did not charge forth to sack them and steal anything not nailed to the floor. A long line of confused women, with scars of intricate magical runes along their arms and chests, shambled into the city. Astounded, the Honori could only stare in shock when they realized who these women were... the very women taken from them in the seige of Ita! A little aged, thrown around, perhaps... but largely unharmed. The Honori people wept with joy, and allowed the foreign occupants to come forth then without any more struggle. Their honor had been restored, the city was whole again.

The Division of Labor

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 6:44 pm

The Senate of Cadmus, Cadmian Republic
22nd of Summersheat, Year 353 of the Common Era

The air over the city of white marble was still, hot. A blanket of oppressive heat undisturbed by the normal sea breezes, cloying and suffocating. Upon the sweating laborers of field and docks the sun beat down unmercifully, perspiration marking the salt-tracked brows of those who had to work for a living. Up higher on the Vestian Hills, overlooking the city below, men and women reclined on couches where the winds provided at least some relief from the torpid humors that assaulted the lower classes. Villas of gleaming stone, polished facades, and greenery, set above a town where the plebeians lived in squalid slums.

A stagnant civilization? Perhaps. Men comfortable in the halls of power, like those where the echoing footsteps of the toga-clad Senators padded when they met to decide the fate of the city. Comfort is not evil. But it is the mother of sloth, and sloth can strangle even the noblest of ambitions. A Republic, meant to give all men a say in the ruling of their lives, now perverted into a tool of suppression and a corrupt establishment which stood upon the neck of the common man.

Better or worse than that of other men, who followed emperors, kings, rulers and princes? Perhaps better. Perhaps worse.

For better or worse, at an end.

It began of a sudden, a noise that few marked in the hubbub of the city of trade and commerce. A thunderclap in the clear sky, pitiless pale blue horizons undisturbed by cloud or the threat of storm. Some men who knew ought of weather gazed out to sea, where such maelstroms were given to originate, but the line of sea and sky was unblemished. Through the halls of power in the Senate it rolled for brief moments, and down into the narrow streets between shacks and ramshackle stalls where hawkers plied their wares, ominous but in some way resplendent.

And then the hammerblow came. A billow of wind like the front of a tempest, tearing at clothes of nobles and sending banners and flags fluttering. It shrieked through those same alleyways, men sighing in relief as heat dissipated before a curiously chill breeze, a wind almost of winter. But they did not perceive the meaning of the wind, for it carried no meaning - it was merely an dispassionate vanguard of something else to come.

That something manifested in a moment, in the Senate Chamber of the Republic. High on the hills overlooking the bay of Cadmus, the representatives of the People and Senate of Cadmus were debating a minor bill, some matter having to do with the taxation of merchants from the east. Many were dozing where they sat upon the sculpted marble benches. Others looked at the debaters with eyes of curiosity, weighing the proponents of one side or another, less on the merits of the proposal and more on the strength of their character. Or, rather, in many cases, attempting to determine who would offer what bribes to vote how. The wheels of democracy, greased with lucre, as had always been.

And then the apparition. It came in a brilliant column of blue and green, lurid and fantastical, at the center of the dais where the speakers stood. Men leapt back in dismay, shielding their eyes, and in a moment the figures of men resolved from the chaotic light. They were strange to see to the men of the Republic, skins of glittering color, hands filled with bizarre objects that the senators did not recognize. Soldiers of a distant land, in fact, suddenly and strangely transported across hundreds of leagues to stand within the hallowed halls of the Senate herself.

Men in togas of white and red scrambled away from the ghostly figures, for the figures streamed out from the central dais at speed, footsteps unhurried but rapid. Their faces were hidden behind masks of gleaming iron, eyes black and blank behind helmets that left no vulnerability for a foe to exploit. Dozens, then scores, armored in cold silver and glistening metal, and as the blue and green light faded the seat of rule of Cadmus was in moments filled with soldiers bearing the sigil of a well-known entity; the Sword and Hammer of the Hierarch.

A man at the rear of the formation stood forward, his head uncovered, sea-gray eyes both old and young, in his hands a naked sword as long as a hand and a half. His voice when he spoke was neither passionate nor pitying, merely factual.

"Senators of Cadmus. You have been judged by the Father, and found wanting in your charge to his children. As such, it is decreed by his eminence, the Lord Hegemon of Kharbarinth and the Stalheim Hierarchy, that the rule of Cadmus the Noble has been given over to I, Master Aemon of House Whitestone, son of Cadmus. Kneel, or you shall be removed from your offices... summarily."

A hint of malice then. Perhaps the baring of the teeth of one corner of the ageless man's mouth. A memory long borne of time that had gone by, now redressed in a sudden. And in that way the new Master of Cadmus came to his wayward charges.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Sun Jan 06, 2019 8:49 pm

Ita
Beginning of the fifth year of the Chiefdom of Chief Agung, former adviser to the late Chieftess Bacani

The hosts of their terrible foes parked themselves in one of the hills near the city. It took several days of them merely scouting around the valley for the Ita to go back to their daily routines - albeit a bit apprehensively, as the presence of the horde in the valley was like a specter for them, a reminder of the carnage that they wrought less than a decade ago. Children were in shock, unable to leave the safety of their own homes, women were crying and preparing to take their own lives for fear of being murdered or violated by the horde, and Chief Agung and several of the bravest men of Ita took to carrying stone spears, bows, and flint sling-bullets to the shattered walls, awaiting their eventual demise. But it never came. They kept their distance, they hunted what few wild goats they could from the hill surrounding their temporary encampment, and they kept to themselves, not bothering the already-traumatized and devastated city. And after three days of the horde simply resting their feet in the valley, Chief Agung decided that they were not to be feared for the moment, and that all work should resume, as though nothing was happening. Life had to continue, and he decided that it had to continue now.

And Chief Agung started this continuation of life by declaring that all of the people who lived in the slums were now free to relocate to the better, larger, more insulated huts that he had had built over the past two years, and that once the relocation was completed, the demolition of the slums could commence. "No longer will our people live such unequal lives," he remarked, as he symbolically chipped away at the first piece of stone in one of the empty houses in the slums. Aside from this, work continued on preparing the city for the construction of an even greater wall to surround themselves with, with hundreds of Itans working in shifts from dawn until dusk. Apparently, for Ita, the answer to the failures of one wall was an even larger one - despite the fact that it wasn't human force, but magic, that destroyed the previous wall. Chief Agung has not caught on to this, and has merely done this to placate the growing fear of his people. Already a hundred or so Itans migrated south, to the friendly Honori peoples. He knew his city was in trauma, and he was going to do everything to make sure the Ita would get through it in one piece. And what better way to instill in them a sense of security than by building another layer of walls around the city?

The Ita had to get through this. There was no other option for Chief Agung, and no other option for the battered survivors in the city. If an even larger wall was going to stop them from waking up screaming in the middle of the night, then he was going to build it.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 10:15 am

Year 353 of the Common Era - Turn 15

Rumors of War

Satisfied with the offerings of treasure, precious goods, and levies for their hosts, the Midnight Horde departs the lands of the Honori - but not after leaving a substantial garrison within the large city. Their marching companies disappear southwest, into the wild deserts between Mara and the Aslani.

Elsewhere, the Horde has also departed the lands of the Ita, those sworn into service to the Chief of Chiefs at the point of a sword relieved at their passing. They depart right of the direction of the setting sun, into lands unknown to the Ita, and all of the folk of the mountain kingdom breathe a little bit easier without a ravenous host at the threshold of the city.

Rumors of war now come to the lands of the Many Mothers, strange wild folk fleeing out of the hinterland and speaking of destruction and death, seeking refugee in the marsh-town. Two hundred strange refugees, nomads and peoples in blind flight away from a terrible danger. And news also comes to Salli, ere year's end, that Maelon, the proud men of the mountains so recently contacted, have defied the marshals of the Lord of the Earth, and had their mountain fastness put to the sword after a long siege.

The Magnus Opus: The Ley Lines of Xcotl are mapped. They are weak in many places, not thickly clustered like those known in the west, but a few prominent power-points have been ascertained. Enough, perhaps, for four Geoloci of particular strength. It is about one of these power-points that the Geolocus of Strengthening begins to arise, though its shaping is yet indeterminate. Geolocus of Strengthening [Labor IV], +Wealth. Healing Light [2/5] The secrets of turning sunlight into fire, on the other hand, elude the frustrated wizards.

The Shambling Legion: It is true, perhaps, that the people of Shoval are less than easy laboring alongside the undead. After all, it was mere years prior that sons and husbands were slain by the slavering monsters when the walls of the city were breached, and memories are not so short. But the new Church of the Dead rises all the same, if slowly. [Labor IV]

The Chrysi Aspida: The training of the host continues apace - though depleted in numbers, it is unbowed, and fabulously wealthy. The demand for escort services is down, what with the skirmishers of Shoval put to rest, and no contracts are forthcoming; plenty of timber is available in the lands of the encampment, however. +Timber

The Chosen of Neferkara: Blood red hematite, hewn from the soil of Salli. Potential in a stone, a secret only fire can tell. Outcasts of the west, wandering the streets of Serrith, so recently forced to bow - their appeals fall on deaf ears, men knowing their shame turning aside even with bellies empty and hearts filled with despair at the humbling of the Serrin. Indeed, the shambling undead that walk the markets find few buyers for their price for their baskets of clay - perhaps they ask too much, or perhaps half-rotten corpses are not the best salesmen. Of the strength of the earth that the Chosen seek below their feet, no succor or remedy is devised.

The Fate of Cadmus

Proud men, men of heritage and resolve. They do not bow easily, having held their positions, the positions of their fathers, for generations. Naked blades though, they bend many men, for iron is stronger than flesh. And the will of might imposed on those who only react, it is stronger even than iron. The decapitation strike on the Cadmian Republic is brutal in its efficacy, and those who might think to rally resistors have already been silenced, while those below barely raise their heads to perceive new overlords before returning to the toil of existence. Men sworn to defend the White City, hearts disquieted already, leave their weapons in their barracks, and are only too happy return to wives and children at the end of the day, not willing to sell their lives against superior weapons and in defense of men who would not do the same for them.

Cadmus crumbles, not with a shout, but with a whisper.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 11:01 am

The Magnum Opus

The ten Masters of the Magnum Opus sat around the white fire the Council. The air was thick with anticipation, Archmage Severus led the charge.

"The secrets of Fireball continue to elude us this is unacceptable, even our brightest and most clever of mages continue to be unable to make a breakthrough in this endeavor," Severus said with a tired look on his face.

Master Opono spoke up."Yes, we must have the entire guild dedicated to unlocking the secrets of this powerful magic, all four hundred wizards must research this in unison or else we will never have a breakthrough."

"Then it is official then send an order to all the chapters of the guild to work together to research Fireball, we shall not wait any longer"With that, the Mage Council voted in unison to devote the entirety of the guilds talent to researching Fireball. Gods willing the power of this Arcana would be unlocked.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 12:53 pm

The Great Zhou Imperium
Turn 15

Content is hard.

by **Nuxipal** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 1:06 pm

The Chosen of Neferkara

Salli in revolt. The citizens there unhappy with the government and Neferata taking full advantage of the situation presses for an immediate departure from the city. She had done research and was able to give the chosen a location to move on. "Salli is lost to us for now. We will withdraw from the city and head down to the lands of the Serrin. According to what we know, there is a settlement known as Sarfuth in the hills which is known to have gold. I do now know if there is a mine built there or not, but we will move onto that settlement and capture its inhabitants."

There was a small murmur from the various assembled people. Their High Priest Setnakhte raised his hand to silence everyone. "Very good, Neferata. Now let my son voice his opinion and we will hold the vote."

Khafra approached the central stage. He glanced at Neferata with some degree of respect. His supporters had all been briefed on what would happen in his argument. "I have put a great deal on the line to make peace between us and the Saladonians. I joined the Saeling to bring us all together. Now, when they need us most, you want to leave the city?" He looked at Neferata and sighed, "I however, agree with the High Priestess. The city's own citizens riot against their elected government and demand concessions of them. Regardless of what takes place in this city, we are leaving it behind."

The vote was unanimous, no one spoke against it after that. For the first time in many years, the Chosen were united behind a common goal. The next goal would be to make off with as many corpses as they could. Khafra and Neferata's two factions worked side by side acquring as many of the Saladonian dead as they could carry between them and the gladium. They gather all they can and before dawn one morning they unceremoniously leave the city marching towards Sarfuth.

It took time, but once they arrived the Undead went to work capturing the settlement and its population to permit the Chosen and Gladium to enter as well.

by **Pentapolitan Kyrene** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 1:47 pm

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos

Gergan, 3rd Year of the Emerald Epoch, The Month of Dawn

The Thunderer's camp sat, in those early days, in the small clearing of flat land surrounding the rugged city of Gergan. Beneath the shadow of the palisade, it had a meager look to it, comprised of a loosely regimented grid of temporary tents and bedrolls, slowly sinking into boot-churned mud, and before the wealth of Gergan, and the polished basalt of the slave-guard's shields upon the ramparts, it seemed deeply squalid. In many ways, it was. The soldiers who had assembled around Karaunos, long known in the Palinate as an over-eager adventurer and slaver, were not of the most reputable sort, nor of the wealthiest. Mostly, the rank and file were poor, and with little prospect of improvement. The sons of slaves who'd won their liberty in the guard, mostly, as Mithras' own forefathers had, along with a few impoverished or disgraced soldiers.

Only a score of them were better than these, with free blood more than a generation old in their veins, and these two were not the most glorious of Gergan's sons. There was Mithras himself, of course, along with a dozen of his companions, induced by their faith in him to end their tenure in the Free-Guard of the Palinate, and a handful of mercenary-spirited third sons of Gergan nobility, who their fathers were glad to see go rather than staying to split their patrimony. To most, the motley assembly would be naught more than a shambles, but to Mithras Karaunos, and to his captains, they were altogether more. They were the seed of a legion, their simple spears and axes the beginnings of a great armoury, that they hoped would soon come to a great deal more than a score of officers and four-score enlisted men.

It was this faith in them that kept the men loyal, when Mithras drilled them for weeks in the first weeks of the year. For hours on end he let his thunderous voice roll and crash upon them, his captains marching up and down the line with canes to put the men in order, and harshly punishing infractions. Certainly, some few had slunk off, in the first days, but soon enough those that remained had the begginings of discipline about them. They could march around the valley, could carry their tents, could form ranks and divide them at an order, and could brace before a false charge. Only then did Mithras decide it worthwhile to march out from their dilapidated camp. Each man pulled up his tent, and loaded it into the carts loaded with chains, before the new-forged army set out westward, into the mountains, following rumours of quarry beyond the mountains.

The Palinate Alps, The Month of Planting

Mithras was not a man given to doubt. His temperament had never much suited such half-measures as doubt and weakness may bring a man, favouring brave action and a noble failure over cowardly sluggishness and an honourless stalemate. Otherwise, for certain, he would not have marched his men into the mountains with half the alacrity he had. Once he was confident they wouldn't break on the march, he knew his best chance to be a swift, incospicuous march westward. This was not his first slave-raid, he and his captains had been in the business for years already, and it was well known among them that to take a foe by surprise was far more lucrative. With pre-warning, a man would send away his wives, his children, his family, to hide in some fastness before fighting to his death alone, but by surprise, the whole body of the people could be taken in chains, and sold en masse. With his wife and children in chains, a man would surrender altogether more easily, and with the promise that he'd be kept together with his kin he would often even co-operate.

Such was the plan then, when the Legion descended from the mountains after a remarkably comfortable spring crossing, and sent out scouts to search out for this rumoured quarry; for the town the hunters had called Brexonburn. Once the town had been spotted, and found to be defenseless, the attack would commence all but immediately, with the legion in its entirety surrounding the village and rushing in, quickly rushing to dispatch any opposition before taking as many as possible in chains, taking their goods and any loot to be had, before regrouping and marching back into the mountains. With luck, and the blessing of the Gods of Stone and Chain, Mithras and his captains anticipated it would take no more than an hour or two, and that the legion would be long gone and marching back to Gergan, scores of slaves in tow, before any outside the village knew they had ever been there.

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 2:09 pm

The Imperial Republic of Saladonia
Statue Circle

Today was a grim day, the sky was mellow grey, and the distant clouds cackle white fire. Crowds gathered around the statue circle, that marble statue of Cratus Rylander in the center. Then he came, Lord-Imperator Daros Bryre, blood of a royal, son of a king, fool of a leader. As he walked up the dirt filled pathway, four guards flanked him, two on each side, ensuring he didn’t escape. As the walked through a torrent of boos, and cusses came his way.

“Murderer,” they screamed, “Child taker!”

“Gladium!”

“Vakka Re!” another cussed.

‘Vakka Re’ meant dishonored son, a cuss that’s akin that basically implies, that he is a son of a gladium. As the crowd grew ever fervent with hate, and as citizens grew bolder with every shout. However none moved towards Daros, for as much as they hated the man, they knew he was under the protection of the guards, those fearsome stalwart men of Saladonia. None dared approach them.

As for Daros he had a calm demeanor, something most men experience by accepting their demise. He walked up to the statue, turning around and on his knees before all of Saladonia. A man nearby passes a copper knife. Daros grabs it without a word. No words are said, even from the bustling crowds surrounding the circle. The only sound that could be heard was the soft sound of the man Daros’s received the knife from, as he adjust him and his spear; Positioning the spear towards Daros, preparing if he failed to commit himself to death.

Daros flips the blade, pointing the blade towards him. WIth a quick and sudden motion, the blade moves and plunges into Daros’s chest, piercing the skin, and cutting the heart. Daros makes a gasp, and plunges the blade deeper, hoping to quicken his death. Eventually his body, unable to handle standing slumps down and collapses. The Lord-Imperator was dead.

After the passing of the Lord-Imperator, the city began working at progressing once again. The mutineers, as per the agreement with Daros, would stand down in return, they would form a Soldier’s Council, wealth provided to those misfortunate due to the past years of mismanagement, and shelter for those with none. After the paper work was finished Daros, was to suicide, (as proposed by him), for his failures in leading Saladonia. A new Lord-Imperator was to be chosen.

by **Olthenia** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 2:15 pm

Fᴀsᴛᴀǫᴜɪ

Queen of the Skazahad Delta
________________________________________
The Third Matriarchate of Salika the Gilded
The Seventh Day of the Arc of Feasting, Year 354-355 of the Common Era

The waves sang. Their noise was a distant roar on the edge of hearing, white and foamy, and it greeted every mariner coming down the Skazahad into the endless sea. Every morning just past the crack of dawn, as the sun’s first rays cleared the ragged mangrove trees, schools of tiny fishing boats did just that. Men crewed them – lean and spare, proud and salted. As it should be. For in Fastaqui, where the Many Mothers ruled, a woman’s word was law on land. Yet the white-capped wave was the preserve of men. The winds and tide theirs to struggle with. Like as not, that struggle yielded rafts of fish. It had to – for the sake of grateful cookpots back home.

Yet ‘home’ was an awkward word in Fastaqui that year. Especially for the families whose huts crowded the riverbanks. For many a recent arc, their view of yellow reeds and fern-woods trees had been replaced. By stone. Great, fitted slabs of it had been hauled into place by swarthy workmen, fitted with mortar and piled higher, ever higher. ‘Til it covered the horizon and embraced every hut and quayside from the Square of Captains all the way down to the slums of Ambering Way.

“They never should have built that wall,” grumbled Uncle Phelan. Majd had heard him hiss it, just barely. “Things weren’t ever like this before they piled those stone so high.” What Uncle Phelan did not say was ‘just look at all the foreign folk’. But Majd could tell he thought it. Granted, Fastaqui’s markets and barter-quays were hardly unfamiliar with their sorts. The city proud enough to style itself ‘Queen of the Skazahad’ had sprawled in the great river’s shallows long enough to be known. For the gleaming copper of her great, sooty forgefires. The gleaming amber nuggets in the Square of Captains. The bushels of quinoa and the hot, chunky fish stew so favoured by waif and crone alike. Outsiders came for all those things, and more – but they didn’t settle. They bought. They sold. They travelled on.

Until the wall stood tall.

The trickle had begun in the Arc of Flowers, when swarms of puffed up kunda-wood seeds floated by on balmy breezes. Foreign faces and odd accents had been quaint then; a welcome sight for quayside traders. The raft of rumours and stories, less so. Because gods knew the travellers brought enough of those. Often as not, they were ominous, dark and ugly – harrowing tales of black banners and red war. Of corpses piled in heaps, and sunny skies hidden by smoke black with human fat. The foreigners – queer nomads with scars laddered by tribal scars and queer, crabbed coastal folk from the scrublands farther west – all told the same tales. They different word for word, perhaps – but in content they were all the same. ‘Different fish from the same basket’, as Uncle Phelan might put it.

One newcomer, a foreign girl with hair in braids as thick as his fingers, had even told Majd in a sad, lilting accent that they weren’t safe here. Not from the evils coming. Not even. They’ll eat your children! They’ll slit their throats!

In the end, they’d housed the newcomers along the reeking, wind-worn eyesore of slum-huts and raft-lands that was Ambering Way. Which was funny, in a way. Scarcely two years had passed since the wealth of Crone and Council had seen new pilings planted and reed-huts built, down by the southern banks. Proper huts, where decent folks might live decent lives. There’d been talk of tearing down Ambering Way. And now the foreign folk had come and moved right on in; grateful for even those modest comforts. Ah, well. One mother’s slum was another mother’s refuge.

Fastaqui had had no business building that wall.

There had scarcely been talk of war or trouble before it’d come up. Now, though? Well. Until the refugees came, it had been an extravagance – a vaguely foolish thing, like a peacock’s feather worn so high it brushed the ceiling, or an oar too heavy to use. Yet no more. Now that great, dark wall and the war-talk that’d come with it was something you couldn’t look away from. Eventually, the raft of rumours and corpse-tales had set the Crones in the Hall of Many Mothers murmuring.

Eventually, those murmurs had brought the scrape-knives out.

Cibi had winced as she felt the coppered edge. It stung a trickle of hot pain as it grazed up her neck. Then the back of her skull and the crown on her head. Before her, in the muster-yard dust, the coils of her hair puddled like mud-snakes. She had knelt a labourer, arms muscle-corded. Now, as the sun’s first rays cleared the distant wall and Majd on his distant boat breathed in the song of the white-capped wave, she, too, sang. The Ashen Oath.

Mother, protect. Your children are threatened.
The watchfire lit. The foemen come.
Raise your spear, and corpse in glory.
Those that drink your children’s tears.

When she rose, the morning air on Cibi’s head felt cold. Alien. Beside her, young men and women similarly shorn were rising too. Farmers, fishers and shore-combers no more. Soldiers now, oath-bound and head-shorn.

To raise their spears and corpse in glory.

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 3:56 pm

The Honori People
A shift in society

Mara, the mighty city on the hill, was forever changed by the tides of foreigners now living within her walls. Numbering just under a fifth of the population, not including those already ingrained into Honori society, they were an influential minority. Itan, Aslani, and the slew of languages spoken by their newfound conquerors was heart in the streets and markets, as the city began to reflect the world around it. One could argue that Mara was the most diverse city in the world presently, a newfound hub of cultures and ideas both foreign and heretical.

The Queen mother was allowed to remain incharge as a Satrap of sorts, but the true power of the matriarchs would be dashed aside, their meetings now more ceremonial and religious than political. The Queen Mother, now known as simply the Matriarch of Mara, ruled with significant autonomy for being a client queen. Her court consisted of the highest members of the old guard, the judges, the old Matriarchs, the Custodians, the Sun warrior, aswell as a handfull of other individuals of now. In particular of the new figures though, stood the Lord of their foreign garrison, the beast of a man, towering above all others in attendance. He was the Cheif of Cheif's voice in the city, and, although disciplined, was viewed as a tyrant. Although never overtly threating the lives of the court, he made it clear what the will of their masters would be: Food, homes, wives, and wine. This great shift in the balace of power between the male and the female lead to offences in the respect of the female rulers of the city, who their male overlords found weak and effeminate against their brute and masculine views of rule. Demands made by them from the word were always seen as by the sword, even if they were unarmed. And so it was that the matriarchal rule of the city began to crack, as the men demanded submissive wives for their carnal desires and pleasure. But who was to wed with four hundred men? Would a generation of young girls be subjected to this barbarous assault on their values, what they had been promised in life? It seemed possible the whole system would collapse, but if it would, it wasn't to happen overnight. The poorest families, unable to afford the dowry for a good husband for their daughters, often found a decent compensation to marry their daughters off to these northerners, even if they were unfond of the concept. What else were they to do? The high-bred women were not so low as to submit to a man, no matter the size. And so it was that their barbarous hosts began to bring their vile practices to Mara, of patriarchal homes and the bride market- all things looked at as vile and cordoned off to their neighborhoods.

But still it was that the city moved on, dragged through the dirt though it may be. The foreigners drinking throughout the night to put on spectacles of strength throughout the day. These lumbering men kept the walls safe, and crime seemed to leave the city. They ate immense amounts, and drank their city dry, but they soon accommodated for this. Indeed, the wresting, the runs, the spectacles of the city were made even more entertaining seeing the giants compete, occasionally bested by a honori man.

And who knew? Perhaps the next generation of these warriors might grow more accustomed to their way of life...

The Division of Labor

by **The Empire of Tau** » Mon Jan 07, 2019 5:11 pm

The Shambling Legion
Year 353 of the Common Era

Construction has been going smoothly as it seems. The Crypt of the Legion is Manifesting itself via the hard-work of Shoval workers and the Legion’s undead. In order not to cause riot among the workers of the city - they have been given plenty of rest and foods to sustain their bodies. It was important not to anger the people of Shoval too much. If any of the workers or their families were sick then local medicines were administered, but if that did not work then the Legion would pay out of its pockets for outside aid. After-all, Shoval was now apart of the growing undeclared empire of Xcotl.

The stairwell-down and entrance structure, which were made via earthworks, were built. The first-levels of the Crypt was still under-way, but had progressed to encompassed a small section. Basic wooden beams (raw wooden logs) have been erected to stop the walls and ceilings from falling drop. Days, weeks, and years goes by as laborers march about their duty - slowly building.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Jan 08, 2019 4:03 pm

Outskirts, Cadmus Minoris
5th of First Seed, Year 353 of the Common Era

Down from the north they came, a glittering line of men whose armor flashed with the light of the rising sun. Those who had heard the rumors from the capitol were hardly surprised to see them, though the more provincially inclined gaped at the sight of true soldiers, for the Republic had never sent such military force here. Senator Publius Quintus called out the men of his household, ringing the low copper bell that graced the tallest building of the small township, but few responded; those who did were mainly old man too stubborn for their own good, or young men with hot blood who did not fully understand the consequences of their actions, and who lacked parents of sense to restrain their passions.

Magus Amelia sighed as the dozen men with pitchfork and spears trotted forward from the edge of the town. It was a humble fishing village, perhaps two hundred souls in all. She had no desire to mar such a peaceful community with death - nor, for that matter, did the Hegemon, based on here orders - but if the men would not yield they would perish. And the Finest were itching for a fight, having been hopped up on the anticipation of battle prior to the annexation of Cadmus herself, and then denied the glorious battle they craved.

She held up a hand, and her escort of the dark-steel armored Blackguards parted, the fine robes of the Collegia commanding respect. Her voice was stilted when she spoke to Lord-Commander Meridian Nemtsov, but he bent his ear her way nonetheless.

"Liege lord. May I recommend a single combat to decide the fate of the city? Cadmus has already seen enough of war. We have no need to slaughter sons and fathers to make these men see the light of the Hierarch's rule."

A hand mailed and gauntleted rapped a steady tattoo on the side of the one iron-shod leg as the faceless visage of the Lord-Commander contemplated her request. It would not satisfy the men's lust for blood, but that would subside in time; they were well-disciplined, no mere brute savages, and well-paid men did not require loot and arson to keep them loyal, unlike so many of tribal militaries and brigands that the Hegemon's armies had faced.

"Very well, Lady Amelia. I will issue the challenge."

At a hand signal from their leader, the trumpeter blared out a few brief notes, and the formation of armored men stopped with nearly unnatural precision. Quiet filled the ranks as the cacophonous clanking of armor and mail subsided, quiet only broke by the war-cries of the foolhardy warriors of the vanished Cadmus who had drawn themselves up on the small earthen path that led into the settlement.

"Men of Cadmus, hear me." The herald's voice itself commanded respect, for he was chosen for his ability to project such tones across even the chaos of combat, and his stature was greater than that of much of the host, his shoulders as broad as the yoke of an ox. Even to men and women from Kharbarinth the Unrivaled stood small in his shadow, and compared to the poorly-nourished fishermen and townsfolk of Cadmus Minoris he was a giant.

"My master, Lord-Commander Nemtsov, will have no bloodshed on this day that must not be had. Send forth a champion, to decide the fate of your city."

For a few moments Amelia's breath caught in her throat. The logic of the act was apparent - in a contest of arms the Cadmians stood only a madman's chance of survival, let alone victory. But logic was not always a strong point of men when their blood was up, and their minds set on war. Luckily, in this case, it prevailed.

A man with a long copper spear and a burnished lacquered shield stood forward from the ramshackle militia, lifting his spear in challenge. The Lord-Commander nodded to one side, and one of the Blackguards, the keepers of the Finest's honor and that of the Hegemon, strode ahead to answer. Ivan was his name, a veteran in his own way, and a master duelist. But the Cadmians did not know that. Nonchalantly he approached the champion of the fishermen, his hand rested casually on the hilt of his hand-and-a-half sword, a light buckler slung across his shoulders.

It was over in moments. A spear thrust, deflected off of a shoulder plate of the Blackguard, and then a head separated from its cradle of the neck by a strike so swift the mage did not even mark it. As the expired champion sank to his knees, crimson coursing from the severed seat of his fundament, a nearly imperceptible sigh came from the ranks of the men of the once-great Cadmus. One by one they slowly laid down their arms, and Amelia smiled.

Bending down, the mage picked up a small pebble of cool obsidian stone, midnight given form. A slaughter avoided, at least, and something the Collegia had long pursued now within their grasp.

by **Toaslandia** » Tue Jan 08, 2019 4:48 pm

Apostolos heard of the fall of Cadmus, and sent a messenger there, bearing messages of good will to the new masters of Cadmus.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Tue Jan 08, 2019 5:53 pm

Ita
Beginning of the seventh year of the Chiefdom of Chief Agung, former adviser to the late Chieftess Bacani

The population, for the first time since the tragedy, is now beginning to grow again. Newborn Itans are popping up every month now, as opposed to barely any being born following the first few years of the sack of Ita, and a sense of total normalcy has now fallen over the city. Several of the Ita's festivals were celebrated again over the last year, and the herders are seeing the population of goats rising again, with many of them bringing in more wild goats to the Ita herds. Life was going well, and Chief Agung couldn't be happier about it.

However, at night, when the candles are out and the moon shines in its fullest, people still get the worst nightmares. Men, women, and children still occasionally wake up in a sweat or screaming in the middle of the night due to nightmares of the city once again being overrun by the horde. Chief Agung himself, taking up the watch one night on the wall, witnessed this firsthand. While the screaming itself was a telling sign, the most striking image to him was that of the candle randomly being lit in somebody's home when the moon is at its peak. Somebody had woken up and, fearing the darkness, begged for a little light to guide them through the rest of the night and to wash away the horrors of the past. He has already convened with the elders, begging for answers to help him figure out what to do about this, but to no avail. All were stumped, and even the solution of building another wall to surround themselves with has only gotten mediocre traction with the Ita.

That was why, after that one evening taking part in the guard, Chief Agung has taken the habit of volunteering for a shift in the night watch. The watchmen weren't too fond of hearing screaming coming from nowhere, so the chief took the opportunity to help relieve somebody else of their duties for at least a night. The stockpiling of stone for the wall was on the way, the plans for building the better wall were already prepared, and the location for where the wall is going to be placed has already been decided upon. All that was left was the groundbreaking, which would be years ahead in the future, since the city needs its current labor pool for other needs of the city, such as establishing proper housing in the outskirts of the city. Although living outside of the walls wasn't the first choice for many people, given the proper incentives (the ability to own more goats and to own some of the pastures), some of the Ita took up the encouragement to get out of the city and live in the next few hills over.

The city was expanding again, and once Chief Agung was able to look after the needs of the city's growing population, he would look to their security. And maybe, in the future, the Chief can take up the night watch and hear nothing but the peaceful silence of happily dreaming Ita.

by **Kelmet** » Tue Jan 08, 2019 7:47 pm

The Kingdom of Lordaeron

Year Thirty of the Reign of King Varian Menethil

Turn 15

*Hopefully will be edited.

by **Ralnis** » Tue Jan 08, 2019 9:15 pm

Xcotl, Land of the Dead

The Exploration of the Ancestor Region and the Fall of Cadmus hit the Gate Council like a punch in the gut. A meeting was made in the capital to discuss with the events that followed. Shoval was worried that they were next and some even wished for more military spending. This also came with more pressure after the explorer cadre came back to show that their once beautiful, yet arid land they were told of was no more. The Region was now a desert, where dangerous beasts roam and strange crystals dot the landscape.

On top of it was there was the notice of strange architecture that was made of sandstone in the northern parts. This alone raised the fear that their most hated enemy, the Sandwalkers, had never died. This sparked immediate discussion on what to do. There was no doubt that the Sandwalkers were a bigger threat than anything that they can face but they were not prepared for this. Many of them would plea for the Council to mobilize an army and all they could to exterminate the Sandwalkers to reclaim their holy homeland. Others would plea to just stay away from the Region altogether.

However a few were radicals in the Council. Those who searched for the answers of just what the Sandwalkers were and why did they invade Xcotl. They knew the defense nearly bring the civilization down and ended the reign of chieftains in their culture. Much written tomes and histories were lost, including the ability to summon the First Rulers as they were tied to the Ancestor Region. They pleaded to the Council to establish contact with the Sandwalkers in order to just understand the causes for the war and maybe something new could grow from it.

This idea was met with hostility at first, sighting the doom it would bring to their nation. Still, one Magi, named Ocantiz stood up to try and be inquisitive about the Sandwalkers and see what they could gather and present it to the Council. The Council held a vote with many ties and compromises but agreed on the finally course being to send Ocantiz and his colleges to go contact the Sandwalkers and report back what they found. Many expect they would die swift and horrible deaths from a demon they can't see.

Other progress was towards forges and the Obelisk of Industry as the artisans had been looking forward to having magical energy towards their work. It was here that the Gate Council also started to devote more time advancing their craft but this time they require more in-depth knowledge in the field of medicine and caring for the body. The Ancestor-Spirits said that some medical care was invented in the time of the First but that was lost to the Sandwalker War. However the magi knew that the understanding of the bodies and how to further manipulate and improve the use of necromancy.

Many called these new ideas blood magic, a type of necromancy that uses lifeforce to transform and improve the body. This was one of the more important reasons to study medical care. They went to the Zhou Imperium to understand the means of helping the body and their understanding of blood magic and necromancy.

The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

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