Elementals 3: The White Rose (IC, Sign-ups only)

[Kassaran]

It had taken some time for the Pioneer Knight chosen by Erosen to catch up to him, but with the flashing and waxing of the battle's climax only rising to even higher stakes, it had given Erosen the distraction he'd needed to push the remained of the way past the front lines. Now, only the occasional sentry or scout could be seen, occasional couriers running along the old, windswept trails that made up the rugged coastal cliffsides of the island. As the two drew near each other once more, the battle stood between them and the sea, great billows of gunsmoke and arcs of magic still being visible, if only just. A quick survey of their surroundings and the two drew low and near to the ground at the crest of a small rise. Sage scrub and other dense and low-lying flora concealed them from casual observance and Erosen now noted the pair had drawn much closer to the treeline than intended.

His senses, his mind, and his spirit readjusted to the terrain and his surroundings, the sudden realization that they were truly not alone had settled in; the faintest of auras could be felt close by, enough that Erosen could tell they were Human, but not much more. They lacked the aura of the army they had marched with from Towraigth, something more sickly and sinister clinging to their mottled cloaks and long grey robes. There were no shouts and rantings about the revolution or the supreme rights of humanity, but one untrained in observation could see they were agents of Watchtower. Numbering just under a company's worth, but fair along the way, Erosen estimated over sixty heads in all, the Pioneer Knight whispered beside in hushed contest.

"Seventy heads."

Erosen only gave the barest of nods before slowly slinking forward, he dared not use his magic so close to them, there were magicks that could sense even his presence if he let up the slightest on masking his presence and that of the hulking warrior beside him. As the distance between the pair and the group of agents closed, he could see that the cultists looked disheveled and disorganized already. Plenty of them had bandages in various places, and closer inspection revealed that even their more healthy members looked exhausted and fatigued, worn from a fight that had no doubt happened hours earlier. An assortment of weaponry lacking uniformity was strewn about the small encampment. The arms weren't overly impressive in their own right, consisting primarily of crossbows, clubs, swords, and polearms, but among their treasure were even a battery of small arms with long muskets thrown among the lot.

"What are we still bloody doing here? All our other brethren have already withdrawn. That fool Emtonak already completely bungled the final occupation of Towraigth; he's not going to make up for that failure by smashing down Mithsbow. Especially once Nyroko finds out that his precious super-ironclad got the stuffing shot out of it by whatever spells they cooked up in the town," one Watchtower member complained as he reinspected his arbalest.

"Silence, Nathaniel! If bringing about the Revolution requires our company to remain here in reserve, waiting for the right moment to strike either the counterrevolutionaries in Mithsbow or the interlopers coming to relieve them then so be it!" snapped an older Watchtower agent, who wore the same style of fancy uniform that Erosen had seen only once before, deep in the tunnels under Bracksbure on an officer of the name Bacchius.

"Really now, Nigel, is that so?" piped up a different voice, leaning on his pike while unknowingly confirming for Erosen that this was not indeed the same individual, "What good will a half-dead company do in a battle like this? Bleed on the enemy? Inconvenience them with having to bury us our heave our corpses onto a bonfire?"

Watching as the watchtower members bickered on, the Pioneer Knight gave Erosen a look. His helmeted head shadowed his eyes, but Erosen knew from the tension in the mans muscles, that he longed to finish off the agents before they could slink away once more. Erosen shook his head and withdrew from the edge of the clearing, his focus solely on the one objective he'd come to complete. The Pioneer Knight gave no acknowledgement of Erosen's decision beyond a split moment's hesitation before he too followed behind Erosen. The Inferno was not far now, and Erosen's mind wandered as he errantly followed the worn paths that lead through the thickening copses of trees before him. Soon, even the signs of civilization had begun to disappear to the woodland spread out about him as he wound his way deeper into the heart of the forest.

There was a great crashing, and sudden thundering of footsteps and Erosen's mind froze as he brought his arms up defensively. His eyes searched the dim shadows of his surroundings, but revealed no interlopers that could have been responsible and his eyes flicked accusingly towards the Pioneer Knight beside him. His worries and accusations were quickly dissuaded by the sound of a deep-throated laugh, and Erosen's eyes moved towards the noise. His teeth bared and his eyes flashed violet as he steeled himself for a fight. Beside him, the earth seemed to liquify into pools of shifting quicksand where the Knight focused his elemental magic into the ground, his helmet muffling the language he spoke as he summoned the will of Terrestark into creation beneath him.

"Make yourself known or we attack now, and we will not leave prisoners. You interfere with forces greater than you trespasser."

It was an empty threat, but a flash of crimson cloth fashioned into blazing sun was visible for only the briefest of moments in a beam of moonlight before it disappeared once more into shadow. Erosen's eyes widened slightly in recognition, but the order's name failed to reach his tongue as he braced for an engagement. He could not tell if annoyance or amusement laced the voice that called back out in response, but the soft chuffing sound of a faintly suppressed chuckle eased his concerns.

"Bold claims for one who has even less power than they'd wish to admit, Darkling. Interesting company for an Earth Elemental to have, are you not?"

[Constaniana]

"Yes Trista-boo, I'm okay. You're getting pretty good at dramatic rescues, Mr. Champion," Lisoette replied with a grin. For someone who had been staring down an executioner's axe only a few minutes ago she seemed in good spirits. The adrenaline from fighting the strongest Hellspawn she had seen in three years seemed to be keeping her buoyant. Her smile faded a bit as she looked at the grim sight of Emtonak's icy mummy, for the last time she had seen a frozen lordly Daemonne corpse it was possessed by Kayarost's ghost, and tried to kill her and all her friends. Would there come a day when Tenaembra-worshippers would try repeating that unhallowed resurrection rite with Emtonak's corpse? Or would they try some other vessel, one whose limbs wouldn't be stiffened by untold years of magical permafrost?

Nevertheless, if Froenstia wasn't commanding her chosen one to smash Emtonak into powder then the Daemonness supposed she would defer to Heaven's judgement. Besides, they were in an open field instead of a mausoleum buried within a mountain, so any would-be necromancers would be right in the open as they attempted their evil plot. Lisoette was sure after all the horrible things the people of the Thin Isles had already experienced at the hands of the Hellspawn they would be extremely vigilant against any possible repeat of their present suffering for generations to come. Instead, she turned her head to look in the same direction as Tristan, trying to see whatever it was her husband was scanning for. Since she had been trying to escape Emtonak's clutches when Tristan was aided by the mystery archer she had not seen what had happened, and thus had no suggestions on who might be the one Mr. Frost ought to thank.

"Well, whoever it is, I'm sure we'll bump into them in Mithsbow or Towraigth when this battle is over. After all, we cross paths with all sorts of special or mysterious characters all the time," said Mrs. Frost to Mr. Frost. She smiled at Eric and the approaching Hakkon, and made a friendly hand gesture she had picked up in Yuelkelu of making a fist, extending the thumb and pinky finger, and rotating her wrist around a few times.

Whereas Emtonak had solemn last words for the foe who had vanquished him with ice, Bekungirz had nothing to say, or at the very least no time to say anything in response to the one who defeated him with fire. At any rate, he didn't seem like the type who would have uttered prophecy anyway. His only consolation was that he was getting a very quick death indeed. The Daemonne bodyguard burnt up much more swiftly than an ordinary man would have from ordinary flames. The troops cheered at the mighty twin finishing moves Eric and Tristan had performed.

With the duels against their leadership concluded, the battle against the collective demonic army reached a thundering climax as bugles blared. From the east the Baron of Towraigth and his retinue, as well as the knights and hussars sent by his liege, came blasting through the snow like a hurricane. Two hundred and sixteen cavalrymen slammed into the disorganised Hellspawn forces, and began a great slaughter. Drums rolled from rear, and signalled the Galllian infantry to follow them into the fray. Musketeers were firing at will at demon stragglers that had survived the first impact with the mounted troops. The pikemen and swordsmen cut down those remaining demons too close for comfort, while the hussars and knights were free to chase down the brutes attempting to flee into the woods.

As the long night had bloodily progressed the battle had moved more and more to the west. Mithsbow's walls had been only barely visible when the horde of Hellspawn had first been spotted. Now they could be seen more clearly, with individual defenders atop them discernible. Between the defenders of Mithsbow and their allies coming to relieve them the demons were now trapped. Cornered and without Daemonnes to guide them, the demon forces were merely savage, cornered beasts, with which there could be no retreat, and no surrender. The heroes of this tale joined in the final struggle of the 2nd Relief of MIthsbow, a brutal contest of wills with increasingly desperate demon charges being repelled by the Galllian formations initially, with a frantic melee as the finale. All in all it took about an hour until the last demon had been put to the sword.

---

Mithsbow, East Aigth, Albrion, United Galllian Federation
Wednesday, 9:00 PM, 19th of December, 1781 G.C.C

At the stroke of nine the Baron of Towraigth and Lt. Colonel Sir Hennessy marched their army through the gate of Mithsbow's ancient eastern wall. It was an imposing piece of fortification that looked as though it had hardly been worn down since the Imperial Era when it was built. The troops had spent the past 45 minutes performing first aid, separating corpses by what side they had fought on, and scouring the perimeter to ensure no enemy forces were hiding in the shadows. With those immediate concerns taken care of the relieving army had enough time to tuck in their shirts, wipe blood off their blades, make sure their helmets were on straight, and wipe their noses to look somewhat presentable before officially entering the town.

Mithsbow had some more of the same stone, precisely geometric buildings seen in Towraigth close to the old wall, but past that it was more filled by common huts one might have expected to see in this part of the country, though still mostly made out of stone. Getting a thorough look at the town would either require walking through its entirety and looking at the buildings closely with a torch in hand, or waiting for the sun to finally rise again. There seemed to be few lamps and candles in this besieged burgh. What light sources the townsfolk did possess had been snuffed out during the battle, so as not to give the enemy at the gates light to see them by, and subsequently direct their spells and arrows in that direction.

The party were put front and centre in the parading column in honour of their heroics in the battle. Greeting them at the gates were the assembled defenders of Mithsbow: the 1st Battalion's C Company, the 3rd Battalion's (Reserve) A Company, and the Duke of St. Veowulf's Own Men-At-Arms Company, alongside the local militiamen, and a few Scarlet Knights of the Sun farther down the line. They all likewise looked a bit haggard, but certainly in high spirits now that the Hellspawn had been vanquished. It was a more humble reception than the expeditionary force had received in Towraigth. If Aerion were around he would no doubt be making outraged huffs, blasphemous grumbles, and murderous oaths. Then again, he hadn't been seen in a few hours, and the party had lost track of where the mercenary had gone.

When all the soldiers had passed into Mithsbow Lord Lárentíus made a brief speech praising the courage of all those who had fought that night. It wasn't a terribly long speech, nor a profound one, as his throat was getting sore from all his yelling, and the sentiment he wished to convey was a simple, primordial one; it was the same thrill that the most ancient of tribesmen would have felt at the conclusion of a great hunt, and as such did not require modern, poetic refinement to express. After he was done and dismissed his men the federal commander made a similarly brief speech and dismissed his men to their assorted duties. There were bodies to bury, wounds to treat more intensively, watches to stand sentinel in, bowels to relieve, vittles to eat, and beds to sleep in. The characters were at liberty to do as they wished for the rest of the night, either finding some way to celebrate in Mithsbow, or returning to Towraigth.

[Ameriganastan]

The characters were at liberty to do as they wished for the rest of the night, either finding some way to celebrate in Mithsbow, or returning to Towraigth.

And Eric was celebrating like you'd expect.

"WHO WANTS TO ARM WRESTLE!?"

By finding the nearest cathouse and whooping it up. A lot. Even for him. As evident when he stumbled out of his room, chugging what had to be his fifth mug of whatever dangerously alcoholic concoction this particular den of ill repute served.

"...Were there 6 of you in there when we started? I swear there were 3 when I went in...eh, whatever. Rest up all of you. And try and locate that feather duster. I lost track of it and that worries me...I need another drink."

He half walked, half tripped his way downstairs and back to the bar, passing a few lucky soldiers from the battlefield who had tagged along.

"Enjoy it, fellas...and lady I think. Nothing like hitting the whorehouse after surviving a battle. And it's all on your uncle Eric. I found a stash of gold buried deep in the Fanny Pack Of Wonder. We can quite literally celebrate for days...hey, you want a drink too there little guy?"

He poured a little bit of his drink into the FPOW. The resulting happy growling noise indicated it liked it.

"I knew you liked to party, too. Don't drink too much, though. You're my designated walker."

"Slow down there, granddad. That's your 7th mug."

"So it was 7...also, granddad? I'll show you, junior. Enough of this watered down baby formula. Give me the strongest brew you serve in this place. And serve it in the biggest mug you got."

The bartender obliged, serving him a drink that appeared to be smoking in a mug that had to be the size of a newborn baby.

"Watch and learn, lightweights. I can outdrink, outfight and outscrew any of you pansies."

He proceeded to chug the possibly illegal to even serve drink in surprising speed, throwing the mug down on the floor and belching so loud the windows shook.

"WOO! You can't stop me!"

He then proceeded to drop in a heap there on the floor.

"Oh, crap. I think he's dead."

""Ugh. Let me check."

Belle emerged from the back of the establishment, looking just a bit disheveled and covered in lipstick marks. And wearing a feathery headdress for some reason.

"No, he's still alive. Barely. Let's see if his brain is still functioning. Ahem. Oh, you say Eric is the father of your baby?"

He instantly sat back up.

"I'VE NEVER MET HER BEFORE IN MY LIFE!"

"There we go. By the way, Lucian is in the backroom with a man dubbed 'Tuna Can Roger'. I think he might need you to go save him."

[Zarkenis Ultima]

The battle had passed, and after the obligatory victory parade and whatever other formalities dictated by protocol, Tristan found himself alone on the streets of the liberated town of Mithsbow. Nibbling on a piece of bread he had acquired from a nearby vendor, he kept an eye on the intersection in front of him, keen blue eyes scanning the passing crowds for any sign of the mysterious archer who had helped him earlier during the battle against the fearsome Daemonnic general. He was hoping to have the opportunity to properly thank said sharpshooter for their help - not only had they been instrumental in the defeat of the infernal threat, they also aided him in providing swift assistance to his beloved, and for that he was very grateful.

Unfortunately, thus far the only shade of scarlet that matched the one he had seen darting among the trees of the forest outside of Mithsbow was that of the cloaks worn by the Scarlet Knights of the Sun, but from what he had seen few of them seemed to be archers, and a brief exchange with some of them didn't reveal any other leads he could pursue. On the whole, it wasn't too important if he couldn't find his unseen ally, but the issue did cause him some measure of frustration nonetheless. The fact that he was weary after the long march and the subsequent battle did not help matters either.

Perhaps I should just go rest and try again tomorrow. I'm sure Lis wants to take it easy for the rest of the night, too. Tristan thought to himself with a disappointed sigh before bringing his half-eaten bread roll up to his mouth in order to take another bite.

In the blink of an eye, the piece of bread had been shot out of his hand.

Surprised by this sudden turn of events, Tristan stared at his empty hand for a moment before lifting his gaze, noticing that the roll was now pinned to a wooden signpost in front of him by a crystalline arrow. The sheer precision of the shot made him doubt that whoever had done this intended to hurt him at all, but even so, he could not discard the possibility that he was in danger, and turned on his heel to take a look at his assailant.

What he saw was not something that alarmed him, but it was surprising nonetheless.

Rather than a rugged, grim-faced assassin or a cocky marksman looking to show off, he saw a young woman of about his age, with long white hair and piercing blue eyes of the sort that only men and women born in the furthest north seemed to have. A cloak of a bright scarlet color sat on her shoulders, embroidered with gold thread, its hood currently pulled back - rather than the emblem of the Scarlet Knights of the Sun however, hers had a family crest that consisted of two wolves guarding a tower. In her hand was a strange bow that had a beam of blue light in place of a bowstring.

"Hello." She greeted the Champion of Ice, a small smile on her face.

Between the color of her cloak, the enchanted bow and its crystalline arrows, and her striking, familiar features, the pieces began to fall in place. Realizing who was standing in front of him, the Ice Elemental smiled brightly and strode over to the white-haired archer, pulling her into a tight hug.

"Trish! It's so good to see you!" He said cheerfully. Taken aback by his sudden display of affection, Trish nonetheless decided to return the gesture, placing her arms around him. She noticed that he had grown quite a bit taller than her in the two years they were apart.

"Missed you, Tristan." She stated briefly. "Were you looking for me?"

"Indeed, I was looking for you. Well, I was looking for the person who helped me out during the battle, but I had no idea it was you. It all makes so much sense now, though." He replied to her question, breaking up the embrace. "I see your Gallish has gotten a lot better."

That comment got another small smile out of her. "Not perfect, but better, yes." She told him. Nodding in the direction of the signpost his bread roll was pinned to, she continued. "Sorry about the food. Wanted to make an entrance." She stated, causing him to chuckle.

"You made an entrance alright. When I saw that arrow I almost thought I would have to fight again even though the battle was already over, but I'm glad it was you." He said sincerely. "So what happened to you after we got separated? What have you been up to these past two years?"

Hearing his questions, the girl remained silent for a moment, struggling to parse the meaning at first.

"Oh." She spoke up at last. "Long story. Maybe while we eat?"

"Bold of you to say that after shooting my bread roll." He quipped, and the two islanders laughed together at that. Once both had calmed down, he gestured at Trish to follow him as he began walking in the direction of the sea. "Come on, I think I saw a fish market down by the harbor." He told the huntress. "Maybe we can find some roasted fish. Or grilled. Or smoked. And we can always try the tavern if nobody's selling food there."

Nodding at the Champion of Ice, Trish trailed after him. "Sounds good."

[Constaniana]

Lisoette had let Tristan go wandering off in Mithsbow to find his mystery archer. She was not worried about having any trouble finding her husband when the time came to go to bed that night. After all, Mithsbow wasn't terribly big, and more importantly Mrs. Frost could pick out Mr. Frost's aura from a hundred miles away. Until then, Lisoette figured she could find something to do on her own, but that had been more tricky than she anticipated. First she thought she could spend some time with the women in the party, but they all seemed a bit scarce at the moment. Belle was off making merry with Eric, and Lisoette knew them well enough to know she wouldn't see that pair again until the morning, when they would presumably come to breakfast hungover. If she was unlucky she might stumble upon Eric running through the town in his trusty thong, but Lisoette had gotten good at sensing when Lumen was nearby as well, and looking the other way. Being a mortal man repeatedly bathed in angelic power, as well as some peculiar cosmic soul energy the Daemonness still couldn't figure out, gave the Hippy Knight an aura as distinctive as a peacock running through a pigpen.

Katya was pleasant to be around, and hopefully would be drinking much less, but Lisoette hadn't seen her during the battle or its aftermath. Briefly the blonde worried that her Garmiccian friend had been grievously wounded, or that Aerion had done something horrible to her. However, Alexei would no doubt have ripped the mercenary in twain had he attempted anything dodgy. Considering that as well as the fact that Aewiallia herself had appeared before the Wind Elemental, meaning she was chosen for something special, Lis figured Katya was safe, wherever she was tonight. Still, the party had seemed so big in St. Veowulf; if not Katya, then...

Well, there's Catrin...or, there was. I haven't seen her since disembarking, which is kinda impressive since she's a big ol' spider-woman the size of a horse...she didn't charge in with the knights at the end, did she? The drider's got the size for it, and her claymore would be good at that stuff, but she didn't seem the type for that from what I saw of her. What about Flacht? She's a Federal soldier...would they still let her go fight even if she's missing an eye? Though if that's the case she's probably with the other Federal troops and too busy. Hmm. Aw, this is no fair. Next time we stop in a bigger town we're not leaving until we have at least three new women friends my own age that don't leave the party after one conversation.

Sending a postcard from Galllia to Yuelkelu came to her mind. Tristan had mentioned the subject about a week ago while they were at sea, after all, and she was sure their acquaintances would be glad to hear they were doing well. Lisoette had dropped a quick note in a postbox in Carogne before the group seized the Devil's Luck letting her maid of honour Kealani know she and Tristan had safely arrived in Carogne, but she had only written about the voyage itself, the weather, and the current trend in Carogne she had noticed that day of pinning bits of dried fruit to the brim of one's hat or upon a belt. Joining a crusade to thwart a Hellspawn invasion summoned by Watchtower probably wouldn't have been the sort of fun and excitement her Yuelkelunah friends would be expecting. It certainly would take more space to explain than the back of a postcard had. Kealani would no doubt be fascinated by a geopolitical development like this, being a proud granddaughter of Consul Padraktu.

Mrs. Frost made up her mind to find the nearest post office and get some paper. Writing the letter itself would have to wait until she was back in her quarters for the night and had a decent lamp, but at least she would have the things she needed for it. A gaggle of jubilant locals wandering past answered her question of where Mithsbow's post office was located. Curiosity about what else could be found on the streets of the town had Lisoette go at a slow pace. Starting off from the eastern end near the town gate was a pub and a small grocer's. The former was packed to the brim, while the latter was closed for the night, its owner and employees out celebrating.

From there Towraigth Street, aptly named since it directly connected to the Towraigth Road, lead into rows of houses as one walked west. Turning south at the town's lone schoolhouse onto Ingvar Lane, as she had been instructed, brought the Daemonness to a somewhat more commercial area, though still interspersed with the residential. Had it been a normal business day instead of a night of celebration, and had she been interested in buying barrels from the large shop run by the very successful Erlend & Sons or comparing the wares from Dennis, Stephen, and Otto Ropeworks versus Jorgen's Quality Ropeweaving she would have stopped on Ingvar Lane. As it was, the competing ropemakers had started playing tug-of-war, joined in by their federal heroes. A few of the soldiers recognised Lisoette from the battle and respectfully saluted. She responded with the half-salute half-wave she had picked up from the Yuelkelunah Legion.

Net repairs, a glassblower's, a blacksmith's, a bakery, and a warehouse were some of the next sights along Lisoette's path. The smith had a small queue of adventurers lined up, and was haggling over the cost of a new dagger with one. Meanwhile, his apprentice inspected the damages on the iron helmet another questing volunteer had. Those farther back were nibbling on some cakes or other treats they had bought from the baker's across the way. More visitors to Mithsbow could be seen through that storefront's windows, too elated at their victory to mind if the sausage rolls were cold or the apple tarts were a bit stale.

Battle's exertion had burned through the food previously in Lisoette's stomach, and the blonde now felt peckish. When she got in line the rush seemed to mostly be over, with only four people ahead of her. A few appetising items still remained on the platters at the counter. On her left side was the sweet, and on the right was the savoury. Mrs. Frost looked at the former, narrowing her choice down to black walnut scones, pine sap crumbles, three honey buns, or the last apple tart. While they all sounded tasty, and Lisoette was intrigued by flavours she hadn't been able to try in Yuelkelu, most of them sounded too sticky and messy. She didn't want to have to pick off clumps of dessert from her gloves, so she settled on the scones. Besides, there were enough of those where she could buy one to give to Tristan later tonight.

Two customers now remained in front of her now. The one immediately ahead of Lisoette was a militiaman, with a sword hung on his belt and a chipped wooden shield upon his back. Beyond him another customer pointed to the right, and one of the trays was now empty. This one easily stood out in his red, white, and black armour and horned helmet. His fine paladin costume contrasted with the humble brown, somewhat greasy paper sack he was handed before he turned to leave.

"Hi there, Messenger!" Lisoette called out.

"Good evening, Lisoette. I'm relieved to see you safe and in good health after the battle," the Messenger responded. The militiaman in front of Lis bought the last apple tart, and then the blonde quickly bought two of the black walnut scones.

"What did you get?" asked Mrs. Frost, pointing at his bag.

"Their last fried chicken sandwich. Not to say that the mashed potato pie didn't sound good, but it's been ages since I've had some good chicken. It's not exactly the easiest thing to prepare in the wilderness where I usually am," the Messenger answered cheerfully. The two stepped aside out of the way to continue chatting, "I'm saving this for later after I scrounge up some more food to eat in my quarters."

"You know, I once knew another Fire Elemental who absolutely loved that stuff. Loved any sort of fried meat and bread combination, now that I think about it. That's not some secret commandment of Pryastar, is it?" the Daemonness giggled.

"If it was, I couldn't tell you, couldn't I?" the Fire Elemental chuckled back, "I'd say it's just something all Albrishmen enjoy."

Lisoette looked at him in puzzlement.

"I didn't say Aldraniri was from Albrion," she said. Her brow was scrunched in confusion, whereas only Pryastar knew what face the Messenger was making under his helmet.

"Ah, no Lis, I meant myself. I'm from there too, remember?" the knight replied.

"Ohh, that's right. Silly me. It's not like all Fire Elementals know each other," Lisoette said with an embarrassed chuckle.

"Don't worry about it. Were you headed somewhere after this? I was just going to walk about the town and do some sight-seeing," the Messenger said, changing the subject.

"I was on my way to the post office. It's by the harbour, if you wanted to look around that area," Lisoette answered. The Messenger agreed and the two went back out into the cold night. Mrs. Frost took her first bite of her scone, and found it tasty. They passed a cobbler's and an accountant's office, and came to the end of Ingvar Lane. At the corner of Ingvar Lane and the winding Galeshelter Street (so named because its two and three-storey buildings ran parallel to the nearby harbour and sheltered the people below from the strong winds of the sea) was a tailor, a bookshop, a cheesemaker's, and a small but brightly-painted spice shop. Lisoette wondered how just how much business a spice emporium did in a small town like this.

"So why do you only call yourself the Messenger? You're not the first paladin or holy man I've met, but they all called themselves by normal names," inquired Mrs. Frost, breaking the silence between the two of them.

"It's tricky business. My conversion to Pryastar was a lot more...direct than of other men in this world, I'd wager," he sighed.

"You've seen the god of Fire?" the Daemonness interrupted, "Not that I don't believe you. Belle's obviously seen him too, being an Angelle and all that. Tristan and I have seen Froenstia, Erosen's seen Veridaelia, and Katya's seen Aewiallia. I suppose Eric hasn't seen a deity, but even if he had I don't think the old codger would admit it." As a matter of fact, Eric had once had a brief chat with Ferruoston himself, but he probably didn't remember the encounter with the cryptic stranger.

"I have indeed. That bit about Pryastar changing the course of my life was very literal, and he has given me very peculiar, specific instructions in regard to what parts of his divine will to carry out. Myself and the other Pioneer Knights who have accompanied me here to the Thin Isles are not in any holy order you will have encountered in your travels," he affirmed.

"Are you saying you're the Champion of Fire?"

"Almost. The true Champion was present for my conversion, and I serve under him."

"Does that make you more of Pryastar's messenger, or the Champion's? Who is he anyway? What was he doing in the last war?" Lisoette asked, her curiosity growing. While not every Elemental Champion seemed active in the world, she figured a continental conflict would have drawn a good number of them in. The Champion of Light was certainly involved, and given how strong she had heard of Kroisoto becoming it seemed possible he had become Champion of Water. Maybe other Champions had fought, but not necessarily have been aware of their true destiny yet. But since the Champion of Fire already had visions and a herald it seemed hard to believe he hadn't figured his purpose out yet.

"He was fighting another war, like the Champion you travel with. It's all very complicated, and even I don't know all the players involved, let alone what they are up to. There's a long passage in the Dauthadagrimbok of Saint Veowulf-"

"The what?" Lisoette interrupted with a blank look. She took another bite of scone to have something to chew while the presumably long explanation took place.

"It's an ancient Galllish word that translates to death-day-book. Essentially the last words of a prophet, saint, hero, king, or someone to that effect. They're usually filled with getting their affairs in order, last blessings to people they liked, either cursing or forgiving certain evildoers, or deep, esoteric prophecy, which seems to come more when one is on the verge of death. The most read one is probably the Dauthadagrimbok of Saint Helreska, since that's where he tells Adrathur to found the Galllian Empire, among many other important things," the Messenger explained, "Anyways," he continued, "Saint Veowulf wrote the following in 202 G.C.C, when old age took him forty years and a day after he saved the city now named for him in the final battle of the 1st Velranth War.

"Millions of threads and thousands of years
go into the tapestry that Heaven weaves, in harmony
with things we both doth and doth not see;
the choices of men,
the hour a volcano erupts,
the day a tree falls,
the total drops of rain that fall in spring,
the orbits of the worlds and stars,
more than all the mortal realm's minds together can grasp.

"The Seggraldrim, which are Heroes of an Age,
may know in their hearts they have been anointed to turn
the Veruld-Hrith-Hjjol, which is the World-Time-Wheel.
Patience I bless them with, for worry cannot hurry along
the fateful moment they set aside their private labours to fight for good and evil;
To pass from fleeting memory into unforgotten bard's song.
A most perilous life's duty
to become Hjalmrothuuling-Frethi,
Swords of History.

"Sufficient unto them are the days of evil thereof;
the Arangr-Knyja, Season of Struggle,
which is to be endured and conquered before the work is done.
Then at last they shall see the fruition
of not only their live's harvest, but what
the Seggrbithrim, Heroes Awaiting,
planted within the earth before passing death's door:
the solemn victories they martyred themselves for.
Proud peace the heroes that live bring
to their predecessors who lie in quiet majesty in humble tombs or forgotten fields.

"When at last they reach Heaven it shall be made plain
they are all golden links in the chain.
Seggraldrim and Seggrbithrim alike will partake in the same unsurpassed glory.
And the saved world will be entrusted to grateful, bountiful posterity."

It was quiet between the two of them for several seconds after that, especially with the wind muffled by the building around them and the people more sparse in this section of Mithsbow. Lisoette was deep in thought. The pair passed by the local branch of the Bank of St. Veowulf, a narrow but tall stone building of 3 storeys. Halvefori writing was underneath each bit of Galllish on their signs. Dulcaces and Danethrums could be exchanged for the benefit of captains of the Grande Merchant Flotilla that sailed into town every once in a while. If for some reason one wanted another currency they would have to visit one of the banks in St. Veowulf itself, for no one in the Thin Isles could remember the last time a ship arrived in their archipelago directly from another land, rather than stopping in at the regional capital first.

"That's a heck of a lot to memorise. And here I am having to write down a shopping list when I go the market," Mrs. Frost murmured at last, and the Messenger burst out laughing.

"I suppose it helps that I don't have many other hobbies. Polishing my armour and snipping loose threads on my cape only takes up so many hours in the day," he quipped back. The Daemonness laughed in turn, but as she calmed down she had to wonder how much of a man there was under that suit. What did he plan to do once his mission from Pryastar was finally over?

"There has to be something else you like doing, doesn't there? I accepted questing around to do stuff like save Aldry's best friend Heilaga from Watchtower, stop Watchtower from taking root in Vasutkiiao, and now this, but I still sometimes just want to go on a quest to relax at the beach and have Tristan make me ice cream. Don't you have something? What about rebuilding your village?" she asked, feeling bold. The paladin sighed, looked at her for a few moments, then looked off somewhere in the distance.

"There's no purpose in going back there; there's nothing left at all to restore. Maybe at some point if Pryastar wills it I would go see it, but I won't let that be where I spend the remainder of my days," the Messenger said grimly, "I think I would like finding somewhere else nice and peaceful in Albrion. Farming would be nice; making things grow after spending so long destroying things. Haventown is lovely, from what I hear, so maybe somewhere in the hills by that city. But I have too much to do first before I get to worry about that. Am I even a Seggraldr or a Seggrbithr?"

"You're pretty melancholy for someone who just won a battle."

"I've already won plenty of battles in my twenty-five years, but my labours remain unfinished. Like the saint said, worry cannot hurry destiny. Things will get finished one day; we just have to put our shoulder to the wheel and push along. I'm glad you at least manage to still find simple happiness in all this hero business," the Messenger sighed again, "Well, here's the post office. It was good getting to talk to you."

"Wait, Messenger," interjected Lisoette, "Before you head off, what was your name before?"

The paladin stood still in the cold, his back to Lisoette. Half a minute passed before he finally turned his head over his left shoulder to look at her.

"Oliver," the Fire Elemental said at last, "Oliver Eagleson. Goodnight, Lady Seggraldr."

With that he walked off, turned around another street corner, and was out of sight. Lisoette watched him leave, feeling like he had only told her a half-truth. Then again, she wagered she was hiding a bigger secret than whatever his was, and decided to not bother him about it further. Mrs. Frost opened the heavy post office door and went inside the warm, cosy shop, finally completing her errand.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

"So, how long have ye been serving the Federals, eh?"

The thickly accented voice broke through the relative quietude of the field outside the city walls. It was not completely silent there, not by a long shot, but what few noises were there did not exactly paint a soothing picture. The howling of the wind. The breaking of the waves. The crackling flames of a great funeral pyre that had been built outside the city walls. The crunching of snow beneath the boots of men moving back and forth. The clatter of shovels as they struggled to pierce the frozen soil in order to dig out ditches for those who had been slain in glorious combat.

Far from a soothing picture indeed, but the worst part of the night was over now, and many had survived to tell the tale.

"Four, perhaps five years? Thereabouts, I reckon. Never been good at keeping track of time." Another voice replied, less rough and guttural than the first. The man it belonged to left his shovel sticking out of the hard ground for a moment to adjust his army-issue coat, the only defense he had against the biting cold of the Thin Isles. He wore the scarlet uniform of a soldier of the Federation, somewhat worn by the arduous voyage, and his blond hair and beard were trimmed in accordance with military discipline. By contrast, his peer was a wild-maned, dark-haired warrior clad in a simple chain mail and the furs of some northern beast. He also hadn't stopped shoveling as he talked, no doubt because he was used to the low temperatures of his homeland.

"Ah, must've gotten to fight our eastern cousins, then." The Northemen warrior, Harald, commented as he stabbed the tip of his spade into the soil beneath the snow and then pulled it back out, growing the pile of dirt sitting next to him. The Federal soldier, Jonah, simply nodded.

"Aye, you could say that. Had the dubious honor of getting pulled out of the water twice throughout the campaign - first at Hansencross, and then at Kreigport." He stated, the hollow chuckled that escaped him afterwards speaking volumes of his complicated feelings of the situation, though ultimately he took respite in that he had served as he could. Shaking off those thoughts, he stabbed his shovel into the ground once more - or at least, tried to, though it took a few more attempts for the ground to make way. At least he had participated in the slaughtering of demons, surely that counted for something.

Harald seemed far more jovial about the whole situation, letting out a hearty laugh at the other man's admission. "Well at least ye got a good story to tell yer grandkids when yer old and frail. The redcoat who lived!" He spoke as he continued on his duty - at least, until he noticed something moving underneath his feet. "What the-" He muttered, only to witness as the earth parted of its own accord, creating a neat rectangle, about six feet deep.

"i think we all have one hell of a story to tell our children after today." Remarked a third voice, startlingly close by. The two men turned around only to see an imposing young man in a hide cloak. How he had arrived without either of them noticing him moving about was a mystery, and for a moment the two were alarmed by his sudden appearance, but their wariness subsided fairly quickly as they were able to make out his unique visage.

"Ah, the bear man! Come to dig graves with the rest of us mortals?" The islander greeted him, the same cheer from before returning as quickly as it had gone. The Federal soldier, on the other hand, simply offered a respectful nod of his head to the newcomer.

"The battle back there wasn't exactly a good occasion to converse, but you really saved me and many of my fellow soldiers back there, lad. You have my gratitude." He told the Earth Elemental, who shook his head in response, giving the man a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"There's no need to thank me. Battling demons is in my blood and this place was crawling with them, I simply did what I could to aid in this crusade." Hakkon spoke proudly. "Besides, no self-respecting warrior of the Gods can turn a blind eye when good men are giving up their lives for a just cause."

"Ye sound like one of them preachers, lad. Perhaps ye'd prefer the company over at the church?" Harald remarked, earning a hearty laugh from Hakkon.

"I would, but then who's going to dig out these graves for the fallen?" He shot right back with a smirk.

"We would, of course." Jonah replied very seriously, though his tone softened as he continued. "...Eventually." He added with a shrug. "But if an envoy of Terestark has decided to come and save us the trouble with his fancy magical powers then I for one wholeheartedly approve. What do you need us to do?"

"Bring the men and lay them to rest - that should keep you lot occupied while I work." Hakkon replied, his tone more sober. The other two nodded and set off to do as they were told, an arduous task in itself, as they were not only responsible for placing a corpse in a hole on the ground, but also recording their names in grave markers and sorting the belongings of the deceased. Of course, there were many others attending to these tasks, from islanders and Federal soldiers to volunteers from St. Veowulf and beyond, but even then, it would take a few more hours until they were done.

With no intention of leaving the job half done, however, the three men continued working throughout the night.

[Constaniana]

Mood Sounds

At the edge of the forest by Mithsbow sat a murder of crows. They huddled together for warmth against the frigid air, hundreds of them...save one. All the rest were a few dozen yards back within the treeline. Though it was still cold, there were at least some pine trees stopping the wind from reaching where they all sat. Temperature was not a concern for that lone bird. Only the battle which the two-legged beasts had fought had held its interest. Large, burgundy eyes gazed at all that had transpired in that with an almost bloodthirsty look.

The crows had stayed out of sight in all that, glad that the fight did not make its way into the woods. Humans were perfectly fine when they left out scrumptious rubbish for them to pick at, or the occasional person that would try taming one of them with the most exquisite of bread (by which the crows meant any sort of non-stale bread). As long as a man wasn't holding some sort of stick, either the crooked ones with long hairs at the end that they put smaller sticks with feathers onto, or the straight sticks with metal sticks on them, they could be safely ignored, perhaps flying to another branch a few feet away if they got too close. Some of the smarter crows insisted these things had special names like bows, blunderbusses, or muskets. The rest of the crows felt they had more important things to worry about than what man named his favourite sticks, and thus stuck with calling them sticks.

What the crows did not like at all were what the humans had been fighting. Like any of the creatures put upon Gaiaca by Veridaelia they had an instinctual revulsion to the beasts of Tenaembra. Hellspawn might have been most concerned with slaughtering mankind, but if they hungered there was no reason they wouldn't amuse themselves by smashing up crow nests and feasting on them. The oldest crows remembered the word demon, a word they had heard in stories from their grandsires when they themselves were wee hatchlings, and that was what they now squawked throughout their clan.

Disgust kept the crows from associating with that lone bird as well. Nobody in the murder seemed to recognise the other crow, which had seemed to appear out of nowhere right when the battle commenced. It was too interested in the demons, and something about it reeked of evil. It certainly looked different from all the rest of them too, but only just off. Black feathers covered all the birds, but the stranger's seemed oilier. It was thrice as big as any other crow. The long talons with which it gripped the tree branch looked as though they were of polished iron, and the strength with which they held on seemed as though it could easily have been used to snap the branch off with ease.

The big, greedy eyes were what gave it away, though. They had a crow's intelligence in them, but used exclusively for malice, with a dash of madness sprinkled on. Last of all, their burgundy colour was enough to know this was not one of their kind. An impostor good enough to fool a human who wouldn't bother looking twice at a mere crow, but still in the uncanny valley for the crows. It cackled to itself, and made a horrible scraping noise in its throat. Suddenly its head twisted around, like an owl's, to look at the Gaiacan crows.

So plump, and so sweet-smelling. They would practically taste like dessert! But there were a great many of the stupid birds, and together they would stand a chance of killing the intruder. His master needed to hear his report, and he was too well-trained to think of disobeying. Instead, the foul creature flew away to his right, steering clear of the nests, before turning deeper into the woods. Once it was sure it was out of sight of any intelligent creature it spoke in a devil's tongue. Before it disappeared from this world in a flash of purple and black the spy-bird had another thought rationalising not attacking the crows: what would King Carrion say if I coughed up pellets in his hall?

Different ambience

The wicked crow emerged in a red sky dotted with acidic clouds. Neither sun nor moon nor stars shone, yet somehow there was enough light to make it seem like a stormy summer evening, just before twilight. Below lay a grey-blue sea; at the moment it was calm, and in the centre lay a mountainous island, named Ishulanje by its lord. The water lapped at a beach of bone-white sand, about four hundred feet wide. Blackened driftwood barricades were strewn across it, behind which were a number of ballistae and catapults. Those were merely the visible obstacles. Approximately seventy yards inland were five tunnel entrances leading into the grim mountain itself. The bird chuckled as it thought of some poor mortal soul trying to find his way through them, as he easily flew over instead.

Most of the mountainside was smooth and curved like an eggshell, with good spots to grab onto few and far between. Here and there would be a small protruding cliff with a siege weapon or the nest of some sort of winged demon, and a tunnel leading back into Ishulanje. When mapping this Inferno King Carrion and his servants considered the beach to be the "southern" edge, though no ordinary compass would work properly in this pocket dimension to prove or disprove them. Near the westernmost and easternmost points of the island-mountain stretched out identical stone arches, atop which were more siege weapons and observation posts. No dock was attached to them, however. The bird knew the harbour and drydocks used by his master's budding navy were on the northernmost tip of the base. With the only waterborne portal currently active in the Inferno on the southern edge, the naval facilities were protected from immediate attack, and not readily accessible for an amphibious assault.

High at the summit loomed a tower, carved from darker stone than the mountain beneath it. To this fortification the servant of evil flew. He descended past battlements bristling with crossbow-wielding demons and a bored-looking teenage Daemonne to a window just large enough for him to fit through. Once he was inside he still had plenty of room to fly through tall, gloomy corridors on his way to the throne room. A few minutes later the bird came to a pair of iron doors; the one on the left was engraved with a snarling wolf-like head, while the one on the right bore a vulture with its wings unfurled.

Daemonne bodyguards stood at each door, clad in matching heavy armour. The pair recognised their fellow servant and let him in. The crow flew into a vast hall, a chamber illuminated by candles that shifted at random between flickering burgundy, purple, and black, tucked away in many alcoves along the wall. A grandiose chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling with more of these candles, and was fashioned with crystals from Hell itself that glowed a fierce red on their own. A little bit of the eerie light outside shone through the windows, but not too much. The stained glass windows seemed more for decoration than proper illumination.

A carpet made from myriad monster pelts stretched from the entrance towards a throne sculpted from brass and ivory, with inlaid bones and gemstones. Pedestals held glowing crystal balls aloft at the end of both of the throne's armrests. The twin orbs constantly shifted between different colours, sometimes showing blurry impressions of moving figures. On either side of the carpet were long wooden tables, currently only occupied by a few low-ranking courtiers and their bowls of what looked like some sort of mixture of black rice, snails, locusts, and molasses, and at the end was a black marble table running perpendicular to it.

This third table was much more lavishly set. It was reserved for those most favoured by King Carrion, and had a most elaborate place set aside in the centre for when the dark lord of this place deigned to feast with his minions down below at a table, rather than remaining upon his throne to indulge himself. In Carrion's spot a very large map was unfurled, and many figurines were placed all over it. At the moment there were a few members of the court seated there, dressed in lavish black uniforms for the task of sipping from goblets or picking at some sort of roast meat. Another few Daemonnes stood around the map, studying it intently as the bird landed next to it. King Carrion himself was on his throne.

"Wulump, you have returned. Give me your report," the Daemonne warlord commanded. His voice was hoarse; not merely from speaking too loudly for too long that day, but from many previous wounds, inflicted by blade and poison and gas. Carrion's crow, Wulump, then spoke like any man on Gaiaca could, and told all it had seen not only of the 2nd Battle of Mithsbow, but the failed Battle of Towraigth as well. Throughout the briefing King Carrion kept somewhat calm, for he seemed to merely be receiving confirmation of what he already knew. Nevertheless, his scarred countenance was a bitter snarl by the end of it.

"My fears from what I perceived with orb-gazing and my intuition have proven true," he growled. None of his officers replied to him, careful to avoid his wrothful gaze. Making eye contact with him was unnerving in the best of circumstances, since his left eye was noticeably larger than the other one, and always seemed to have a hungry gleam in it, "Emtonak's twin defeats this day have together cost me seven thousand demons, including my ferocious sea serpent Brimstonefang.

"Had he committed more of his forces in his initial attack on Towraigth, and prevented them from retreating no matter the initial losses, he would have taken their capital. Had he not decided to re-attack Mithsbow with a tired force so soon after a defeat he would have survived. Tracking his army's location and preparing to meet it would have sapped much energy from the humans, and kept them nervous, afraid to sleep. Now he has given them a respite until we can move more troops over there. That is, unless our Watchtower allies have sufficient strength of their own to fend off these new arrivals."

"You speak with such keen insight and wisdom, as ever, my king," a Daemonne with his blue hair in a top knot responded at last. He appeared to be almost 30 years old, of moderate height. Unblemished, fair skin was kept clean and smooth, "Still, I am curious as to why the beasts went so wild at the moment they did..."

"Powers beyond reckoning, power which hides from lesser sights, hath come!" squawked a voice from the rafters. Some of the officers looked up in alarm, while others seemed as though they were trying their hardest to look away. Cackling like a witch, a foul bird of Hell descended in a violent flutter, landing in between King Carrion and the other Daemonnes. It resembled a mix of a crow and a vulture. Its eyes were mostly grey and lifeless, but speckled with purple sparks. Here and there along its body were bare spots devoid of feathers, and tumorous lumps.

"What do you mean, Seorakl? The champion that dispatched Emtonak? They couldn't all have reacted to his aura alone," scoffed the blue-haired one.

"More than one kind of cold concerned them, heehee! Light and dark both, Neradath," clucked Seorakl, while the Daemonne rolled his eyes, "Things move in such a profound way now, yes. My sight pays no heed to the puny lesser creatures, no more than it pays heed to the mud on their feet. That conclusion more grandiose and terrible than King Carrion dares to dream of, the glorious end which I have foreseen for so many nights now, draws nigh! It is a fallen empire that the king struggles against! A most terrible and glorious sovereign will reign in this Inferno, one whom the sky breaks and the sea boils under that imperial gaze. The dreams, the dreams, the plots and people both, are coming to this world. They come to life, and DEATH IS THEIR WAKE!!!"

"Do you at least have the decency to make sense in private if you persist in these ramblings in the throne room?" snapped Neradath, "On and on and on you squawk! I seem to remember my father complaining of your ceaseless cacophony! I know you're too old and fat to fly on scouting missions like Wulump or any of the other illurwings, but at least you could-"

The blue-haired officer's words froze in his throat as he saw King Carrion had stood up from his throne. He was seven feet of grizzled old tyrant, and from his perch he towered over his followers even more. His frame was a bit thinner now than it had once been; in a way he resembled dry old jerky, tough and leathery. Upon each shoulder was a stuffed wolf head, though these wolves had a third eye in their foreheads. They certainly made King Carrion look more broad-shouldered. The ruler of Ishulanje sprang down in the blink of an eye, looking to Neradath as though he were an enraged three-headed hellhound.

In one swift motion a calloused hand was clenched around the younger Daemonne's throat, before it tossed him high into the air.

"Do not dare speak ill of my most trusted adviser, pup! Seorakl has ever given unfailing advice to my grandsire, my father, and myself! What have you to offer, besides your skill with a blade and flattery?" Carrion bellowed. As Neradath fell to the floor the king lashed out with a glowing whip, which extended and caught him. The officer avoided slamming into the ground, only to now find himself constricted and still held a few feet aloft, "I can certainly find more of your talents in any realm of Hell. Why, I could even have your father send me another one of his unoccupied, landless sons. Lord Yires is a dependable vassal, and I won't hold whatever opinion he may have of Seorakl against him since he at least had the brains to never let such opinion reach my ears, or blurt it out in my own hall.

"But the eldest and wisest illurwing in my flock, one who can not only see what has already happened, but what will happen with such impeccable accuracy...now that is an irreplaceable treasure. More of my battles than I can count were won with his counsel. Thousands of would-be assassins found knives in their own guts, poison in their dinner. By his dreams I knew of the surprise attack which my old nemesis Lord Massrion planned for me in the Valley of Acid Wells while I returned from conquering the Duchy of Neinzul, and the course by which to subject him to destruction instead.

"After that great victory, wherein I slew Massrion myself, my forces went to his mighty cities of Blackpit and Huskud. Those we annihilated utterly, leaving scraps for the vultures and flies. At the city of Goreest, and the surrounding towns, the inhabitants were sold into slavery and their riches brought into my treasury. Only his former city of Skullcaster and its nearby regions were spared my scourge, and were made subjects of my new kingdom. A Daemonne without mystic counsel like that which the crow demon you deride gives I would have never achieved the success I have.

"But even if he had not supplied me with any other visions, one alone would have earned him my undying gratitude. I doubt you were aware of this, but I was to be mustered up into King Kayarost's final army. However, Seorakl warned me in private of Kayarost's impending doom. He could not see precisely what caused it, but he was vindicated a few months later. Thanks to his prophecy I began with a marvellous head-start in the Grand Anarchy Wars that followed, the fruit of which you can see around you now. Again, this most marvellous bird has been essential to all my efforts these many years. I certainly have enough power within me to kill someone in single combat, and skill in commanding warriors in battle...but power has its limits without the correct intelligence on where to apply that power most efficiently."

King Carrion paused his history lecture, bringing Neradath closer with his prehensile, Mageforged whip. The tyrant grinned most unpleasantly. For added humiliation his whip rotated to holding its captive upside down.

"To give an example of this principle an imbecile like you can understand, consider your predicament. I certainly have the power to kill you now. Quite easily, and in a number of different methods. Choke you to death, slam you into the ceiling over and over again, toss you into the air and let you break your neck in the fall, force you to swallow some of the rust and poison from my armour..."

The dark lord's free hand went directly in front of his subordinate's face. Darkness magic began charging up all over the hand.

"Or I could go for a more...traditional path, and simply blast your face in at point black here and now," growled the king. Several tense seconds passed, until the whip dropped Neradath ungracefully to the floor, "But you are more useful to me alive, or at least dying somewhere else. You will go with an advance unit to gather the remainder of whatever forces we have on the Isle of East Aigth, and reinforce the Watchtower presence at Kjalarrgrove. I am confident there are enough of them there to buy us the time we need to recover from tonight's setback. Do not permit the humans to break out of East Aigth and start reclaiming their other islands"

"Whatever you desire, my king, it shall be accomplished. Your humble servant will not fail you in this command you have assigned me," Neradath replied, only slightly winded. He even managed to throw in a deferential bow.

"Heh, we'll see how humble you are about it," chuckled King Carrion, "I didn't say you would be in charge. Certainly not after your outburst tonight, I think. Nay, you can be a second or third in command. Your superior will be..." He looked around the room for several moments. At last his gaze settled on one young Daemonness, and a slight bemused grin flickered onto his face.

"Jezelia...yes, you should be the one to lead this expedition. For some reason I cannot quite figure out I feel as though you ought to be at this next battle."

The Daemonness in question had long pearl-coloured hair, olive skin, and a stern and hard countenance. Scant emotion one way or the other showed in her intensely dark brown eyes.

"As you wish, sire," Jezelia replied in a flat voice. Why does he think I need to be on this assignment? He's not trying to pair me off with Neradath, is he? Ner's easy on the eyes, and I like his bravado, but he's not in the same league as the man I had and lost...

"It gladdens my twisted old heart to hear that you'll be sending us reinforcements, Your Dreadfulness," purred a white-haired, dark-skinned man from the shadows. King Carrion almost smiled in amusement at the fact that a mortal man had managed to sneak his way in here. Carrion had sensed the old Sahranjjite's wicked aura, of course, but from the startled looks he could observe nobody else in his hall had. The man walked towards the table from his hiding spot and smiled impishly, revealing some gaps in his clean teeth. He had a snakelike smoothness in his stride, a part of why one of his nicknames in Gaiaca was the Clockwork Serpent.

"Welcome, Nryoko. I assume you heard all of Wulump's report, or at least the portion concerning the status of the Extermination?" asked the chief devil.

"I have indeed, King Carrion. Most unfortunate that she has suffered damage, but it presents opportunities for improvement. I'll see what can be done about boosting the magic resistance of the armour plating, making sure that conventional protection isn't sacrificed. Fitting on more anti-infantry armaments like poison gas launchers probably would have helped considerably in a port engagement like attacking Towraigth. Firepower in general can be increased; my brethren at Kjalarrgrove have been doing most exciting work in unravelling the secrets of these ancient weapons we've found in the Thin Isles. On top of all of this, the second and third ships in this class will be ready quite soon, quite soon indeed. It shan't be long until we have a truly sophisticated production line established," the Watchtower engineer cackled.

"Why are you in such a hurry? What we have so far has given us more than enough superiority on the waters, whereas I would say we should start to concern ourselves with not losing control on land. Is one ironclad not good enough for you?" inquired another Daemonne officer with mild interest. Nyroko's reaction was anything but mild.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT! NEVER AGAIN WILL I PUT ALL MY HOPES FOR A PROJECT UPON A SINGLE END PRODUCT, NO MATTER HOW POWERFUL IT MAY SOUND! I MADE THAT MISTAKE ONCE BEFORE..." he howled, slamming his gloved fists on the table with a metallic clunk. The Watchtower scientist visibly shuddered as he got a hold of his emotions once more, "...in the service of the Duke of the Kreighold, for Project Dragon. I was so close to having it ready...and then that damn boy Kroisoto and his precious 12th Army came.

"Building in an underground lake hides plenty from prying mortal eyes. Yet somehow...I suppose by his patron, he was led to the site..." While he was not physically reacting, fury still boiled in his eyes that were so dark a purple as to almost be black. His left one was behind a monocle with curious engravings along the rim and in the very centre of the lens. "I don't know if Kroisoto himself was responsible, but who else could it have been? There was no pitched battle with a full-sized army besieging the Supreme Revolutionary Shipyard, yet somehow the entirety of one of Watchtower's most heavily-fortified bases was utterly destroyed in a day. What few survivors managed to escape had no information as to what had actually happened. They couldn't have activated the self-destruct sequence, since that installation's kill switch required separate telegraphed signals from the Continental Commissioner and the Philosopher King himself to proceed.

"That cursed prince isn't in my reach to exact the bloodiest revenge possible, but I can make do for now by starting with his former friends and associates. Besides, those others are all bitterly-hated enemies of Watchtower in their own right, and must be punished for all they have done to hinder us. I actually once crossed paths with that very same Tristan Frost who slew Emtonak this night on that oh so fateful night at the Galloping Mare in '78. We fought no battle, as I was focused on kidnapping a most unique lady. When next we meet he'll face far stronger Watchtower enemies than a handful of plain armoured simpletons and an unempowered Celteki with a single sleep gas grenade, hahahaha. Those fools have no idea how far we've advanced these past three years."

With that, the forces of evil began plotting their next strategy in earnest, how they would crush the last piece of resistance in the Thin Isles and establish their secret domain of darkness.

[Constaniana]

Duke Kreigen had imposed martial law in Villdernheim, imprisoned any pro-peace members of the government he could find, and wrote back to Duke Aurenheim that peace would only come after one of them was killed. Fate would see to that on December 20th, 1780.

On that final day, before the sun had arisen, the Northern Allies and Federal-Imperial troops met in the largest battle of the entire war. It was north of a hamlet called Champion Field, near the banks of the ancient canal that connected the east side of Villdernheim to the Halrennor Sea. What would follow would end this bloody chapter of Galllian history, and foreshadow what would come some other day for Galllia, and possibly the world. The White Rose finally appeared on the battlefield in a way that made certain of her existence, fighting in the thick of it all, mounted on a glorious white mare. Watchtower's monstrous hordes were no match for her divine wrath, and the corrupted beings were blasted into dust. The full moons rose, the sun began to set, and still the battle raged. At last Bismarke Van Aurenheim saw the enemy line collapsing, and he lead all his remaining heavy cavalry in a charge that smashed Vincent Van Kreigen's forces to pieces. The two supreme generals came face to face, and they duelled. Bismarke's icy claymore slammed Vincent's longsword from his hand after a few minutes, and four seconds later it severed his head from his neck. The Battle of Champion Field had come to an end.

Thursday, 20th of December, 1781 G.C.C

The most recent conflict to torment Galllia had many names, some more literal, others more poetic: the Rupture of the North, the Wide Northern War, the Northern Revolution, the War of Northemen Independence, the Terrible Secession, the New Galllian War (a name many worried would one day soon be outdated by yet another conflict), the Discontent of Galllia, Bismarke's Rebellion, the Great Aurenheim-Kreigen Feud; the War of Blues, Reds, Greens, and Greys, or Many-Coloured War. Other names could be heard in the various localities throughout that continent, and people in the other countries of the world had their names for it too. The war had many theatres throughout its duration. Although they were all united within the framework of a struggle either for or against the authority and primacy of the United Galllian Federation in Galllia's affairs, the motivation of the actors in each stage at times was almost different enough that it could be said each theatre was a self-contained war of its own. In a way it was not unlike the 30-year period termed the Great Galllian War, where a vast myriad of interstate and intrastate conflicts raged, and many petty kingdoms, fiefdoms, and city-states rose and fell until finally the exhausted winners succeeded in coalescing into the thirteen states that would go on to form the United Galllian Federation after the Blackest January, when Kayarost brought destruction to the world and was destroyed in turn: Albrion, Aurennia, Erillia, Villderia, Caronath, Roaphanhold, Visalmarch, Kreighold, Galdennia, Reldennia, Kelkakmarch, Liefenland, and the Free City of Endharbour. All these little wars likewise went by many names.

The first act of the war, the struggle for Erilhall and its domain of Erillia, was known by some as the Condemners' Uprising, the Fulfilment of Heavenly Judgement, the Laschiol Restoration, or the Honourable Return if they were perhaps more keen on the new Lord-Lieutenant of the city and leader of the state, Banastre Liam Briar Van Laschiol. Those who favoured the Federation and the House of Wadiere might less charitably call it the Summer of Anarchy, Kyusk's Treachery, the Eresilnnian Invasion, or the Perfidious Puppeting. Had it merely been concerned with the struggle between the Condemners, Banastre's army, and the Wadiere regime, where those believed Gustav Aelfrion Henrik Van Wadiere was an impious tyrant and those who wished for the return of the Laschiol dynasty joined to fight against those who thought being a part of the United Galllian Federation was the best path forward and those who would not be governed by a dynasty from a foreign country, it could have been considered a complete conflict in and of itself. That changed when Margrave Courath William Gilbert Van Kyusk and his soldiers declared their personal loyalty to Bismarke Van Aurenheim, tying Auregen's struggle with Villdernheim to Erilhall's. If the state had remained in Federal control no doubt the Commander of the Armies of the North would have been forced to conquer it directly, or else armies and navies would have went forth from the great port of Erilhall for the duration of the war to assault Auregen. Fate had let him avoid such a harsh path, and now thanks to the restored Lord-Lieutenant marrying his oldest daughter it seemed the Duke of Auregen would have little cause for concern about the defence of his western borders from invasion.

The Deep North Campaign was an unexpected international war. The Aurennians seeking to push into the Albras Mountains and cut off the U.G.F.'s supply of ore and coal from said mountains, starving their mighty industrial base, was understandable. The idea of the Federal Army attempting to sail east from Snarpost to capture Tundrolld, march south through the Great White Dale to Beldabbey, then besiege Auregen from the north was likewise normal. Strengthening this argument was when 1778 came to a close with no progress made in pushing the rebels out of Erilhall, making an eastward march to Auregen more and more improbable. Hardly anyone would have imagined the shores of the Snarhsnell Sea and the hills of the Albras and Memory Mountains would become the stage for a continuation of a fratricidal war from the other half of the world. But because the Laschiols fighting to make Erillia independent of the United Galllian Federation were being supported by their kin in Eresiln, the Federation had attacked that island kingdom in retaliation. Once war was declared between those two states the day after the surprise attack on Hansencross, the Empire of Garmiccia joined the war on the Federation's side.

At first most observers believed Garmiccia's main motive was wanting to humble Eresiln, a traditional ally of Yelhennei, the same perceived reason for their naval skirmishes prior to the war conducted by privateers. That did not explain why the first area the Garmiccian marine expeditionary force made landings in that March was not anywhere on the east coast of Eresiln, but rather south of the Aurennian city of Norenhall. Later on it became clear that Emperor Jeremiahde had a more personal goal for this conflict, conquering Norenhall so that he might at last capture his nephew Siegfried and eliminate the pretender before he could ever return from exile. Now the combined might of Galllia would not retaliate if he attacked that city, and the government in Villdernheim would have too many other concerns in the war to protest if his armies had to use excessive force to get into Norenhall, or if his armies executed young Siegfried after taking him prisoner, or if they burned the whole city down to show what happened to those who defied the will of Jeremiahde. The Garmiccians that sailed across the Halrennor Sea to fight in the Rupture of the North probably couldn't have cared less about whether the United Galllian Federation stayed intact, unless perhaps they were overly educated or were related to those bizarre individuals who worked within their empire's diplomatic corps. What the average Garmiccian was most likely concerned with during the campaign was earning promotions, dying gloriously, or securing Jeremiahde's throne if they were truly zealous for his sake.

The Garmiccian exiles in Norenhall who formed the core of Prince Siegfried's army no doubt felt affection for Aurennia out of gratitude for offering them sanctuary after they lost their homeland, and thus honour obliged them to give their hosts aid in their time of need. But they were also driven by the idea that if they proved their worth to the Bismarke Van Aurenheim during his war then one day he would support them in turn when they sailed east to put Siegfried back on his father's throne. Thus a campaign in a Galllian civil war officially concerned with controlling natural resources managed to become a continuation of Garmiccia's own civil war. Some of the names given to it by the soldiers in service of Jeremiahde and Siegfried reflected this odd twist of fate. They called it the Far Western War, a name their countrymen would later use to refer to the whole Northern Revolution. The exiles called it the Assassin's War for the bloodthirsty focus their enemy had on killing their rightful sovereign. Veterans from Galllia herself, particularly the Federal soldiers from warmer southern states, might have simply called it the Ice Box or the Bloody Snow War. The extreme northern latitude meant the Sun shone almost all hours, or hardly at all, depending on the season, and thus some poetic souls named the Deep North Campaign the Battles of Endless Day and Night.

Albrion suffered secession of its own from east to west as the U.G.F. suffered through the Terrible Secession from north to south. The eastern lords, led by the Duke of Haventown, wanted to be free of the Federation, and were stirred to fight alongside fellow Northemen who believed in the same sorts of things they did. Many western lords, led by the Duke of Galabow, were not, primarily due to economic concerns or worries they would not be able to triumph against the Southemen. The Sundering of Albrion, as that theatre of war was often called, was officially concerned with the matter of independence from the United Galllian Federation. Nevertheless, the fact that the lines of battle were drawn very much like the old wars over the election of the Prince of Albrion and dominance in the state government was not lost on those in the newest campaign. The Albrishmen commanders on both sides essentially picked up where they or their fathers had left off, dusting off old, incomplete stratagems that had not been put into action before Kayarost invaded and brought the Great Galllian War screeching to a halt.

The Great Aurenheim-Kreigen Feud was perhaps most directly fought when Prince Kroisoto and the 12th Joint Army launched their pivotal invasion of the Kreighold. The two great houses had only occasionally fought during the Great Galllian War, and that was usually only through naval skirmishes, or their armies bumping into each other in Erillia during more tumultuous periods in that state. Most of the tension between them had arisen during the fifteen years they spent in the Federation together, and the political debates that developed with greater and greater intensity between the two powerful family heads. The first Kreigen to die in the war had been High Admiral Hugh Van Kreigen, Margrave of Kreigport and younger brother of the Duke of Kreigseat, Vincent Van Kreigen. However, he died at the hands of the White Rose sinking his flagship, not due to the work of an Aurenheim.

Peorshine Van Aurenheim killed Lord Rudolph, the heir of Vincent Van Kreigen. But it was Kroisoto Van Aurenheim who conquered the Kreighold, defeating other members of the family who had been entrusted with the land's defence, including Vincent's second son Heinrich and driving Duchess Kreigen and her younger children from Kreigseat to seek refuge in Roaphan's Pass. Bismarke's Rebellion also became intertwined with the fate of the peasant's rebellion in the Kreighold, driven by long-standing resentment towards the Kreigens, poverty, and horrible working conditions in the factories that made their state such a force to be reckoned with. To those workers who saw the likes of Prince Kroisoto, Colonel Mallow, and the other Allied heroes in the 12th Joint Army as saviours the Kreighold Campaign was known as the Holy Liberation. Those who fought against them bitterly called it the Great Despoilment of 1780.

History wove all these campaigns together into one final push, the Central Campaign. With Kreigport and Fistforge taken by Kroisoto, the Federal Army faced an alarming arms shortage, and their forces throughout rebel country had been pushed out and scattered. Starting in May of 1780 the armies of the North began to push hard to the south. They suffered setbacks, like the failure to liberate St. Scheson in the third battle that city had witnessed, or the ill-fated Battle of Crow Wood. Nevertheless, slowly but surely the Northemen drew closer and closer to Villdernheim and the Federal Council. The 12th army's menacing position in the South, reinforced by the arrival of the 10th Joint Army in mid-June, meant that the full force of the U.G.F.'s southern reserves could not be sent into Villderia to hold back the Northemen tide.

Finally, all the wee wars came to their conclusion at the Battle of Champion Field, and the treaty signed in its wake. Banastre Van Laschiol would be the Lord-Lieutenant governing Erillia, and the Condemners were satisfied with having a more pious ruler in Erilhall. Prince Siegfried survived, meaning that one day he might return to his native soil and take back his birthright from Emperor Jeremiahde. Haventown and the rest of eastern Albrion would successfully establish Albrasfont, and be joined with their rivals in Galabow no more. The bitter struggle of Kroisoto and his soldiers came to an end at last, and his freedmen rejoiced in the chance at a new life in the North. The Kreighold was left in shambles, its power broken perhaps irrevocably when Bismarke slew Vincent, leaving that state to be ruled by the teenage third son Rudiger Van Kreigen. Last of all, Aurennia, Albrasfont, and Erillia would secede from the United Galllian Federation, and later join with the Kingdom of Eresiln in making a new union.

And so it came to pass that on this day near the end of the year 1781 that the thoughts of all those who had been touched in some way by the Many-Coloured War turned to that final battle. Almost 138 million souls in three countries reflected on the tens of thousands of soldiers who fell at Champion Field. Across Galllia and Garmiccia folk gathered in village squares, cemeteries, and churches to mourn their dead, honour their heroes, and dream of the future of their nations. Peoples in other lands observed these events as well, motivated by the pressing need to determine how their states might align themselves in the new international order that seemed to be coming together. The old United Galllian Federation had been too internally focused to exert much influence on the affairs of other continents, except for trying to lower tariffs with any state willing to negotiate. Such could not be said of the situation a year after the war's end. Galllia was now split into two more cohesive, militarised unions, each aligned with a foreign great power, and thus the possibility of Galllians fighting wars abroad as they had in days of yore grew.

The rest of the world had enjoyed relative peace for the past twenty years, with no open wars declared, even between Garmiccia and Yelhennei since the Empire's civil war. Underneath the surface tensions still remained, however. Neither the Emperor in Schloersteein nor the Mother-Queen in Yelhheim said there was war betwixt them. Far away on the marches of their realms their subjects still feuded, aided by adventurers, glory hounds, and agitators on both sides. It was only a matter of time before war began anew in Elcrescia's northern end. The United Galllian Federation could very well involve itself in that one, returning the favour for the help Garmiccia gave in the Rupture of the North, even if only to try reinvigorating their martial spirit. The Commonwealth of the North could likewise enter that fray, retaliating for the invasion of Aurennia and the piracy Eresiln had suffered for years, or even going as far as to assert Siegfried's claim to the throne in the most forceful fashion possible. In the Faji Gulf the Grand Duchy of Beiriuk and the Kingdom of Dal Calain had been starting to clash for the past four years. Would the Federation be swayed to side with the Calainites, rich in ores, so that they might replace the mines they lost to the Commonwealth? What if Tyrnâth's carefully constructed, restrictive post-Witch War society collapsed, plunging the centre of Elcrescia into chaos? Might Sahranjja decide the time had come once more to subjugate some barbarian lands?

For some in halls of power the past year was an excellent opportunity, where they might manage to secure the aid of forces greater than those at their disposal to fulfil old dreams of the nation, or avenge her old grudges. For others these were days of immense worry, where the past year had been spent nervously watching for red or blue banners sailing in from the west. The little age after Kayarost's invasion had been like a stuffy, cloudy, muggy summer day; the sort where one knew it was going to rain, but the skies seemed to take forever in finally conceding that point. What mattered was not whether it would rain, but whether it would only be showers, or the most catastrophic derecho. The Discontent of Galllia had been the first smattering of raindrops, the kind where one still isn't quite sure whether the rain has truly begun. Elcrescians, Sahranjjites, and Islanders alike had to reckon with its consequences, and consequently the Battle of Champion Field, as much as Galllians did. Now let us read concerning some of the gatherings that took place across Gaiaca upon this first fateful anniversary.

---

Outside Mithsbow, Albrion, United Galllian Federation

The demon pyre had finally died down. Some spiteful embers that refused to die remained hidden within the ash, bones, and metal scraps, for such was the way Hellspawn seemed to burn. Legend said there were still such cinders burning in the Ashen Field, almost twenty years after that most terrible conflagration. Off to one side a heap of almost similar size had been made with the equipment taken from the vanquished enemy host. A few of the Federal troops that had managed to defeat demon sergeants like the one who fought Tristan had replaced their standard-issue swords with the more intimidating blades. Some of the adventurers had done likewise, or replaced some part of their armour with parts from a Hellspawn's. Most of that pile had by now disappeared elsewhere, being put into what arsenals could be found to protect it from rusting in the snow until the army needed to melt it down for scrap to repair their normal equipment.

Approximately two hundred graves had been dug in the night, with only rudimentary markers at each one. A record had been made of who exactly had been buried where, so more enduring gravestones could be carved at a later date. The victorious survivors were assembled late in the morning, having been permitted to sleep in much later than standard regulations dictated due to the skirmish at sea and then the battle ashore yesterday and all the effort into the wee hours of the night that had gone into establishing their camps in Mithsbow and Towraigth. Colonel Firman stood outside the new cemetery, accompanied by a colour guard and facing the combined army. Bright sunshine gleamed on the bloodied snow, juxtaposing the calm of the new day with the long, brutal night they had endured.

"Good morning, men. I want to reiterate my congratulations for your most gallant performance last night. Your victory was the fruit of many combined efforts, not only we of the 53rd. Praise and thanks are also deserved for the Federal reservists from St. Veowulf, who took their commitment seriously enough to be the most combat-ready in their city, ready to go to war with hardly any warning; the adventurer volunteers who swelled our ranks, and bring all sorts of expertise; the honourable household forces of the Duke of St. Veowulf, with all their specialists; our naval brothers-in-arms, who not only got brought us to these islands, but provided invaluable fire support while we await artillery of our own. Most importantly, I thank those soldiers to whom the Thin Isles are home, for without their indefatigable resistance this region would have already fallen to the Hellspawn without the rest of the world being aware of it until it was too late.

"As you all fought together last night, some brave souls died together last night as well. Thank you to all who worked tirelessly throughout the night to get these men a proper burial. May the bodies of federal, ducal, and militia soldiers laid to rest side by side remind us of our shared sacrifices, and help us keep kind feelings one to another when this campaign is over and we have continued our separate journeys. This is only the first battle of this crusade, but it will be proudly recorded as a glorious part of our regiment's history. Seeing as this is the twentieth of December I would now say a few words about another great battle the 53rd Regiment of Foot fought in one year ago today, the Battle of Champion Field.

"Like our present situation, at that battle we were thrown into battle alongside strangers. The regiment had only been formed on the 28th of November in less-than-ideal circumstances. My previous regiment, the 94th, had suffered heavily at the Fourth Battle of St. Scheson and then the Battle of Deerwall, after which we could do nothing to stop the Northemen from capturing Fort Vincent. Upon regrouping with the rest of the army near Villdernheim the 94th was split up. A few companies were scattered amongst other regiments, and myself and one half-strength battalion were selected to be the core of a newly-revived regiment, the 53rd, as part of an amalgamation of several bloodied and exhausted units, joined by a fresh batch of new recruits from the capital itself."

The colonel did not mention that a good number of those recruits had come from the massive city's orphanages, slums, and alleyways, after Vincent Van Kreigen sent federal recruiting sergeants in there with orders to grab any teenage boy, even ones that seemed too frail to hold a pike. The memo concerning it had deflected concerns about such a policy by saying a few weeks of training and hearty army food would make a strong man out of the skinniest whelp, and even the few who failed in that regard could still serve in plenty of other vital areas. Besides, the late Joint Chancellor had insisted, one of the strengths the U.G.F. had failed to make sufficient use of during the war was her strength in numbers. By committing to mass attacks of unseen scope the Federal forces could demoralise and overwhelm even the most powerful Elementals the North had. Killing the "walking superweapons", as he nicknamed them, would neutralise the one advantage Vincent admitted the rebels had, after which they would be outnumbered and outmatched in industrial capacity. Kreigen was adamant that throwing more men into the supposed meat-grinder at once would actually shorten the war and result in less people dying in the long run.

A few of those youths had died at Champion Field. Four, to be exact. Two letters penned by Colonel Firman were later sent to Matron Olga of the New Southbridge Benevolent Home for Children, concerning the deaths of Thomas Smith and David Brenlo. Another went to the widow Mrs. Docks, about her 16-year-old Alan. The last dead boy soldier had been a 15-year-old named Robby Handsome. In his civilian career he had been a persistent petty criminal and loiterer, who had grown up on the streets and given himself that last name. He hadn't listed any next of kin on his initial paperwork after being drafted, saying he wouldn't betray "the wise and industrious association of alley labourers" to which he belonged, but a few days before his only battle he confided to one of the members of his company that he had a best friend named Nigel Hatgrabber. It was better than nothing, and so the colonel sent that fourth letter to the P.O. box supposedly in use by Mr. Hatgrabber. Writing those four letters was one of the saddest memories he had.

"We were not put at the very front of the fighting that day, but near the battle's end we had our true test," Firman continued, "The infantry guarding a battery of the brand-new Lionhill cannons had been worn down and picked off by diversions, until those artillerymen were practically wide open. I'm sure the Aurennians would have loved to capture the latest and greatest guns we have; those Lionhill cannons that are the most advanced in the world. Nevertheless, we received the order to go to their aid, and so we did. Against wave after wave of the enemy's push we held steadfast. Whatever else happened at Champion Field, we at least accomplished our duty. Let that be the lesson we remember on this anniversary: our ability to rapidly unite and overcome whatever trials this world or any other throws at the 53rd!"

The Federal soldiers briefly cheered, while their commander looked at the gathered crowd. Soon enough he spoke again.

"But now I feel I have said enough concerning last year's final battle. You all know what it cost us. Do some self-reflecting today, and pray for our comrades who died in it. Assuming the enemy doesn't launch another surprise attack, or someone doesn't do something profoundly stupid with their unexpected free time, you all should have a somewhat relaxed day today. The first group of reinforcements are still a few days out, and we have plenty of wounded on our side who need to recover. Get some rest while you can. Good day, gentlemen."

With his remarks concluded the Federal soldiers saluted Colonel Firman, who quickly returned the salute before mounting his horse to ride back to Towraigth. He might not have anticipated a battle that day, but there was still an awful lot of work to do with planning the campaign. The PC's were left to their own devices, thinking about what they had been doing one year ago that day. For most of them it would probably be a bit of an odd feeling, considering they hadn't been anywhere near that great confrontation.

[Ameriganastan]

"Wake up, lad. Time for us to be on our way."

Eric poked his passed out offspring in the cheek to rouse him. When that didn't work, he simply smacked him across the face. That did the trick.

"5 more minutes...or hours...or days...how are you even conscious right now? Last I remember you were challenging a rather sizable man to something called the "Chug of no return" challenge..."

"Years of practice. Here, nothing soothes the morning after headache like a little hair of the dog."

He tossed him a bottle of wine from the Fanny Pack Of Wonder and flopped down next to him.

"And you're welcome for saving you last night. You tried to take on Tuna Can Roger your first time in a cathouse? Good thing Belle got me or you'd never sit right again. Though you looked like you did okay for yourself anyway."

He motioned to two passed out young men on the floor of the room.

"Two at a time. You're a real chip off the old block there, junior."

He slapped him on the back, forgetting he was currently drinking something.

"I'm not a chip off your anything. In case you forgot, I came on this trip to knock you out for abandoning my mother."

"Yeah, and that worked out for you, didn't it? You still aiming to do that?"

He thought on it for a few moments.

"I don't know. I clearly can't take you and...oh, there's your friend."

Eric glanced over at the door, Lucian taking the momentary distraction to throw a punch at him. Eric caught his fist without even looking.

"Nice try, kid. Though your determination is admirable. You're the first of my bastards to actually track me down and try to sock me. You've got spunk."

He swiped the wine bottle from him and guzzled the rest in disturbingly quick order.

"I tell you what. How about you follow me for a spell? Travelling the world with your wayward pappy. Seeing the sights, fighting, fucking, drinking, all that fun stuff. Do a boy your age good to live a little. I wish I'd have done that at your age instead of joining the military. What do you say?"

He glanced over at his still passed out conquests from the night before.

"...Will there be more of...this?"

"Oh, you bet. I know all the best cathouses in the land. You follow along with me, you'll nab yourself so much primo tail that these two passed out twinks will be a distant, mediocre memory."

One could almost hear the switch in his head go off. The Lumen blood was kicking in.

"Alright, deal. I'll come along for a bit. If you also give me a bit of sword tutoring. My current skills are...lacking."

"Deal. Now, get your pants from off the celling and let's be on our way...hey, where's Belle?"

On cue, the door was kicked open to reveal a disheveled looking Belle. Still wearing the feathery headdress from last night.

"Not. A. Word."

"I keep warning you about those redheads. You really do have a type. Oh, and good news. Junior here is gonna be joining us."

"Oh, wonderful. As if one of you wasn't enough of a headache for me."

[Constaniana]

Auregen, Aurennia, Commonwealth of the North

Bismarke Van Aurenheim stood with his head bowed in prayer upon a white marble podium in his new ceremonial uniform as Commander of the Armies of the North, wearing it in public for the first time. Having it made had been more complicated than merely taking his measurements. Over the past ten months since the founding of the Commonwealth of the North what the Lord Protector of the North wore, at least for official business, had become wrapped up in a broader debate amongst the leadership in the Commonwealth Allied Forces concerning new uniforms as part of their standardisation efforts. During the war Bismarke had merely continued to wear his Aurennian colours, and the quartermasters on his side were far more concerned with getting the troops functioning arms than matching uniforms, but with peace in the land the Northemen now had time to worry about this sort of thing.

Some individuals had come up with various designs for a single uniform that would be issued to every soldier, as the Federal Army did. To them it stood to reason that if their countries were agreeing to a standard pattern for things like muskets and pikes then they ought to do the same for the uniforms. Others resisted it, thinking it could start the Commonwealth down the path of creating another overly-centralised government trying to stamp out their culture; merely swapping Federal scarlet for Aurennian blue. A problem with the uniform proposals had been figuring what proportion of colours to use in it. Aurennia's royal blue and white, Erillia's teal and coral, Eresiln's vermilion and azure blue, and Albrasfont's carmine and blue-green did not exactly seamlessly mesh together. They all seemed to like some shade of blue, but putting them all on the same tunic generally looked a bit jarring.

Devising a new tartan out of the Commonwealth's many colours had gone more smoothly, though with two competing designs spawned, but then that created a different problem of getting all the regions in the Commonwealth to accept a kilt. While the garment was a common sight in the mountainous parts of the North, and had grown in popularity elsewhere since dashing young war heroes like Kroisoto and Prince Siegfried took a liking to wearing it over the course of the Deep North Campaign, Erillians were still not too keen on the idea. Furthermore, there were the regiments which were passionate about keeping their historical tartans. In light of all these difficulties the newly-formed General Staff of the North had decided to keep the matter of uniform design a concern of the states and their individual regiments, for now at least. The only exceptions to this ruling were the establishment of common rank insignia and a white rose patch to be sewn on the left sleeve, a symbol they could all agree on.

The use of white as a unifying colour had extended to Bismarke's attire, most prominently in the great white cape he was wreathed in. His torso was encased by an elaborate set of silvery white plate armour, the centre of which was emblazoned with the Commonwealth's four heraldic animals: Aurennia's albatross, Erillia's sturgeon, Eresiln's stallion, and Albrasfont's bear. Strapped upon his back his mighty claymore Svellverja sat in its scabbard, having rested from battle for a year now. He had chosen the simpler of the two main Commonwealth kilt designs, woven only with white and the primary colour of each member state, rather than incorporating secondary colours as its main competitor did.

Had he not been an Ice Elemental Bismarke Van Aurenheim might have been bothered by the chilly weather that day. Snow was not falling in Auregen, but the sea breeze blew cold nonetheless, making the grass around them ripple just like the waves below the cliff upon which he stood. The sun had not yet risen over the sea, but one could still see sufficiently thanks to one of the moons, the shimmering of Auregen's lights half a mile away, the two lampposts on either side of the great podium, and the honour guard holding torches. Looking down on the Lord Protector of the North and the other assembled dignitaries was a tall statue of Caelstion in the centre of the podium, made with more white marble. The Father of Hope, wings unfurled, faced towards the south. In his right hand the Sceptre of Eternal Mercy pointed to Auregen, while in his left hand the Greatsword of Instant Judgement was pointing down to the ground. The third attribute Caelstion was often depicted with, the Halo Crown of Wisdom Everlasting, was a golden circle upon his head. Normally statues of him in churches would attempt to depict the halo being above his head, propping it up with thin, minute glass pipes, but given that this statue would be exposed to the elements its designers had decided it was safer to permanently attach the crown.

"Oh Father of Hope, Patron of Truth Unwavering, Lord High Advocate of Our Souls, thou didst show unfathomable mercy unto this land and people in our righteous struggle for liberty and piety. On this twentieth day of December, in the 1,781st year since that most supreme Champion of Light, Adrathur the Greatest, first brought Albrion and Aurennia-Erid together into that most glorious and holy of all empires, we dedicate this icon of the finest craftsmanship to thee. We pray it may serve as a payment to the infinite debt we owe thee. Those of us still in our mortal bodies give thanks that thou hast preserved us, and vow to remain faithful to the cause of righteousness," spake His Grace, Robert Archibald Nalcasson. Earlier in the year the tall, thin 59-year-old had been promoted from the position of Archbishop of Auregen to the reactivated office of Ecclesiarch of Aurennia, a position which had gone dormant when Aurennia first joined the United Galllian Federation.

"May it be that our conduct continue to merit us unworthy servants thy matchless boons. Our past doth overflow with mighty wonders the gods of Heaven hath done in our favour, for which we shall ne'er cease to offer up hymns of gratitude. May it be that our glorious dead who have charged off the battlefield of life into thy halls of rest everlasting shall smile down upon us proudly, and help guide and protect us, today and always. Caelstion, convey our gratitude in all things to thy immaculate kin, the Loyal Host.

"Pryastar, we thank thee for the fire that keeps us warm on days that are cold, that same fire which lets us cook food and craft tools, or forge weapons to protect what is ours and conquer what needs to be defeated. Hydrata, we thank thee for the water that all life upon this world drinks, and that thou doth permit us to sail upon thy domain to gather food, travel and trade with the children of men in foreign lands, and explore more of the beauty of Gaiaca. Terestark, we thank thee for both the soil in which our oats, barley, and all manner of crops grow, and the stone of our mighty mountains and castles, which shield and defend us from the wicked. Veridaelia, we thank thee for sustaining us with the food we plant, we forage, we herd, and we hunt.

"Boaltist, we thank thee for help keep the world renewed, clearing out that which is past its usefulness, and striking down the wicked. Aewiallia, we thank thee for the crisp, clean air of our country that invigorates us with each breath, for the wind which propels the sails of our great ships and the many fair birds in the sky, for bringing the clouds that bring the rain and snow that bring the land moisture. Ferruoston, we thank thee for the abundant metals which are buried in the North, which aid thy people in countless ways, and for the fortitude thou instils in our bodies and souls. Froenstia, we thank thee for the snow, ice, and cold. They may be hard gifts to understand, but they are necessary within the grand scheme of the universe. Were it not so, the Eldest-Father Jaehlhadon would not have brought thee forth.

"The cold gives us rest from the heat, brings calmness and clear-thinking. Thou doth teach patience, like the snow in the mountains which waits until spring before coming down and replenishing all the wide rivers of the land. The mighty glacier may move slowly, such that at times it may seem like it stands still, but in time there is none that can stand before it, as it reshapes the land. Such was the resolve required of the Northemen in the Northern Revolution, confronted by armies with more soldiers and factories, but lacking the most important attribute, faith in the Loyal Host. As we stand here today we commemorate that they passed that test. Thou doth test us with the trials of frosts and icy nights, and we are stronger for it.

"But Froenstia is not only a goddess of challenges and trials. She is beautiful, radiant, and pure, and can show tenderness. Who among us would deny the beauty of the dawn refracting in the icicles hanging from his home, or moonlight glimmering over a silent field of snow? Who among us would deny the beauty and purity of freshly-fallen snow? No heart within man or woman does not warm at the sight of children playing in it, fondly remembering the days when they did that, and gladly join their little ones in making merry. Getting out of the cold makes us want to cherish warmth with our fellows, and brings us closer. It teaches a lesson that even in a season of difficulty, one can still find beauty and happiness in life.

"Such is a lesson all I hope those who hear my prayer shall remember on this sombre anniversary. In three days hence we shall feast to celebrate the treaty which ended the war. Later in this wintry time we celebrate the births of St. Helreska and Emperor Adrathur the Great, and celebrate the end of one year and the start of another. On the seventeenth day of next February there shall be feasting and pageantry to celebrate the first birthday of the Commonwealth of the North. But on this day we commemorate a grim battle that took place hundreds of miles from here. Thrilling as victory may be, and as grateful as we are that so many servants of Tenaembra were struck down that day, we would err to be too jubilant. Countless multitudes will weep this day, remembering loved kin that fell far, far away from home. It is hard and sorrowful, like the deepest snows of winter, with nights of bitter cold that hurts the bones. Yet may these broken hearts be comforted; may they still find beauty in living.

"Lastly we the people of the Commonwealth of North give praise and thanks to the gods of Heaven for the choice and inspired rulers and leaders they have raised up for us. Thanks be to Pryastar for the Lord-Lieutenant of Erillia, Banastre Van Laschiol. May his union with Princess Lucille Van Aurenheim prove fruitful and happy, and may he grow in wisdom and skill. Thanks be to Terestark for the Duke of Haventown and Lord of Albrasfont, Brambur Van Volcheart. May his walls nor his courage falter, and may his people prosper.

"Thanks be to Boaltist for Prince Peorshine Van Aurenheim, and his fair mother Duchess Isobel Van Aurenheim. May he continue to be an inspiration of chivalry to his people, and prepare for his eventual responsibilities as Duke of Auregen and King of Eresiln. May she be blessed for her tireless labours, both within the walls of her family's palace as a most dutiful wife and mother, and without the castle in her many charitable efforts and diplomatic endeavours.

"Thanks be to Hydrata for the King of Eresiln, His Majesty King Percival Van Bechlunde II, and Prince Kroisoto Van Aurenheim. May the king's country enjoy peace once again, her merchants free from the depredations of dreadful pirates, and may he live to see many great-grandchildren born to his heiress. May the Liberator of the Kreighold's strength and renown increase tenfold, and those he rescued from slavery find joy in their liberty in their new homes in the North. Thanks be to Froenstia, not only for Prince Douglas Van Aurenheim, the mighty sailor whose resolve is as firm as the armour of the ironclads he commands, but for the hero who brought all these other mighty men, and these mighty lands they love and serve, into a united, victorious force. We give thanks for the Duke of Auregen, Commander of the Armies of the North, Lord Protector Bismarke Van Aurenheim. May the Commonwealth established by his efforts live on, and carry out the will of Heaven in all things.

"Father of Hope, there is one hero that remains to be thanked; the heroine in thy holy service. We know not where thy paladin is at this moment. We do not know her true name. What we do know is that without the one called by the people the White Rose, which is to say without thy intercession for the North's cause, that the war would have been lost. Our ancient liberties and loyalties would be placed in grave peril. The devil-worshipping heretics of the Watchtower Society would have free reign to torment the righteous for their depraved purposes.

"Carry our gratitude to her, the thanks of a free people. May we have peace today, and the rest of our days. May the hearts of those in the Federation be softened, that they may awaken from the poisoned slumber their souls are currently in. Our prayer is for them to once again be righteous, courageous, and pure, as they once were, like all Galllians were in the blessed days when the Villderas reigned. For these many things, and more things than could be uttered in one prayer we give thanks. For these many things, and whatsoever things thee and thy brethren know to be for our good, we ask for blessings. We say these things in the name of the Loyal Host, Amen."

It was certainly a somewhat long prayer. Normally a prayer in a Helreskaffen service was several minutes shorter, and distinct from the sermon itself, but a dedicatory prayer at a public ceremonial occasion generally warranted a more elaborate oratory. It was nonetheless limited by such factors as the clergyman being unable to read any scripture verses he might have otherwise quoted had it been a normal sermon, and how long he could put up with having his head bowed. Echoes of amen rang through the cemetery. Now the Commander of the Armies of the North moved to the centre position to speak.

"My noble countrymen and esteemed visitors, I shall not tire your ears with long remarks on my part. We are assembled here for a solemn occasion, to dedicate the First Commonwealth War Cemetery. This is not the first time I have been present at the dedication of a graveyard for war dead. I pray this day will be the last I must do so; I pray that we may have lasting peace for generations. In the year to come I shall enter my fifth decade of life, and in each one of those preceding decades some military crisis faced our lands.

"The Wide Northern War violently concluded my 40's. At the age of 37, in the spring of 1769, I suffered the death of my father, Peorshine Bismarke Gordon Van Aurenheim, and then had to defeat the bastard Ulfrüs Halsmink and his army of villains barely more than a month later. Last of all, from my first birthday to my thirty-first I lived in a continent perpetually convulsed by warfare, and when I was a youth who travelled the land for a few seasons I came face to face with some of the evils it permitted and unleashed. Most of my life has been spent in fighting bandits, monsters, Tenaembra-worshippers, and the armies of a thousand lords, or in preparation to face them anew.

"Man aught not to spend all his life at war, never having a chance to rest from his labours and enjoy all the precious things he has protected. It is like a farmer who never feasts on his harvest, instead letting the bounty all rot in his fields, like a miner who never emerges from the tunnels to smelt the ore he has obtained through such gruelling labour, or a shipwright whose longship remains in the workshop for eternity, never touching the sea until the end of the world. I am tired of war. I would much rather spend what time I have left in life with my wife and children in my home, than in a camp somewhere far from Auregen, commiserating with other fathers and sons likewise pulled away by grim duty. Should the defence of the Commonwealth and all she stands for necessitate it I shall not shirk from another war, but let those who would threaten the North be now warned that I would not hesitate to conclude a conflict as quickly and forcefully as possible. Forgiveness I have extended unto every foe I have faced in all my days, but as the years have rolled on my patience has begun to dwindle. Do not provoke the Commonwealth of the North, nor the Lord Protector who has been entrusted as Commander of her armies. It will be your ruin.

"I thank each and every soul whose body rests here, in the First Commonwealth War Cemetery, and all their comrades who lie in other graveyards throughout the land. To those brave fallen men whose bodies have not yet been recovered, I thank them for their greatest of sacrifices. I pray that their bodies may one day be given a most worthy burial in Galllia; nevertheless, we ken that they are united with the rest of our war dead in paradise beyond imagining. I give my condolences to all their families, and promise to give them aid in their absences. I hope these heroes of our age will look down upon those of us who survived favourably from their perfect rest in Heaven. May the Loyal Host bless us all. Amen."

One might have expected Aurenheim to speak more of his own role in the Battle of Champion Field, especially his duel with Kreigen that brought the war to an end. However, he had avoided making disparaging remarks concerning his late arch-rival. He bore no fondness for the Southeman, and he did not miss the constant clashes they had fought for almost twenty years, which had been verbal for so long before those last few years of physical confrontation. However, the simple fact was that the Aurenheims had utterly triumphed over the Kreigens. Bismarke was too serious a man to gloat, rubbing in a point that the surviving Kreigens and the rest of the world could obviously see. The one man was dedicating a war memorial in his unconquered capital, while the other was buried at another memorial in the capital that his enemies had marched through in triumph. One man's firstborn would be a king one day, while the other man's firstborn had preceded his father in death.

Bismarke was also far too busy to spend time doing that sort of thing. So many events were taking place in the city that day, and they all desired his attention. A parade would be going through the streets in an hour's time. Lunch would be a formal affair today, attended by other high-ranking figures within the Commonwealth as well as diplomatic delegations from Yelhennei, Yuelkelu, Weirinsta, Ilfalia, Serestid, Dal Calain, Beiriuk, Halvefor, and Sahranjja. The Empire of Garmiccia being absent was obvious; they would only be in attendance at the commemorations in Villdernheim. The Kingdom of Tyrnâth felt that sending an ambassador to a celebration of a great military victory violated the spirit of their neutrality laws, and thus had ignored invitations from both the Commonwealth and the Federation. All the other great powers of the world had sent groups to both capitals. No doubt the Federal government had to go great lengths to keep the Garmiccian and Yelhennein delegations from clashing too much. A few other dignitaries from more distant lands had shown up as well, from petty city-states on tiny islands and tribes in the uncharted arctic lands generally overlooked by the rest of the world.

Once they all had finished eating pear and parsnip soup, rye bread, and maple fried pork chops the Duke of Auregen would tour his city's shipyards with his guests. That had taken a considerable amount of preparation, not only making sure that the sites looked presentable and showed off Northemen naval power and innovation, but that they didn't show off too much. The Judgement-class ironclads inspired considerable envy, and the Lord Protector certainly did not want foreigners sneaking off with the blueprints to build a fleet of their own. Receptions at other prominent local sites, a state dinner, and a ball would take up the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening. Only after nightfall, when the rest of the country and his household had gone to bed, would Bismarke sit alone by his fireplace and ruminate on his own actions one year ago from today.

Bismarke Van Aurenheim now moved to his left, and his fair wife approached the great statue of Caelstion. Isobel Van Aurenheim was dressed in a similar manner to her husband, with a furry white cape and gloves. She wore a cuirass the same style and colour as Bismarke's armour, but without the accompanying other pieces. The rest of her clothing consisted of a long, dark blue dress. Around her neck hung an eight-pointed Helreskaffen cross necklace encrusted with diamonds, made more prominent since her blonde tresses were put in a stately braided bun. With how long her dress was her shoes were concealed, but they clacked on the marble, so they probably were some sort of stylish heeled ones. In her hands she held a massive wreath of all kinds of flowers, woven in with branches and leaves of the oak, rowan, and pine tree.

"Atten-tion!" The Commander of the Armies of the North cried, his claymore now in his left hand. At the other end of the cemetery, closer to the cliffs, a lone cannon situated next to a battery of twenty-four more cannons fired a blank shot out to sea. The white smoke turned a brilliant orange as the first of dawn's rays shone through it. "PRESENT ARMS!" he bellowed, raising Svellverja into a salute while the other assembled warriors did the same with their arms. The artillerymen facing the sea fired their 24-gun salute, and several moments later came a reply from the fleet assembled in the bay below, man-of-wars and frigates and ironclads firing their own salutes. A choir began to sing an ethereal, serene song, and the Duchess of Auregen set down her wreath at the base of the statue of the god of Light. The sun continued to rise over Auregen, and throughout the Pearl of the North church bells began to ring, concluding the grand ceremony.

[Kassaran]

...And shadows gath'red
At the edge of the veil
Of night unending
And moonlight pale
There stood one lonely
with a frame so frail
But full in his eyes
Was rage without fail
Dreams burned to ash
And cast to the gale
A threadbare hope
On which he would sail
From dusk to dawn to the end of his tale.
^{~Unknown Author~
The Night's Call}

Both Erosen and the Knight had stood a long moment after the passing of the moonlight and crimson cloaks. They'd taken to standing backs together, watching the depths of the trees for any sign of the strangers, until the shadows of the night grew long and their eyes grew weary of the search. It was almost a second thought to turn and place a hand on the Pioneer Knight, the feeling of a sluggish, gritty texture snapping Erosen from his motion as his fingers danced away from the blessed soil the Knight had brought up around him. The armored man was motionless, but even in the early morning air, he could hear the warrior's breath through his helmet, the soft echoes with each exhalation and the sight of vapor forming at the mouthpiece of the helm showing the Earth Elemental had been similarly caught off-guard. Erosen decided to be the first to break the stillness of their vigil as he rolled his shoulders and relaxed his posture, taking a tentative step before casting a sidelong glance towards the Knight.

"They're gone. I'm going to continue my mission. You can stay or go."

It was less a statement than a question, but Erosen wouldn't admit as much and neither, likely, would his newfound company. The behemoth in armor rolled his neck, the distinctive creaking and popping of sinuous muscles slipping into place, snapping out like small fireworks under the muffled rush of cloth and chain. The armor was heavy, almost heavy enough to be unwieldy, were its wearer not of the Earth Element and incredibly fit, blessed by Terrestark's own boon and granted a manner of strength one would only find among the Earth deity's own chosen. The strong, solid stance the soldier had taken up was shoulder-width at the feet, but the bend at the knees had shown less a desire to stand ground, and more the urge to move. He was a brawler, a fighter, and that he'd been relegated to this task of fighting in the rear - less fighting than skulking- had no doubt been a source of much annoyance. It made sense to Erosen, they'd only worked together the once before and Erosen had been far more powerful then. His newfound partner had been the junior due to lack of experience in fighting with his Element as the Pioneer Knights were trained. Now, he was the junior only because the Messenger had deemed it so and the Darkling had just offered the Earth Elemental a means to return to base without violating his orders or tenets.

"What we have learned here is important, I shall return and share what we have learned."

Erosen nodded and turned to step away, the shadows beckoning and the night feeling all that much more welcoming since they'd broken their watch and turned to each other. He did not know if the Inferno was likely still open, and had no knowledge of what had unfolded on the battlefield outside of Mithsbow. If there was need for the mighty Earth Elemental, he'd be better off diving into the fray through the enemy backline and striking at where they were weakest. Then there was the matter of the scheming and plotting they'd uncovered on the part of the grey-robed adversary Erosen was quickly finding himself embroiled in conflict against once again. He'd spent almost a year and a half top-side avoiding their watchful presence, slinking about in the shadows like a rodent, hoping to avoid their scrutiny and drawing unwanted attention. Now he was locked in a struggle with them for the fate of some destitute isle at the edges of the continent. Erosen's grimace said enough to the Pioneer Knight as the man turned his helmed head to peer at the Darkling. Erosen raised a hand dismissively and turned away, wiping what little emotions he'd felt back into the wind.

"I shall return to Mithsbow by noon. If it has fallen, I'll return to where your master met me under the Seat of the Saint. Tell no one of my presence here or whereabouts until the shadows have stretched past midday, then only inform your master. He will know what to do in my absence as his orders stand in line with my own."

The Earth Elemental nodded and began to stride away, the soil beneath his feet softening with each step and his footfalls damping to the point of being light as cat's feet (or rather their paws). The silence which clung to the broad-shouldered Elemental was unnerving to say the least, but Erosen did not allow himself to dwell on the thoughts that welled with the realization of the warriors' strength. Were he not so hot-headed and quick-tempered, he'd of made a fine spy and scout in the corps of the Pioneer Knights. Now, however, he was a silent blade which could decimate a formation of men in a single fell move and it was that power which the Elemental held closely in check. Erosen's own movements were similarly muffled and softened, the liquid-like gait he took up mirroring that of a stalking panther, his shoulders dropping low and his eyes searching forward for new ground to travel across. The telltales of the Inferno that the demons had used growing stronger with each passing step as his pace quickened and his eyes searched in the gloom of early dawn.

His hopes soon began to falter with his mind finding the scent of demons growing stronger and yet no sounds of a war camp filling his ears. The force of demons had been several thousand at the least, his mind knew that such an Inferno had no means of properly ferrying souls across the worlds and yet remained so quiet. It would have to be massive, and as the early morning light began to fill the sky, he heard the dull roar of the ocean begin to swell to a roaring crescendo. The trees thinned here, in this snowy stand at the edge of the forest. His longcoat drug in the crisp and fresh-fallen powder which clung to various surfaces, the individual flakes fell from high branches in light drifts and smatterings, their presence as motes of dust in an old room. The bite of the cold, the sting of sea salt, the sensations of the coast enticed him to narrow his eyes and crouch low as he peered out across the rocky cove below. He could see where the ships had landed by the dozens, if not more. The great many drifts of wood and stone, unmolested in all their time previous but by the tide itself, were pressed and shifted aside in undulating paths up the beach. Great ruts where carts and wagons of the demonic forces had made landfall could be seen, crawling up along the seaside cliffs to the narrow draw that they'd executed their invasion from.

And for all that he could see, in the shifted stone and receding tides, where the bellies of rafts and barges had drifted ashore and been moored for the purpose of depositing their respective regiments and brigades, he saw not a single soul or ship. Only the waves, the rocks, and the coastal cliffs and hills receding away into the forest beyond, could now be observed. The demons had used the bulk of their forces in the fight and their terrible wrath had been brought in full force against the forces of Gaiaca. They'd waged a war they'd intended to lose completely, or win entirely, and yet the mutterings and mumblings of the Watchtower grey-cloaks had indicated some new presence was coming - that reinforcements were imminent. Drawing his wide-brimmed hat low, and upturning the collar of his coat, Erosen turned to creep back into the darkness of the woods. The Inferno was further than he could go, the method by which the demons had arrived was true to the stratagem of any worldly commander, amphibious and fast. They'd hinged their hopes on wiping out all resistance on the island and making a foothold for themselves here, but their forces had likely failed if none could be seen here. He knew in his heart that was the case, but the nagging feeling of something missing, or rather of something still hidden, pulled at his mind and thoughts. The distracting idea rolling and tumbling about in his inner dialogue and consideration of what he'd seen, so deep was his reflection, it might have been meditation were it not for the sudden and sharp scent of something new -or rather old- on the wind.

He'd known this scent, he'd tasted the breed of demon it belonged to and his eyes gleamed with hungry delight at the thought of catching a wounded or fleeing beast. The very presence of his prey was intoxicatingly mind-numbing and his stomach growled beneath his woven layers of clothing, so loud was it in the ears of the fallen Elemental that he scolded himself for not having indulged earlier in the fighting. Surely he could have taken one or two of the demons aside and had a nice discussion with them over dinner arrangements, more precisely on how they'd be arranged for his dinner. He'd gone longer without sustenance before, but his mind had been frayed and badly wounded in willpower and concentration. His meddling mistress and her temptations had not gone without notice in his weakening body. The longer he fought his contract, his binding to her and the Dark Lord, the more he hungered and thirsted for those whom held the Dark Element in vast quantities. Such was his thinking when reason shone through his mind with a single clear thought.

This demon did not move in the manner of panic, but purpose. What purpose?

It was not a coward, nor a survivor, its mind was closed off and the aura it emanated was sickly and fetid in the nose of the once-wild man. The nagging feeling, the single point he'd been dragging on became clear in his mind as though having been revealed from behind a thick curtain, as Erosen realized he'd ignored a weaker scent for most of the night. He'd been certain, if not entirely convinced that it had been the lingering odor of many troops of demons and demonic beings traipsing about in the same forests he'd been walking through, yet at some point the scent had shifted. It had been weak, and he'd dismissed the anomaly as simply being distracting to the purpose he had been set upon. Now, as he continued to track the errant denizen of Hell, he became aware of that scent he'd lost hours before in the dead of the night. It wafted and carried like the stench of something dead and rotting, long deceased, yet freshly dug up for the feast. His mouth salivated and his nose quivered with each putrid inhalation of the intensifying trail, his mind coming to the startling realization that this demon was likely no minor being in its domain, but something far more important and its mission was not one of fighting alongside its now doomed brethren.

It had been a scout, an observer in the Battle of Mithsbow and now it was returning to an Inferno of its own that would lead to the true leader of the infernal hordes upon the island. Erosen tempered his anger and bloodlust, his mind sharpening as years of training oiled his reflexes and movements. He was hunting now, not for this lowly messenger, but for the one it would return to, to its Master. Erosen was close behind it now, his presence masked by his powers and his eyes fixed squarely upon his quarry as he stalked it from the ground. He was practiced in these motions and drills, the slow and deliberate footfalls he matched to the beating of the demon-beast's wings, further quieting his advance behind the hellish crow before suddenly the demon disappeared. The sound of Erosen's feet slamming into the ground, his body rolling to absorb the impact of the ground underneath him as he settled for dropping low and bracing himself against a nearby tree. That was the Inferno, the one he'd be using this morning to find the source of Albrion's ails and woe, a shimmering, shining, floating area of space located meters above him and so expertly masked that he'd not even seen it until the demon bird had flown through it. Had he not been directly led to the site, he likely would have needed a day to find the very same Inferno, but now as he stood, watching and waiting, he debated in his mind what he might do next.

Rarely did an Inferno's location and environment reflect across the realms. It was as likely to put him into dreaded toilets of hell, as it was to dump him unceremoniously over a sea of lava -or would it be magma- his mind shook away the errant thought as he made his decision. There was only one way to know what lay beyond, all other information of import had been sent with the Earth Knight, so it would be critical for Erosen to scout out the world beyond the Inferno himself. Bracing himself, he took a running start at a nearby tree. The shadows had grown long in the coming dawn and it would be sooner than later they'd all but vanish in the rising sun's light. So it was that he jumped headlong into the dark side of the tree and reached a thread out through the fabric of the void to fall through a place where time and shape held little meaning.

Hello again.

isitfriendisitfoodcanweeatitwillittastegooditsmellsfunny

And suddenly the skies opened up around the plummeting Elemental and something winked at him from the back of his mind as the depths of the abyss opened into reality once again. Flying into the air with speeds he couldn't reasonably fathom as having gained from a simple leap, he ignored the lurching, seizing, rolling sensation of his stomach and insides shifting back into place as the Inferno raced towards him. The shimmering field of Dark Element rippled like the face of a pond, but as the Darkling drew near, he watched it suddenly whirl and spin wildly with dark tendrils snapping out from the edges and latching onto his hurtling form as he flew headlong through the Inferno and into what lay beyond. The rushing of wind grew to a howling cacophany of noise that upset his mind but steeled his heart and strengthened his will, for he knew what came next with the passing of his vision and then smell, and finally taste. Only his ears remained true to him as the Inferno assailed his body and battered at the Darkling's tattered mind and psyche. A giggle, a hum, the soft sense of someone peering intently at him as though he were something to be inspected and tossed aside.

Peculiar

Crimson skies opened up around him and rolling clouds of bile warped and shifted about him, the familiar sight of hell's perverse heavens seeming very strange from the perspective of one much higher up than a terrestrial being should be. Erosen's mind raced to orient himself, but found no markers of a horizon, only the endless sky in every direction of Hell and its horrible plane of existence. He reached towards his shoulder, the motion rolling the falling scout onto his stomach. He quickly recognized his precarious height several meters lower than the second prior. The shifting of his body, the tightening of his throat and the rush of fear in his heart spurred his hands and lips into action, conjuring forth a shimmering pool of shadow and night beneath him as the ground raced towards him. In the seconds before he would have been dashed upon the swells of a cobalt sea, he felt the void reach out towards him and embrace him back into the place beyond places, where even oblivion dared not reach.

we're waiting for you
we always have been
this is where you belong
with those of us who...

He screened out the intrusive thoughts, the memories of things he'd seen in the middling world between existences pressing in on his mind again. The dull ache of something scraping at the back of his skull, the cold tendrils of a spider-like hand creeping over his scalp, caressing his cheek with needle-sharp talons. It was. The words for the experience failed him, in all that he could say it was unnerving, the being, the experience, existence itself and the knowledge that this lay in the space between spaces, at the edge of his vision when he blinked, slept, ate. Knowing of it was enough to bring its attention to him, for it never took an interest first... but it would take what interested it in return. Perhaps to some, the tantalizing call of this being Erosen shuddered and convulsed in revulsion at, would be the siren's song it certainly thought it was, for in all the depths of boundless infinity, it promised eternity for its prospects. It was the soft breath upon Erosens neck, the warm, wet brush of something ethereal and unreal across his throat. His airway constricted as the ominous being seized hold of his body and pressed upon him, forcing the air out.

"I was born among the dead, hurried forth with thinning breath."

It's voice echoed, vibrated, coursed through him and shook the air that escaped his lips. The firm press of its fingers manipulating his throat and jaw to shape the words from his breath. His lungs burned and ached, his head pulsed and pounded as it sounded no louder than whisper, but more voluminous that the greatest shout.

"You knew I called for you, little one."

The fingers dug into the flesh of Erosen's throat, the warm trickle of blood lancing down through nothingness and over nothingness, becoming nothingness.

"I bid you drag yourself, to the deepest depths."

A pinprick of light, somewhere in the dark, the distant lantern of another traveler- or perhaps a cabin?

"Wailing I've tried, no voice ever answers."

The squealing of the damned, their shrill cries and laughter spilling over the edge of the cup and staining the grime below.

"A mute shadow crept by, it flees from fretting ruin."

The edges of the night crept in as he felt his vision give beneath his eyelids, weighted down as if by a hundred fingers pressing upon them, the world beyond worlds outside beginning to run by as if countless grains of sand in flight.

"Fear is an agent, a ravenous serpent, and over my flesh it is worn by you - my evening acquaintance."

Needless in countless forms and places pressed in upon his skin and flesh, stabbing and running through his sores as the Dark Element unwound from the gentle pleading of the mother.

"And me."

His lungs void of air, the fingers withdrew, the pain ceased and the void went silent as it retreated back from existence. A thousand lifetimes and yet none were felt in the single press of its decrepit discussion with the Darkling and the song of insanity buzzed at the fringes of consciousness where a familiar voice called. It sang a song of joyous union, of boundless power and the desires of the material world granted for but one small price to pay. The rest and ruin of old promises and sworn oaths broken, the silent war of a man shaken yet unmoved by the agents of the Dark Lord. His mind retreated, the world spun and Erosen found himself launching sideways through a groove cut in a great mountain. About him stretched the clouded sea and stretching imperiously into the acidic heights of the sky, a single mountain that had been shaped and warped by countless hands and tools into the imposing fortress it now was. Shakily climbing to his feet, Erosen looked at the back of his hands, frowning at his trembling body and yet knowing there was nothing he could do, the nightmares were gone for now, he would appease them later in fitful sleep, but for now he would do his job. Accomplish his mission. Such was the fate of one as him.

---

The morning had come as the Pioneer Knight had broken through the edge of the woodline and stepped upon the field of battle. Bodies lay piled in great heaps, many ablaze and burning brightly with the stench of burning hell-flesh rising high into the sky on acrid plumes. The warrior shook his head, pushing past a pair of Federal troopers who approached him, the men immediately recognizing the imposing Elemental's armor and manner as being that of the Pioneers whom had made their place among the Volunteer squadrons just hours previous. They gave no word of warning or alert, simply turning back to their morbid task of continuing to assess the broken bodies of the myriad demons that had been struck dead by the great magics and weapons of earlier. There was, for all manner of speaking, a break in the flow of work as the lone warrior strode past the ranks and files of gathering men, for of the imposing presence the Earth Elemental cast, none could remember having seen it on the field of battle. Of course, many forces had been at play and many had only noticed the shining prince of ice and his duel to the death with the devilish leader.

Walking into the line of other Pioneer Knights, the holy warrior gave a wave of his hand towards the few who turned to acknowledge him, peering across the volunteers present and searching to see if he could recognize any faces on his own. The familiar faces of the Frost couple were in a place of honor, nevermind the conspicuously absent Angelle and her Human handler. For that matter, he did not recognize many present at the speech as the Colonel spoke. It was a minor concern to the warrior, but he'd still would have preferred to get to know them more, as he'd never been among as many Elementals as this and never in a circumstance such as this. His upbringing had kept him from enjoying such company, isolated and alone for his afflictions and oddities, he now paled to think of ever returning to the destitute place he called home- or rather his homeland. A common adage he'd heard was that 'home was where the heart was'. Turning to consider his comrades, he figured that home must have been located no more than three meters to his right, and one to his left and with a comfortable smile he listened to the officer up front prattle on.

At the release of the forces present, he approached the Messenger, pulling him aside to quickly and quietly discuss with him all that he had seen and heard, but made no mention of Erosen's own decision to carry on searching into the morning light. The Darkling was, by most regards, not to be trusted if any were to believe he were any weaker a man than he was. The solemn nod of the Messenger's head only confirmed the knight's suspicions as he was dismissed and excused from the room without further question. The seasoned warrior and paladin of the Fire god had made his point clear in not wanting to know more than he should, such was the nature of their order that they needed to have such liberties to take. It unfortunately came with the weight and burden of knowing what those above should know, yet those below could not. A compartmentalization that had been drilled into each knight to help keep their focus sharp, their combat prowess strong, and their pious worship true and without corruption from their cohort. It was a silent, almost monastic morning for the soldier as he found a quiet place to meditate, and in time, he found his prayers complete and stood to go find perhaps someone who could hold a conversation.

It did not take long before the wandering warrior found one such person, and turning to their call, he gave a soft wave and waited for them to approach.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

The break of dawn had arrived at last, and the sun cast its rays upon the Thin Isles, bathing the lands around Mithsbow, covered in blood, leaf and snow, in bright sunshine as the gentle sea breeze carried away the stench of three thousand immolated Hellspawn corpses. The night had been long and brutal, but in the end, the light of the sun broke through the darkness, as it always did, a cycle ordained by the gods in the dawn of time itself. Perhaps the day would come at last, sometime in the mists of eternity, that the cycle would be broken, and at last the light of the sun would die out. Perhaps night eternal would one day fall upon the land, thousands of years from now, never to deposed again by that burning wheel in the sky. But such things were not for man to wonder - for he was not meant to experience eternity, only the here and now, and in the here and now mankind had achieved a great victory against their most ancient foe. The soldiers had cheered and tended to their tasks the previous night, and now on the morn listened to the words of their commander.

A lone figure watched these proceedings from afar with interest, appreciative of the speech given to the men by their leader, but seemingly not interested in mingling with them or joining in their commemoration. With the pelt of a fearsome beast covering his eyes from the sunlight, he observed from his perch by the walls of the town, some distance away from the cemetery. A faint smile could be seen on his face - many of those men in front of Colonel Firman yet lived because he had seen to it personally, digging trenches and raising walls to stem the demon tide and help them advance, and many of those who had fallen in the battle and now rested in the cemetery were able to rest peacefully in the kind embrace of the earth thanks to his efforts as well.

It was good work. Something to take pride in. A different pride than the accomplishment of great deeds or the felling of monsters, but no less fulfilling.

Yet, he did not approach. He did not believe it would be appropriate. Indeed, yesterday he had been their ally, perhaps even the deliverance of some of those men. But a year ago, on this very day, he had been in a very different situation. He still remembered - it would be odd to forget so soon after all - that most thrilling day when he had led his warriors into combat against the very same scarlet uniforms worn by Colonel Firman's men, and on the same battle he had just spoken about, too. Where his regiment had found their calling protecting their rear from far-reaching attackers, Hakkon had instead fought on the frontlines, surrounded by his fellow men of the mountains. Following in the wake of the cavalry, he had weathered musket fire with stone, fought Federal troops and Watchtower beasts alike, and bore witness to the miracle of the White Rose. He had been present in the ultimate defeat of the men in the red uniforms, had participated in it, had felled many with his own two hands, even.

He did not regret his actions and his courage in battle - he had not been the one to start that fratricidal war after all - but he also did not want to interrupt the reflection and mourning of the vanquished now that peace had come between the two powers. Regardless of whatever good disposition these people might hold towards him, now that they had been allies against the darkness, he did not think it right to mingle with them on this day.

Not that it terribly mattered. There would be plenty of time for that on some other occasion if this crusade against the forces of the underworld continued. For now, though, a rumbling of his stomach informed him that his efforts would be best spent finding something to put in it. As he was about to turn around and head into the walled settlement to find something to eat, he sensed a presence nearby, a strange one at that, cold and warm at the same time.

"There you are." A familiar voice spoke in a friendly tone as a cold hand perched itself on his shoulder. Hakkon turned around only to see the Ice Elemental from the previous night. He had a friendly smile on his face, nothing like the stern, solemn looks on the faces of the Federal soldiers.

"Ah, the Slayer of Daemonnes!" The mountain man greeted his fellow warrior of the Loyal Host, who grimaced at the grandiose nickname - he wasn't one to gloat about his accomplishments, but there was another reason for it, as well. "Did you need the aid of the mighty Stone Bear?"

Tristan chuckled at the man's words. "Only if you would consider aiding us in slaying a few sausage rolls." He joked. Seeing Hakkon's confusion, he continued. "You see, my wife wanted to have breakfast with the rest of our group, and I figured it would be fine to invite you along. I heard through the grapevine that someone else had already tried to sway you to join us on our trip to Auregen once this campaign is over?"

Hakkon thought for a moment before recalling his brief encounter with Alexei, right after the ship he was on had docked on Towraight. "Ah, yes, the group traveling with the young diplomat! I was indeed approached by one of you. Big bald guy, taller than me, looked like someone put plate armor on a bull." He stated. Judging by Tristan's hearty laugh, he had the right group, so he continued. "I did hear about your mission. It seems like a worthy cause to take up once this campaign is over!" He proclaimed, before glancing over at the nearby cemetery and continuing in a lower tone. "...Whenever that is."

Before either of the two men said anything more, Hakkon's stomach rumbled again, demanding sustenance. He simply laughed it off. "In any case! It would be awfully rude of me not to accept your fair wife's invitation. Lead the way, Slayer of Daemonnes! He stated.

"Please don't call me that." Tristan pleaded as he turned to head into the town, with Hakkon trailing behind.

"Terminator of the Underlords."

"No."

"Grand Conqueror of Evil?"

"No!"

"Icy Bane of the Black King in the Void!"

At this last nickname, Tristan sighed and shook his head. This was going to be a very long five-minute walk.

---

Perched on top of one of the squat, square stone buildings that lay just inside of the walls of the town of Mithsbow, a white-haired young woman hummed to herself as she held a sharp knife in one hand and a hollowed out, partially carved bone of unknown origin in the other. She was in the middle of painstakingly carving out a small circular hole on the side of it, the last in a line of similarly shaped holes. Bone carving may not have been the most sophisticated of hobbies to take up, a fact that she had been constantly reminded of after being taken in by the Lady of the Monastery, but it was something she had been doing for as long as she could remember, and something that helped her to clear her mind and pass the time during moments of solitude such as this. Her foster mother had ultimately relented a long time ago, believing this to be the least of the young woman's peculiarities, whatever that may have meant. In her eyes, they were the strangers, not her, but she had since learned that it was often best to simply follow their ways.

With one final little scrape to the edge of the hole to make the curve of the circle smoother, Trish concluded her task and placed her knife back in its sheath, before raising the bone to her lips and playing a short tune. Much to her delight, the flute worked, albeit the tone it carried struck her as somewhat forlorn. Not really a concern for her, but certainly something to take note of - perhaps the remains of a different creature would produce different sounds?

The young Ice Elemental used the instrument once again, this time playing a more complex tune to better appreciate the variety and quality of the sound it produced. It was possibly the only type of music that she could stand to play - Lady Kriemilde's lyre lessons had been smothering to say the least, and though she had been told she had a good voice for singing, she cared little for the songs practiced by the choir of that wintry hold. This small type of woodwind instrument, on the other hand, was simple and forthright, much like she considered herself to be. Perhaps that was why she felt an affinity for it. She continued playing, showing off the long hours she had spent practicing back at the monastery - there wasn't much to do over there.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she placed the flute inside her pack with her traveling supplies and then looked up at the sun. It wasn't yet noon, but it was late in the morning, and she remembered that Tristan had told her of his and his wife's plans earlier. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to mingle with a large group of people - as she assumed would be the case despite having no evidence on the matter - but she appreciated Tristan's company, as well as Lisoette's. They had not become very close in the few months they spent together, but the Daemonness had always behaved in a kindly manner towards her, and she distinctly recalled being saved by her once as well, during the party's last adventure together before their sudden separation, the Battle of Fair Hills. She hadn't had a chance to express gratitude back then, so perhaps now would be a good time.

She didn't know if anyone else from the old party was with them - she hadn't asked Tristan about it or spoken a great deal with anyone else - or, if they had new companions, whether they would be tolerable, but she supposed she would have to get used to them either way if she was to accept Froenstia's calling and venture alongside the Champion of Ice once more. With that in mind, the younger Lady Vetrigart jumped down from her perch atop the squat stone building and began walking through the streets of Mithsbow, aiding herself with her arcane senses, which she had taken to honing in the past year or so.

Eventually, her path led her to find a young woman with pale blonde hair of the same shade as she remembered, as well as a voluptuous figure that largely matched the memory she held of the Daemonness. However, whereas the Lisoette that she remembered was rather pale, this woman... was not. Puzzled, Trish closed her eyes and focused, only to open them again, even more confused than before. This was definitely the same aura that she was familiar with, that of thunder mottled with darkness. Was this the same person, then? She supposed she would have to make sure.

Approaching from behind her without a sound - a bad habit that had caused her to get scolded a good few times - Trish was met with her next issue. She didn't know what to do. Should she simply greet her? Tap her shoulder to get her attention? Would it be wise to call out her name or just speak out a generic greeting in case she had the wrong person? Perhaps simply clear her throat and then pretend she hadn't done anything if this wasn't Lisoette? Surely shooting a roll of bread off her hand and into a nearby signpost wouldn't make a good impression twice in a row, but speaking could be so troublesome.

As she thought about this, the Ice Elemental noticed something in the Daemonness' hair, a small string of silver among locks of gold. A single white hair. Was that one of Tristan's hairs? That would certainly mean she had the right person, though that only reinforced the mystery of Lisoette's radical change in appearance. Either way, distracted by this matter, Trish unceremoniously plucked the silvery hair from Lisoette's blonde locks.

[Constaniana]

Eventually, her path led her to find a young woman with pale blonde hair of the same shade as she remembered, as well as a voluptuous figure that largely matched the memory she held of the Daemonness. However, whereas the Lisoette that she remembered was rather pale, this woman... was not. Puzzled, Trish closed her eyes and focused, only to open them again, even more confused than before. This was definitely the same aura that she was familiar with, that of thunder mottled with darkness. Was this the same person, then? She supposed she would have to make sure.

Approaching from behind her without a sound - a bad habit that had caused her to get scolded a good few times - Trish was met with her next issue. She didn't know what to do. Should she simply greet her? Tap her shoulder to get her attention? Would it be wise to call out her name or just speak out a generic greeting in case she had the wrong person? Perhaps simply clear her throat and then pretend she hadn't done anything if this wasn't Lisoette? Surely shooting a roll of bread off her hand and into a nearby signpost wouldn't make a good impression twice in a row, but speaking could be so troublesome.

As she thought about this, the Ice Elemental noticed something in the Daemonness' hair, a small string of silver among locks of gold. A single white hair. Was that one of Tristan's hairs? That would certainly mean she had the right person, though that only reinforced the mystery of Lisoette's radical change in appearance. Either way, distracted by this matter, Trish unceremoniously plucked the silvery hair from Lisoette's blonde locks.

Lisoette squeaked in surprise and quickly spun around to see who was touching her hair. Her gut wasn't screaming that she was in danger, so she didn't raise her fists or charge her magic, but she did squint at the other person for a moment. Mrs. Frost relaxed and began to notice familiar, distinctive features. There was the white hair on a girl too young to have it if she was a human, a Scarlet Knight cape, a bow of remarkable craftsmanship that had no string. The other woman's aura was familiar, but seemed to have grown stronger since last they met. A moment later she put two and two together. Lis made a brief squeal of delight and quickly embraced Trish.

"Oh my gosh, it's you, Trish! How are you? I haven't seen you in forever! You look great!" Mrs. Frost quickly exclaimed, before she finally paused for breath and pulled back from her hug, "It's me, Lisoette! How long has it been now...three years, right? I'm sure you've been up to all kinds of crazy stuff, huh? I've been doing fantastic, myself. Tristan and I somehow wound up in Yuelkelu after we defeated that giant gorillach back at Fair Hills, and we were living there until we got married and came to Galllia on our honeymoon. That's how I got this cute tan, you know. I was worried that I would get sunburned like some of the tourists there since I was so pale before, but I guess I tan really well. That didn't happen to Tristan, but I guess that comes from him being an Ice Elemental, maybe?"

Lisoette excitedly hugged Trish again.

"What are the odds of bumping into you in a place like this? I was just wishing last night I had another female friend or two around, and here you show up!" she beamed. At last she remembered Trish hadn't been the most fluent with Galllish before, and now she was unsure if the Ice Elemental had understood most of what she had said, "Huh, I guess I talk a little fast, sometimes. Do you want to get breakfast with Tristan, me, and the others? Me and you can tell stories of how we each got here," Lis asked more slowly.

[Constaniana]

Haventown, Albrasfont, Commonwealth of the North

Like many other commemorations that day, the memorial ceremony in Haventown started before sunrise, at 8 o'clock in the morning. A service in St. Kansailva's Cathedral had been held, preceded by prayer vigils throughout the night. From there a party of distinguished residents of and visitors to Haventown went in a procession from the cathedral to the site of the newly-completed war memorial. It was in one of the southern districts of Haventown, on a plot of land that since the war's end had been bought by the state. Before the war there had been some houses on that plot.

Tragically, they had been burned down when the Sons of the Eagle, that mercenary company hired by the United Galllian Federation and eventually lead to ruin by Aerion d'Autriche, made their surprise assault on Haventown in June of 1780. The sellswords successfully infiltrated the city and slipped a large contingent of their forces within the walls for a time. Haventown's defenders managed to drive them off before they could cement their grasp on the city and bring in more Federal forces to subdue the region. Had the U.G.F. succeeded in doing that the North would likely have been unable to control the River Albras, and likewise unable to complete the encirclement of Villdernheim that contributed to the U.G.F.'s surrender after their defeat at Champion Field. Even though the people of Haventown and Albrasfont at large had already commemorated the 1-year anniversary of their city's most recent battle, it hung over any discussion of the Rupture of the North, like an endlessly repeating footnote in those pages of their history.

This city's memorial to the Wide Northern War was a statue garden that had been completed incrementally. Earlier in the year statues had been unveiled depicting certain scenes from the course of the war. Haventown's siding with Auregen was represented by bronze likenesses of the dukes of each city clasping arms. The sundering of the G.F.S. Cleaving Truth by a heavenly blast of light was carved out of cherry wood. In June a cast iron sculpture of a lone city guardsman, a crying little girl hiding behind him, standing defiant against two grotesque, bloodthirsty mercenaries and a Watchtower cultist had been put on display. Now the final piece of art would be joining the rest of them.

It was the White Rose in marble, as she had appeared in the Battle of Champion Field, mounted on a white mare and holding a blessed lance aloft. The other statues had all been about the same size, somewhere between five to seven feet tall. This final one instead measured closer to 16 feet, and stood proudly in the centre of the garden on top of an octagonal plinth. Flowerbeds of radiant white snowgleams and shrubberies of soreberry bushes had been planted around the base. Both plants were well-adapted to Albrion's winters, and came into full bloom around the second week of December. Near the end of January the soreberry bushes would be laden with blue-green berries the size of a thumbnail. Rather than having to manually lay flower wreaths every year to commemorate Champion Field the designers of the White Rose's monument had seen to it that the flowers would bloom around her own their own.

Brambur Van Volcheart made a speech as Bismarke Van Aurenheim had, praying for his country and such. However, the Duke of Haventown is not the central focus of this particular account. Rather, we are concerned with one of his most honoured guests, who had returned to Haventown for the first time in what felt like many, many more years than three. The guest in question had undergone a noticeable growth spurt. The boy was now a man, grown to a height of 6'3". He had been very fit, slim, and athletic then, but adventure and war had put muscles on him that swimming and fencing lessons in the castle yard could not.

Today the warrior's clothing was similar to what Bismarke was wearing that same day, particularly his white cape and cuirass, but the tunic he wore underneath was the Aurennian royal blue, and the pattern on his kilt was different. It was certainly more flashy than his prior outfit of a white shirt, trousers, and black cloak. Only his red scarf remained a constant. Somehow it had avoided any damage through all its wearer had gone through in adventure and war: triumphant charges, harrowing duels on foot and horseback, grim sieges; voyages upon seas, rivers and canals, in fair weather, howling gales, or under cannon-fire; marches through the wilderness in rain, snow, and storm. His hair was black, not terribly long, extending a little below his ears. He typically kept it brushed neatly to his left side, and for a formal state occasion like today he certainly made sure it looked tidy. After all, it simply would not do for Kroisoto Van Aurenheim to look sloppy and unkempt on a day like this.

Eyes as deep a blue as the ocean waves looked all around him contemplatively. Some of that contemplation came from his own memories of his first brief stay in Haventown. Other spots were not something that held meaning for him in particular, but they were things that he had heard of from an old friend who had lived there almost his whole life. Bakeries and any shopfront or stall that sold some sort of meat or potato (most particularly fried), sugary bread-thing, or a combination thereof made up a considerable number of those recommendations. Those memories had been shared around campfires in the woods of the North from Haventown to Erilhall to Auregen, as the redheaded resident of Haventown would sometimes grumble when dinner consisted of simple berries and mushrooms they had foraged, perhaps a fish or some small game if they were lucky, along with some hardtack instead of bacon butties or sausage rolls or pancakes with jam heaped on top.

Not all of what Aldraniri Alsvidster had said was complaints about food, though at the time Kroisoto remembered saying exactly that to him in moments of frustration. Now he could look back on it and chuckle the same as any other silly trivial thing one of his brothers might have done to him growing up. Hopefully Aldraniri felt the same way about all the times the nobleman had been a snob to him. Every once in a while he wondered if the reason Aldraniri had not fought in the Northern Revolution was because he had grown sick and tired of the Aurennian's company. At least the pair never came to physical blows over their squabbles. Kroie remembered Aldry had once or twice talked about fistfights he would have every so often with his childhood nemesis named Darris, whether in the schoolyard, in parks, on the riverbank, or once even once in the basin of Central Market Square's fountain.

There were plenty of more peaceful memories, too. Many of them concerned Aldraniri's mentor and de facto adoptive father Rolphus Jarnsmon. The old man had taught him everything about blacksmithing, but as far as masters went it sounded like his training was rather laid-back, even scatterbrained at times. Rolphus would also teach him about all sorts of other things, from fisticuffs to fishing to fencing to first aid to tennis. Devouring history books, particularly heroic sagas, was another appetite instilled by Master Jarnsmon.

But nothing had brought more emotive a smile to Alsvidster's ruddy face, whether it was infectiously cheerful, sweetly bashful, or agonisingly wistful, than when he would reminisce about the love of his life, Heilaga Valakreig. The lad had never outright told her that he was utterly in love with her. Nevertheless, he would recount ordinary memories like walking to the market together, sitting next to her in Sunday school, going to fairs and festivals, and a hundred other things with the same reverent tenderness which which the most chivalrous knight would speak of his princess. Aldraniri was certainly aggressive and reckless, even more so than other Fire Elementals Kroisoto had since served alongside or fought against, and a fool plenty of times. But he was also a purehearted fool, and the world could use more of those rather than smart but bitter, cruel souls.

"You look very pensive, Prince Kroisoto. Do you have a liking for sculptures?" inquired a young woman's voice. Her High Galllish was pronounced clearly, without any loanwords from her native North Elcrescian dialect, but one could still guess they were from Yelhennei. For someone who had enough experience with that country in particular it was possible to pinpoint her accent to being that which the royalty and nobility in Yelhheim spoke with. The Aurennian turned to look at the Yelhennein, an 18-year-old maiden dressed in a white fur coat over a mustard-coloured bodice and a long, pleated indigo skirt.

"Oh, aye, I suppose. The artists all did a very good job on each of them, Crown Princess Flora," Kroisoto replied. He noticed he had been crossing his arms for an indeterminate amount of time, for the Yelhennein royal's smiling gaze now lingered on his biceps. Not wanting to appear standoffish or intimidating, especially since he loomed almost a foot over her, he unfolded them and put his hands to his side. As he did so Flora's eyes went back to looking at his face, and still she smiled, "I was just thinking how different Haventown is from when last I saw it."

"Will there come a point in this trip when you don't address me with my full title?" she softly asked, not quite rolling her eyes.

"Well, you are the next Mother-Queen of Yelhennei on a diplomatic visit. I wouldn't want anyone getting the impression the Commonwealth is treating you too casually, at least at a public occasion like this. It's not as though it's just the two of us at a resort in Yuelkelu," answered the prince. Flora's gentle smile bloomed into an impish smirk.

"Oh my, you have thoughts about eloping with me and honeymooning in a tropical paradise? How scandalous!" she said in a hushed voice, feigning a swoon.

"What? That's not what I said at all," hissed Kroisoto, his cold cheeks turning more red. This only made her titter more.

"That's a relief I suppose, no hard explanation to our parents. So then did you mean you would wait until nightfall to serenade me from my window when nobody else can see us? Would you presume to sneak into my chambers after dark before just calling me Flora, my wild Galllian chevalier?" Her smirk grew. Despite his embarrassed worrying about her teasing causing a minor diplomatic incident Kroisoto found it hard to actually get cross at her. It was probably because he thought she was beautiful and he liked the sound of her laugh. He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to look stern but failing to suppress the barest hint of a smile.

"Och wheesht, lass. I've had to chaperone you around all day for three weeks now while you go gallivanting about Auregen, Halsbur, Agladuus, Erilhall, and now Haventown, plus there's still the train ride back to Erilhall, and then another new line up to Beldabbey, then finally back to Auregen where you'll finally go back across the sea. That's probably another week or so of being bodyguard and tour guide rolled into one, assuming we don't get snowed in at any leg of the journey," Kroisoto finally teased back. Flora took a quick breath and was about to reply; knowing her it would be some remark about them being trapped alone in some countryside cabin by a blizzard and having to find ways to share warmth, so he pressed his verbal counterattack, "What makes you think I want to spend my off-duty hours with you?" Aurenheim added, crossing his arms again and looking at some distant rooftops.

"Handsome knight, you wound me! Is my pleasant company not sufficient a reward? And here I thought I had such a charming personality to go with my obviously beautiful face," Flora gasped, discreetly gesturing at her rich curves hidden under her many layers.

"Be that as it may, you certainly don't have humility," the knight in question chuckled. The princess laughed and playfully shoved him. Heavy footsteps on cobblestone came towards them, and she quickly retracted her arm, using it instead to smooth out her coat.

"Good morning, Your Serene Highness, Your Highness," spake the Duke of Haventown, bowing to the Crown Princess then clasping hands with the son of the Duke of Auregen, "What do you think of our new memorial here, Crown Princess?"

"It was a very moving ceremony, Your Grace," replied Flora, "And the craftsmanship of all the statues you have here are just superb. With such skill in working stone and other materials I can see how your people made Haventown look as lovely as it does. Prince Kroisoto and I were actually just discussing all the recent construction in your fair duchy. When I return to Yelhheim I shall advise the Mother-Queen to arrange an exchange programme to send some students from the Dominion Grand Academy of Arts here to learn from Haventown's finest."

"I'm glad to hear we've made such an impression on you, my lady. Albrasfont would gladly welcome any such visitors, or similar offers of friendly exchange between our countries," Brambur Van Volcheart replied. A reporter nearby noticed the three highly-influential persons close together, and asked for a photograph. They obliged, and once a few pictures had been taken the reporter moved on, careful not to intrude too much. There had been more rude reporters than that at previous stops in Princess Flora's diplomatic visit; the future ruler of a great power voyaging across the Halrennor Sea for the first time in her life was a very intriguing story after all, at least for Galllian newspaper readers, and so some reporters had been especially eager to snap photographs or conduct impromptu interviews at any time of day. Her retinue had presumably gotten the hang of detecting such efforts and preventing their success.

"I hope you have some time to see some more of this city or some of the countryside beyond our ancient walls before you return eastward. The same to you, Prince Kroisoto, since you're finally here without being pursued by Watchtower or in the middle of a war. I shall see you again at luncheon, but until then I have many other duties to attend to. Good day," he continued, giving another bow to excuse himself. The two teenagers waited until he was well out of earshot before returning to their relatively relaxed posture.

"Why yes, Your Grace, I was talking all about Haventown's new renovations, and the charming train station that was built in Balclyde, as a dignified war hero does, but for some reason this foreigner keeps having delusions of me whisking her away to Yuelkelu," said Kroie quietly, smirking at Flora.

"Goodness gracious. You cannot bring yourself to just call me Flora instead of Crown Princess, but it's perfectly fine to refer to me as 'this foreigner', is it?" the Yelhenneinwoman replied, enjoying the verbal joust she had finally provoked from the Aurennian. It was all well and good that he had been unfailingly polite through the whole trip, but it was fun finally getting a peek beneath the shell.

"Oh, of course. We Northemen are very polite people, even to very strange foreigners," Kroisoto explained with a deadpan voice. At that the couple burst out laughing again. There was more than enough of a crowd at the function for them to not stick out over the blanket of chit-chat between the many various guests in attendance. Still, it seemed to catch someone's attention, as another man and woman came towards them.

"Enjoying ourselves, are we, Your Serene Highness?" asked the grey-haired woman. She sounded much more obviously Yelhennein, and was dressed in a similar but less opulent fashion than the Crown Princess.

"Of course, of course, Lady Mina," Flora answered her lady-in-waiting, resisting the urge to steal a quick glance at Kroisoto lest she start chuckling again.

"Thank you for all your help with this mission thus far, sir. I know international diplomacy isn't exactly what you've been used to before, but I know your lord father appreciates it very much," said the blonde-haired man to Kroisoto. He was wearing the same colour uniform as the young Aurenheim.

"The pleasure is all mine, Major Turnbull. What is the life purpose of an aristocrat and an Elemental if not service to his people?" Kroisoto answered. Patrick Turnbull was in charge of their security, and was a respectable officer and gentleman.

"Indeed, well put milord. Was there anything you wished to attend to between now and lunchtime? The itinerary is open for a few hours if you have any business," the major asked. Kroisoto put his hand to his chin for a few moments before slightly shrugging.

"If it doesn't horribly complicate your security duties I thought I might take a wee constitutional, stretch out my legs after all the sitting in trains, ships, and stagecoaches I've done recently."

"You're a hearty young man, and you've been in plenty colder weather than this. Besides, I think Aurennia's destroying angel has sufficient divine favour to spare him the wrath of the vicious mugger hordes of Haventown," Patrick chuckled, "Just make sure you're back at Thorstar Hall in time for lunch."

"Certainly, major," said the knight, before turning to address the lady-in-waiting, "If Her Serene Highness's schedule and temperament permit it, might I make bold with your princess and ask her to accompany me, Lady Mina?"

"Hm, I'm not sure the Queen-Mother would want her heir spending too much time out in this Galllian chill..." the sixty-something furrowed her wrinkled brow for a few moments, "...but if you make sure to frequently take her indoors to reputable establishments to warm her royal self, and ensure she is safely returned to her quarters sufficiently early to allow her time to rest and refresh herself before her next formal appearance, then as her temporary guardian I would consider that acceptable. Some brief diversion, a closer look at how some of the inhabitants of this vast continent live, would be valuable educational experience, I dare say.

"Now, ensure you two remain modest and do not bring any embarrassment to your families, am I clear? I have raised four sons and three daughters, and helped care for more than three dozen grandchildren. Loyal Host willing, I will do the same for my great-grandchildren. I have defended by husband's home from wild Garmiccians when in the service of his country he was not there to defend his hearth and the children he gave unto me. I ken how to manage, and if need be string up wild young bucks like yourself, Prince Kroisoto. Remember also that Crown Princess Flora has received the finest training with her Nature magic, and has a most powerful bloodline to fuel it, should her virtue need protecting. Is my Galllish clear enough for you?"

"As clear as crystal, ma'am," Kroisoto replied unfazed, smiling confidently, "Now then, my fair princess, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a walk through the city?"

"Thank you for the thoughtful invitation, my good prince. I humbly accept your offer," Flora answered with the same calm, dignified tone she had used when chatting with the Duke of Haventown. The Water Elemental offered the Nature Elemental his arm, and the two strolled off. Flora paused once they had been walking for almost a minute. She gestured with some excitement at the cover of grey clouds which had finally begun snowing on the town before the couple resumed their walk. Once they were out of sight their handlers looked at one another with knowing smiles.

"This isn't the first time I've been tasked with matchmaking like this, but it's certainly the easiest I've done for as long as I can remember. Well, as much as my memory is worth at the age I'm getting to," Lady Mina chuckled.

"Do you think by now they've figured out their parents were hoping to set them up? Putting two vivacious young people in such close proximity, with relatively minimal supervision for several weeks..." Major Turnbull wondered, chuckling too.

"If they have, they certainly don't have a bad word to say about any of it. If they haven't then I suppose we can flip a coin for which one of us tells them after their wedding."

Meanwhile, the young couple were enjoying themselves considerably in their relative privacy.

"I had no idea you were this pleasant to be around without Lady Mina eternally scowling at me. If that piece of intel had been brought to my attention earlier I would have conspired to leave her back in Auregen," teased Kroisoto.

"Lady Mina is also much more pleasant to be around when she doesn't have to be a guard dog watching for kilt-clad Galllians trying to seduce an innocent flower like myself," Flora countered. The two walked on silence for a little bit, enjoying some simple sightseeing. Eventually the Crown Princess spoke again, although this time without any teasing.

"So what were you doing on this time last year? I know you were still in the Kreighold rather than at Champion Field, but do you remember anything interesting from that day?"

"As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember doing nothing that day, same as it had been for the past few days before that," replied the Water Elemental, who saw the confusion on the Nature Elemental's face and preemptively offered an explanation, "My inner circle of staff and I were aware of the impending battle in Villderia, although we were unaware of which precise hamlet would be hosting it. Villdernheim wasn't completely encircled yet, but the allies needed strike quickly before they could really dig in, not just with physical supplies but in recovering their moral after their recent string of defeats. An aggressive push carried a certain amount of risk, which my father was all too aware of."

Kroisoto sighed and adjusted his scarf. A family with a several children walked past on the other side of the street, and Aurenheim briefly glanced at them before resuming his story.

"Anyway, a few days prior to the battle I had received a letter from the Commander of the Armies of the North. He told me that not only would he be fighting at the head of the army, but that Peorshine with his knights would be at his side, and Douglas would be at the head of the fleet steaming down the Great Eastern Canal. If the battle turned against them, if somehow all three of them were slain, then I would be the next Duke of Auregen. So he commanded me to stay put where communications could reach me as quickly as possible, and make all preparations to turn over command of the Kreighold theatre to a replacement so I could ensure an orderly transition of power back in our city.

"Having to do that just burned me up, like having a beef roast all ready on the table, only to then be forced to go outside and muck out the stables. I had been hunting that serpent Karolus and his insufferable Kommandos for so long, and I was sure that I almost had him trapped. I had only managed to catch a few glimpses of him on various occasions, and duelled him a single time, but he always managed to slip away. He can teleport, I'm sure of it. Had I been given a few more weeks I could have finally caught him. But I couldn't argue with father's reasoning, and so I returned to Kreigseat, and sat around the Diamond-Steel Bastion, making inspections, having meetings, and eating from House Kreigen's larders.

"It's a bit funny, in a way. I spent most of the war doing all sorts of adventurous and heroic things, roaming across the continent, fighting evil...and I ended the war sitting safe and sound in a castle, praying my dad and brothers didn't die," Kroisoto finished. Flora tenderly put her hand on his chest.

"That must be such a horrible feeling. I wish I could say I know what that's like, but I'm afraid I'm the very rare exception for a Kalyutta woman. My mother, and her mother, and on and on would know, but..." The Crown Princess looked down, "Yelhennei has been at official peace with Garmiccia for such a comparatively long time now. In my case the Father-King was actually able to be at home doing fatherly things most of the time, aside from seasonal inspections of bases and the occasional trip to the border when the Garmiccians were getting a bit too threatening.

"In a grim way, those heretical brutes being distracted by their civil war and rebuilding their mud huts afterwards is the reason I had such a peaceful childhood. My brothers and male cousins are all younger than me, so they're still either children or cadets, not ready to be put into combat anyway. Deep down I'm frightened that having so much peace as a little girl means that I'll only see war now that I'm grown. Horrible as war is, you men get the fun parts. You get camaraderie and adventure. You return with medals and treasure. Even if you die, you die with glory, your story ended with a bittersweet heroism. Meanwhile we women have to wait and wait, and bury you if you don't make it, and then still have to tend the farm or rule the country and raise the children without you! I have no idea how your poor mother handled it."

The two of them had stopped underneath a tree, and stood there in silence. The prince thought about arguing back that getting shot and stabbed and bombarded wasn't quite a lark, or how having to subsist off things like hardtack and dandelion leaves was less than idyllic. But trying to debate with someone about who really had it worse was like each person throwing more and more salt onto a dish of food. All one would end up with was something ruined, too ghastly for either party to enjoy. I could always ask what she thinks about the weather.

The Heavens intervened. A red squirrel up in the tree hopped from one branch to another, shaking the fresh snow off from where he had been down onto the heads of both Elementals. Kroisoto laughed while Flora momentarily sputtered, before he smoothly brushed the snow off her head. Red-faced, Flora tried to mess up Kroie's hair in retaliation. Alas, she was too short, even with her hopping up. After a few more of her attempts the Aurennian bowed his head. The princess moved her hand as if to smack his head, but stopped at the last moment and gently brushed the snowflakes from his black hair.

"Come on, my fair lady, let's get you in somewhere warm so Mina doesn't castrate me. I can buy you a sweet roll or something to apologise for the condition of womankind," Kroisoto chortled.

"Oh, very well well, my brave knight. I can return the favour and get you some pastries whenever you come to visit me in Yelhheim," said Flora, back to her cheeky self. The Galllian looked around for what cafes or bakeries were nearby, when his blue eyes fell upon a familiar white and green sign.

"What are the chances of that?" Kroisoto murmured, "How about down there? I seem to remember that being a good spot. Their bread's certainly tasty, at least, and they have good ham. It's a charming, respectable place."

"A tavern? Are you sure about that? Don't people get into fights in those places?"

"Of course they do! I got into one the last time I was here myself, as a matter of fact!" he cheerily replied as they made their way over there, "Besides, I think it's more of an inn than a tavern." Flora gave a nervous glance at the sign as her escort opened the thick wooden door.

I suppose the Galloping Mare isn't too seedy a name...oh, he is right. This place looks so cosy!

The various conversations of the small morning crowd in the Galloping Mare fell silent as the customers saw who had come in. Most of them stood up in respect and deference. If they didn't recognise the Crown Princess of Yelhennei from the pictures in newspapers ahead of her coming to Haventown then they certainly knew the visage of the Destroying Angel of the North. Kroisoto felt a bit conspicuous in his shining plate armour. It certainly was a different reception from his last visit, when he had quietly come through the door, and nobody said a word to him until that serving girl asked for his order. Hmm, now that I think about it...blonde hair, worked here, looked like that wee old picture Aldry kept with him...aaahh, that was Heilaga, wasn't it? Jings, she was gorgeous after all. I can see why he'd chase after her to the end of the world.

"Hello there," said Kroisoto, unable to think of anything else to say. He figured he aught to get Flora's introduction out of the way, "Presenting Her Serene Highness, Crown Princess Flora Maria Adelinde Vel Kalyutta, of the Holy Dominion of Yelhennei."

"Good morning," she added with a wave of her hand. That got a few good mornings in reply, or bows and curtsies from people closer to the two of them. One of the employees had gone into a backroom after their entry, and now returned with the man who seemed to be in charge of the place. He looked like he would soon be approaching sixty years of age. Almost all the hair on the top of his head had gone by now, but his eyebrows and mutton chops remained defiantly big and bushy. They had once been a fiery red, but now grey hairs were sprouting within them.

"Welcome to the Galloping Mare, your highnesses. It's an honour to have you in my inn," said Berike the Innkeeper, bowing to the pair, "Can I get you anything at all? It's not quite palace food, but it's hearty, honest stuff, at least." They both ordered hot cider. Kroisoto asked for ham and bread, curious if it would somehow taste any different now compared to when he had had it his first time at the Galloping Mare. After some deliberating over a small menu Berike presented to her Flora ordered a piece of apple Charlotte.

Their food came and they were left in peace. Kroisoto and Flora continued to chat amiably. Eventually she got around to asking how exactly he had gotten into a fight here of all places, and thus Aurenheim began telling the tale of that first fight against Nyroko, Celteki, Barabak, and their guards. Partway through the innkeeper worked up the nerve to start interjecting bits he remembered from that night. The other patrons warmed up to it, and a slim few of them who had also been there began offering their commentary as well. As the narrative drew to a close Berike grew melancholy.

"So it sounds like you defeated Watchtower quite expertly, didn't you, Prince Kroisoto?" the Crown Princess asked.

"Well...almost. I had a rapier at Nryoko's throat...and then he spotted the girl he had come to kidnap, peeking her head out of a pantry to see what all the ruckus was. The next thing I knew, he teleported in there, snatched her, and teleported away to whatever pit of Tenaembra he fancied. There was nothing I could do to stop him in the end. The next morning I crossed paths with Aldraniri Alsvidster-"

The door opened smoothly. An old man entered, dressed in a brownish red long coat over an Albrasfont dress uniform, specifically the style worn by the Duke of Haventown's personal guard.

"Hullo Berike, how are things going?" the old man said, before he noticed the guests the innkeeper was standing by. He did a quick bow, showing his joints weren't too stiff yet, "Good morning, Your Serene Highness, and Your Lordship. I saw you two at the memorial dedication earlier, but I do not think we've been formally introduced. I am Sir Rolphus Ector Joseph Jarnsmon, Master Armourer to the Duke of Haventown." Kroie's eyes momentarily widened when he said his name.

"A pleasure to meet you, Sir Jarnsmon," replied Flora. She intended to ask him about what exactly his title entailed. She figured Kroisoto would simply wish the man a good morning, but was surprised to hear he had more to say.

"It's good to finally meet you, sir. I've heard a lot about you," the Aurennian said.

"Ah, is that so? I didn't know my actions in the last war had been noticed at such high levels in the Commonwealth, sheesh," said Master Jarnsmon warily, "I'll have to warn you like I told that one nobleman's nephew from Edwynpool, whatever job offer you might have for me I shall have to decline, even if it is in Auregen in your case. I roamed across our planet in my younger days, and I've already been to the Pearl of the North enough times. No, I'll stay in Haventownshire, and let the young folks have their turn wandering through the world. If you just wanted a custom-made weapon I could still do that, as long as you don't mind a fair bit of waiting."

"No, no, I didn't come all this way for that, don't worry. I actually heard about you before the Rupture of the North, from your old apprentice," the prince explained. The blacksmith squinted at him for another few seconds, his hand thoughtfully on his beard, before he chuckled.

"So, young Aldry mentioned me after all. I suppose it says as much in that book about your adventure before the whole mess really started with the Federation, but it's nice hearing that directly. That question's been eating at me for over three years now..." Rolphus sighed, "Did he seem happy with life in Haventown? How did he handle travelling around to all those different places you lot went? Was...is he planning to ever come back here?"

The question took Kroisoto aback. Aldraniri had always been so singularly focused on saving Heilaga, wherever she was, no matter how long it took. He missed her terribly, but it was plain to see that the man who had raised him missed him profoundly as well, but without the youthful vitality to go questing after him.

"Aye, it'd be good to see him around here again. I'm still not really used to his absence. Sometimes when some kid pops in here I think for a second that it's him, supposedly here on some other errand but obviously wanting to see Heilaga," said Berike. The innkeeper's comment surprised Kroisoto. Seeing the slight raising of his eyebrows, the older man continued, "Keep in mind I've been running this inn since my uncle Lars, Pryastar rest his soul now, got too sick to do the job. That was twenty-five years ago this November. I remember when wee baby Aldry got dropped off at Rolphus's. My little boys grew up with him, and they were all good friends. He lived right across from us here on Aspen Street for 15 years, from the day he was left there to the day he left Haventown."

"How was it Heilaga wound up working here, anyway? Wasn't she raised by nuns or something?" one of the locals wondered.

"That was Aldraniri's fault, I suppose. When they were children she'd hang around the Galloping Mare if the boy still had chores to finish, and the missus took a shine to her. Always said it was nice having another girl around, since we have five sons but only one daughter. It helped that Heilaga seemed to have a gift, some sort of magic touch for getting them to behave. Anyway, when she was older I offered her a part-time job so she could get some pocket money for the help she was already doing."

Kroisoto didn't recall hearing about this part of Aldraniri's life prior to this. Maybe Aldraniri had kept it to himself. Then again, he had no reason to hide normal relationships like this. It was more likely the young Aurenheim hadn't been paying attention when Aldry mentioned it around a campfire or while they were riding or walking along. Good heavens, I was probably too deep in my self-pitying brooding to notice. Getting back to Auregen was the most important thing on my mind, for good reason, but I could have been less of a prat about it. It's like when I didn't want to help those poor decent people in Balclyde because I thought it was more important to stay on the road. What an ass I was, lamented the Water Elemental in his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sure Aldraniri will come back one day. He never had a bad word to say about you, Sir Jarnsmon, or anyone in Haventown, or this good city herself. He was impressed by and fascinated with the rest of the world, but I think he always planned to bring Heilaga back here, and never part with her again," Kroie insisted, smiling confidently.

"I hope so," answered Rolphus. He still looked very pensive, and after several quiet seconds he ventured another question, "...I don't suppose, Prince Kroisoto, that you know where Aldraniri is now, do you?"

It certainly was a fair question to ask. Kroisoto simply didn't have a good answer for it. It was something he would mull over when he couldn't sleep. Sometimes when it was dark, and he was most weary in his soul, he feared the answer was that Aldraniri had been killed, either from that magical explosion at Fair Hills, or a tragic set of circumstances in wherever he had been teleported to. Tristan and Lisoette had wound up in Yuelkelu and were happy as could be, or so his parents had told him when they returned from the Frost's wedding. But what if Aldraniri had been dropped into the middle of the ocean, or the frozen tundra, or the bottom of some pit deep in the bowels of the earth? What if his friend had been thrown into the midst of a Watchtower base without any backup, and then held prisoner or executed? The nagging whisper would swing by every once in a while to not let him forget the horrible thought that by recruiting his help in returning to Auregen, Kroisoto had somehow doomed Aldraniri.

"I wish I did. I truly, truly do," Kroisoto admitted, the war-hero-charm briefly gone from his voice, before he forced a resolute expression back onto his face, "But I'm sure he's alive, and out there somewhere. He's far stronger than I would have ever expected from my first impression of him. One day he'll return home, where it all began."

The conversation wrapped up after that. Rolphus thanked Kroisoto for his time, Kroisoto and Flora finished their food, and all involved went on with their days, deep in thought about what had come before and what might come in the future.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

---

In hindsight, she probably should have anticipated an abrupt reaction to an equally abrupt contact. Unfortunately, these things often slipped her mind. After only three or so years, Trish still hadn't grown entirely accustomed to the intricacies of human contact - up until her involvement with Aldraniri's group shortly before what was now known as the Heavenly Judgement, she had lived practically in complete isolation. She had since abandoned her silly notions of superiority - most of them anyway - but many of the more obvious tenets of human interaction continued to elude her.

Like not touching someone without their permission.

Trish found herself staring back at Lisoette with a blank expression, unsure of what to say or do in order to mend the situation, now that she had made a poor first impression after years of not seeing her. She opened her mouth to speak, intending to explain what she had seen and done, but words were still somewhat difficult for her and in the moment they seemed to escape her. In that brief delay, the blonde woman let out a shrill noise and then threw her arms around the Ice Elemental, who was briefly taken aback at the sudden contact - the irony was not lost on her. Still, after a moment she returned the gesture, placing her arms around the Daemonness' back. It was endearing, how she and her husband had both reacted the same way to her presence.

What was different between the two was how much they talked. Whereas Tristan had been fairly brief with his words despite being no less effusive than his wife, Mrs. Frost seemed intent on talking her ears off from the get-go. As much as she appreciated the affectionate greeting and the sincere compliment that came with it, after Lisoette pulled back the Ice Elemental found herself staring blankly at her friend once more as she was barely able to keep up with her rapid-fire sentences, unable to parse the meaning of a few key words. What even was a honeymoon? Still, she was happy for Lis. She was clearly happy and had lived several exciting adventures with Tristan, and for Trish it felt quite nice to learn that she had been missed so.

Returning the Daemonness' second hug a little more enthusiastically than the first, Trish listened to her question, remaining silent for a moment afterwards to get the meaning straight and sort her thoughts before answering. "Breakfast, yes. I would like that." She said, managing to offer her a soft smile.

As Lisoette began to lead the way, Lady Vetrigart followed in her footsteps. Walking alongside her, she touched a rolled up parchment she kept on the belt that fastened her, but ultimately decided against showing it to her friend just yet. Instead, she continued speaking. She was sure that would please Lis.

"Who else is in your... group?" The white-haired girl said after pausing just a moment to find the right word. "I traveled with the knights. But I did not speak to them. Only the one I knew. Veryll." She said. She hadn't spoken to him since their arrival in the Thin Isles, opting to keep to herself and bide her time while aiding the battle against the demons from afar, but during their conversation last night Tristan had told her that the party had run into him as well. "I have not seen anyone I know for three years. I woke up on a mountain after the battle, alone." She explained, going back to Lisoette's comment about her and Tristan's adventures. "Then I found buildings on the mountain. A white tower. A woman called Lady Vetrigart took me in. She said I would be Lady Vetrigart too, and taught me many things. Taught me Gallish, but it is not very good still. Need to talk slowly. Lack... eloquence, I think?"

Trish paused. She did not want to sour Lisoette's mood with her drab memories. But how to get a laugh out of her?

"Taught me to play the lyre. But I did not like it. Much... nagging." She told her, mimicking a yapping mouth with her hand and then cracking a smile.

[Ameriganastan]

---

In hindsight, she probably should have anticipated an abrupt reaction to an equally abrupt contact. Unfortunately, these things often slipped her mind. After only three or so years, Trish still hadn't grown entirely accustomed to the intricacies of human contact - up until her involvement with Aldraniri's group shortly before what was now known as the Heavenly Judgement, she had lived practically in complete isolation. She had since abandoned her silly notions of superiority - most of them anyway - but many of the more obvious tenets of human interaction continued to elude her.

Like not touching someone without their permission.

Trish found herself staring back at Lisoette with a blank expression, unsure of what to say or do in order to mend the situation, now that she had made a poor first impression after years of not seeing her. She opened her mouth to speak, intending to explain what she had seen and done, but words were still somewhat difficult for her and in the moment they seemed to escape her. In that brief delay, the blonde woman let out a shrill noise and then threw her arms around the Ice Elemental, who was briefly taken aback at the sudden contact - the irony was not lost on her. Still, after a moment she returned the gesture, placing her arms around the Daemonness' back. It was endearing, how she and her husband had both reacted the same way to her presence.

What was different between the two was how much they talked. Whereas Tristan had been fairly brief with his words despite being no less effusive than his wife, Mrs. Frost seemed intent on talking her ears off from the get-go. As much as she appreciated the affectionate greeting and the sincere compliment that came with it, after Lisoette pulled back the Ice Elemental found herself staring blankly at her friend once more as she was barely able to keep up with her rapid-fire sentences, unable to parse the meaning of a few key words. What even was a honeymoon? Still, she was happy for Lis. She was clearly happy and had lived several exciting adventures with Tristan, and for Trish it felt quite nice to learn that she had been missed so.

Returning the Daemonness' second hug a little more enthusiastically than the first, Trish listened to her question, remaining silent for a moment afterwards to get the meaning straight and sort her thoughts before answering. "Breakfast, yes. I would like that." She said, managing to offer her a soft smile.

As Lisoette began to lead the way, Lady Vetrigart followed in her footsteps. Walking alongside her, she touched a rolled up parchment she kept on the belt that fastened her, but ultimately decided against showing it to her friend just yet. Instead, she continued speaking. She was sure that would please Lis.

"Who else is in your... group?" The white-haired girl said after pausing just a moment to find the right word. "I traveled with the knights. But I did not speak to them. Only the one I knew. Veryll." She said. She hadn't spoken to him since their arrival in the Thin Isles, opting to keep to herself and bide her time while aiding the battle against the demons from afar, but during their conversation last night Tristan had told her that the party had run into him as well. "I have not seen anyone I know for three years. I woke up on a mountain after the battle, alone." She explained, going back to Lisoette's comment about her and Tristan's adventures. "Then I found buildings on the mountain. A white tower. A woman called Lady Vetrigart took me in. She said I would be Lady Vetrigart too, and taught me many things. Taught me Gallish, but it is not very good still. Need to talk slowly. Lack... eloquence, I think?"

Trish paused. She did not want to sour Lisoette's mood with her drab memories. But how to get a laugh out of her?

"Taught me to play the lyre. But I did not like it. Much... nagging." She told her, mimicking a yapping mouth with her hand and then cracking a smile.

"Come on boy, stick and move!"

A little ways up the road, Eric and Lucian spilled out of an alleyway, Eric holding two criminal looking types in a headlock while Lucian flailed at the other one.

"Come on, you said you wanted training. And these guys called you a...what was it again, Belle?"

"A limp-wristed, shite eating little bastard."

"That was it. Now, give him the old one-two. Solid footing now. This guy has a weak chin, I can tell."

Lucian took a deep breath and connected solid on his chin...it unfortunately did nothing and he was promptly floored with a fist to his face.

"For cripes sake, boy."

Eric smacked his two prisoners heads together, dropping them unconscious on the ground and levelling the third with a solid kick to the mouth.

"How did you survive long enough to even find me? You have the fighting skill of a one-legged fishwife."

He shook his head and hauled him to his feet, glancing down the road.

"Oh, hey Trish! Don't mind us. I was just giving my boy here a little lesson in pugilism...he failed."

[Constaniana]

...

Trish got her wish, as Lisoette laughed for several seconds. The blonde was pleasantly surprised by this development. She hadn't recalled Trish understanding jokes previously, let alone making her own. Whoever this Lady Vertrigart was, she had done a very good job teaching Galllish to the arctic maiden.

"Oh well, I guess I won't ask you to put on a show with your new talent at breakfast," Mrs. Frost joked back, "I didn't realise you came here with the Scarlet Knights. It's kinda funny how they're supposed to be a secret order I guess, but we keep bumping into them. Does your Lady Vetrigart work with them or something? Anyway, there's a mix of new and old people in the group. New members seem to kinda fluctuate, you know? I'm sure you remember that from our last trip, when we'd bump into someone only for them to go a separate way after practically no time had passed. I'm not sure how many of the newcomers will actually be at breakfast.

"Tristan and I started travelling with a girl named Katya back in Carogne. She's from Garmiccia and has some servants that follow her around. We have a few more people you know in the group. There's Erosen, although I haven't seen him all morning. I hope he hasn't gotten himself into trouble. There's me and Tristan, obviously. And then there's Eric and Belle..."

...

Lisoette paused as she remembered that the last time Trish had seen that pair Belle Lame was still trapped in her sword-form. She supposed they had all changed a great deal since their paths had diverged. And then Eric and Belle sprang from an alleyway down the road, with a few extra people in tow. For some reason the old soldier was ordering a teenager, who looked only a year or so younger than her and Trish, to punch one of the other people in the face.

"Well speak of the devil...or the Angelle, in this case," chuckled Lisoette, waving back as Eric greeted Trish. The two women continued walking until they were a couple yards away, at which point the blonde spoke again, "Good morning! Look who I found! Isn't it nice getting the band back together?"

Eric's last comment about teaching his boy took a few seconds to sink in.

"Wait...your boy? When did you find a son of yours?!? I mean, I figured you had some from all your sleeping around, but for some reason I never thought we'd actually meet one of them," cried the Daemonness, "Hi, Eric's son, I'm Lisoette Frost. What's your name?"

[Ameriganastan]

Lisoette paused as she remembered that the last time Trish had seen that pair Belle Lame was still trapped in her sword-form. She supposed they had all changed a great deal since their paths had diverged. And then Eric and Belle sprang from an alleyway down the road, with a few extra people in tow. For some reason the old soldier was ordering a teenager, who looked only a year or so younger than her and Trish, to punch one of the other people in the face.

"Well speak of the devil...or the Angelle, in this case," chuckled Lisoette, waving back as Eric greeted Trish. The two women continued walking until they were a couple yards away, at which point the blonde spoke again, "Good morning! Look who I found! Isn't it nice getting the band back together?"

Eric's last comment about teaching his boy took a few seconds to sink in.

"Wait...your boy? When did you find a son of yours?!? I mean, I figured you had some from all your sleeping around, but for some reason I never thought we'd actually meet one of them," cried the Daemonness, "Hi, Eric's son, I'm Lisoette Frost. What's your name?"

"Well, he found me. Tracked me down to give me a thrashing for loving and leaving his mother all those years ago...say there kid, how is Nadine looking these days? If she's still as fine as she was the night you were conceived..."

Belle slapped Eric upside the back of the head as Lucian regained his marbles enough to introduce himself.

"Lucian Brightmoore, miss. And yes, by some cruel trick of the Gods, this reprobate is my father. I indeed tracked him down to administer a solid beating..."

"But you went down in one punch like a chump. So now he's gonna be my new travelling buddy. I'm gonna toughen the lad up a little. And of course introduce him to his pappy's favorite pastimes of drinking and whoring myself into an early grave. He's already got a taste for it after last night, don't you boy? Oh, speaking of travelling buddies..."

Eric pointed at Belle.

"Believe it or not, you know this one. She was with me the day we met. Do the thing, Belle."

Belle rolled her eyes and flashed into sword form in his hand.

"Boom, magic Angelle sword!"

"Lovely to see you again, Trish. As you can see, my idiot wielder hasn't changed since our last encounter."

And then oddly enough, The Fanny Pack Of Wonder rumbled slightly. Spitting out a note into Eric's free hand.

"Uh...it says it missed you too...that's a new one...where did that note even come from. And how did you write that?"

It rumbled again, spitting out another note.

"You have like 20 pens and ink quills in here...well, alright then. Anyway, what are you ladies up to? And does it involve food? I'm starving. Being declared legally dead for 20 seconds after chugging a concoction they call 'The Widowmaker' will do that apparently."

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Hearing Lisoette burst into laughter was a new experience, and a pleasant one at that. It wasn't very often that she made others laugh, much less with her words. Smiling at the blonde's reaction and her response, Trish wondered if she should try this humor thing more often, perhaps mother would appreciate it. Lisoette's next words also turned her thoughts back to the Lady of the Monastery, causing her to wonder if indeed there had been any connection between the chivalric order and the reclusive noblewoman, but nothing she had seen so far seemed to indicate such - Lady Kriemilde had never mentioned them in passing, and as far as she could tell her encounter with Sir Keirsson's company had been entirely coincidental, dependent only on the will of the Loyal Host and not the result of mortal scheming. If there was any deeper meaning to it all, then it had not been revealed to her.

At any rate, it was more interesting to listen to Lisoette tell her about the party, and the Ice Elemental did just that as she continued to walk alongside the Daemonness, until the utterance of Erosen's name caused her to turn to look at her friend, an expression of surprise on her face. A part of her was happy to know about the Darkling's presence on the group, but she had been witness to his change from a misunderstood, well-meaning Nature Elemental to something... sinister, but no less divine. She could only wonder how much more he might have changed in the years since their adventures together, though the fact that he was once more traveling with Tristan and Lisoette gave her some hope. He couldn't have changed that much if that was the case, right?

Eric traveling with the group was welcome news as well. She remembered that the old man had been helpful to her, even if not always pleasant, and though there was little she could recall being said during the incident she was fairly certain that, if not for his intervention, her arrival to Gallia would have been far more unpleasant. Whatever the case, her thoughts on the matter were quickly dashed as the very same Eric walk out of an alley and onto the main street along with some other men, in the middle of what appeared to be a brawl. Neither their words nor the younger man's pathetic lack of martial prowess caught her attention, however. Instead, she froze as she felt a powerful divine aura, quite unlike any she had felt before. The source of this soon revealed itself, a radiant red-haired woman with pristine feathered wings, her visage as beautiful as her presence was intimidating.

Trish was left in awe, very astonished by this encounter. She didn't remember traveling with an envoy from Heaven three years ago, and yet Lisoette - the Daemonness - didn't seem to think this was something important enough to even deserve being mentioned during her brief overview of the group. The young noblewoman found herself glued to her spot for several moments, though as she saw her friend cheerfully stroll over to catch up with Eric and company, she at least made an effort to keep up, though her legs didn't quite feel solid at the moment.

"I-I'm Trish." She muttered softly as she came to a stop next to Lisoette, just after she had introduced herself to who was, apparently, Eric's bastard son. He looked decidedly unimpressive, even moreso when he was in the presence of an Angelle, but she had been told she had to be courteous to strangers.

Turning her attention to Eric and Belle, she watched with no less awe than before as the latter turned into the same sword she had seen Eric use in the past. That certainly explained a lot, she supposed, though the fact that they had Heavenborn in their midst still seemed like a bit of a bigger deal than everyone around her made it seem. Regardless, this meant that the Angelle wasn't a total stranger - a fact reinforced by the sword's familiar form of address.

She didn't know what to make of the seemingly sapient fanny pack, but she decided to take things one groundbreaking revelation at a time.

"Breakfast." She answered to Eric's question. "We were going to eat breakfast. With Tristan and... anyone else in the group. Lisoette was telling me about the others." She said, gesturing to the blonde next to her. "It is good to see you again, Eric and... Belle?"

[Lazarian]

Alexei

Approximately 4 PM, 19th of December

It was busy in the town as the assorted volunteers and soldiers scurried this way and that, preparing for the campaign to follow. Armorers and medics had thrown up a small station in the midst of the local market, repurposing fish stalls and cabbage carts for their own purposes. Drenched infantry warmed themselves around fires set amongst the cobblestones, still wet from being fished out from the ocean. The locals were happy to let them use the space, with many bringing meals and warmed clothing to the soldiers.

Alexei sat near one of the fires and held his hands out for warmth, feeling the ache in his bones. After talking with Hakkon, he had escorted Katya to a local inn, interrupting her conversation with the Knight Veryll before it had truly begun. She looked frailer than usual, as if a strong enough winter wind would simply blow her away. Some of those spells had been no small feat, especially for a girl who’d shunned studying for swordplay. And she still wanted to socialize! Hah. Spellborn. They were hard to keep off their feet.

Once she had been safely squared away under the covers, he’d readied himself for the conflict to come, tying straps and donning his armor. If you could even call this shoddy assortment “armor”. Hah. It was little more than dark blue gambeson, a simple chestplate, some greaves. It was far from the impressive regalia he used to bear. On his way out from the inn, he glanced at his reflection in a puddle, and grimaced at the worn old man that looked back at him.

He’d been a terror, once. A standard-bearer, clad in full plate, at the forefront of the charge. A man who could shatter the enemy lines with a mighty shout! A man who could whip a levy of frightened young men into a pack of fiends! But alas - Time was undefeated on the field of battle. And it had come for him as well, it seemed.

Around him, the Redcoats were busy. Some bandaged wounds from shrapnel and splinters, others cleaned shining muskets and pikes, and others still laughed and bantered with their friends. The First Adventurer Company, as they called themselves, were no peasant rabble. They were veterans of the Great Gallian War (as it was known in Garmiccia), hardened sailors and professionals. Their uniforms were sharp, their minds bright, their weapons clean.

The consistency of the Redcoats was impressive to Alexei, amongst other things. During the Garmiccian Civil War, many regiments had been little more than bands of locals armed with axes and quarterstaffs, commanded by local watchmen at best and highwaymen thugs at worst. The fearsome and dreadful reputation of Jeremiahde’s Imperial Army had been rightly earned, but those professionals composed a minority of the forces in the war. It was not an uncommon sight for entire battalions to disperse and flee after their Spellborn commander was defeated. Perhaps that was born of a reluctance to shed the blood of countrymen more so than pure cowardice, but the fact remained.

As he surveyed the scene, his eyes accidentally drifted into the brown eyes of a particularly rugged Redcoat, who glared at him with a steely glint in his eyes. Alexei was unsure as to what the man had against him, but he glared back, returning the look. In response, the man gestured over to a couple of his comrades, who rose up from their makeshift seats.

“Interesting to see you here, bezhat. Did you miss the ship home?” the ringleader said sardonically as he approached. Some of the other soldiers chuckled, sneering slightly. The other Redcoats in the square looked over, the gathering catching their attention. A few shook their heads, frowning in disapproval.

“Bezhat?” replied Alexei, looking up. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

The word roughly translated to ‘retreat’ in his home tongue. Perhaps it was some sort of South Gallian translation error, he hoped. But he had a feeling in the back of his head that he had understood the man perfectly.

“Oh, really? I’ve heard you dirty foreigners say that plenty.” the redcoat continued with a sneer. “You know, my whole regiment was nearly wiped out after your lines broke.”

Alexei sighed. Of course. The losers of a war always held grudges. Sometimes against their own, sometimes against their enemies, and plenty of times - at their allies.

“I didn’t take part in your civil war.” he grunted, attempting to dismiss the subject. “Direct your quarrels at someone who was.”

“Ooh, he’s afraid.” jeered another soldier, young, with long tawny blonde hair reaching to his shoulders. “They really do try to avoid fights, don’t they?” he continued, trying to get a rise out of the giant.

Alexei shrugged, though the youth’s insult had indeed begun to heat his temper. Though he was no fanatic for Jeremiahde’s regime, he was proud of his homeland and his people. It was frustrating to be despised for the actions of one’s countrymen rather than his own actions - why, he’d been a thousand leagues away at the time.

He took a deep breath, trying to push the anger away. The Redcoats were good men. They had been nothing but polite and friendly over the course of the journey. Until he’d donned the dark blues of his homeland. It was interesting how such a simple thing could turn good men from friends to bitter enemies.

“There’ll be Daemons at the gate in a few hours time. Save your frustration for them.” he said, though his voice belied a hint of irritation. Unfortunately, the Redcoats seemed to be hell-bent on getting some sort of answer or apology, because the ringleader stepped closer.

“You know, I really thought you lot would win us the war. Fierce wild men from Elcresia, they said! The newest modern military on Gaica, they said! A navy to rule the seas, they said!” the man jeered, his voice escalating in volume and intensity. “What a load of shite. As soon as that damned Rose appeared, you wilted like flowers in the heat. Broke and ran like cowards. A lot of good men didn’t return home because of your lot.” he continued, getting even closer.

The pieces clicked together. He’d heard stories from men who’d returned from the war. It all made sense now.

“Oh. I understand now.” Alexei said, rising to his feet. “You’re angry because the regiments fled upon the appearance of Pyrastar’s Chosen. You know what I think? They were right to do so. To defy the Fire is to defy your own breath in your chest. You have nobody to blame but yourself. You should have ran too.” he finished firmly, planting his halberd in the ground.

“Oh, really? Bec-”

Alexei cut him off.

“Now quit trifling with me. Or, if you’d like, I’d be pleased to demonstrate some true Garmiccian strength. No Rose here, after all. Don’t worry, friend. I won’t run away.” he growled, his voice rumbling with a deep anger.

The Redcoat looked as if he was about to come to blows, and Alexei clenched his fists. There was a blazing tension in the air for a few moments, and then another Redcoat grabbed the ringleader’s arm, pulling him away.

“Ah, Phillip, let it go. We’re all on the same side here. What happened happened. Isn’t nothing we can do about it now.” the peacemaker pleaded, standing between him and Alexei.

Phillip scowled and gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. For a moment, Alexei thought that he would strike - but thankfully, the peacemaker’s words took hold. After a few moments, the tension dissipated, and the bitter Redcoat turned away, shaking his head.

“It’s not worth it.” he growled. “Let’s go, boys.”

The group wandered away, grumbling and murmuring amongst themselves, and Alexei exhaled in relief.

[Lazarian]

Katya

Approximately a few minutes past 6 PM, 19th of December

Despite all that had transpired earlier in the day, Katya had finally found some sort of peace. Or perhaps it was just a complete and utter exhaustion. They had arrived into Towraigth a few hours after their encounter with the serpent, and Alexei had scooped her up and essentially dragged her to a local inn. Katya was unsure if she would even really call this place an inn - the structure was little more than a few side rooms erected onto the side of a larger manor to lodge guests and travelers. The kindly old innkeeper had no qualm with opening up a bedroom for her. Perhaps he was grateful that reinforcements had arrived - perhaps he was grateful for the pouch of coins Alexei had haphazardly tossed to him.

She had drifted in and out of consciousness for the few hours that she’d been there. Everything ached. Physically and mentally. Her father had always said that there was a price for magic, haggled lower with practice and repetition. The spells she’d called for on the boat had certainly charged full price, upmarked it thrice, and then levied a tax on it. It was as if pins and needles prodded at every inch of pale skin and bone, chastising her for attempting to do so much with so little. Perhaps that was why Spellborn were typically so tall - so that the magic could have more to take from.

The physical soreness was one thing. That’d go away. Pain was temporary. Loss, on the other hand, was a longer thing. Even as her body laid still in bed, her mind whispered, slipping in and out of consciousness. Erosen’s death had shaken her, to say the least. Devoured by a serpent and blown to pieces. A glorious death, worthy of rebirth in another form. But it was death nonetheless.

They hadn’t been more than friends. Didn’t get the chance to be. It was as if she had been reading a book and then it had been ripped away and set alight. Whatever was next was simply no more, never to be read, never to be known.

Her father had lost friends and comrades. He hadn’t cried. She had a faint memory of standing in a graveyard with him as a child, holding his hand as he prayed for the souls of those who were buried there. “Necessary sacrifices for the good of the nation.” he claimed with a stern face, gesturing at iron gravestones which stood in strict lines, as if the fallen warriors were set into formation for the afterlife. It didn’t seem necessary to her. Especially not today.

Despite this faint grief, it was as if there were simply no more tears behind her eyes to shed. There would be time to grieve later, time to reconcile with loss, time to process what had happened. She stared blankly at the ceiling, pulled the covers over her, and drifted off to sleep. The outside world and all its worries were held at bay by a thick woolen sheet. At least for a time.

Her eyes slowly closed as the clutches of sleep beckoned, and her vision began to fade to black.

---

The familiar pounding sound of Alexei’s fist echoed from the door. Three sharp knocks, enough to shake the poor door right on its hinges. The screws rattled in protest, attempting to pry themselves right out of the wood. Katya groaned, a long cry of absolute exasperation, and pulled the pillow over her head, attempting to drown out the dreadful sound of reality. Alexei confirmed it was him by taking this response as an invitation and rattling the locked doorknob with fervor, impatiently knocking again.

“By the Blessed Eight, I’m so tired.” Katya groaned, rolling over in bed. “Please! Can’t I get a break for a minute? It’s literally been just a few hours since we got here.”

The doorknob made a sort of cracking sound in reply. Seconds later, the wooden door swung open to reveal Alexei, dressed and ready for battle. The knob was bent diagonal. It wobbled precariously for a second before falling to the ground and rolling around on the floor, slowly coming to a stop on the ground in front of Alexei's boots, with the locking mechanism shattered.

Katya looked at the doorknob.

Alexei also looked at the doorknob.

“They will forgive us when we save the city.” he said bluntly, enthusiastically striding into the room with a sloshing mug in his hand. “Get up and get ready! The enemy approaches, and our destiny awaits us with them.”

“Destiny can wait.” she complained, rolling over and pulling the pillow over her head.

“Ah, lass, I’m afraid that Destiny waits for no man.” Alexei said cheerfully, setting the cup of spirits on her bedside table. He picked up the pillow and tossed it to the floor, ripping it from her fingers with ease.

“How about a beautiful woman, then?” she replied, jokingly fanning herself with a hand as her eyes slowly squinted open. "Could Destiny wait for that?"

“Hmm.” Alexei mused, lost in thought. “Perhaps Destiny could wait for a beautiful woman.”

He paused, staring at her as she looked back at him with bleary eyes.

“Unfortunately, that would be neither of us. Guess you’ll have to come meet him.” he finished, attempting to suppress a grin.

She scowled, tossing a straw-stuffed pillow his way.

“Ugh.” she said with her chest, shaking her head. “You’re the worst. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Oh, yes, many a time. I bear the title with distinction and honor.” he stated with a straight face, conveying utmost seriousness.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get ready.” she replied, rubbing the dark circles under her eyes. “What’s the situation?”

“Several hundred servants of the Night are sieging a local village, apparently. We’ll be on the move shortly to drive them off.” he said, recounting what he had heard from the locals. “Mostly flat terrain. Our forces should be at least equal in numbers. A good host of Spellborn. You’ll be good to stay in the back lines with me.”

“Where’s the glory in that?” she said, getting out of bed and rummaging through her trunk. There was armor in here somewhere. “I’ll move with Eric and the others. I’m sure they’ll be at the front.”

“There is no glory in battle.” Alexei said coldly, his face growing more stern. “It is a dreadful thing of which you have no real experience. You will stay in the back with me and observe. If you’re up to it, you can assist.”

“I’m feeling fine now.” she said, lifting the mug of spirits he had brought in to her lips and attempting to swallow it all down at once. Whatever it was, it burned like fire, and definitely did not alleviate the soreness that seemed to be all-encompassing. She coughed violently for a few moments, choking and hacking. Whatever this was, it was terrible. After thirty seconds of attempting to recover her composure, she managed to give the old veteran a stern gaze. “I’ll,” she coughed, “be up there. Nothing’s going to keep me back from my own journey. I started us down this route and I’ll finish it.” she finished.

Alexei looked at her, shaking his head. There was a slight proud look in his eyes, despite the frown.

“You’re more like your father than you’d like to admit. Both stubborn as mules.” he sighed. “Very well. We’ll move to the mid-ranks. You can observe it from there. Perhaps you can ward off the arrows of the enemy.”

“Oh, I suppose.” Katya lied, with a sweet smile and absolutely no intention of staying in the mid-ranks in her heart. "Yes. Arrows. I can do that.”

[Woodstovia]

Aerion d'Autriche

Last and most hated of Froenstia's wretches, scorned on Earth, ally of darkness and bride of deceit, First of the Fallen, Bastard of ice forgotten by cold, Monster of Haventown, Serpent of Albras, Last Son of the Phoenix etc. etc.

The Thin Isles


He was a Lord of gold and sapphires, his gilded armour cut to perfectly fit his form, rippling with musculature, the contours of his chest and abdomen prominently bulging as the metal clung to his oiled and powdered skin. Dark blotches - no not mere blotches but artfully woven tattoos crept across his skin. Beautiful dark phoenixes, which seemed to writhe and wriggle beneath his flesh, constantly threatening and teasing his overjoyed onlookers; promising that they would burst forth and fly ahead to newfound glories. Instead, they stayed beneath the skin, merely tantalizing his followers. As Aerion knelt a crown of wrought crystal which reflected light in every direction and colour of every kind was placed upon his silvered hair by the Executioner himself, a figure cloaked by fog.

Aerion smiled. He was proclaimed Lord of Haventown and why not? He had won a glorious victory there, one that would never be forgotten. The Sons of the Eagle had snuck their way through the City crypts, bypassing its gigantic walls. The Northerners placed such great reverence on their dead that they had not thought to guard the ancient passageways wrought into the bowels of their burial grounds. He had cut his way through the sleeping guards with ease when he made his way to the surface inside the city and by the time an alarm had been raised, it was too late to organise a resistance. Only the venerable "Angel" Prince Kroisoto had stood before him then. And he had been no match for the Phoenix. He was cut down and the evidence of their oh so heroic commander's mortality had been too much for the defenders to take.

Before him now the new crowds cheered. New men and women and even children, fresh Southern faces. Not mongoloids with fiery red hair and sour faces filled with scorn. His new people, come to colonised the ruined hovel left by his conquest. He would be a good lord he knew, a just lord. Fair and egalitarian yet ruthless and stern. There would be only peace under his watch, and total obedience to His Highness for the Executioner ruled all. There was a drumbeat now, a rolling pounding noise that seemed to take form and snake and slither its way through the ignorant crowd who writhed and danced to the music.

When he woke he was a wretch.

A long pale cloak had been drawn across his face and clothing to hide any trace of the person beneath. He had not eaten the night before for lack of supplies and coin and his empty stomach had seemed to withdraw uncomfortably inside of him. His stolen horse - a small pale palfrey had been secured to the tree he had slept beneath for shelter. Not that the so-called shelter had done much good. It was a thin and misbegotten thing that tree, as was everything on this island. He had not lit a fire, for fear of being detected and the cold had sliced right through his cloak and clothing. The cold, gods the cold...

He had found somewhere worse than The North.

In The North, one could ride for miles in any direction and not see a single soul. It was a vast, open tundra, perfect for disappearing into. Here he was hemmed in on all sides by the sea. He had tried to flee the party, to find some quiet village to disappear into or a ship to the South to start afresh. At least one fat little farm with pigs and cows he could butcher for food and a roof to sleep
beneath once the occupants were suitably taken care of. But the ground here was hard and stony, even less fertile than the North and he had found no farms to speak of during his ride. He wasn't sure if farming even took place here, or if the locals survived off of fish. If it was the latter then there was little hope of them surviving another few weeks at this rate. The seas were teeming with... Things. Things Aerion did not want to investigate, and no ships could leave. The entire island was under a sort of siege.

Fear danced in Aerion's heart. He was not to die here. Not here, on this shit-stained formation of rocks, not fit even for the geographical title of "island" of which it bore. He would not die fighting a war he had no part in, alone. Slain by enemies he did not know. His breaths were ragged as a kaleidoscope of colour and pictures played out before him, his mind dislodging itself from the linear flow of time. He saw the past and present and future mingling as one, streams flowing into one another. He heard those long dead, and those he knew he had not ever seen before talk, their voices mixing into a neurotic gurgle which assailed the senses.

He saw himself strung up, a noose around his neck, his legs kicking limply as Prince Kroisoto bowed to cheering throngs of innocents. That was how his dream should have ended. That was what had happened hadn't it? He glanced at his hands. Was he alive?

He tried touching the floor. At times his eyes told him that it was grass, then paved road, then rock, then cloud. He felt grass and trusted his sense of touch over the treachery of sight and stumbled to his Palfrey. His legs and feet were unsure but hers were not and he began to ride again.

Where would he go? His brain throbbed even as his vision began to clear and he was more solidly spat out into the present. He lacked coin, he lacked food, he lacked options. he knew what it was like to have nowhere to flee to. He remembered the cold steel of northern swords that pressed to his neck as he swore to the Gods he would do as they willed, and he had been at Champion's F-... No not now, not ever, he must not think of that day. He gripped the palfrey's reigns so hard that his knuckles turned white, as he tried to anchor his mind to the present and away from the past.


He knew where he had to go. Where there was food and coin, and if not safety then at least steel and pairs of hands to wield it that could join in his fights.

The palfrey ran through Mistbow as he feverishly looked for the band of idiots and lunatics who had led him here in the first place.

[Observation Post 13]

Outside Mithsbow, Albrion, Unmarked Cementary


Silence surrounds the cemetery.

Two bony figures gently stepped through the mud, dodging grave markers. Their face is carefully concealed beneath clothed hoods, passing a trail of candles that are dotted across the base of some burial axis. Most have died out in previous nights. The sun poked its head through the horizon, and in the distance, a dog scampers off with someone's arm.

||HERE LAY THE BRAVE MEN OF THE 53RD MAY THEIR SOUL REST IN PEACE||

One of them stayed behind to keep watch. The other clutched a shovel tightly in one hand while bending down and checking each marker. Some markers are cracked or littered with mold. Those he didn't bother. He trudged along the mud until one particular grave caught his attention - the one on the left with a tombstone. The guy knelt down on the dewy grass, muttered a prayer, and began digging.

*kwuh-thhh... kwuh-thhh... kwuh-thhh...*

*CLING*

The shovel bit down on something hard. The digger furrowed his brow and tried yanking out the blade, but it only sank in further, slipping out of his grip. The digger stared in disbelief as the shovel wormed its way into the dirt patch. Then, muffled coughing from within the soil. Oh. OH FUCK-

A hand shoots out of the patchy ground, grappled onto the tombstone, and began heaving the rest of its body from the pit. His friend cried out in alarm and slipped on the wet ground, *thud*, and smacked their head right onto a slab of granite.

The digger watched in horror as a head bursts through the grave soil, followed by the other arm, the torso, and the legs. It climbed out of the pit, rolled over, and began coughing out chunks of dirt.

So he tried to run. The figure briefly glanced up, wagged a finger at him, and - a sickening sense of no longer being supported by his feet took over, his stomach did a flip, and he found himself face down on the floor. The figure grunts something that the digger didn't comprehend.

*COUGH COUGH* "Y-you messed with the wrong cemetery, FOOL!" Willis growled as he picked an earthworm out of his hair. "Gosh, to end up in this mass burial site..." He looked into [the camera]. "I guess you can say that someone made a GRAVE mistake, huh?"

*Cricket cricket cricket...*

Rubbing the torc on his wrist, Willis turned to look at the figure sprawled on the ground. "Hello. My name is Willis Philips, and I feel cold. I also have no idea where I am, and I think someone looted all my stuff. Oh, btw you have the permission to speak," he added, snapping his finger.

"من فضلك لا تأكلني" The figure sputtered, his shoulder trembling as he prostrates himself in front of Willis.

"huh?" Willis squinted. "Dude I have no idea what you're talking about. Do you speak [insert tongue of the Sahranjjians]?"

"مشبوه" The figure stared blankly at Willis.

"Okay, so I also need a translator..." Willis nods at himself. "Hold on oneee sec..." He rubbed the torc in between his index and thumb. "Aperi librum!" And a leather-bound book materialized in his right palm. Its title reads: 'Gallian for Dummys'. The digger went pale at the sight of this sorcery and started crying.

"Hey-hey c'mon now, there's no reason to urinate yourself-" Willis flinched at the sight of a grown man losing control of his bladder and dignity. The Elemental coughed, flipping through the pages of the dictionary, "hrm, eeh, well, lets try this," and took a few steps towards the digger. "HELLO-ME-COOL-MAGIC-PERSON-FROM-BIG-DESERT *pause* ME-NEED-TRANSLATOR *pause* YOU-GO-FIND *pause, points at digger* OR-DIE-FROM-CURSE-" Willis raised the dictionary menacingly while butchering the language of Thin Isles.

A momentary silence.

"YOU-UNDERSTAND?" Willis looked back down at the digger. The digger blinked and pointed a finger at himself. "Yes, you!"

And with a whimper, the figure ran full sprint away from here, howling like a mad doggy.

"..."

PS: Willis escaped Sahranjja a few months ago, taking maybe 2-3 weeks to make his way to the coast, hop on the first foreign ship he could find, and sailing west for 2-4 months until he wound up in the Thin Isles off the northwest coast of Galllia. He has inadvertently signed on with the expeditionary force going from St. Veowulf to Towraigth, misunderstanding what they were doing due to language barriers. During the trip, he suffered a violent episode of narcolepsy and was buried along with the fallen soldiers at [insert name]. He is a metal-lighting hybrid.

[Observation Post 13]

Still Outside Mithsbow, Albrion, Unmarked Cementary

*Fwwomp!*

A musket ball scores the fleeing man on his leg and he drops like a sack. Willis scrams for cover behind his own gravestone, they have guns, and his heart pumping in his chest. Work your magic. He managed to squeak out "metallum, non loqui", and the somatic calmed him somewhat. The shot came from a place in front? of him. Somewhere a soldier lowered his musket as smoke drizzled from the barrel, signaling for his comrades to press onward. They converge behind ranks of markers, moving from cover to cover. Oh shit oh shit where are they? Willis sank down and quickly poked his hand back into the topsoil fishing out a shovel, then leaned flat against the stone barrier. Tried peering around the tombstone but then he heard footsteps and a *click click click* behind, whipped his neck back and found himself looking down the barrel of a flintlock, which seems to be jammed, the gunman standing SO CLOSE from Willis. "Lucen-" *Thwack!* goes another shot chipping Willis's cover, spraying granite fragments into his collar. The guy facing Willis already unsheathed their backsword, dodged the clumsy shovel swing and allowed momentum to carry the edge into Willis. It harmlessly slides off, cutting only rags as the two men collide fitfully. Willis raised his fists and hammered the dude's back, once, twice, they let go of the blade then a punch send them reeling into the stone slab behind Willis. Willis points at the guy, "F *burrrp* ck! Lucendi!" and a sliver of lighting uncoil around his fingertip whipping into the man, *pop-zzzzt*, who goes limp. *Fwwomp!* and Willis drop down on one leg, clutching at his chest, they are coming, and tried looking for an opening. Instead, all he sees around him are dark figures with glinting swords and guns. And a firing line directly facing Willis. Willis screamed: "WAIT WAIT WAIT, I'm not a thief! I'm an ELEMENTAL!" and ducks just in time as a hail of pellets flies over and around him like angry wasps.

Another beefy man comes out from the shadows, shouts some insults that Willis didn't understand, then charges toward Willis with the sword raised. Willis drop the shovel and point instead at the firing squad.

"Catena Lucendi," Willis says, and a blue bolt streaks into the patch of soldiers, then explodes into a web of lighting that consumes the whole 3-line rank in a dull roar. It smells like burnt barbeque.

The guy has stopped to turn and look at the devastation. Black ash marks the center of the blast, and around it heaps of bodies, convulsing from residual sparks. The stricken-looking man's mouth hangs open as he contemplates the destruction. There was a brief stillness hanging over the air.

Willis straightens his back, points at himself again, "HELLO-ME-COOL-MAGIC-PERSON-FROM-BIG-DESERT *pause* ME-NEED-HELP *pause* TAKE-ME-TO-YOUS-LEADER." With a *clang* the man throws his blade into the dirt, and nods. He then turns and trudges away, looking as if he doesn't know where he's going. As they walk, Willis has noticed that most soldiers are gone by now, and the ones that remained dares not to make eye contact. Eventually, they made their way out of the cemetery and a nervous man motions Willis to follow him.

Willis liked how he can use his magical power as an implicit tool for persuasion.

[Ameriganastan]

Still Outside Mithsbow, Albrion, Unmarked Cementary

*Fwwomp!*

A musket ball scores the fleeing man on his leg and he drops like a sack. Willis scrams for cover behind his own gravestone, they have guns, and his heart pumping in his chest. Work your magic. He managed to squeak out "metallum, non loqui", and the somatic calmed him somewhat. The shot came from a place in front? of him. Somewhere a soldier lowered his musket as smoke drizzled from the barrel, signaling for his comrades to press onward. They converge behind ranks of markers, moving from cover to cover. Oh shit oh shit where are they? Willis sank down and quickly poked his hand back into the topsoil fishing out a shovel, then leaned flat against the stone barrier. Tried peering around the tombstone but then he heard footsteps and a *click click click* behind, whipped his neck back and found himself looking down the barrel of a flintlock, which seems to be jammed, the gunman standing SO CLOSE from Willis. "Lucen-" *Thwack!* goes another shot chipping Willis's cover, spraying granite fragments into his collar. The guy facing Willis already unsheathed their backsword, dodged the clumsy shovel swing and allowed momentum to carry the edge into Willis. It harmlessly slides off, cutting only rags as the two men collide fitfully. Willis raised his fists and hammered the dude's back, once, twice, they let go of the blade then a punch send them reeling into the stone slab behind Willis. Willis points at the guy, "F *burrrp* ck! Lucendi!" and a sliver of lighting uncoil around his fingertip whipping into the man, *pop-zzzzt*, who goes limp. *Fwwomp!* and Willis drop down on one leg, clutching at his chest, they are coming, and tried looking for an opening. Instead, all he sees around him are dark figures with glinting swords and guns. And a firing line directly facing Willis. Willis screamed: "WAIT WAIT WAIT, I'm not a thief! I'm an ELEMENTAL!" and ducks just in time as a hail of pellets flies over and around him like angry wasps.

Another beefy man comes out from the shadows, shouts some insults that Willis didn't understand, then charges toward Willis with the sword raised. Willis drop the shovel and point instead at the firing squad.

"Catena Lucendi," Willis says, and a blue bolt streaks into the patch of soldiers, then explodes into a web of lighting that consumes the whole 3-line rank in a dull roar. It smells like burnt barbeque.

The guy has stopped to turn and look at the devastation. Black ash marks the center of the blast, and around it heaps of bodies, convulsing from residual sparks. The stricken-looking man's mouth hangs open as he contemplates the destruction. There was a brief stillness hanging over the air.

Willis straightens his back, points at himself again, "HELLO-ME-COOL-MAGIC-PERSON-FROM-BIG-DESERT *pause* ME-NEED-HELP *pause* TAKE-ME-TO-YOUS-LEADER." With a *clang* the man throws his blade into the dirt, and nods. He then turns and trudges away, looking as if he doesn't know where he's going. As they walk, Willis has noticed that most soldiers are gone by now, and the ones that remained dares not to make eye contact. Eventually, they made their way out of the cemetery and a nervous man motions Willis to follow him.

Willis liked how he can use his magical power as an implicit tool for persuasion.

"I'm gonna need you to slow down there, friends. And don't make any sudden moves. I'm a little hungover right now and don't really feel like dismembering anyone right now."

Standing just outside the cemetery gates, Eric spun Belle around and pointed her at him.

"I spied your little lightshow all the way from where me and my friends were standing. I was really not in the mood to be running anywhere, but here we are. So, which one of you is the Elemental? I've been hanging out with them long enough to know that magic when I see it. And don't think your little sparkshow will get the drop on me. I've fought one of you lightning flingers before. He thought he was hot stuff before I took his head off and cashed in that bounty."

He popped a crick out of his neck just in case.

"So, start talking. Why does the general area smell like cooked flesh? Because if you're out here flambéing innocents, well we're gonna have a problem. "

"Wait, how do you know what cooked flesh smells like?"

"Back during my soldiering days. Found a lost soldier hiding in a mountain cave. Had cooked the other guy who got lost with him. Anyway, spill it. If you're convincing enough, you won't be short a limb very soon."