Magic, Blood & Gunpowder II - A Fantasy RP (Closed/TG)

[Cheye]

Magic, Blood & Gunpowder II
Resurrection
A Fantasy RP


"Long ago, to isolate themselves from a world of beasts, humans began building cities. But since beasts prowl within stone walls as well as they do outside them, this did not allay human fears. The truth is walls guarantee no one's safety. The place where you lock yourself in and lock all else out - that's not your home. Your home is sometimes a place you travel long and far to find…”



The War of the Two Empires - 4E-154

The Fourth Era has been dubbed the Age of Redemption by the church… but redemption is in short supply for most in this world. As the fires of war consumed Vlad Van Drak’s Vampyric Ascendancy, many new powers have arisen amidst the ashes.

Golgotha is foremost among them, having defeated the vampires at the Siege of Ancelstierre, successive emperors have built a monolithic super-power which in this era now stretches from the great Western Ocean to the foothills of the Borag Mountains. Although founded by humans, countless elves, dwarves and orcs have found themselves absorbed into the this industrial powerhouse whose leaders make no secret of their desire to conquer the world itself.

The Golgothan march to supremacy has not been devoid of setbacks however. In 4E-150, Ancelstierre was attacked by a swarm of vampires. Then, striking from Donastierre, Golgotha’s ancient enemy resurfaced and undead armies did battle with the living once more. Amidst the chaotic rumours of a vampiric revival, the Sunset Empire, a collective grouping of human kingdoms in the east, unified under Empress Madeline of Medina, who claimed her new throne by becoming a vampire and enlisting the help of her sire Gideon Lancel, commanding influence and respect among the aristocracies of both the living and unliving.

During this turbulent time, the slumbering Kingdom of Garniem awoke and lycanthropic beings emerged into the outside world for the first time in milenia, spurred on as they were by the appearance of a great tear of 'the wall' that stands between the realm of the living and whatever lies beyond...

Similar disturbances far beyond the borders of Minern also caused a massive migration of Greenskins into the Jisaran Desert, who then united to form a great horde that descended upon the nations of the south with the aim of razing and pillaging all in their path. Though cults and prophets told of the coming of the end times, the divided nations of the south chose to focus on their mutual rivalries, uniting only when the threat proved most lethal, under Golgothan leadership.

Despite the doomsayers warnings, the longstanding duchies of the north barely seemed to notice, prioritising instead their high politics and their hatred of outsiders by joining in a false alliance with the Sunset, ready to take advantage of either side should the industrial hegemon of Golgotha attempt to push eastwards.

All of this posturing finally came to a head with the assassination of Emperor Karl Franz, supposedly at the hands of vampires, and the subsequent invasion of Carvania, which had long been believed to be a hotbed of vampire activity.

When witch hunters loyal to Golgotha’s mysterious and enigmatic Inquisitor finally discovered proof of vampiric activity in Carvania, an investigation confirmed a link with Sunset involvement arming and assisting the hastily organised Carvanian Resistance. Rufus Black - brother of Madeline and fellow vampire - was found to be responsible and Golgotha finally prepared itself for war in the east, unable to contain its thirst for expansion any longer.

Thus began the War of the Two Empires.

What history does not record however, is the secret role of the Conclave, the primary governing body of vampire-kind, and their de facto leader Jacques de la Grey, in manipulating these events to their advantage. From the attack on Ancelstierre to the outbreak of war, Jacques managed to manipulate and cajole vampires and mortals alike into priming vampirekind for a true revival - to get recognition from their ancient enemy and a place of their own where the unliving descendants of Vlad Van Drak could grow strong once again without having to hide themselves.

As the Carvanian War of Resistance and the War of the Two Empires jointly reached their bloody and devastating peaks, Jacques finally achieved this aim, meeting on equal footing with the leaders of Golgotha and Emperor Nikolas himself after arranging the deaths of the Lancel vampire bloodline. From that meeting a ‘mutual understanding’ was born, and in return for all loyal vampires withdrawing from the Golgothan Empire and working against what remained of the Sunset, the Conclave were rewarded with a state of their own in the east.

That understanding, ratified at the Congress of Vishoch, has seen peace return to Minern for much of the last two decades. And now, more recently, as the old Elven Tranquility has begun to fall apart, Golgotha and the Conclave stand poised to take advantage and grow once again, united in their ambitions for the first time in history.

However, there is another who would take advantage. One who survived the all-consuming fires of war and who has watched these recent developments with great interest… Rumours of his survival have existed for some time, but even his fellow vampires do not yet know of their truth.

The island formerly known as Rennoa was once home to a great line of elven dragon lords, but now it has become a hell for their kind. Under a rapid programme of industrialisation and slavery, Corbeau has quickly become Minern’s youngest rising power, thanks to the human lords who advance this agenda under the watchful eyes of Rufus Black himself.

The Fourth Era may yet prove to be an age of redemption…

The question is, for whom?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

This is a fantasy RP for the nations of Latica, the factions in which have been agreed collaboratively. It is currently closed but may open more widely in the future so feel free to TG if interested in taking part. This thread will not be used for OOC posts.

As an aside this RP may contain some themes that could be considered adult in nature, including mild sexual references, violence and gore. Please go away if such themes might offend you.


The factions:
- The Vampyric Ascendancy - Cheye
- The Second United Empire of Golgotha - Greater Latica
- The Illustrious Isle of Corbeau - Sarrin

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A map of Minern in 4E-175:

[Cheye]

Ancelstierre, Golgotha - 3E-1288

“Run!” A spectral voice called from somewhere beyond the thick wall of reddy grey smoke that consumed him.

All around him, the victorious war-cries of his comrades and kin had turned to gnarled horrified screams. And then, from above, there was the sunlight. It had been years since he had felt the tingle of sunlight on his unnatural porcelain skin, and it paralysed him now as he adjusted to the sensation.

Slowly, very slowly, he shielded his eyes with an arm, his sleeve singed and half-burnt away as he raised his head to look.

Hundreds of cracks had appeared in the thick blanket of storm clouds that had deprived Ancelstierre of sunlight for the last few decades. Sunlight poured through as the cracks grew larger, the dark magic that had sustained the clouds having been blown away in a split second.

Only one thing could have caused such a calamity as this.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. A thunderous roar from the direction of the city-walls told him another barrage of gunfire was imminent.

He turned to follow the voice that had told him to run. It didn’t matter that the vampires had been on the verge of their greatest victory, on the verge of conquering humanity itself. Now he had no choice but to run. Survival would be his only concern.

Incendiary shells began landing in front of him once more. A host of lesser vampires, who had been writhing in pain at the sudden touch of sunlight, were incinerated in front of his eyes. A flaming gargoyle stampeded in agony among the countless ranks of lifeless undead automatons further down the field as he began to run.

“Jacques!” A voice cried out. It was one he recognised. “Help me!” She called again.

Illia Lancel, another senior vampire of the Dark Prince’s Court writhed on the edge of a blast crater surrounded by the burning corpses of the formerly-undead. Another barrage of fire soared over him as he looked at her, his confusion and desperation clear in his expression.

“Jacques-!” She pleaded. A pained howl from another vampire burning behind him cutting her off. He stumbled closer to the edge of the crater, glancing down to notice that her legs had been completely blown off, the wounds engulfed in flames that would prevent her unliving blood magic from healing them.

Illia shrieked in fury and pain, her inner beast slipping out onto her soot-and-tear-stained face.
He’d never seen a vampire cry before. Perhaps the pain of fire was the only thing that could coax tears from them. They both knew there was nothing he could do for her.

He turned away from her, still slowed by shock, as more fiery explosions erupted around him, one close enough to cover his long cape with cinders that promptly ignited. He threw it off quickly, the sound of Illia’s pained sobs tearing open the silence between explosions.

His own eyes watered. Whether from all the soot and ash in the air, or the sheer trauma of losing everything in a single moment, he wasn’t sure. But as he turned and began to run, he was sure of one thing; his kind were no better than the mortals they sought to rule.

Vlad Van Drak had had them all convinced that they were the chosen ones, born to rule an eternal unliving empire…

But Vlad Van Drak was dead.


Medina, The Sunset Empire - 4E-155

“Vlad Van Drak is dead.” He quipped swiftly, it wasn’t the first time the words had crossed his lips.

The hooded figures slowed their horses as they made their way through the packed encampment that stretched out in front of them, filling the misty-hazed horizon in every direction.

He continued talking, guiding his mount onwards; “The siege of Ancelstierre saw to his demise; it’s outcome determined our pitiful fate in these last two centuries... But now, now we stand at the culmination of another siege. One that will give birth to a new order for our kind.”

“You said a similar thing at Syliv.” His companion shot back, steering his dark horse wide as a column of Gologthan riflemen emerged from the mist and marched between them, heading down the muddy path towards towards the front-lines.

“I did?” He smiled wickedly. “I suppose I got ahead of myself… We were on the verge of greatness then, yes. But I made a single fatal error.”

“And what’s that?” The other Vampire shot back, the column of troops still marching between them, showing no sign of stopping as more men loomed out of the mist.

He didn’t answer straight away, instead glancing down at the faces of the men making their way up the path towards the front. Many of them were walking to their deaths. He pitied them the ignorance of their superiors; for if they could only put aside the prejudices of the past, so many lives might not be so needlessly wasted.

That wasn’t to say he was above spending lives. Indeed the fate of mortal men hardly concerned him. But he did not revel in the bloodshed as many of his kin did. When he had unleashed his massacre at Ancelstierre five years ago, he had found himself grinning - but it had not been an animalistic smile resulting from the ensuing carnage or the blood raining from the sky, no, he had been grinning at the magnificence of his plot. A plot to ensure no vampire need ever wallow in fear again.

As the end of the column finally marched by, he spurred his silver mare onwards before turning with a smile to answer his companion; “That mortals prize one thing above all else…”

His companion, Jebediah Romulin, patriarch of the vampires of Tabornia, remained silent thinking on the riddle.

Jacques put him out of his misery; “Their own immortality.”

Karl Franz had been the Emperor who died fighting hand-to-hand with a vampire. Now Nikolas had become Conqueror of the East, and - thanks to the shrewd diplomacy of Prince’s Leopold and Marius along with the grit of Prince Ferdinand - now stood on the verge of almost doubling the size of the Golgothan Empire.

The former’s desire to go down in history forever, Jacques had not anticipated. But the latter’s…. That he had counted upon. Indeed if Nikolas had known three and a half years ago, that launching his annexation of Carvania in order to save it from vampires would ultimately culminate in an alliance with them, Jacques knew the ambitious young Emperor would still have proceeded regardless.

This Emperor sought to bend the world to his will. And if the vampires of the Conclave helped him to do it? All the better.

The duo reached their destination as the Emperor’s marquee appeared ahead. As they steered their horses around to tether them nearby, the mist hanging low on the horizon began to clear, and the bruised and battered city of Medina appeared on the horizon.

Just seeing it reminded him of Ancelstierre… Of Van Drak’s defeat, and everything that had come with it. But the artillery was pointing the other way now. For the briefest of moments he wondered how easily it could have been the other way around… Had he allowed Gideon Lancel to drag the conclave into his Sunset vanity project, the vampires could easily have been within those walls right now, awaiting oblivion.

Gideon had now gone the way of his sire Illia. Incinerated in one last act of brutal revenge by his rogue fledgeling Rufus Black. Jacques intended that his other pawn in the Conclave; Hans Von Richter, would meet a similar fate some day soon. The pair of them had been drawn like moths to flame when the prospect of seizing the Dark Prince’s vacant throne had been presented to them. Neither had truly understood the reason Jacques had dangled it, like a carrot, in front of them until it had been too late.

Jacques adjusted his glistening breastplate after dismounting, one pale hand wrapped around the hilt of his ornate sword as he stepped towards the entrance of the marquee. His far less extravagantly dressed companion following his lead.

“Lord... Montespan.” The familiar voice of Emperor Nikolas greeted him as he stepped inside, the Golgothan ruler cutting loudly over countless princes, officers and senior advisors who were deep in discussion about matters of strategy.

They very quickly fell silent.

“Your imperial majesty.” He bowed low, not noticing as the Emperor approached close. Behind him Jebediah Romulin did the same.

Jacques glanced up, righting himself just as Nikolas suddenly took him into a hearty embrace.

He smiled to himself. Here he was, his teeth just centimetres from the throat of Golgotha’s mortal Emperor. A man who knew exactly who and what he was, but who didn’t recoil in fear or lash out in hatred. A man who was prepared to put that bitter hatred of the past aside in order to further his own ambitions. A man Jacques and indeed Vampirekind could do business with.

“Everybody out.” Barked the stern voice of the Inquisitor, whose steely gaze Jacques had felt locked on him since he had entered the tent rang out. The assorted officials fell silent and looked to their Emperor for direction.

Nikolas released him, before nodding in agreement with the Inquisitor. “Yes. Leave us. I have much to discuss with our allies.”

Jacques nodded too.

They had come a long way since Ancelstierre.


Unknown location - The Borag Mountains - Early 4E-175

Two grey eyes flashed open in a cavern of darkness.

The memories of those two monumental sieges still fresh in his mind, Jacques de la Grey stretched lethargically and adjusted his opulent travelling clothes before rising to his feet. The hard rock that he had been resting upon had left his back feeling stiff, a sensation that would have brought back different memories, memories of his years spent in hiding during the purges, were it not for the sudden sound of slate against rock and the spark of fire that then dramatically lit the cavern.

Jacques smirked, stretching more emphatically now he was upright; “You do realise that I could do that with just a click of my fingers?” He let out dryly, ignoring the sharp and sudden pang of hunger he felt within. It was a feeling unlike any other.

There was a light giggle from the half-elf who bent down over the now-lit campfire in front of him.

“Of course my lord. But I live to serve you. It wouldn’t be proper for one such as you to light your own fires.”

The vampire shrugged, stepping forward to walk off his stiffness. Despite his relatively youthful appearance, he was still well over five hundred years old, and on days and when he slept devoid of the comforts of civilisation; he felt it.

He walked over to the mouth of the cavern as his companion began preparing a rabbit she must have caught while the vampire was resting. A slight orange glow illuminated the entrance as the waning sun beyond began to set.

The cold mountain wind hit his bare face as he poked his head outside. He glanced about to ensure it was safe to emerge before stepping forward. His navy blue cape immediately billowing behind him as it was caught by the wind.

It was a beautiful evening all things considered. The skies were clear and the sun hung low, slowly descending into the distance towards the hidden mouth of the river that divided the lands far below in two.

That magical river, the Pyr, was like its northern sister, the Kislev, miles wide and of immense political and economic significance, but up here, high above the Great Waterfall that marked the continental edge of Minern, the river was far smaller, far less impressive, and soon if Jacques continued his journey, he would soon come to its source high in the mountains. Nobody in Minern had ever travelled beyond the source of the Pyr.

No mortal anyway.

Jacques sighed, looking out over the smaller mountains and hills that themselves looked out over Lake Sai, against the lake’s south-western bank sat the great city of Saiph, which from high above looked like a miniature ornament jutting out from the mountains south of the river. It's great bridges that formed the Pyr River Crossing, rebuilt under the watchful eyes of its new Vampyric overlords, were little more than a series of lines that cut across the wide river.

The other tiny straight line that cut across the river far below was still incomplete. Although it also looked insignificant from here, Jacques knew its existence was altogether more impressive. It would soon connect the Golgothan and Vasharan railway networks, which would revolutionise travel and trade between the Southern and Northern sub-continents of Minern. The alliance that he had forged, that had come into its own at the 3rd Siege of Medina, has made that happen. It represented progress for humankind by any stretch of the imagination, but from up here it still was little more than a half-finished miniature speck in the distance.

Beyond, on the northern bank of the river sat Carvania. For a long time Jacques had believed that country would sit at the epicentre of his vision, but Golgotha and indeed Carvania itself had other plans and he had been happy to adjust. Now it sat there, part of the same Empire that had once declared it to be too uncivilised to be ruled.

Little dots made their way up and down the river where it was widest in the distance, ships carrying goods and passengers to all corners of the continent. Some of the dots had little plumes of smoke rising up above them, a testament to the industrial transformation that had swept across Minern, spurred on as it had been by the expansion of the Golgothan Empire.

A line of these dots led to the edge of the horizon where a tiny light shone out from the Great Lighthouse of Bursa. Bursa also now sat within the borders of the Golgthan superpower, and beyond it Rivièreroux too, a testament to how much the world had changed in just a quick few decades.

Jacques smiled to himself, watching for what felt like an era, out over this magnificent tableau that he had played no small part in designing.

A low roar overhead caused him to glance upward as his undead dragon Gerrone swooped down over the mountainside and perched idly atop the cavern.

Gerrone had proven to be a faithful companion, even if the beast was more fleshy automaton than dragon now. That beast had allowed him to intimidate the bulk of the other vampires into following his plan even when hope had seemed lost. When Desdemona Von Richter had attempted to set herself up as unliving Queen under the Mountains in defiance of the will of the conclave, Jacques had flown into the Kharadron Mountains atop Gerrone with a host of wraiths at his side and intimidated her into compliance. Now Gerrone was helping to carry and protect him and his companion beyond the edge of Minern itself.

Turning back into the cavern, Jacques watched the half-elf as she finished her meal. As if sensing his eyes on her, she rose to her feet and began to comb her fingers through her hair, brushing reddish strands from her neck where a host of faded pin-pricks marked where the vampire had fed upon her during their travels so far.

Jacques smiled as the thrall presented herself to him. He would feed now. Then they would continue their journey east into the mountains. Into the unknown.

For Jacques de la Grey had a new plan...

[Sarrin]

Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

There was nothing modest about the Ducal Throne of Corbeau. The elegant Elven throne with delicate dragonglass curves, which had been the seat of the dragon lord of Rennoa not long ago, had been transformed in the aftermath of the war. The dragonglass had been melted down and reshaped to create two lions that sat as armrests while an elaborate golden arch wrapped with silver vines and intertwined with a enchanted silk web made up its back. The design was such that when the Duke was receiving guests he would appear to be flanked by majestic Raven’s wings and when he was not the raven sigil of Corbeau sat in the thread waiting.

Even less modest was the man slumped in it, his head resting upon the knuckles of his right hand whose elegant grooming showed off his position and status. The man’s eyes lilted following the conversation just enough to allow him to intervene while not distracting him from his own thoughts. As he closed his eyes for a moment a sonorous Vasharan voice massaged its way into his ears.

“Armaund?” the voice said from its perch two stairs up on the four step rise to the Ducal throne. The speaker was a dark skinned man with thick waved back black hair and a neatly groomed beard. His attire was semi-formal with a large sapphire resting in the brooch that kept its various fur and cotton components together.

The Duke shuffled for a moment and composed himself running his fingers through his hazel hair and focusing himself once more on the subject at hand. Ignoring the speaker, his eyes regained focus instead on the Statsminister who had stopped pacing and now looked at him with a half-comedic irritance.

“Still weary from the symposium?” the Statsminister remarked dryly with all the false refinery of a Franchean lowborn. He was a handsome man, well groomed with a moustache that came gently to meet his thick sideburns in a style named after the first king of Itrusk, Suvarov. Unlike the others he wore a finely tailored suit that had become increasingly the fashion among the expanding ranks of the industrial nouveau riche; dancing with the elaborate finery of nobility without being so loud as to challenge its rank and majesty.

“Madame di Constanza is quite an able drinker, we were up all night playing Krudra, singing and basking in the beauty of our world” The Duke replied with a hearty smile his eyes briefly closing to remember the young noblewoman.

“I’m surprised you’ve any fire left in you at all after a night of ‘basking.’” the Statsminister replied raising an eyebrow. As the implication left his lips a silence quickly consumed the room as the Duke and Statsminister looked keenly to one another each aware of the disrespect that had been shown, as the moment reached its pinnacle the Duke cracked and began a hearty laugh quickly joined by the Statsminister and Vasharan marshall.

“I’ll have to invite her again Gaston, and allow you and Kidane to enjoy her many virtues!” he said picking himself up from his knuckles with a renewed fire in his voice.

“I doubt it’s her virtues i’d be interested in...” The Statsminister replied cheekily his voice shifting from its usual dry faux nobility to its lowborn heritage before the pair exchanged a chuckle.

“I think perhaps it’s best we return to business Statsminister, I suspect Madame di Constanza’s beauty will take up more time than we have the luxury of wasting” the Vasharan eventually said as the chuckles subsided gesturing to the Statsminister to continue as the Duke reclined back into his seat once more focused on the matters of state.

The Statsminister gave a gentlemanly nod quickly returning to a slow pace across the width of the long ornate carpet that lead from the doorway to the steps of the Ducal throne. The carpet below shifting in colour and image as his shadow transitioned back and forth.

“As I was saying I’ve arranged for the Golgothans to have a private suite in the war room and the conclave to be given a suite in the library, with any hope it’ll keep them away from each other.” The Statsminister’s voice once again returning to a dry tone which was underlined with a slow pace that exposed his final reflections on any failings his plan may have that he had yet to prepare for.

“Duke Armaund you will visit the Golgothans when they are all together to see if we can expedite an integration, make sure to promise them your votes and remind them of your need for a wife, it will serve us well to make allies among the elector Princes. When you feel ready to return to the party Kidane will be in charge of keeping them company, I can’t imagine they’ll have any rival interests but see if we cant push for some more military aid; the Viceroy suggested we may well be able to get the rifles we need for equipping our regiments for free if we frame it right.”

“So long as I can avoid the tics I’m happy.” Kidane replied running his fingers through the red silk tassel tied to the pommel of his scimitar as he stood from the step he had been resting on his face now holding a more serious expression.

“I still don’t understand why they’ve come, they’ve ignored us for this long why bother us now?” Duke Armaund complained adjusting his posture in the throne to lean forward, his chinstrap beard sharpening the strong youthful features of his face in the light from the stained glass window that shone down upon him.

“It was a matter of time, especially after the rumours about Von Richter got out.” Gaston answered finishing his pacing at the center of the carpet. As his shadow finally stood still the pattern beneath evolved into a complex series of figures telling a story of betrayal, emptiness, rebirthing and purpose.

“Rumours I believe you spread…” Kidane said pacing over to the Statsminister’s side and raising a curious eyebrow as he allowed his left hand to rest calmly on the scimitars pommel. His shadow too cast across the carpet allowing threaded figures to tell another story of pride, fear, flight and salvation.

“We needed them to come, conflict with the conclave serves no one and we’re finally in a position to challenge their authority.” Gaston replied calmly turning his head to the Vasharan marshal for a moment before looking back at the Duke who was following the conversation carefully with his piercing green eyes.

“They won’t cause a problem, they are never more than a diplomatic faux pas away from war with the Empire even if they’ve fooled themselves otherwise, and they couldn’t win it anyway.” He added sensing a hesitate in the Duke’s face.

“We’d be casualties in that war.” Kidane said turning to appeal to the Duke “This play is too bold, it risks too much to early… It’s like playing the cantarella card in the first round.”

Duke Armaund looked at the pair processing what they’d said before leaning back confidently in his throne “He’s got us this far Kidane, and besides it’s too late to change course now. Anyway the Vasharans and Estralianans will be there too, tripling the threat they’d cause themselves if they seek to cause us any problems.” The Duke looked down briefly thinking through the horrors he’d heard about the Eastern Wars.

“Flame knows they’d be fools to make enemies with the Commonwealth’s new friends.” the Duke finally said adjusting himself on the fur seats that had been imported from the Badlands in accordance with peak Imperial fashion.

Kidane grunted as his hand squeezed the pommel more firmly “How long do we have before they arrive?”

“Within the hour we’ll have honour guards and then the Golgothans will make themselves known. It won’t be long before the other dignitaries follow.” Gaston replied.

“And the conclave?” the Duke asked adjusting a strand of his flowing hair.

Gaston looked over to the corner where a small black cat had been hiding behind an ornate Elven pillar and shot a slight smile.

“They’ve already arrived.”

---
The Duke’s Lance, Ancelstierre, Golgotha

The Duke’s Lance was far from an exciting place. The sign’s lude depiction of a drunkard noble and steed charging forth with a suggestively placed lance hung loosely outside its small doorway. The tavern was nestled deep between two otherwise indistinguishable warehouses of Ancelstierre’s dockyard and its patrons stumbled in at all hours for a breadth of escape from their daily monotony. Inside its walls various trinkets from the taverns history were placed on oddly placed shelves that told a history of its development, most proudly was the brass Crest of Ancelstierre it had earned for its ‘services to the people of Ancelstierre during the 50 Year Siege’ that hung behind the bar. The patrons lulled around the small central room making vague disjointed small talk as they nursed their ales and the bartender kept himself busy cleaning the flagons between service.

“The Gears?” Gotfrïed said in the small upstairs suite that had until recently served as a makeshift nap room for those patrons having a hard day. Now a desk with a partially filled map of Ancelstierre marked with various symbols and colours pertaining to its criminal underworld sat at its heart.

“Too vague, we need something that frames us as vigilantes if the guards come after us, the Justicars?” Christa replied. Her voice reeked of her upbringing in Kislev and carried with it bitter notes of resentment.

“There are a hundred Justicars across Minern! Lets have some originality Christa. We shall be the... ‘Vox Populi’, it’s taken from the imperial oath but with a tinge of class.” Solomon was a striking presence in the room standing tall with his Bursan tan and finely woven tailored attire whose striking colours exposed him as a merchant prince. In arriving to the location he’d been forced to conceal himself under a thick dull brown cloak which now hung on the door far from his majesty.

Solomon had arrived some months before to Ancelstierre to act as an aid to the Speaker of the Ducal Republic of Bursa. This however had mostly been a matter of keeping track of which Golgothan prince ruled which territory and which of them knew where Bursa was let alone cared about its interests.

“It’s too sophisticated, Vox Populi’s the kind of term only a noble would use. We’ll keep it simple... ‘The People’s Voice’.” Gotfrïed replied, he was a well built man with short cropped black hair and the worn facial features which matched the tired hands of an overworked labourer, of the trio he was the only one who had been born and raised in Ancelstierre but it had been some months since he left work in the docks.

“Agreed” Solomon said moving his finger along the map as he identified the street they found themselves on marking it with chalk as he found it. He then leaned back and tapped on the large symbol whose colour dominated the surrounding area of the docks.

“These are the Steamers, yes? Tell me about them.” He said with a firm tone.

“They nearly got wiped out about two decades back, but they’ve had a renewed expansion in the last couple of years under some new leader, so all in all they’re relatively new on the scene.” Christa replied in a cold calm tone as she stroked a small scar that sat quietly across her cheek looking over at Gotfrïed as if to ask if he had anything to add.

“Violent bastards. Used to be they mostly was narcotics but nowadays it’s a lot of underground fights.” Gotfrïed responded crossing his arms across his chest as he spoke and moving to rest against the wall.

“Tell me about the fights, do the gendarmerie know?” Solomon asked inspecting the borders of the Steamers ‘territory’ and looking for any notable buildings.

“They get a cut so they look the other way. They figures it don’t hurt anyone… well no one that don’t ask for it... Fights have a rep for being bloody, lot of the time the Steamers drug one of the combatants on opioids so they don’t feel the pain and just become a punching bag for their champs.” Gotfrïed replied before looking over to Christa “You still got an in?”

“It’ll cost us a few marks but I can get us an address” Christa replied. She ran a finger through her weathered blonde hair ripping apart a series of knots with her fingers as she went. Christa was pretty in a rough way but had made sure anyone that had taken her for a weak princess had learned to regret their mistake.

“Money isn’t an issue. Get an address and stage an incident, when the gendarmes are indecisive we’ll mobilise the dockworkers against them. Gotfrïed you will be the face of the organisation and Christa you work in the shadows. It’s vital for the Alpha’s plans we take the capital, there cannot be any mistakes.” Solomon’s voice had a heavy tone as he spoke, paired with prolonged gaze into both of his associates eyes. All three had been specifically chosen for the operation and had accomplished reputations within the Grey Wolves, but this would be quite a different task to anything before.

[Greater Latica]

River Pyr 18/04 4E175

Prince Mathias looked out into the distance where the rocky outcrop that was the Island of Corbeau lurked in the dark waters of the Pyr river. He was no stranger to this journey, having played a part in the creation of the alliance that had ended the greenskin threat many, many years ago, back when his principality was an insignificant colony.

His niece on the other hand, was not used to this journey, looking as if she was about to throw up. Hands gripping the railing tightly as the cruiser bounced at a dramatic pace across the waves towards the island.

Genevieve Aerya de Binette-Averland, Princess of Rivieroux and Earl of Delsoir raised a hand to her mouth as she fought back the urge to wretch, her visage standing in complete contrast to the elegance of her titles.

Prince Mathias looked over his shoulder at the Princess, who was increasingly turning green, and smirked, “Holding up well over there?”, trying to hide the pleasure he was taking in her discomfort.

A sharp laugh came from behind Mathias as the unique Teusten-Franchean accent of Prince Morvran drifted over; “She’s doing better than most of the sorry saps I sailed with in the Carvanian Navy.” The man chuckled again; “Which isn't saying much…”

Morvran had been both a strategically placed Count and Admiral of Carvania’s fleet during the War of Carvanian Resistance, and his loyalty to Golgotha throughout that conflict had earned him his principality now. The man had quite the background with connections to almost every port in northern Minern, as a result of his father’s occupation as a cartographer and his early naval career, connections he had used to defy expectations and almost become Emperor during the last imperial election.

“It’s uncomfortable,” replied Prince Mathias, “but it beats riding a camel any day of the week!”

“Hah!” Both Princes laughed as Morvran added; “Can't say I've ever ridden a camel before… Still these currents have nothing on the waves of the open ocean.” He smiled, shaking his head almost nostalgically.

Genevieve ignored the two smirking Princes and gripped the railing tightly, stumbling a little as the ship lurched down through the river’s sea-like waves. Although she had spent time on ships growing up, joint as her family was between the lands of Rivieroux and Averstierre, since reaching maturity she had lived solely in Delsoir, learning the art of politics and protocol from her mother’s courtiers and advisors. Needless to say she had become completely unaccustomed to travelling by ship, and the experience was wreaking havoc on her.

“All this just to go to a party…” She scoffed irritably.

“You will find parties, my dear, to be among of the most important engagements for Princes of the Empire.” The matronly voice of Prince Maryvonne comforted as the Franchean Prince emerged onto the cruiser’s deck.

The Prince cut a regal sight in her sapphire blue dress and was accompanied by her husband, the Chevalier de Courvoisier, whose ornate gold armour seemed to shine brightly in the darkness that was slowly enveloping them as the cruiser began to approach to the island.

Despite the stern tone of her words, she approached Genevieve and put a sympathetic arm around her. The girl reminded Maryvonne of a young Amelia Van Der Barr, whom she had once had to comfort and guide through the troubles of the Carvanian Succession Crisis and the following War of Resistance. As the only significant Franchean noble of appropriate standing to survive that war, and for her role in getting Amelia to sign the ensuing peace agreement, Maryvonne had been recognised as Prince of Franchea at Vishoch, and her instincts for kindness and cooperation, tempered with her shrewd grasp of politics had granted her the friendship of many within the upper echelons of the Empire.

“It's true!” Mathias chuckled, adding; “By far one of the best things about being a Prince.”

“Indeed…” Maryvonne nodded, squeezing Genevieve’s hand and glancing away as the girl finally let the contents of her stomach out over the side of the ship.

“That's it. Get it out of your system!” Mathias cried, “It'll leave more room for the wine!”

“The Corbeauni are all Francheans are they not, Maryvonne?” Morvran asked, remaining composed and ignoring Genevieve’s retching.

“Mostly yes, a good number of the families disinherited during the war and the second sons of several others all formed together to take the island, though I only gave my personal blessing to the operation later.” Prince Maryvonne answered, gently patting Genevieve’s back before passing her a silk handkerchief to wipe her mouth with.

“Well then they will at least have good taste in wine.” Mathias chuckled.

Morvran nodded, clearly deep in thought about the political situation they would be walking into.

“What about the elves…?” It was Genevieve’s turn to ask, finally composing herself to address the elephant on the deck as she handed the handkerchief back.

Within the borders of the empire, elves, half-elves and other non-humans were formally treated with respect. Discrimination existed, especially in the west where Teustenstierre, which had been annexed into the Empire to end the genocide being waged by King Starkalt III against the elven-blooded citizens of Mierra, but on the whole Golgotha valued the industry and labour of its citizens far more than the shape of their ears.

The other Princes exchanged awkward glances. Even Morvran, who had been staring off towards the island in thought, shot Maryvonne a knowing look as she quickly disposed of the handkerchief.

Genevieve, along with her sister, had inherited the pointed ears of their mother Ilya, who as Queen of Rivieroux had been part of a lineage of half-elf monarchs. Despite Ilya’s marriage to Mathias’s brother Prince Leopold, who was of entirely human ancestry, the strong elven traits of her bloodline would continue to be passed on for at least another generation or two.

“What have you heard?” Maryvonne asked, her tone noticeably softer now.

“That they enslaved them all and work them to death in pits... That families are separated and sold off to the four corners of Minern!” The young woman’s voice raised, somewhat dramatically.

“Slavery has existed beyond the borders of the Empire for millennia. It predates even the Ascendancy.” Prince Morvran said, somewhat matter-of-factly.

“But targeting elves specifically…” Genevieve shook her head, adding quietly; “How are they going to see me, as a rare commodity or a common piece of meat?”

“Do not worry Genevieve, I will make sure you aren't treated unfairly.” Mathias declared confidently in response, rattling his ceremonial sword in its sheath. “Whatever these Corbeauni want from Golgotha, they shan't get it by insulting our family.”

“Indeed, the presence of a warship sitting in their harbour and a full complement of Askari and Chevalier ought to deter trouble.”

“I still don't like the idea of dancing and making out all friendly with such savage people....” Genevieve tutted before glancing at Maryvonne; “No offence.”

Maryvonne scoffed; “None taken… still if you have such strong objections dear, I have to ask, why did you come?” Maryvonne raised a curious greying eyebrow.

Mathias smirked. “Ilya said she had to. Said it'd teach her a few things...”

Maryvonne nodded, that sounded like Ilya alright. Genevieve simply huffed.

As the ship slowed, finally coming into port, the Princes and nobles lined up on the deck as the modest welcoming party came into view. Genevieve stood, arms linked with Maryvonne, and Mathias resting a reassuring hand on her other shoulder, while the Chevalier and Prince Morvran flanked them. To the welcoming party, they must have looked like a small dysfunctional family, but between them, the power they wielded could rival any other nation on the continent, never mind that they were here representing the rest of the Golgothan Empire as well.

Medina 20/04 4E-155

The sounds of sporadic rifle fire died out, the echos seeming to linger down the desolated streets for entire moments. The guns stopped, falling silent for the first time in three years, an eerie quiet descended, it was only now that the city’s occupants had come to the realisation of Medina’s true state. Whilst there was gunfire, shouts and screams, the city had seemed alive, now it seemed to be dead, it’s life force ebbing away with each of those final defiant shots, like the final snowflakes of winter. A gentle wind blew down the empty streets bringing with it the smell of soot, ash and smouldering wood. The only noise to break the silence was the gentle chink-chink-chink of a Golgothan flag hanging limply in the breeze from the roof of the unfinished Imperial Palace.

From atop the palace it really hit home what the city was really like, brutalised by years of conflict, not a single building was left untouched by the scars of battle, pockmarked with bullet holes and fire damaged. Not far away in the bleeding square stood the hulking mass of the six legged behemoth walkers, having taken the square by defiantly marching down the Medinian cannons to take the Aristozia. Once Golgothan flags flew from both buildings, the armies of the Sunset Empire began to surrender. At the foot of the Imperial Palace, only hours ago the scene of intense fighting and resistance, Sunset troops came out of their positions, discarding their weapons and uniforms, hands raised. It seemed as if the totality of the last three years had hit them all at once. Soldiers that had been stubborn die-hards now just looked exhausted, smeared with blood, dirt and grime, uniforms ripped and torn, covered in ash and brick dust.

As soon as it had come into existence, the Sunset Empire’s flame had been extinguished.

20/04 4E-175

Twenty years had passed since Golgotha’s victory and the city was unrecognisable. Not only had buildings and houses been rebuilt and the streets cleared, but the City’s new masters had set about a policy of trying to import the culture of the Empire and stamp out anything that linked too much to the ‘old past’. The old bleeding square had been renamed, ‘Emperor Karl Franz Square’ and a statue of him had been erected in the centre to hide its original purpose. Many streets and buildings had undergone the same transformations, at least officially anyway, names were often ingrained into public vernacular. One building that escaped the rejuvenation was the Imperial Palace. It had been left as it had been when the war concluded, unfinished and gutted by fire. Black streaks reached up from every window, it’s pale exterior finish forever tarnished. It stood as a solemn memorial to those who had given their lives, and as a stern reminder for what happens to those that try to take on the might of the Empire.

Although the Sunset had been broken up, Medina was still recognised to have importance, even if the members of the Aristozia had been dragging progress to joining the Empire proper, delays that had recently resulted in Morthin’s Declaration of Independence and subsequent accession as a fiefdom. Ever since the Golgothan authorities had handed back civil control to a reformed Aristozia, they had taken the liberty of voting on the maintenance of its membership of the Commonwealth.

The rhythmic pounding of boots on stone echoed around Emperor Karl Franz Square, where a crowd had assembled to watch the detachment of the Imperial Army march through, forming line opposite the Aristozia, now housing the Medinian assembly. This tradition had resulted from the Aristocratic Revolution, when the Aristozia seized control of the vote, voting for independence, and bringing the state to the verge of civil war, before the Imperial Crown stepped in, sending the army to break down the doors and disarm the hastily raised militias.

The crowd was silent, as the front door opened, and one of the footmen stood out in full view, he unfurled a scroll and loudly proclaimed that the Assembly had chosen to continue their membership of the commonwealth. With that the Imperial army turned and marched out of the square, with only the marching and words of command breaking the silence. Membership of the commonwealth was still a contentious issue in Medinian society. Both the heyday of the Sunset Empire and the War of the Two Empires were within living memory, but so was the reconstruction and reconciliation. An entire generation had grown up only knowing life as part of the commonwealth, but older Generations even remembered life before the Sunset. There was pressure for Medina’s Independence, but also for further integration as a Principality. There were concerns over the control exerted by the Empire, especially when compared to Carvania, Medina had watched as the Eastern provinces tried to declare independence, only to be crushed by Golgothan troops. No one was sure that the Empire would be prepared to let go of their hard won prize.

[Cheye]

Beneath the Borderland Palace, Farford, Farvas - 4E-153

The darkness of the cell was overwhelming. Rats squeaked and scurried by somewhere close to Talia Grimm’s head as she lay there, curled up in a ball, regretting her decision to ever come home to Farvas.

Her body ached from the protracted torture that her captor continued to expose her to and her head spun from the hunger and thirst that had become her daily reality.

As she felt a rat brush past, inches from her face, she wriggled uncomfortably and grumbled. If only her hands not been chained to the wall she might have tried to catch it. If only her innate magical power had not been suppressed by the wards that her captor had embedded into the walls of the cell, she might have tried to cook it… Or blow the door to the cell open with a fiery explosion. If only she had the strength to face the fight that would surely have followed.

If only, if only, if only.

Talia let out a resigned sigh as she closed her eyes, trying not to think about all the things that had gone wrong to lead her to this point. All the things that, if only she had done differently, might not have led her to this sorry cell.

If only she had known when she had set off from Saiph to protect her family from the backlash of the Baron’s Revolt, that the revolt had in fact been a fiction, invented by an evil that had secretly consumed the country of her birth.

If only Count Morvran had looked less kindly upon her when she had been captured crossing wartorn Carvania and had stopped her from ever setting foot in Farvas again.

If only upon arriving and discovering the true fate of her father and of the other Barons and their families that she had simply turned around and left. Her sisters would never have been brought into this if she hadn't been caught.

If only she had kept her wits about her when she had entered the palace to find said sisters.

If only she had fought harder when the vampires descended on her.

If only she had done more to stop her captor from murdering Mara, her youngest sister, just to try and extract information from her. Information she didn't possess...

A scream from the adjacent cell interrupted Talia’s reflective state of self-pity. Now she fought back tears.

If only she could put an end to her other sister’s suffering.

Talia shook her chains, rising to her knees defiantly as Lena screamed again.

“LEAVE HER ALONE YOU ANIMAL!” She howled into the darkness, desperately hoping to alleviate her sister’s suffering before it was too late.

Strangely the screams seemed to stop. There was a long moment of silence that in the darkness of the cell Talia found impossible to time.

Suddenly the door to her cell was thrown open. The dark robed, pale faced figure of her captor illuminated by the flickering torch light behind him.

There was another long silence as he looked down at her, an inhuman level of disdain etched across his ghostly visage. She just knelt there, silent, waiting for the torture to begin once more.

Eventually he spoke; “Well, after all this time and effort…. it would seem your story checks out.”

Talia glared up at him. She wasn't sure how well he could see her in the darkness, but his dark eyes seemed locked on her, devoid of pity or remorse.

“We have received confirmation of your story from our agents in both Saiph and Ista upon Pyr… Not to mention your sister has confirmed your every word... under duress of course.” Her captor smiled, relishing the memories of torture. “To think, we thought you a Lancel spy, or worse a witch hunter… sent to ruin everything.” He scoffed; “As if the cattle would be so smart… Instead here you are, a scared little girl, lost in the dark.”

Something about the condescending tone of the vampire irritated her, and she spat back; “I am no scared little girl! I am Talia Orianna Grimm, Verified Sorceress of the Tower of Magisters and Court Wizard to the Viziers of Saiph! Were it not for the wards in this cell I could obliterate you with just a smile and a wave of my hand, beast!”

Her captor nodded, grinning wickedly. Suddenly he stepped into the cell, moving closer towards her as he replied; “Yes, yes you are… And you will make a fine addition to our family.”

It took her a second to realise his meaning, and then he was on her, the fangs that he had used to torturously draw blood from her so many times already, now clamping around her throat. She let out a fiery growl of resistance as she tried to adjust her body and shake her captor off. It was futile.

He was being even rougher with her than he had been before. She felt her throat almost rip open as he pinned back her hair, his pale bald head gripped in place like a leech. She felt a warm magical sensation pass over her body and then she slowly lost consciousness, sprawling out beneath the vampire on the cold dungeon floor...


Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

As the Golgothan cruiser steamed into port far-below, a large white bat fluttered on the wind, slipping into the Chateau that had once been a Dragon Lord’s Palace through an open window near the kitchens.

Once inside, the bat deftly maneuvered through a small hole in a nearby wall to a room bustling with servants and then on through an open doorway to the hallway beyond before gliding elegantly down a flight of stairs and suddenly transforming into a stunningly dressed young woman.

Talia Van Drak wore her ashen hair in an elegant bun, a few white strands hanging loose over her pale face. Her aquamarine dress swirled around her dramatically as she materialised, and she took a moment to adjust her ermine fur gloves and white opal necklace before stepping forward into the labyrinth of passageways that ran through the clifftop Chateau.

“Sorry my lady, but guests are required to remain upstairs.” A servant’s voice greeted her as she turned a nondescript corner.

“I'm terribly sorry!” She replied innocently; “I must have gotten lost…”

She fought back a chuckle as the man smiled reassuringly; “Not to worry, if you follow me I can escort you back to the main rooms, more guests should be starting to arrive now.”

The lost girl act worked every time, though it often reminded of her of that time in Carvania when it hadn't been an act.

She allowed the servant to lead her up the stairs she had just flown down and direct her towards the beating heart of the Chateau.

As a black cat suddenly stepped out from a doorway nearby and meowed softly, she stopped and nodded to the servant; “I should be alright from here.”

“My lady, I should see you back to the ballroom safely…” He replied, somewhat sternly.

She leaned towards him, her pink lips coming tantalisingly close to his throats before she planted them gently on his cheek. “I'm fine. Thank you for looking after me.” She whispered softly.

He blushed and backed away, bowing awkwardly and grinning to himself.

When he had finally left, Lucien de la Grey materialised from the form of the black cat. His black and red finery standing in stark contrast to her aquamarine and white.

“I was wondering when you'd show up.” He said emotionlessly.

“Lena needed help picking the masks.” She answered.

Lucien shrugged, seeming not to understand her meaning.

“It is a masquerade.” Talia hissed back; “We might as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Well I hope your get remembers why she's here…” Lucien muttered, retreating into the doorway he had appeared from as a trio of servants entered the hallway, heading in the direction of the party.

“She's not my ‘get’. She's my sister! You know what I think of all that ridiculous outdated terminology.” Talia tutted, following him.

“I do. I also know what your sire thinks of your attitude towards it.” Lucien said disapprovingly.

“You leave Vaas to me. I learned how to handle him a long time ago.”

“Well, feel free to teach the rest of us some time...” Lucien scoffed.

Vaas Van Drak’s vile nature and reputation for savage cruelty was exceptional, even among vampirekind. It had not been long after he had turned her, in that dark little cell, that she had discovered his weak spot however.

Although she had wanted to kill him as soon as she had gotten free, the magical blood bond that now connected her to him was far too intense to allow her to even contemplate it without making her feel suicidal. Besides, she had needed him in those early days to teach her how to control what he had called her new ‘gift’.

Although he had called it a ‘gift’, she refused to see it as such. Partly because of the non-consensual way it had been thrust upon her, and partly because of the fact that her scientific sorceress’ mind refused to see it as anything other than a new physical and emotional condition. Worse still was her sire’s proclivity for referring to mortals as ‘cattle’ and his penchant for flying into fits of rage whenever things didn't go his way.

She had considered running away in those early days; her emotional connection to her imprisoned sister waning thin as it was suddenly replaced by a singular desire to indulge her newfound hunger. She barely cared about anyone or anything else any more, but once she had become more adjusted, once she had taken on board some of Vaas’s teachings, she was able to deduce that the void in her heart was not a natural one and that it was simply a result only of her vampiric condition. She knew in her mind that she still cared for her sister, even if the warmth inside her had disappeared, and therefore, slowly she convinced herself that Lena’s life still meant something for her.

When Vaas had discovered this, he wanted to have Lena thrown to the crypt ghouls to punish Talia for thinking she could still have such ‘cattle-like feelings’, but Talia had received a tip-off from another vampire in Farvas about how she might manipulate Vaas if he ever tried to hurt her, and the tip-off had proven true.

She refused to think back to what she had had to give her sire to get him to free Lena. Even after that he had only allowed it once Talia agreed to turn Lena into a vampire herself to secure her loyalty. It was comparatively a small price to pay, just to feel that something, no matter how small, had worked out for her.

In the years since, the unliving sisters had looked out for one another and done their best to mitigate the tyranny of Talia’s sire. Most recently Talia had satiated his incessant desire for more territory by returning to Saiph, and within a few short months of her reappearance there, the Van Drak vampires had conquered the place - with no small amount of help from the rest of the conclave.

Lucien looked around the small room they had entered as Talia tried to hide the fact she was reflecting on her unlife up to this point. The room was well decorated, but nothing special, a spare sitting room for entertaining any visitors as they waited to be received by the Duke.

“So how did your little reconnaissance mission go? Any sign of our rogue vampire?” Talia asked, changing the subject.

“No... But I discovered that our hosts are expecting us.”

“Expecting us?” Talia frowned, from the few decades she had spent as a vampire, one of the things she had learned well had been that vampires weren't supposed to be expected by mortals. With a few notable exceptions. “Has there been another leak? I know Ignatius Arell has concerns about the embassy in Medina, concerns that your sire was supposed to be looking into before he disappeared!”

“That's not it.” Lucien said confidently. “Our friend in Medina assured us that those leaks have been plugged. No, our hosts were too well informed of our customs. Only a handful of mortals know we even call ourselves the Conclave and they are all too busy trying to conquer the rest of the world to have had anything to do with this pit. No, this is something else… something more… and they knew we'd be listening…”

Talia’s frown only intensified as she watched Lucien. The handsome de la Grey vampire’s words implied cause for concern, but she heard only curiosity in his voice and saw only intrigue on his face.

“Come.” He said suddenly, brushing a strand of his messy black hair back before clapping his hands. “We should find Waldoff and your get, they may have learned something more about our mysterious hosts, or better yet they may have already found our target…”

[Sarrin]

Battle of Mortepeche, Pyr County, Carvania, 23/7 4E-153

“We have it father! Victory is in our grasp!” The chevalier shouted from the battlefield as he struck down a Golgothan soldier. Around him blood and bodies smeared the land in a gruesome tribute to it’s heritage as an execution site under the Ascendency.

“For Franchea! For the Van Der Barr!” The older chevalier shouted back as he engaged a pair of pikemen manipulating the pike of one into the chest of the other as he decapitated them both with a grunt. In the distance Golgothan soldiers could be seen retreating as the Franchean cavalry descended onto their rear trapping as many as they could into a killzone. The resistance knew well that every kill counted and they couldn’t risk mercy and grace.

The younger chevalier charged towards his elder engaging a Golgothan officer who had moved to take advantage of the elder’s rest after his strike. The elder took a moment to gaze across the field seeing the mounting dead around him. Some Franchean. Some Golgothan. In the distance sparse and disorganised gunfire could be heard as soldiers desperately tried to hold off their end or take revenge for their country.

“The traitor Morvran will pay for this, every true Franchean that dies here is on him” the younger said as he plunged his blade into the Golgothan officers chest collapsing him onto the floor. The officer squirmed as life began to slowly leave his body. As the elder turned to look at his younger he saw as the officer raised his arm lifting a revolver towards his son “LOUIS!” the elder shouted as the Golgothan squeezed down on the pistol and a deafening bang tore through the battlefield.

The elder looked over to see his son clutching his chest pointing to the sky as the Golgothan beside him lay dead. “Father…” his son said and Philip turned to the sky to see a large round fly into the center of the field. BOOM! BOOM BOOM! Another three rounds echoed into the field as the round exploded in the center of a chevalier division ripping them apart and throwing their parts around the field.

Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau, 18/04 4E-175

Philip shut his eyes for a moment unable to stop the memory from consuming him. He clutched the banister of the balcony and opened his eyes gazing once more on the Golgothan warship that sat just off the harbour.

“Incredible aren’t they?” Gaston said emerging from the doorway with two glasses of a sweet rose wine. Amidst the industrial revolution that had been thrust upon the island the agricultural sector had been largely turned to vineyards boosted by Elven magics to allow grapes to grow faster, better and richer in flavour.

“We never stood a chance.” Philip let out in his thick aged Franchean accent speaking as much to himself as to the Statsminister. The chevalier was now in his 70s with thick silvery white hair and a heavy moustache, the few scars of war now hidden amidst the wrinkles of age.

“You were fighting honourably, they were fighting dirty. You’ve seen enough theatre to know honourable men never survive the first act.” The Statsminister replied dryly passing a glass over to the old man who took it releasing his grip from the banister still keeping his gaze on the ship.

“They’ve sent an Elf and a butcher in their delegation Gaston, they’re toying with us.” the older lord finally spoke turning his gaze towards the young bureaucrat.

“The Duke has nothing against Elves and neither do I or the small council my lord. You know as well as I do that slavery is a necessity to maintain our control, if they had freedom they would rise against us and overwhelm us with their numbers.” Gaston replied calmly before taking a sip of his wine.

Philip grunted. The Statsminister was right of course even Lord Creznovik in the Pitt viewed Elves as a means instead of with any real spite, though for him they were as much a means to express his anger as to surge the economy. Outsiders wouldn’t understand the practicality though, he was the ‘Iron Chevalier’, Lord of Chainharbour and the face of the Corbeau Elven Slave trade.

Gaston studied the lord’s face telling his discomfort. “They’ll no doubt have the Duke explain such matters he is prepared for such a question” he said calmly.

Philip's eyes dropped for a moment with a slight sigh before he spoke “Does the Duke need me to speak with anyone?”

“You’ll be in the ballroom so just play nice with the various Chevalier that came, many will want to pay you respect for your service even with the Golgothan delegation near.” Gaston paused for a moment before continuing as if considering the right words “If Morvran approaches you I’ll have the Marshall or the Duke intercede for you, just try to be civil until then.”

Philip nodded slightly. Thirty-Seven. He thought. Thirty-Seven sons, daughters, cousins, brothers. Now he was being asked to be civil to the man behind it all.

“If the Duke wishes it.” he replied coldly.

[Greater Latica]

Viceroy’s Palace, Noble District, Corbeau - 18/04/4E175

Prince Mathias stared into the mirror as one of his attendants buckled up the leather straps of his cuirass. The Cuirass had become an iconic symbol of Golgothan authority, becoming a popular dress item amongst Imperial Princes, though now they were more of a fashion statement than of any practical use, the steel thickness being much thinner than actual battle armour and were often fitted with large decorative elements. Mathias’ was no exception. On his right shoulder he wore a pauldron sculpted in the shape of an elephant’s head, it’s ears formed rondels front and back on his cuirass, two curved brass tusks projected out to the side, and his vambrace extending down his right forearm formed the creature’s trunk.

A second attendant approached, Mathias raised his hands, and the attendant began to wrap the long dark blue coloured cloth belt around his waist several times and fastened it with a brass clasp, leaving a long piece to flow down his leg, stopping just above the knee. As the first attendant returned with Mathias’s curved tulwar sabre in its black leather covered scabbard and belt, Mathias’ mind began to wander, thinking about this evening’s proceedings, and his tasks.

He was to assess Corbeau’s potential membership of the Empire, that wouldn’t a difficult affair, he’d have to find out its economic, social and political standing, and uncover any divides or special issues that might hinder their future role in the Empire. His thoughts drifted onto why he and the other Golgothan Princes had elected to join him for this task, all of them had only become Principalities within the last 20 years. Mathias had the inclination that cultural ties were the reason, Corbeau, had for all intents and purposes been colonised by Francheans, Maryvonne’s presence made a lot of sense, and Morvranhad been raised in Franchea for several years himself. As for Genevieve, she had been raised in Rivieroux, one of Franchea’s old colonies before the Ascendancy, giving her a degree of Franchean blood in spite of her elven heritage. Mathias suspected even that was a test, for both her and for the Corbeauni. Unlike a lot of human ruled countries, Elves had citizenship rights in the Empire, a somewhat controversial issue, especially considering the arrogance often attributed to Elven culture.

Mathias felt his inclusion was important too, born to a native princess with a distant Golgothan royal for a father, he had had extensive education in history, law, diplomacy, and economics. His father felt guilty about hiding his secret child, and as such he’d had the unparalleled opportunity to attend a number of the best universities and military academies in the Empire. But Mathias didn’t think that was the only reason.

Emperor Ferdinand worked in mysterious ways, he wasn’t obvious and as straight to the point as his predecessor. The Emperor commanded great respect across the entirety of Minern, and could have asked any member of the council to do this and they’d have leapt at the chance, many of them would have been much better for the task, his half brother Prince Leopold, or Prince Marius, men whose actions had set the entire world on its current course. Why him and not them?

The only thing that had crossed his mind was the Carvanian War of Resistance. Nova Golgotha was the only state not to contribute any soldiers to that conflict, instead committing their forces to preventing a resurgence of the Greenskin threat to the south, after Ironskar’s horde had been broken and destroyed at the Battle of Bursa. As such he had played no role in the conflict that had divided many, pitting brother against brother, and friend against friend, and still caused rifts to this day. The former counts, now Princes, were derided as traitors by some and lorded as heroes by others in equal measure.

A knock on the door snapped Prince Mathias out of his thoughts and back into the real world. Without breaking his gaze from the mirror, he waved his hand and one of his attendants opened the door.

One of Mathias’ Askari lifeguards stepped smartly through the door, rested the stock of his rifle on the floor and smartly saluted, “Your highness, your escort is here, they’re waiting for you downstairs”

“Very well, lead the way.” Mathias shrugged to test the fit of his royal blue cloak that was fastened around his neck with a brass chain. He motioned with his other hand, and the second attendant picked up his mask from the small table and lowered it over his head onto the bridge of his nose. The mask covered across his brow and down the right side of his face, it was a silver-white, and decorated with a black and gold swirling pattern. He gave himself one final look in the mirror, before turning to follow the lifeguard out of the room.

[Sarrin]

Noble District, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

“It is quite interesting to think that we fought on different sides for much of the war.” Prince Morvran mused, continuing their idle conversation and patting the Chevalier de Courvoisier on the arm as the Golgothan delegation made its way up towards the castle led by a small delegation of Corbeani nobles.

The Princes had stopped off at the Viceroy’s Palace on the way to the ball to collect their masks and change into their more elaborate outfits for the evening. Morvran now sported a round golden mask in the shape of a sun, golden sunbeams fanning out around his head and matching with the glints of gold leaf from his uniform and contrasting nicely with the silver of his own cuirass.

“Indeed.” The Chevalier answered, his mask was also gold, matching the traditional armour of his order that glistened in the moonlight, but his was simply a more traditional square to hide his face. “I also find it interesting to think that if I had joined that grand Resistance Army we were all so proud of at the Battle of the Pyr, your little maneuver would have been the death of me. It was quite ingenious really…”

“The idea was first tested at Mortepeche, I honed it from there.”

“Many good Chevalier lost their lives at Mortepeche…” Michal let out quietly, glad his face was hidden as he remembered.

“Many good Chevalier also died fighting against the Resistance.” The Prince replied, though his tone was soft.

The seasoned Chevalier nodded, adjusting his mask and running a finger through his wispy grey hair as it blew in the wind as the party climbed higher.

Morvran continued; “You know, I was at the Black Banquet the day the Franchean Lords… and Edmure… and his family, were murdered…” Morvran sighed, remembering sadly. “Up until that point, I believe Count Olivier was the only Franchean committed to the Carvanian Resistance. Indeed, the rest wanted to work with the Golgothans as I did…” Morvran shook his head. “The chaos those murders caused… I… The Empire… None of us wanted that.”

“Franchea practically descended into its own civil war at that point… Never mind the plague!” The Chevalier shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know you survived that massacre…” It was Courvoisier’s turn to pat the Prince on the shoulder.

The Prince nodded; “I survived because my food was delayed and I hadn’t drunk anything before the meal…” Morvran sighed again. “Were it not for a simple mix-up in the kitchens, I too would have gone the way of the others. The only survivor who actually ate at the banquet was Emperor Ferdinand of course.”

Up ahead, Mathias grunted and fired back over his shoulder; “He’s a hard bastard, that’s for sure.”

It was the Chevalier’s wife who turned next, her face hidden behind a narrow effeminate mask of royal blue, matching her dress, a blue peacock feather blowing from the side of it; “If you gentlemen are quite finished banging on about a war that ended twenty years ago… Our hosts were telling us where we need to go from here.” Maryvonne’s tone might have seemed condescending were it not for the knowing smile on her face as she spoke.

“I wouldn’t worry Prince Maryvonne, so long as the men can follow we’ll make it to the palace, they’d be hard pressed to miss it!” the Madame di Constanza said wrapping her arm around Maryvonne’s. Her own mask was that of an ornate purple fox whose soft features exaggerated her own.

“Be careful. If we leave them unattended they’ll end up running off to a tavern and reenacting the the Val Lypyr campaign.” Maryvonne chuckled, she was only half-joking.

“Oh I imagine father would love that but he’s under strict orders to take them to the castle. We can’t have you all missing the masquerade especially after you’ve come all this way!” The Madame had a fake warmness about her that did little to conceal her natural introversion.

Maryvonne could tell, of course, even if the Madame’s face was hidden behind that mask, but she paid it no mind. Instead she nodded in agreement and gestured for the others to keep up.

Genevieve walked off to one side, her flowing ice blue ball gown raised slightly to ease her uphill strides. Her mask was white, resembling in shape that of a cat.

As they walked on, slowly but surely they noticed an increasing number of similarly dressed nobles and other revellers charting the same course up the steps towards their destination. Through the masks brief glimpses at the Askari and Chevaliers escorting the Golgothans were noted with few nobles daring to get close.

“And here we are!” The Lord di Constanza boomed to no one in particular turning from his conversation with the similarly masked Viceroy.

Before the delegation stood the ornate walls of the palace grounds which were supremely Elven in appearance with the thin metal interwoven like vines with flashes of what appeared to be real nature emerging throughout. It’s gate an ornate celebration of craftsmanship from which the aromas of exotic fauna lofted through triumphantly. In contrast to this design however were the seemingly new statues either side of the gate which sat on old plinths depicting a pair of Chevaliers dutifully gazing forward, swords on their backs and rifle butts rested on the ground. On the shoulder of each of the statues a raven perched eyeing up the passing nobles.

As the delegation approached, the history of Corbeau sprung to life. Before them was a grand garden decorated with fauna from across Minern all of which bloomed resplendently in a concert of sight and smell. Hedges acted as dividers allowing white cobblestone paths to navigate through the garden whose key junctions were marked by smooth and detailed statues of heroes and beasts of legend, many of whom acted as the centerpiece for beautiful fountains.

Most grand of all however was the great fountain at the heart of the garden at nearly 10ft in diameter carved from marble and decorated with engravings of water nymphs and other such creatures swimming along the base. Astride it’s center was a majestic raven carved from a single block of obsidian, every individual feather of its outstretched wings made from a different onyx chip. At first glance the statue appeared almost ready to take flight as the stored and projected sunlight of the magical water gave false life to the feathery gems.

Behind this garden, the illustrious palace stood elegantly beneath the sky, it’s sides flanked by two spiraling towers which served to exaggerate the height of its central structure upon which the typical elven draconic imagery had now been replaced with ravens. Each spire carried gorgeous banners stretching from the top floor to near the base, proudly showing to the world the new flag of Corbeau. In the central structure the great stained glass windows which faced out to the garden depicted the triumphant takeover of Corbeau. Above it was a grand balcony, upon which a solitary figure could be distantly seen gazing down onto the gathering nobles who meandered around the garden.

“Tell the chamberlain we have arrived, and quick! These are our honoured guests!” The Lord di Constanza added to a guard by the gate shooing him away as quickly as he turned to a young waiter gesturing for him to come and serve them wine.

As the waiter came closer the young Madame di Constanza released her arm from Maryvonne pointing to a small Tabornian Winter Rose whose signature blue petals unseasonably bloomed beside Prince Morvan.

“Beautiful is it not? The flowers bloom all year!” the Madame di Constanza excitedly remarked with a wide smile.

“It is quite magnificent.” Prince Morvran answered, turning in a circle as the group entered in order to take it and the other resplendent flowers in.

“They say the Elven soil is magic, creating the ideal conditions for anything that grows within.” the Lord di Constanza mused proudly beneath his dark sapphire blue mask whose cheeks were decorated with ornate petals.

“My lords, champagne or wine?” A human waiter asked interrupting the conversation, his voice clearly wary of the armed guards that now stared warily at him. His attire was classically Corbeauni appearing as a tuxedo suit with sharp elven finesse that gave the shoulders a flowery refinement.

As the Golgothans selected their drinks, an audible smack and a curse of insults erupted from behind them as a well-built man in an ill-fitting suit of black finery bumped into an older noble who had been attempting to leave the gardens after the various Askari and Chevalier escorting the Princes had bustled through the gate.

“You fiend!” The Corbeauni noble hissed, brushing dirt off his finery and collecting himself, one of the strings of his silver mask had snapped and he cradled it close to him.

“Oops.” The larger man shrugged drolly from behind his own black and silver wolf mask, before gliding off across the garden as the noble continued to protest.

The eyes of the rest of the delegation returned to the lavish gardens, but Genevieve watched him go curiously before quickly taking a long sip of champagne. As she lost sight of the muscular stranger in the crowd her eyes darted around to the other guests. Some of them already eyeing her suspiciously from behind their masks.

Between the Prince’s war stories, the diplomatic wrangling and the ever present anti-elven sentiment, this was going to be a long night for her… unless she could find some trouble to get into...

[Cheye]

Chateau Corbeau Gardens, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

“Knock it off Ross, you could try to be more subtle.” A blonde haired young vampire in burgundy chided from under her copper-coloured bird mask.

“And you could try actually following our instructions for a change instead of sitting on the sidelines.” The muscular figure in the stretched suit and wolf-mask snapped back as he approached her, leaning as she did against a statue hidden between several intersecting rows of hedges.

“You know we’re only out here because the others don’t want us getting in the way?”

He took a second to think about it, then shook his masked head. “Nah, the bastard’s here alright… I can smell him.”

“Well you can’t just jump every old man in Corbeau.” The blonde sighed irritably, taking a sip from the fancy champagne flute she held.

Ross just growled and pulled the glass away from her lips and out of her hand with a single inhumanly fast motion before raising it to his own lips and downing the bulk of its contents.

“You know when I was alone in Underworld, and it was just me and him playing cat and mouse with one another, amidst a sea of degenerates, unwanted gets and mortal criminals - I had to think on my feet. Take matters into my own hands in order to draw the bastard out. So unless you’re offering some suggestions Lena, I suggest you shut up.”

Lena chuckled, “And how well did you do in Underworld anyway?” She moved to snatch her glass back as she chided; “It can’t have been great considering that he’s still at large!” He pulled it away from her quickly, and as she leaned into him to reach for it, he raised a muscular arm to her throat, pinning the younger vampire against the statue with his large frame cutting off her escape.

“Oh Ross…” She muttered breathily, her mask almost touching his own, there was a playfulness in her voice that he had not heard for some time. She batted her eyelashes at him seductively; “...Does this give you ideas, or memories?”

Ross smirked, enjoying holding her there for a second.

A sudden cough interrupted them.

They both glanced sideways to see Talia Van Drak standing there in her elegant aquamarine gown with her hands on her hips. After a long and tense silence, Ross finally lowered his arm and stepped away from Lena.

“Your get has been trying to distract me from our mission Van Drak.” Ross let out quietly. Placing the champagne flute on the plynth of the statue.

“Better get back to it then.” Talia said sternly, staring the Waldoff vampire down.

Ross grumbled something under his breath before turning and pacing off behind one of the hedges.

Talia approached Lena slowly, the sternness still in her voice; “Lena… You do realise he feels nothing for you, right… We are vampires.”

“So just like how you feel nothing for me? Eh Sis?” Lena shrugged dismissively.

Talia had had to put up with Lena’s pithy resentment ever since she had turned her and got Vaas to free her from that cell. The gratitude that she had expected to receive for ending her youngest sister’s suffering simply never materialised. Instead the vampiric Lena held on to only a deep loathing for the fact that Talia’s arrival in Farvas had been what had got Lena tortured and imprisoned in the first place and had resulted in the death of their sister Mara.

Before Talia had turned up out of the blue, Lena and Mara had just been an otherwise unremarkable pair of servant girls who knew nothing of vampires. The fact that one of them was now dead and the other now also a vampire was entirely Talia’s responsibility. Worse still, Lena wasn’t wrong now, Talia’s ‘love’ for her sister had been somewhat self-taught after she had been turned, and Talia was self-aware enough to recognise that fact.

“You know I’m not having that argument again.” Talia frowned. “Besides, I’m only trying to look out for you like always.”

“Because your track record on that is sooo great.” Lena shot back, folding her arms dramatically. “The only reason I’m even still breathing is because it hurt your pride to think you might have got your whole family killed.” If Talia could see Lena’s face behind her mask she would guess that her sister’s frown matched her own.

Talia shook her head, though there was more truth than even Lena realised in her words. Eventually she growled; “You are my get! As everyone keeps reminding me... Now you know it isn’t in my nature to pull rank. But, I am the Van Drak here, and I am telling you to drop it or face the consequences of those who dare defy that name.”

Lena grunted, rolling her eyes beneath her mask. Talia knew that her sister would already be thinking up some witty rebuttal, so she simply continued on before Lena had a chance to speak; “We came here because we have a job to do. Now, do you have the masks?”

Lena gestured to a small bag that sat at the base of the statue and with a burst of magic Talia summoned it into her hands.

The ashen haired vampire slowly withdrew the green and white bird mask her sister had picked for her, its beak protruding somewhat aggressively from the front in a far less flattering style than Lena’s, and she tied it in place delicately. She also withdrew the black highwayman’s mask that had been selected for Lucien and whistled gently.

Neither Talia nor Lena had noticed the black cat watching them from the branches of one of the closer and more impressive trees that lined their little grove in the garden. Although Talia had known Lucien would be within earshot, she simply didn’t expect him to be so close by, and he suddenly leapt from the tree, transforming behind the cover of the hedgerow and taking his mask from her in a single fluid motion.

Lucien didn’t speak to either sister, but he did shoot Talia a reassuring look upon placing the black mask on his face as if to tell her she had handled her upstart sister well.

“You all dressed up?” The gruff voice of Ross Waldoff called back from the other side of the hedge where he had been watching the other guests from. “Looks like something is about to happen out here...”

“It’s about time.” Lucien said dryly. Stepping forward and finishing off Lena’s champagne from the glass on the plynth. “I was beginning to think this party was never going to get started!”

[Sarrin]

Ducal Palace Gardens, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

“Ladies and Gentleman, if you would begin your journey to the ballroom, the St. Challons Masquerade shall begin.”

The Chamberlain was an aloof man whose dark skin and aged features left his age unclear. His silvery hair elegantly blended into his finely tailored evening suit. As he finished speaking he proceeded back in through the gates to the inner courtyard where the gathered nobles quickly began making their way up the white stone staircase behind him.

The inner courtyard was smaller than the garden and flanked by small buildings that acted as foyers for the two east and west towers. The courtyard itself espoused a minimalist aesthetic with a single simple but Elven well at its center. Around the well an expressive mural depicting the season moved and responded to the steps of the nobles who quickly made their way through the grand heartwood door that made up the entrance. Inside, the Franchean influence was evident with the walls painted royal blue upon which masterpieces of various Franchean, Golgothan and Medinian artists hung. Nobles hurried through to the ballroom itself where the Duke waited in an elaborate and feathered raven mask.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s the Feast of Leon by Yeska Schmel.” Prince Morvan muttered aloud, gesturing to a large oil painting on the wall.

“You have quite the eye Morvan, how do you suppose it got here? Especially after it was destroyed in the second siege of Medina…” Maryvonne responded, being careful not to speak too loudly as she continued to set the pace of the delegation as they rode the current of the river of nobles.

As they parted through the ancient stone gateway into the ballroom they were met by an explosion of colour and smells. A staircase quickly parted the room into three levels with the stairways left and right taking one to a gallery overlooking the dancefloor upon which tables had been set up with incense and tinctures of exotic smelling herbs and minerals. The staircase ahead led down to the ballroom floor whose Elven floor appeared as clouds. On the far side of the room the Duke rested on a balcony overlooking the dancefloor and the entrance, his face partially covered by a gorgeous feathered raven mask.

Below him a Dwarven orchestra performed the Franchean ‘Springtime Sonata’ under the diligent instruction of their Gnomish conductor whose every note seemed taken by the ballroom floor transforming the clouds into a tapestry of shining blossoming leaves. Above the ballroom a crystal chandelier hung upon which flames seemed to dance across the various pedestals in time to the music.

“Welcome to the ball of St. Challons!” Duke Armaund exclaimed as the Golgothan delegation arrived and nobles began to fill the gallery’s either side.

“Obviously the point of a masquerade is the pleasure in mystery and a speech such as this reveals my identity but how could I ever be anonymous when i’ve been blessed with such radiant beauty!” The Duke continued issuing laughter from the galleries and nobles still entering through the ballroom door.

“It has been barely over a year since we reconquered Corbeau but already we have begun rebuilding it from a haven of prejudice, isolationism and traditionalism to a center of enlightenment. Our university claims some of the leading minds in haematology, transmutation and evocation. Our vineyards claim the great minds of Marie Asondeux and Gustav Voljn who have place our wines on the map. Perhaps our proudest moment in recent history however was the opening of our first factory thanks to the shrewd work of Seignour Vichni, the generous cooperation of the financiers and engineers guild and of course the tireless work of the Golgothan Viceroy Gunther Letow-Vorbeck.” The Duke paused allowing the gathered nobles to break into an applause, including many still entering who paused to ensure the Golgothan delegation, still flanked by their honour guard, were aware of their gratitude.

“In celebration of these achievements, and as a show of thanks to the foreign nobles who grace our masquerade with their presence. I have prepared a treat for you all. Our own Octavian Pierout will be performing the leading number from Louis de Versal’s new operatic piece ‘Beauty and the Beast’ whose story of a young Franchean peasant woman falling for a Garnian chief residing in an abandoned castle has this week been debuted at the Chȃteau Noir in Val Lyonesse. So without further ado, a toast to Corbeau, to Golgotha and to the new world!”

As the Duke finished, applause sprung up across the ballroom as the nobles rejoiced, the orchestra’s song ceasing amidst the revelry. A brawny hairy man in a ragged suit of armoured finery walked to the center of the ballroom floor as it magically transformed to that of a castle, balcony and at its edge what appeared to be a hundred metre drop into a carvanian woodland. Slowly the music began and the man began singing a powerful ballad in deep dolcet notes.

As nobles began to gather, a tall man in a smart suit whose few embellishments denoted him as a lowborn approached the Viceroy speaking calmly through the grey wolf mask that adorned his face. “As pre-agreed the war room has been prepared for yourselves should you wish for a moment of privacy. The Duke has also requested an audience when it so inclines you.”

“Thank you Statsminister, I shall have him informed when we are ready.” The Viceroy replied still half-focussed on the performance.

“Marvelous, if you’ll excuse me I have a personal matter to attend to” The Statsminister responded identifying the masks of the Vampires around the room and biting down on his lip just enough to allow a droplet of blood to enter his mouth and alert their senses to his position.

“Of course.” The Viceroy chuckled before shifting himself slightly towards Prince Mathias and the others, “Viceroy Sir Gunther Letow-Vorbeck, Viscount Von Hotzendorff of Reiksteirre, to use my full title, at your service.” The Viceroy bowed his head slightly, ensuring he had introduced himself to the whole delegation.

He gently took a pace forward, his voice changing, speaking softly now the Statsminister was out of earshot. “The Duke may be this Island’s ruler on paper, but it’s the Statsminister that has control of the bureaucracy, and pretty much everything else. Ultimately it’s his influence that is needed to make any serious headway here, so I’d strongly recommend you make time to try and speak with him. Although I’ll elaborate more in the war room, away from prying ears and eyes.”

Prince Mathias acknowledged with a gentle nod of his head, and gestured for the Viceroy to lead the way.

[Cheye]

Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

As the nobles poured into the ballroom to the dulcet tones of the Springtime Sonata, the four vampires followed them, weaving and winding their way through the crowd.

Without a word to one another, Lucien and Talia moved in opposite directions, each climbing a separate staircase to the galleries that looked out over the ballroom. Ross and Lena remained close the entrance, subtly eyeing the various nobles that swanned through.

As the Duke made his opening remarks, Lucien stepped forward, leaning against the balustrade at the edge of the gallery and fanning his eyes across the ballroom from under his highwayman’s mask.

Suddenly the ballroom floor magically transformed into the somewhat familiar guise of a Carvanian castle and woodland and Lucien couldn’t help but smile at the suitability of it; perfect for the hunt they were on. As the operatics began, he caught Talia opposite, ermine gloved hands on her hips, eyes fixed on a figure that moved towards the Golgothan delegation on the steps that led down to the ballroom floor below.

Lucien followed her gaze and sniffed. It wasn’t a smell that vampires gave off to one another so much as a sensation, but it always instinctively felt like it should be followed with one’s nose. There was something wrong about the sensation this figure was giving off though. Something that told Lucien that whoever it was down there, it wasn’t Hans Von Richter. Lucien shot Talia a quick frown and shook his head.

The inquisitive de la Grey felt another tingle of excited curiosity run through him as he watched the figure conversing with the Golgothans, and he turned to move back down the stairs to get closer.

As he was descending, Lucien’s hunger suddenly stirred as he sensed blood, and his head turned in the direction it was coming from instinctively. He saw that same figure moving now in the direction of the door they had entered through.

Worse still, Ross Waldoff had sensed it too, and the large vampire was beating a hasty course back from the ballroom steps towards the door. Lucien watched as Ross practically threw a waiter out of the way and stepped quickly to catch up with him.

“I’m terribly sorry!” Lena hawked apologetically as Ross shoulder-barged a noble coming through the doorway aside and disappeared around a corner beyond.

Lucien took the get by the arm and dragged her out after the Waldoff vampire, trying not to cause any more of a scene than they already had.

“It isn’t him.” Lucien snapped quietly. “And whoever it is… He’s toying with us.”

Lena frowned, quickening her pace as they rounded the corner into a well decorated hallway that seemed to arch around the sides of the ballroom.

Ross had already reached a doorway halfway down by the time they saw him, and he flung it open violently, charging inside.

“I suspect you’ve not fed in some time so I had a bottle of Asondeux’s Red Banquet brought for you, quite full bodied for my tastes but it satiates ones appetite. For more leisurely drinking I’ve also had a bottle of Voljn’s take on a Franchean Red which is quite sublime.” As he turned around, taking a moment to look at the vampire who had virtually smashed his way into the library, he shifted himself slightly to the left; “Perhaps a taste of the Blood Ale the university is working on would be more to your pleasure? A peasant’s drink but we certainly enjoy it.”

As he spoke the Statsminister poured himself a glass from a bottle labeled ‘Red Wood’. Beside him a small round wooden table had been set up by a fireplace in the center of the eastern wall atop which several other bottles and a small keg waited to be poured.

Ross Waldoff simply halted in his tracks, and for a long moment the two wolf-masked vampires simply watched one another. Ross frowned under his mask, hesitation creeping into his voice as he finally asked; “...And who are you supposed to be?”

“Evidently no one you’ve fucking met.” The Statsminister responded calmly slipping back into his old Medinian lowborn tone before removing his mask with a slight chuckle, placing it onto the keg and picking up his wine glass instead.

Ross stepped back and muttered; “Fuck.” His own tone far from highborn.

“I assume you’re Ross Waldoff? Will Lucien and the Van Draks be joining us?” Rufus Black enquired before taking a sip of his wine and gesturing towards the glasses on the table quickly adding “I don’t bite other vampires.”

“You… you’re supposed to be dead.” Ross let out hesitantly, mentally connecting the dots. He had been at that conclave in Farford twenty-three years prior, when Rufus ‘Black’ had tried to challenge the authority of the conclave. That moment had ultimately contributed to the subsequent massacre of the Lancel bloodline.

Since the brutal assassination of Empress Madeline, everyone had assumed Rufus Black had followed her into the flames. The unrest in Medina during the War of the Two Empires had proved so deadly for so many that when word got out of the demise of House Martello-Lancel, few had questioned the reports. Even the more cynical vampires like Jacques and Sydine failed to find anything when they investigated further.

As Rufus smiled back silently, Lucien de la Grey stepped through the doorway, a lightning bolt already crackling in one hand, ready to fire off should he find trouble on the other side. Lena Grimm followed him, her eyes darting about the library cautiously.

“That makes three of you, I believe we’re waiting for another.” Rufus said allowing Ross to wallow in his astonishment. Glancing over to the crackling bolt he quipped “Lucien, this room predates the Ascendency please don’t ruin it with a misplaced sense of danger.”

Lucien shot a glare at the stranger who seemed to know his name, dispelling the defensive spell; “My apologies… Ross tends to find trouble when he charges off without thinking.” The de la Grey vampire chided, slapping the larger Waldoff on the shoulder hard before adding; “Now, you seem to have me at a bit of a disadvantage, you are?”

“Introductions can wait till Talia arrives, I loathe to repeat myself unnecessarily, would you care for some wine?” Rufus quipped gesturing again to the table.

“He’s Rufus Black.” Ross let out, ignoring Rufus completely.

“No he’s not.” Lucien shot back almost immediately, slapping Ross again.

“Whose Rufus Black?” Lena asked casually from behind Lucien.

“I’ll pour for you all then.” Rufus remarked whimsically, returning to the wine.

“I’ll take a Francehan red.” Lucien nodded politely.

Rufus chuckled as he poured another three glasses of the ‘Red Wood’. Pausing as he finished the second glass “And if my senses are correct that will be Miss Van Drak arriving now, the same for her do you think? It is her usual order.”

“What’s my usual order?” Talia asked curiously, having overheard the tail end of Rufus’ comment as she walked in.

“Franchean Red in a chilled glass, usually with paired with quail. Unless you’re with that loathsome Vaas, when it might as well be the second round on the neck of a half-dead whore.”

Lucien, who had by this point sidestepped out of the way to let Talia and Lena step forward, turned and quietly shut the door, his mind racing as he began to consider the significance of their mysterious host’s alleged-identity.

As he turned back he glanced around the library. Various treaties and tomes in all manner of bindings filled the bookshelves that lined the walls. At various intervals ladders had been placed to aid the readers in reaching the higher books, with the shelves reaching upwards of 20ft off the ground. Along the floor a flowing purple carpet ebbed with a gentle pattern that seemed to calm the mind. As the door itself shut a shimmer rippled through the carpet gently illuminating the curves of the pattern.

“That will be the anti-magic warding.” Rufus remarked approaching the delegation with a gold tray atop which their drinks sat. “Incredible really, that the Elves would ever desire such a thing, but it appears that in this library they felt it was best to think as humans do, and thus live without the benefits of their magical conveniences.”

“I understood that such wards could indeed be found throughout the palace, or at least that was what my sire wrote… After his visit several years back.” Lucien let out testingly, without turning to face their host.

“Indeed there are, we’ve removed a number of them and repositioned them in more… strategic locations of our demesne. With the dwarves losing the craft one can’t allow glyphs to go to waste anymore.” Rufus retorted.

“And I suppose it is quite pointless wasting wards in the upper-chambers to prevent the spread of dragon fire, when there are no longer any dragons around to cause any…” Lucien mused, finally fixing his gaze on the stranger, his curious smile left on show by the narrow mask.

“I imagine you’ve easy access to his journals now your sire’s across the Borags.” Rufus mused as the other three vampires took their glasses. “Now I assume you’re all here because of the rumours I spread regarding Hans Von Richter?” he added before any of them had a chance to respond.

Lucien shot a nod of agreement to Ross before stepping forward to do the same; “Well that confirms it then…” He raised the wine-glass, swirling its contents and inspecting it in the torch light. “Only the Alpha of the Grey Wolves could be so well informed.”

Talia and Lena exchanged unsure glances with one another from behind their masks, as they cradled their wine glasses, neither quite sure of the significance of what was going on in front of them.

“We came here for Von Richter, yeah….” Ross let out gruffly, clicking his knuckles; “And instead we’ve found you… Weren’t the Lancels found in contempt of conclave?”

“I must have missed that meeting.” Rufus quipped returning to the table to place down the gold dish and recover his own glass. “A toast perhaps? To old friends reunited? To the end of the Lancels?”

There was a long silence as the vampires paused in consideration, the eyes of the others all falling upon Lucien who was still inspecting the colouration of the wine in the torchlight.

Finally he nodded; “I’ll drink to that.” And lowered the glass to his lips.

Ross threw his wolf mask off dramatically, and it clattered to the floor; “Lucien… There are rules about this sort of thing…”

Lucien raised a hand, cutting him off; “There are also rules about how soon one is supposed to consume a fine vintage of wine after it's been uncorked.” He smiled. “And I was a Franchean long before I was a vampire.”

Ross growled something inaudible in response.

“We should at least hear what this Rufus fellow has to say…” Talia interjected.

“Glad to hear it.” Rufus remarked taking a sip of his wine and allowing a moment of silence to hang in the room. “Now, I have no interest in fighting. And I have no interest in rejoining your conclave, afterall your outdated rules consider me to be a Lancel, and most of your bloodlines have grown lethargic and sloppy plotting to screw each other in secret for small gains. I should know, half the time my agents are involved at some level.” He glanced across the four of them, ensuring he had the vampires’ attention before continuing.

“Instead, I propose an alliance, not with the conclave but with those gathered here. The de la Greys, the Waldoffs. Your bloodlines hold true power in the prefectures not least because your sires use reason to make decisions instead of their base hunger. Talia, I have been watching you for some time, and you have the potential to use the Van Drak name for something other than sad whining and unjustified egotism. Now, none of you can easily act without Golgothan supervision creeping in, but by contrast my every action is hidden from their view as mere crime. Similarly you have access to information and resources I desire but cannot get elsewhere.”

“As a show of good faith, I’ll lead you towards Hans Von Richter. After all my people are still tracking him; him and his angry bald friend in Saiph.” As Rufus finished he took another sip of his wine and glanced across the vampires’ masked faces with a coy smile; “I believe it was Octavian de la Grey who said; ‘In judging endeavours we should consider the results that could be achieved through them rather than the means by which they have been executed’, or am I remembering him wrong, Lucien?”

As Rufus spoke the Vampires exchanged uneasy glances, then Lucien finally took a long sip of wine before answering; “I’m sure it would have been something like that…” He turned to meet Rufus’ gaze before adding; “Tell me, what information and resources do you desire exactly? What, in this mortal world, could we know that your Grey Wolves don’t?”

Rufus smiled “During the war my agents gathered a substantive collection of artifacts from across the warzones. Among them a worthy collection of vampyric tomes, but few of any real individual substance, those of course were in Octavian de la Grey’s library. I want access, a fair trade for access to the resources at my disposal no?”

“That library no longer exists.” Lucien replied, shaking his head almost sadly.

“I am quite aware, I recovered a priceless sculpture of the Gargoyle of Voizcheveaux shortly after the siege of Val Lyonesse ended, obviously you're welcome to have it back should we begin a partnership. I was however referring to his book collection, Jacques was so careful in stripping the place of tomes, my agents only managed to swipe a few leftovers.” Rufus replied, his voice implying a tiredness of these games, fully aware that he had been the one to initiate them.

“My my, you have been keeping an eye on us for quite some time...” Lucien muttered without an iota of sarcasm. He took a long sip of wine and glanced at Talia, whose eyes narrowed thoughtfully behind her mask before she nodded slowly. He then glanced at Ross who met his gaze and shrugged, the expression on the Waldoff vampire’s face far from positive. After a long moment Lucien added; “I think we are inclined to accept your proposal. Let's be honest, you did more to destroy the Lancel bloodline than the rest of the Conclave put together and your actions prior to that point only strengthened our interests, if inadvertently. Perhaps by working together we can make use of your skills in a more advertent manner that will help all of us, especially if it leads to the capture of Hans Von a Richter.” Lucien paused before letting out a sigh, raising a hand to stroke his messy black hair thoughtfully. “There is one small caveat…”

Rufus smiled amicably raising his right eyebrow slightly “Go on...” he mused.

“You should of course be aware that it is my sire, Jacques who commands access to the collection you seek, he alone would have the power to actually uphold this agreement and, as you have rightly pointed out, he is currently abroad… But, we’ll certainly see what we can do.”

Rufus smiled wickedly; “That’s all I ask.”

[Sarrin]

Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau - 18/04/4E-175

Weaponry lined the walls of the War Room, ranging from the deadly yet decorative Elven Naginata to successive evolutions of Golgothan rifles from the earliest matchlocks to much more modern bolt actions. Between the shelves containing the weapons sat a fireplace, the mantel of which was ordained with carvings depicting scenes from the history of the island, starting with the sad fall of the Lady of Rennoa, then transitioning to the resistance against Vampyric rule and then the liberation of the island from the Ascendency.

Above the historic carvings a painting of the Siege of Komovi hung majestically. The dramatic artwork depicted Prince (now Emperor) Ferdinand, leading his army against Count Ludovic of Komovi at the outset of the Carvanian War. The painting had been so designed that Ferdinand’s presence loomed down from his steam walker at the centre of the piece, evoking a sense of awe and admiration for him, and pity for the terrified Komovi Rangers and Bannermen depicted below, while the hunched, diminutive figure of Count Ludovic was depicted fleeing the battlements in the bottom left corner. Resting on the mantelpiece and under the painting was a long katana with an elegant jade hilt carved in the shape of a dragon. Either side of it stoney eggs rested upon carefully constructed stands made to look like interwoven drakelings.

In the center of the room a large table held a canvas map of Minern upon which every Golgothan state had been drawn along with their elector’s heraldry and a symbolic representation of their main export and state animal. On careful inspection of the map one could see the current moving along the Pyr and Kislev rivers, and out to sea; waves moving calmly allowing the keen eyed to even watch as the tide drew back and forth against the beaches.

Around the perimeter of the room, tables had been set up with wine, ales, pipe tobacco, cigars and dishes for the delegation including both national dishes of the Empire and local dishes of the respective Prince’s domains.

Prince Mathias followed his lifeguards into the war room hastily. He loosened the clasp on his cloak and another lifeguard scooped it off his shoulders and hung it on the coat stand in the corner of the room.

Mathias walked around, his arms folded, whilst he waited, inspecting the items displayed on the walls. His eye was drawn to a Golgothan Mauser occupying a prominent place. Mathias knew Golgotha didn’t export Mauser rifles to foreign powers, the fear of losing their technological advantage was too great. However after the various conflicts, the War of the Two Empires, the Carvanian Resistance War, the Southern War against the Orruks, and many others, weapon proliferation was becoming increasingly commonplace. Battlefields had become strewn with discarded weapons and many made it into private hands, like this one. The unit disk pressed into the stock proudly proclaimed “17th Auxilia Fusiliers, Wissenstierre”. More than likely the weapon had been captured by Sunset forces and brought here as part of a collection. Assuming it worked and it had ammunition, it’d be practically a super weapon compared to the single shot black powder weapons so prevalent elsewhere.

“Our patent office agent started disarming his stockpile but classified it as a moot objective. If it wasn’t for their eagerness to join I’d say their collection is somewhat worrying... better in the hands of an ally than an enemy though I imagine.” The Viceroy mused as he looked at the Mauser. He had done his best to debrief Prince Mathias on the island’s state but every moment he remembered a new detail that could prove invaluable to his objectives.

“I agree,” Mathias responded, “I had suspicions that this wasn’t their only prize. We’ll have to make sure these don’t fall into the wrong hands. It’s a shame that we won’t be able to use their collections to arm their state army when they join. We used nearly a dozen types in the War of the Two Empires, it wouldn’t surprise me if hardly any of them match, ours barely did at the end, and we made the damned things.”

The Viceroy’s lips curled into a slight smile about ready to open when the doors swung open once more, allowing the other members of the Golgothan delegation to enter, now that they had concluded their initial smalltalk with the various nobles who had approached them during and after Mathias and the Viceroy’s conversation with the Statsminister.

Prince Morvran cut around the room quickly as if he planned to join Mathias by the weapon wall, before his curious gaze was drawn to the large map in the centre of the room, which he then strode up to and leant over, carefully inspecting the intricate and magical details that had been warded into it, his wondrous smile hidden behind his full-face sun mask.

Prince Maryvonne and Princess Genevieve followed next, arms intertwined, though Mathias noticed as they entered that Maryvonne’s grip seemed far tighter than his niece’s. Almost as if she was trying to stop the girl from running off and getting into trouble.

“This is quite brilliant.” Morvran let out, almost to himself. “My father worked with the elves of Valia’s Stand to make maps like this towards the end of his life. But until now I have only ever seen a single example of one. The cost alone...” Morvran trailed off with a shake of his head.

“Would be beyond the means of most Franchean houses, let alone the disfavoured ones who made their way here…” Maryvonne said wryly.

“Quite…” Morvran nodded, straightening up over the table and clasping his hands behind his back. He was about to add another comment, when the doors opened for a third time, and the Princes turned to watch Duke Armaund enter alongside a tall tan skinned man brandishing an ornate scimitar and a simple mask resembling a lion. The taller man gestured to the guards behind them to wait in the hall as the Duke’s arms widened warmly, echoing the wide smile that hid underneath his orante raven mask.

“Princes, Viceroy, it is an honour to have you all here. I hope the room is to your liking? Gaston wanted to give you the trophy room but I told him that Golgothans are men of war and prowess, hunting trophies, whilst sentimental to me, will do little compared to the pleasures of an arsenal and decorative map!” The Duke’s voice was extravagant, radiating the aristocratic hues of a Franchean to create a waltz with his words.

Prince Mathias looked away from the wall and stepped over towards the Duke and firmly shook his hand, “I must congratulate you on an impressive collection, so much so I haven’t had chance to examine the map, or much else for that matter. But I’m sure there will be plenty of time during our stay.”

The Duke smiled warmly under his mask as he shook the Prince’s hand. “I’m sure it pales in comparison to your own but I have taken it as a duty to gather what I can, lest it fall into the hands of enemies of the empire. In truth they’re mostly inactive but the representative of the Engineers Guild seems hopeful he might be able to fix them in time.” His voice conveyed an innocence, the very nature of which rang dishonest. As he released the Prince’s hand he gestured over to the taller man who had entered with him who was eyeing up one of the honour guards.

“Allow me to introduce my Marshal, Lord Kidane Hakim. He has been leading the efforts to organise our new army and no doubt has many questions about your own successes in Nova Golgotha.”

The Marshal bowed respectfully “Your grace.” He said in his gentle Vasharan accent briefly shifting his gaze towards the gathered Princes.

Mathias bowed his head in response. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions to the best of my knowledge. Your progress is one of the many things on my list to examine. See if we can get you some assistance, bring in some advisors and arrange for some of your officers to go to Golgothan military academies, that sort of thing. Once we’ve got you organised and integrated into the Empire, we’ll get you properly armed with rifles instead of antiques.”

“Assuming your accession is met with success of course.” Morvran let out from behind the map table, his own accent less of a waltz and more of a foxtrot, resembling as it did a cross between Franchean and Teusten.

“Indeed.” Maryvonne added, stepping towards the Duke with Genevieve still on her arm; “As I recall there are certain changes in... ‘social policy’... that you are expected to demonstrate progress on before the Elector Council would be prepared to vote on the matter.”

As she finished speaking she turned to the younger woman and gently reached up to her head, combing back the girl’s brown hair on the side of her head closest to Maryvonne before tucking it behind her semi-pointed ear. On its own it was an innocent and almost maternal action, but it served well to emphasise her point without directly vocalising it.

“And that brings us to the real thorny issue, and I’m afraid the main reason why we’re here,” continued Mathias, “I trust some tangible progress has been made?”

“Some.” The Duke replied. “As the Viceroy has no doubt mentioned with regards to the Rennoan problem; giving them citizenship, even as serfs, would threaten the stability of the nation. Since my last meeting with the Viceroy however, I have created a year long plan to phase out slavery from our state... an aim that will be far easier with Golgothan financial assistance.” The Duke paid little attention to Maryvonne’s combing as he spoke, careful to address all the gathered delegates including Genevieve as he spoke before focusing his final remark towards Mathias.

“Except there will be no Golgothan money whilst there is slavery on this Island,” Mathias retorted, his demeanour suddenly changing, as he directed the Duke towards the map and gestured towards Corbeau. “You seem to forget that we are not here to court you, you are to court us. The Golgothan Empire doesn’t need Corbeau, but you need us. Time ultimately is on our side. Your stunt here has only worked because Alastania is distracted. When the Elven civil war draws to a close, and it will, where do you think they’re going to go to rebuild their past glories? I’m not an expert in Elven politics, but here would be a good place for them to start anew. But we can protect you, with our money, our knowledge and our might, we can guarantee your safety. You just need to guarantee the safety of your subjects.”

“He’s right” Kidane smirked twirling the tassel on his scimitar as he walked towards other side of the map “The Sultan waits for a moment to strike, if we give the Empire reason to stall then the Sword of the South will fall on us.” His hand drifted over Vashara on the map seemingly erasing the cultural information inscribed and reducing the Vasharan borders to those of twenty years ago before the sands slowly engulfed their neighbours once more.

The Duke glanced between his Marshal and Prince Mathias “Your grace.” he said apologetically “I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. By any chance did you come here believing me to be a racist jingoist? A man bent on the decimation of Elvenkind?”

“Aren’t you?” Genevieve snapped as Maryvonne subtely tightened her grasp of the young princess’ arm.

Duke Armaund lowered his head slightly “I suspect it would surprise you that I am not. Perhaps if Rennoans were humans this wouldn’t be seen as such an issue…” He hesitated for a moment looking towards the majesty of the painting of Emperor Ferdinand before continuing; “When we took over this island every Rennoan man, woman and child opposed us, fighting until the end. We lacked means to imprison them so it was decided that we might enslave them until their tempers calmed. A compromise with those among our forces who simply sought to slaughter them as cattle, as it became evident that tempers would not calm things...escalated.”

“I’m not sure genocide can be described as escalation.” Morvran slyly quipped still studying the map from behind his mask as the expanding borders of Vashara finally settled into their new place.

“We cannot force the Rennoans to eat, we cannot break their spirits and we cannot give them the means to resist us. The present circumstances are founded on the understanding that the Rennoans see the future, like their forefathers, as us or them. For the betterment of those wishing for a new life beyond the war torn lands of the east I decided it should be us.”

“You seem surprised that they would resist? You have invaded their homeland and confined them to slavery, would you have them throw you a feast?” Maryvonne remarked dryly hoping her words might calm the young princess beside her who scowled beneath her mask and had placed her free hand on her hip irritably.

“Human children cannot kill a man so easily.” Kidane said still leaning into the map table as he spoke, avoiding eye contact with the Princes. “The hospitals we established in the first week to manage their injured? Burned. Food we offered to their hungry? Left to rot. Sanctuary for their young? Best we not speak of what those Rennoans did. You rightly imagine them to have acted as your own resistance did. They are something quite different.” The usual melody of his voice was broken as he spoke as if each statement recalled a memory he had sought to hide away.

The Duke sighed before speaking with a surprising sincerity. “This is clearly an important issue for you all and we are eager to expedite our integration so what if we can reach a compromise. If we make it the focus of our attention in six months all Rennoans can be granted serfdom or an opportunity to depart the island.”

“I shall expect to see progress in four, then we shall reassess...” Mathias replied sternly, before lightening his tone; “Though for now let’s leave the heavy politicking for the rest of our visit, we shall take a moment to consolidate in here and then join yourself and the rest of the guests shortly.”

The Duke gave a respectful bow “I look forward to it” he said kindly before departing ahead of the taller Marshal who took a moment to gather himself and stand from the table.

“You were wise to be heavy handed.The Duke is a good man but finds distractions from the harsher sides of his policies… It will do his mind good when slavery is gone, more than he realises I suspect.” Kidane said thoughtfully pausing for a moment without quite making eye contact. As he finished he looked to the princes. “Your graces.” He remarked in his normal melodious tone with a slight bow before casually making his way out of the room signalling to the guards outside that they should leave security of this area to the Golgothans as he left the doors.

[Greater Latica]

Chateau Corbeau, Corbeau, 18/04/4E-175

Once the door closed the viceroy collapsed into a chair, removed his wire rimmed spectacles with one hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the other, “God, that man is unbearable. He acts as if he’s doing the elves a service by enslaving them, and either he’s a charlatan or he genuinely believes it. I’m still not sure which is worse.”

Genevieve let out a deep breath as Maryvonne released her arm, nodding in agreement with the Viceroy’s statement before pacing over to the painting above the fireplace, glaring up at it in silent thought.

“Perhaps it would have been prudent to have given my compatriots the same advice you gave to myself?” Mathias mused thoughtfully.

“Oh?” Morvran asked inquisitively, his hands still clasped behind his back. “And what advice would that have been?”

“Largely that the Duke is a somewhat insufferable oaf, leading a collection of disgruntled Franchean ex-nobles playing dress up, harking back to a bygone age, trying to escape the social changes sweeping the north. Their main interest in joining the Golgothan Empire is access to our weapons. Which I expect is primarily for the purposes for suppressing a slave revolt, rather than their claim of needing protection from Vashara...”

Morvran nodded to the Viceroy. “Since the Viziers lost Saiph, the Sultan has had to pay the Crimson Company for the privilege of anchoring his fleet.” The strategist mused. “If Vashara truly were planning a naval expedition, they would first need to re-secure the port. Saiph would be threatened long before Corbeau.”

There was a murmur of agreement from Prince Mathias and Maryvonne both before the Viceroy nodded and continued; “Vasharan threat or not, I have already mentioned to Prince Mathias that we are not going to make much headway with the Duke… On the issue of slavery in particular, the people we need to talk to are his lieutenants, and the Statsminister in particular. They are much more amenable to our conditions.”

A few glances were exchanged around the war room as the Princes contemplated their strategy. It was Genevieve who eventually broke it, ceasing her pacing and turning to the map, where she pointed to the myriad nations of the Southern Continent. “Vashara practices slavery does it not?” She asked, glancing across the table at Morvran.

“It does.” Morvran nodded, dipping his sun mask. “Though it does not restrict the trade to elves.”

“Our conditions are far too generous!” Genevieve growled. “If we want to end slavery, not just within the Empire, but among our neighbours as well, we should make an example of those who would profit from it.”

“What exactly are you proposing my dear?” Maryvonne asked, though her tone seemed unreservedly sceptical.

“Shoot the Duke and put the first man who agrees to abolish slavery overnight in charge.” The young half-elf barked back defiantly.

An awkward silence hung in the air as Maryvonne and Mathias exchanged cautious glances.

“If only it were that simple.” Mathias sighed. “Unfortunately it’s often easier to shoot your way into a problem, than out of one.”

“Bu-” Genevieve began, but her uncle raised his hand and cut her off.

“We have no idea who would take over, or how pervasive his views on slavery are. We could easily end up with a civil war on our hands, which not only would cause us a problem, it’d cause more issues for those we’re trying to save. So maybe a more subtle plan is in order, so far the Duke has seemed to be quite responsive to coercion...”

“Indeed.” Maryvonne nodded; “I suggest we split up and seek out these lieutenants. As a group they will treat us like a foreign power bloc, but individually we may be able to gain insight into the inner workings of the Duke’s court. Perhaps there is an angle we can exploit, one that we have yet to discover.”

Genevieve folded her arms looking cross, but she gave no vocal opposition to the plan.

Morvran adjusted his cuirass and moved around the map table; “I will speak to this Vasharan Marshal then, see if I can uncover more information on their capabilities and discover if their fear of the Sultan has merit.”

“And I will seek out this Statsminister...” Maryvonne said thoughtfully; “To find out if he can dance.”

“Dance?” Genevieve tilted her head slightly.

“Yes.” Maryvonne replied. “You will learn dear, that you can learn an awful lot about a man from the way he moves, both on the dancefloor and in other ways. If this Statsminister really is the power behind the throne here, we could do a lot worse than dance with him.”

“I’m not sure I have any desire to dance with slavers…” The girl replied, turning away.

“Neither do any of us,” Mathias smiled, “but I’m afraid doing things we don’t want, with people we don’t like comes as part of the territory.”

As the Princes all turned towards the door, the Viceroy rose to follow, but it was Morvran who spoke last as he replied knowingly to Mathias… “The Empire certainly has form on that.”

Mathias nodded in agreement.