A Strange World: The Strength of Empires [IC|Closed]

by **Novas Arcanum** » Thu Jan 23, 2020 7:58 pm

The Hinterlands, Near Myth Alinor
24th of Morning Star, Age 134 of the Arameric Era

Aerin rose with the sun and stretched his bones. He lived in a humble home outside Myth Alinor, delved into a green hill, a tree growing from the top. He was only a mere hundred years old. In Elven culture he was a young adult yet unlike others his age he did not seek adventure or finding himself, in the circles of the world he yearned for nothing in life except the simplicity of farming in the hinterlands outside of the city. He had gained such a fine home by advancing the study of whitesilver ore, he was a brilliant scholar, and for his efforts, the High Queen had knighted him and gave him this land as a reward for his service to the Dominion.

Aerin enjoyed the life of a farmer, he enjoyed picking his crops and enjoyed being amongst the simple folk here. The Elves of the Hinterlands were a wild and boisterous folk, lovers of partying and drinking. What more could a mer ask for out here, versus the stifling life in the city? Well within his heart of hearts he did miss being amongst his fellow Wizards of the Tower, pushing the advancement of the arcane and delving deep into the mysteries.

As he began his farm work, he saw on the horizon, a mer in blue robes and a pointy hat walking towards him.

"Aerin! Good to see you! How goes the farm?" The Wizard of the Tower said to him.

"Aye dull work, but it puts bread on the table," Aerin said.

"Well I have news from the Tower, they require your services again my friend, but I see you enjoy the life of a farmer out here, by the way, do you happen to have any drink, my boy?"

"Aegnor stop playing with me! Of course, I 'd like to rejoin the Wizards of the Tower, and of course, I have some drink it's in the house!"

"That's what I like to hear come boy there is much to be done!" Aegnor said as he lead the way into Aerin's humble home.

Aerin would let the village know he was off to Myth Alinor, and he didn't know when he would return. After a lively going-away party was thrown, the two wizards were on their way to the Whitesilver City.

Turn 30

by **Ralnis** » Fri Jan 24, 2020 9:50 am

Firstborn

This year marked the thirty years of the Uusharan and five years since the rise of the Cutazul. Such was in the way of quiet jubilation as their coven had grown to 130 members. Both Nightwalker and human joined in hand as they had developed better here in the Delta than in the streets of Serrin but with the lessons learned from their enemies of Midnight as they saw the fight between them and the soldiers as mere skirmishes but nearly cut the head off of the vampire before the race can grow.

The elders learned how to be careful and so far their growing presence has been masked underneath the shadow of night. The new human servants offered new ways of growing in the Delta outside the normal means of their kind had been used to. One of these ideas came to finally found a way to bear fruit as they have enough members to show for it.

The Elders had started to look at the city itself and the area around it. The saw the hidden places of the Delta and have found a location to build upon a home for the coven. No longer just traveling in the shadows they will have a home to call their own. It was projected by their merchants that handled the Coven's finances that it would take nearly everything they have but it should be done.

They went through their humans and the very few contacts to pour the amount of wealth for the accommodations.

Action Build a hidden settlement for the Coven to live in as a headquarters and a meeting area away from the public.

by **Olthenia** » Sun Jan 26, 2020 5:49 am

Womens Mysteries

The Lower Galleries, Karowa
4th of Arc of Reeds, Year 525 of the Common Era

For the briefest of moments, Ascar’s foot fumbled in inky blackness, the toes of his boot scraping against the rock wall. Pebbles tumbled. His rope-harness craked. His life hung, quite literally, in the balance. Then a ledge caught him, and the young man sighed as his harness eased around his chest. Come on. Come on. Groping for the lantern at his waist, he tugged the cloth off of it sighed as the pale, creamy light of the netherlight blossom gave shape to rock and rope.

“Anything down there?” came Hademi’s voice, far above. The echoes it spawned vanished in the darkness like pebbles in a pond. And then vanished. “Give me a second!” called Ascar. Where was he?

Slowly but surely, his eyes adjusted to the flower-lit gloom. The ledge he was standing on was scarcely longer than a man; and the crevice itself scarcely wider. If he turned to lean his back against the rock, his toes just skirted the edge. Beyond it, the drop was… endless. Welcome to Karowa. “Hnn… Nothing…”

Dim was the light of Ascar’s lantern, and the darkness about him absolutely suffocating. Miners, haulers and all those that toiled beneath the earth knew well the cost to their eyesight. If bone-breaks or rock-lung didn’t spell a man’s end down here, it surely would once his eyes began to give. His father’s cataracts had already begun to dim his sight before his thirtieth nameday. Ascar’s eyes were still clear – truly, they were – but for how much longer? Enough to earn his title, to be sure. To stamp his name on the muster-rolls of men for service. A man’s name. Graven in sweat and bronze.

When most people thought of Fastaqui’s first daughter, babbling brooks and goat-speckled mountain meadows were usually what came to mind. Peaks lit with the glow of the morning, for instance. Or the wide, yawning pits of her mineworks gaping into the red earth. Yet for those in the know, Karowa held something quite beautiful beneath its very feet. A world beneath the world. Peopled by clusters of crystal as white as goats milk, veins of coal – black and flaky – and dotted with tiny islands of migrating glow-blossoms. Netherlights.

“Nothing!” Ascar gave the rope at his harness a tell-tale tug. “Haul me back!”

This little ledge, however? Ascar peered about him as best he could. Hademi and the others had hoisted him down here, inch by inch, lantern in hand. And it held nothing but a brief reprieve and inky blackness all about him. And with it, a strange sense of peace. Ah, well. Like his father before him, Ascar was a gamper; a rock-scout touring the endless caves for traces of deposits. Veins of metal. Wealth and wonder. Trouble and toil.

There were those that swore Karowa’s underground caverns – stretching on and on into the bowels of the earth – held a greater treasure than their mineral wealth though. Mystics and madwomen. According to them, traversing the inky passages and blossom-lit trails of the Great Below was a form of meditation – a way to clear the mind – that opened it to mysteries.

“What mysteries?” had Ascar wanted to know. “Womens mysteries,” Ascar’s father replied, darkly. “The sort they chase when they’ve nothing better to do.”

The harness tightened. From above came the grunts of Hademi and the others as they hauled on the rope. And slowly but surely, Ascar braced his feet against the sloping rock as-

A sudden draft of wind, not cold and not warm, but tepid like summer rain, ran a hand across his back like an old friend. In his lantern, the netherlight stirred and - Moaned? A dull, trembling purr, like a kitten yawning; pale stirrings of its keening blossom song. What was that? A gust of wind? From the yawning darkness? Ascar didn’t know what to think of it. He just clung all the harder to his rope and wished for all the world Hademi and the others would put their fecking backs into it!

Women's mysteries, to be sure.

Special Actions:

- A band of Settlers ventures beyond the Deepwood this year, towards the realm where rangers and travelers say the woods thin and land opens.

- A force of camelry, a full war-guild, will range west this year towards distant Ita. Their task? To discreetly assay her walls and gain the measure of her defenses.

- Another force, equally camel-borne, will range north along the shores of the wine-dark sea - into the shadow of distant Sorncost. How girt for war is this daughter of Serrith?

by **Nuxipal** » Sun Jan 26, 2020 4:08 pm

Kingdom of Nekhen

Fifth Year of the Reign of High King Settra - Year 463

Storyline is light this year as the author is out of town. Please see actions below as Nekhen expands its military capabilities ever so slightly.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Tue Jan 28, 2020 9:38 am

With the increasing rebellious nature of the slaves, the various factions of the Xcotl bureaucracy has been in debate. The Efeate, a growing jingoist faction, has advocated for the state to suppress the slaves. The jingoists sees the slaves as a national threat to the state as a whole. It is only a matter of time for when the slaves will rise up against their former masters and oppressors. Not surprising, the Efeate hold a lot of slave masters in their ranks as well. On the other hand, there is the Rterat, a more moderate group of burghers, that wishes for some limited legal reform to the slave system. The Rterat demand for laws that protect the slave from random beatings and unwanted abuse from their owners, and likewise. They think that if hardline action is taken against the slaves then the slaves themselves will angered to take up action against the state. The Efeate meanwhile do not like this standardized of limited legal rights for the owned. Submit to the slaves? You must be mad. Lastly is the magocracy, representing the religious and scholar sector of the bureaucracy, they lean towards the moderate reforms of the Rterat. The magocracy sees some forgiveness for their bad treatment of slaves or just don’t want to be murdered by the growing number of the enslaved. Either one way, the legal body of the Xcotl bureaucracy have now started to announce some rights for slaves. First, all and any slaves will not be beaten or mutilated for any reason, unless that reason is justified. Slaves may appeal to legal bodies, if this happens. Second, the purchasing of freedom or the freeing of slaves by their owners will be handled by the central bureaucracy, and not by local district courts. Third, the standardized of the purchasing of freedom, and not by local prices of the district. Four, a very small monthly payment of coin towards slaves for their service, handled by the central bureaucracy. Etc, etc. A few more other laws to somewhat promote the standard for slaves. Let's hope that the Efeate don't react too badly to this...

by **Novas Arcanum** » Wed Jan 29, 2020 9:54 am

Renegotiation of Terms

The White Fleet approached the waters of Forgers Island, ready to fill the Endless with the blood of dead pirates.

To the Lord of Barbados

It has come to our attention that you have stationed a squadron at Forger's Island. The ceasefire between our two people was written years ago under different circumstances we now come to you to renegotiate the terms of the agreement. Your pirates have historically used the secluded bay to strike at the Arameri in the past, and although we believe your intentions are not malicious one cannot be cautious enough to avoid future calamity. As such the Dominion comes to you with new terms to prevent future war between our peoples

The Forge is to be neutral ground, no foreign power shall station any forces there, all current cartel ships stationed there shall be withdrawn from the island in perpetuity.
The Arameri will patrol the waters of this area guarding the people against the Dread Menace.

Adhere to the terms of this agreement and peace shall be had in our time

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jan 29, 2020 5:21 pm

The Second Battle of Barbados

Drums rumbled across the waters of Barbados, the enemy massing for an assault. Whatever their provenance, their leadership, they seemed nigh bull-headed in their lust for battle - the oars of the vessels leapt in the morning sun, the swift vessels under their Black Sails surging toward the two foremost enemy squadrons. There was still a great distance to be crossed ere battle could be joined, but it was soon clear to see that whatever intelligence guided the host of nautical foes, it received its greatest odds of triumph with striking before its enemies had gathered their forces fully.

When the Black Sails came, De Soto cursed his insolence. To not suspect the Ngolo of planning such a dastardly attack on Barbados; he should have squashed them when he had the chance. The troops were quickly scrambled, organized into 3 squadrons of 500 and then loading onto the 2 dozen triremes and galleys that lined the harbor, expertly maneuvered by their general into tight formations. These savage backwards islanders would hardly be a challenge for his professional army, but the enemy flagship caused him great worry.

Nonetheless, the Triremes were organized with one squadron on the easterly flank and the other on the westerly flank at the mouth of the cove where they had defended their small settlement all those years ago against the Coalition forces, though the foes that stood before them were much more intimidating in their presence. In the hands of every easterly soldier was a masterfully crafted weapon, a gift from their allies to the North, and as well to the westerly soldiers, most, especially those towards the front, carried with them similar weapons, though there were others that carried with them great bows and spears created here in the cove. The two halfs met at a point in the center, not unlike the heads of the arrows that were held in the quivers of the Cartel soldiers.

Finally, a reserve line of galleys with the remaining troops lie in wait, protected by their larger cousins. They would be the flexible third arm of this formation, either engaging in advanced maneuvers or reinforcing the line when the front lines began to waver.

Another unknown element was thrown into the mix; the great Aerships of the Stalheim flew above on this monumental day, further confusing De Soto’s priorities. On one hand, he remembered the actions of the Stalheim as Coalition forces, stealing rightful Cartel kin, but he could not afford himself the worry. He must trust the Aermen and their actions to be in kind of the Cartel. Perhaps their assistance would be invaluable in the coming fight.

“Looks like we’ve got company, Admiral.” sardonically observed one of the scarlet-robed war-mages as the command deck of the Dominion gazed out over the shimmering sea below. The white-haired scion of the Hierarchy fleet merely nodded to himself, hands on the rail that separated the upper level of the mighty vessel from the spun window of gemstone-glass which insulated the magical controllers of the immense edifice from the freezing winds and gasping air of the high altitudes where the ship sailed.
“Black Sails. Launching an assault on Barbados, no less. Our search, it seems, is at an end.”

The bombastic second son that was Marius Anglebiter held no such compunctions, and he nodded to the Admiral familiarly.

“Shall I order the squadron to mass for an assault, or do you intend to let events develop?”

There was a certain amount of long term strategic thinking and decisions that few men within the fleet were qualified to make, which the Admiral had to determine rapidly. The men of the Cartel were pirates, by most standards of the word, and yet they had only troubled the Hierarchy once nearly two decades ago. The warriors of the Black Sails, whatever their provenance, were also pirates - and conventional thinking would dictate that allowing pirates to fight pirates then mopping up whatever was left over would be wisdom.

But that would leave a neighbor on the high seas embittered towards the Stalheimadrin, and if the many families of Barbados had shown one thing, it was that they were not easily daunted. Rumors about the hostilities between them and the Elves did not often reach the near shore of the Endless, but what rumors had made the journey said that both sides seemed resolute, and the Hierarch had not sent him here to start a war, but to end one.

“Take us south, helmsman. We have leagues to cover before we can come to grips with the black ships, and they must be journeyed over swiftly. Make full canvas, and come about.”

With the sails of the northern fleet billowing as crewmen ran out battle speeds, the black sails of the southern brigands themselves filled before the east wind, lanteen devices catching the crosswind and bearing them at speed toward grips with the two Trireme squadrons of the Barbadians. As they came on they slowly evolved into a great half crescent formation, the prongs of the crescent moon swinging into a wider front than the men of the Cartel had adopted, moving forward to embrace the onrushing Cartel arrowhead.

The Cartel forces crashed against the waves, the reserve line beginning to approach the forward position of its arrowhead allies. De Soto took analyzed the enemy formation in an instant, preparing his reserve forces to defend the flanks immediately. His own formation was weak at the ends of each arrowhead where another ship was not there to protect the ship in front of it. The reserve line turned around and completed the triangle, interlocking backwards with the rest of the arrowhead as it approached the Black Sails. Those that carried with them spears and bows anxiously awaited the order to fire, and then let loose the moment they were in range as the drums beat the call.

Soon the distance was closed, and away arced the first flight of arrows. The enemy seemed uninterested in a similar exchange, and so no answering volley came from the onrushing raiding galleys - but flashes of sorcerous light where the arrows landed bespoke some form of defense that nullified a part of the barrage. The flanks of the enemy force were wide indeed now, large chunks of the Black Fleet passing wide of the diamond formation of the Barbadians, turning in under the beat of oars toward the corners of the fleet. They were merely a minute away from the contact, the ebony skin of the foe now clear to see. Suddenly an arc of sorcerous fire lashed from the apex of the immense vessel at the heart of the enemy fleet to the sky before falling back broken as lightning - the lightning from the clear sky striking masts and crewmen aboard the foremost of the Cartel vessels, fireballs engulfing marines and sailors alike and kindling ropes, tar-caulked planks, and sails.

The tip of the formation was emblazened in the fires of the flagship, the formation moving forward regardless, surprised but steely in their determination to protect their fair city. The reserve line maintained defensive positioning, trying it best to close the flanks as the front of the formation pressed onwards, the new flagships now turning their attention to their Black Sail counterparts.

With a great rending crash of wood and bronze the two lines of ships met, keen rams forged in the fires of hidden foundries and heavy shipyards eagerly seeking for timber bones to shear and break. The heavier triremes of the Cartel held an advantage, the abject mass of their ships and the larger vessels being more prepared to withstand such formidable impacts. By and large, however, these rammings were indecisive - where rams crushed into the hulks of other ships, they often were wedged, the close quarters of the two onrushing lines preventing the rowers from disengaging and leaving their enemies to sink. Howling bronze-armed pirates swarmed off of the ebony vessels, engaging their opposite numbers of the Cartel in a massive battle across dozens of ships.

To the north, the Stalheimadrin had almost come within range of the clashing battle lines. Heavy ballistae carried by the Dominion began falling on the Black Sails, slaying men and holing hulls, the siege equipment to large to be carried by even triremes beginning to cost the pirates heavily.

The trireme’s soldiers boarded the enemy’s vessels; they learned further from their bout with the elves that sea warfare was largely similar to land warfare after the initial ramming, and with their iron weapons, they continued their assault on the Black Sails ships, fighting to take control of their vessels. The reserve line came into contact with the flanking darkmen’s ships, holding the line against their assault on the arrowhead formation. The triremes continued their push for the capital ship, De Soto fully aware that this ship could tip the scales the other way.
In the center the heavy triremes continued to push forward - where they hadn’t been engaged by the enemy’s lighter ships - wading through the forest of oars and ships toward the command vessel of the Black Sails. Their forward pointing rams did good work against the more flimsy foes. But on the sides, where the reserves had been committed, things were faring less well. It soon became apparent that, despite the best efforts of the men of the Cartel, the enemy possessed the virtue of numbers. Even as the reserve galleys engaged the tips of the ebony crescent formation, more galleys poured around on either flank bearing the Black Sails, keen rams pointed toward unprotected hulls and oblique impacts.

There was one point of good news. The dire lightning which the fell vessel had called down was not repeated, and the stooping figures of the Stalheimadrin aerships were disrupting the southerners’ assault on the northernmost flank of De Soto’s force, craft moving close to even the highest spray of the wind to riddle the decks of the light ships with crossbows and flechette-spitting ballistae.

De Soto thanked the gods that the Stalheim happened to be patrolling, despite not respecting their borders, they had proven invaluable in the fight, but he began to wonder if this might be it for the grand army. He had never considered fighting the Black Sails alone, though they were the most prepared to do so among the great nations, having among the largest armies and naval forces available.

Forward pressed now the immense floating fortress that formed the heart of the fleet of the Black Sails, her battlements bristling with the metal sheen of warriors at the ready before the sinking sun. It staved even her own ships aside, the commander of the vessel having apparently decided that now was the time to commit his most formidable asset, and even as the flagship approached lightning rollicked overhead - this time aimed at the Stalheimadrin Aercruiser as it lowered over the northern flank of the sable warships. Cracks of thundered rolled as peels of skybound energy struck the large flying ship, kindling the sails she used to maneuver and sending bodies plummeting from the sorcerously-bound crenellations like fruit of some vast tree shaken by a summer storm. Her vast prow crushed a trireme beneath it as if the lesser ship were some toy upon the pool of a nobleman’s son, and from the battlements now at close range poured bronze-armed warriors, using grappling ropes to pull the three vessels nearest to them toward the monstrosity. Up and down the line of battle now a confused melee reigned, even the flanking ships of the Black Sails having been engaged, manueverability and ramming counting for nothing against the sheer numbers of three dozen boarding actions.

It soon became clear that there was one advantage the men of the Black Sails possessed - sheer numbers. They had come prepared for an invasion, not a mere naval engagement, a matter which aided them greatly in the ship to ship fighting that unfolded off the Barbadian coast, outnumbering the marines of the Cartel greatly even as they perished in outsize swathes against the better armed and better led warriors of De Soto. Already many of his ships had been completely overwhelmed that formed part of the vanguard, vast numbers of warriors butchered, and the ships remaining heavily depleted and struggling to maintain control of their decks - but the waves of the enemy were ebbing in their turn, the piles of their slain a slick floating carpet upon the waters of the Endless Ocean...

De Soto cursed as he saw the waves upon waves of soldiers pour onto his vessels, then saw his opportunity with the soldiers largely pulling back their boarding actions. No doubt they would head for the shores with their remaining forces; he could not allow this to happen. Even his own life would be forfeit to avoid such a tragedy. He ordered his forces to scatter where applicable and move towards the mouth of the Bardadan Cove to mount a final defense with their limited forces.

The disengaging Cartel forces moved swiftly, those ships remaining maneuverable turning about back toward the harbormouth. Holding the enemy away from shore would be difficult, but still within the capabilities of the hundreds of warriors remaining aboard the formidable fleet. The enemy came behind more slowly, disentangling themselves from the flotsam of dozens of ships either crippled or being brought about after being seized from their former owners. They began clustering southward even as they worked to pursue the Cartel forces, unwilling to bear the withering fire from the small force of Hierarchy aerships that still harried them there, exchanging shot with the flying machines of magic and engineering. A lull slowly crossed the battlefield, the cries of war dying away and the calls of those cast adrift upon the waves or sinking vessels taking on a plaintive air.

The Cartel forces, compromising at this point of a handful of triremes, a few more galleys, and a vague mixture of soldiers and marines catch their second wind as they line the mouth of the Cove, waiting for the oncoming attack from the southern fleet. The few that still carried them, and some that picked the equipment from the corpses of the fallen, shot arrows into the oncoming rush of savage vandals that threatened to destroy their way of life, clinging to that last sliver of hope.

Meanwhile, back on shore, the populace had begun to arm themselves, the few mercenaries, thieves, and common guardsmen that could muster up the courage to line the harbor did in preparation for the eventuality that their protectors fall on this day. The entirety of Barbados held their breath in preparation for what came ahead.

The horns wailed and the drums rolled, the Black Fleet gathering itself to throw the weight of its remaining vessels against the Cartel. But suddenly there was a shift in the wind. A flare of violet light like a forest fire in the mountains blazed fiercely in an instant atop the spire of the enemy flagship, and with slow rumbling beats the fleet turned away, shifting their sails to catch a new breeze out of the north. Whatever fate might be the end of Barbados, it was not to perish upon this day - the sinking and burning ships upon the bay before the city a testament to the ferocity with which they had defended their city, and obviously too heavy of a butcher’s bill for the marauders from the south.

“The enemy turns back.” one of the captains muttered, and the Aer-Admiral nodded to himself, then spoke aloud casting his voice for his seconds to hear. “Even men with no names and no tales can be feel the lash of comrades dead beneath the waves. Break off pursuit. I care not to provoke the Black Sails to turn at bay and bear the brunt of their assault. We have done enough this day. An accounting more and aside for the blood spilled before the Rivermouth, for these sons of the darkness.”

All of Barbados breathed a sigh of relief as the day was won, their military proving its might and defending its borders, but there was no celebration on this day. Too many good men and women had fallen on the battlefield, and it would take a while to rebuild their once grand military might.

The few ships that remained either went in to harbor, or scoured the shores for survivors of the battle.

As the Aerships broke away, the Admiral’s eyes fell to the west, taking in the city beyond the bay filled with damaged ships.

“It has been long years since last we sailed these skies.” he mused briefly, and nodded to one of the robed figures which stood atop the deck of the Dominion. “Brightlord. A thought occurs - the men of Barbados have more cause than most to hate the Black Sails and their masters. More cause than any, perhaps. If we seek to scour this menace from the Endless, a base this far south to pursue the brigands might be profitable.”

Long seconds stretched as the ageless figure beneath the opulent cowl shifted, eyes of two hues reading the faces of those military men assembled aboard the immense fabrication, and then it spoke, voice like the whisper of an old tree whose leaves have not yet fallen for winter.

“You speak true, Aer-Admiral. You have my leave to land, and we shall speak with the men of this… Cartel… about such an initiative.”

Mages gestured as the order was relayed, tilting immense sails the size of fields to bear the construct west and downward, her escorts following behind. The Dominion had never been designed to land, but her skiffs could make such an errand easily enough, and so it was that the bulk of stone and metal soon disgorged small boats of shimmering pale wood with sails of prismatic cloth toward a green field without the eastern gates of the island-city.

The men of the Cartel immediately stood at the ready, defensive in the face of their former enemies, but all paused before heading into such conflict. A single booming voice spoke aloud, calling off their assault, but few strayed far from protecting their fair city.

A skiff was commandeered, and De Soto as well as Fernando himself, the Head of the Families, were soon ferried to the landed flagship, raising a pink flag, proudly displaying the wealth of the Cove. A guard called out to the men above deck, asking for a rope or some way to ascend and speak with their unlikely saviors.

No answer came immediately to the guards, but a rather more visceral response - elegant limbs of graven wood extended from the underside of the airborne skiff upon which several figures could be seen, and it settled like a wafting seed upon the ground, before lowering itself gracefully to the earth. It was an incongruous sight, the machine which many eyes would associate with an oceangoing craft sitting in the middle of the green field, but the men who stepped over its bow to walk upon the grass seemed normal enough. First came a hooded figure, long robes trimmed in shimmering silver, and next a warrior in a sturdy greatcoat of slate gray, arms and legs garbed in long sable leathers against the cold of extreme heights. The hooded figure pushed back his cowl, and revealed his face.

It was at first just a normal face, but the second glance made men look closer in surprise. Above a beard clipped neat and close of deepest black sat eyes that at first looked young and hearty, and then upon another viewing old and wise. His brow was furrowed, but his skin unmarked by the lining of age, his hair cut close about his crown and untouched by white. He made a gesture, extending both of his hands outward to display that he carried no weapon, then spoke aloud, his speech somewhat halting, then growing smoother.

“I come in peace, and bear no weapon. I am Brightlord Aevitas Skyfather, of the Stalheimadrin. We congratulate you, sons of Barbados, on your victory over the men who live under the Black Sails.”

De Soto grew quiet, paralyzed by indecision in the face of such a tentative diplomatic solution, but Fernando effortlessly transitioned into his soothing, almost kingly voice. “We thank you for your kind words and approaching demeanor, but this day could have easily become a very different outcome.” De Soto seemed to take offense, but kept his trap shut.

“What brings your to our city? We can offer lodging and supplies for your journey home.”

The Brightlord shook his head, not emphatically, but firmly.

“I thank you, but there is no need. Indeed, I would not take food from the mouths of many who will have been orphaned this day. You speak true - war is never without its cost. We came south hunting the Verduim, the Men of Darkness, to exact revenge for their raids against our own kindred, and carry supplies for many months still upon the fathomless deeps.”

“But that is aside from matters. We did not set out to come upon Barbados - and should have withdrawn, our revenge sated, save for the words of my Aer-Admiral.” At this the black-haired figure nodded toward the man in his military greatcoat, who bowed stiffly, dark eyes inscrutable.

“He thinks that there is ought we might discuss. You have won a great victory this day, but it is not complete - and I know not yet the full extent of the forces of those who trail behind that monolithic vessel of obsidian. They will rest, they will repair, and they will fill their empty holds with the bodies of conscripts from the Folk of Ngolo easily enough to come against civilized lands. Thus my Admiral has a proposal for your kindred.”

At this the white-haired figure stepped forward half a pace, his voice gruff and stern in contrast to the sibilant tones of the nobleman.
“The Black Sails must be hunted down, and destroyed to the last. Ye have not the strength to do so, not after the many men who have been claimed by the depths, despite all their courage. My master will not spare ships to sail to the far side of the world - none save my fleet, who can fly before even the speed of the wind, and so pass into lands where our comrades who sail upon the waves would not venture. Thus we cannot bring the Verduim to heel alone. But with your might, bound to ours, just such a result may be affected, and peace - or at least a semblance of such a thing - returned to the Endless.”

“Our forces will be repaired soon enough. We have the strongest military infrastructure on the Ocean. When they are strong once more, we may see our interests coincide.” De Soto spoke up finally, Fernando nodding. “We may find others willing to lend aid to our cause.” Fernando and De Soto exchanged a knowing look and then turned their attention back to the Stalheim.

The Admiral glanced from face to face of the Barbadian leaders, and then over to the nobleman who was apparently either has - master? Financier? - before shrugging his shoulders briefly.

“Perhaps. I hope, for your sake, that the time to rebuild passes swiftly. We shall pass this way again soon, no doubt, and then we may have further words to exchange. For now, I wish you the joy of your victory, and pray to the Father that the pain of your sorrows is not too bitter. Fair winds, men of the Cartel.”

He bowed, and the nobleman next to him bowed as well, wide robes sweeping back toward the guttering sails of the Aercruiser looming overhead. They then turned, obviously having concluded whatever they felt necessary to say to the island-dwellers, and padded back over to the white-hulled ships that swam through the air. Their departure, and the departure of the many shadows before the sun that were the Hierarchy fleet, proceeded swiftly. Perhaps they longed for home. Perhaps they simply longed to be removed from the scene of battle. At any rate, toward the north and the rising sun they winged, swiftly disappearing beyond the horizon.

by **Aidannadia** » Wed Jan 29, 2020 6:45 pm

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jan 29, 2020 8:41 pm

Upon the Face of the Deep

Shoals of Amol Midgol, Nightstone
2nd of Frosthearth, Year 525 of the Common Era

Davin rubbed at the base of his spine as the last of the net came up, hard-bitten hands scrabbling at the worn leather in a motion as futile as it was instinctual. He muttered and spat under his breath, casting a baleful eye over the catch.

"It'll do. How are we drafting?"

His second glanced at some notches along the main mast of the wallowing fishing skiff and shrugged.

"Could get another seventeen starns, or just call it a night. Full moon's predicted, but you know how it is - good light, bad hauls."

More grumbling came from the weathered sea-dog's throat as he turned the issue over in his mind. The Maiden's Mistress could certainly take back another good netfull or two to the docks on the northern banks of the Bight, but the hour was already growing late. And Janin was right; staying out underneath the pale moon's eye, wide and unblinking, was all sorts of luck. Both good and ill. You played the Father's own dice when you did such a thing, though doubtless the academics in the Blackmire Conclave would rubbish any such superstition. Pfagh. A minnum for their reason and order. The things Davin had seen out beyond the breakers on the Endless had defied logic enough times for him to put little stock in the claims of landsmen who pretended to have the world figured out, every piece in its place and every place on a map.

"Laager the port stays. We'll call it a night. I know you're eager to be home you red-blood scamp, and we won't starve for lack of another haul."

At the captain's words the half dozen men of the Mistress began the laborious task of hauling the deep lines up where they yet stood in the black waters far below. They'd have to make do with whatever had wandered in there, hopefully not more murksnappers and something actually worth eating. On better days Davin would have pitched in, one of his rules, but part of being the owner of your own ship was that you could judiciously ignore the rules when you didn't feel like following them. Not too often, of course, but shitfire if his spine wasn't talking tonight. He ambled back toward the small bivouac on the rear of the craft to lay down while the other men hauled.

Then, suddenly, the fishing vessel lurched forward with a great cracking noise. Several of the sturdy iron joins that anchored the great fields of netting which the Nightsmen used to take their catch screamed in their moorings, line rushing away into the depths. Men swore and grappled at the lines, some inadvertently dropping the runaway ropes from the sudden heat as they soared over the side of the working ship. Davin blanched in an instant, and bellowed in a great gruff voice.

"Greatshell. Greatshell! The axes, or it'll be the bottom for us all!"

His voice broke the spell in an instant, men suddenly no longer caring for the provenance of their lines and hauling any dubious catch up to the light of the early night, but scrabbling for glinting axes of bronze and cruel bloodsilver as if their very lives depended on it - for indeed they did. Rare as devilfish, but far less grumpy, netting a greatshell could just as easily be the end of a crew. As implacable as the mountains in their inscrutable wanderings, seen above the waterline only once a generation, the vast crustaceans were larger even than the mighty warships that roamed the waters of the Endless Oceans, and would drag the Mistress below the waves without even noticing that it had been entangled in the sturdy lines of the net.

Luckily for the aging captain, he had trained his crew well. There was a desperate minute as the timbers creaked under the strain and the ship foamed lower in the water, the sheer stress of the moving island of chitinous flesh dragging the vessel under. Then the ropes pinged away one by one, rhythmic chopping answered by cheers, and an all too welcome lurch as the last bonds of the ship to her net were severed and the invisible titan moved off on its oblivious way.

"Vermillion hells" spluttered Davin's second, and there was nothing the white-haired sailor could do but wearily agree.

Peasants from Brightcliff are attempting to raise Silver Fliers in the hills nearby
Peasants from Cadmus are transplanting Crystal Trees from Tarasheim
The Dominion is en route north to Aeryn

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Thu Jan 30, 2020 11:15 am

Varra

Glory to the Varavians. Glory to Varra.

by **Elerian** » Fri Jan 31, 2020 11:52 am

Aederfolk

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Jan 31, 2020 10:18 pm

Year 525 of the Common Era Dawns!

The Chained of the Depths

It began as a whisper, a trammeled roar which made men and women of the Forge stir in their beds. But it did not abate when sleepers shifted in uneasy dreams, rather gathering as the night continued - until at last the alarm bells began to ring, calling warriors from their cots and barracks to the ready. The rumbling from below then was loud enough to fill many with fear, the baying of a feral host, wordless voices calling for blood, fire, and death.

They had risen. The slaves of the pit, the miners confined to the depths to beat iron and silver and magelmar from the bones of the earth. Iron was in their backs, and their hands armed with crude weapons, oftentimes little better than tools for mining and cutting ore from stone. But an adze wielded with passion could split a skull as well as any sword. And the men and women with hands and legs marked by manacles now struck off outnumbered the warriors the Hammers many times over, the fire in their bellies also a fit match for the paid warriors the elite of the Isle...

A revolution had begun, the masses seeking after a new dawn.

1000 Serfs have risen in rebellion against the Forge!

The Firstborn
Unnamed the silent house rises, more of a sprawling mansion than a proper home, a courtyard within the place where the undead scions of the pale moon could hold their nightmare courts. This compound was placed not far from Fastaqui herself, within the hanging trees and unquiet waters of the Skaz Delta, the mired paths leading to her frowning battlements known by only few. A home, a new coven, and a new least on life for the ancient scions of the Uushuran.

The Many Mothers of Fastaqui
If there is an end to what the Varrans call the Deepwood, it lies beyond the lands the sons of the Skaz tread with the passage of one year into another. Endless stretch the forests southward from Varra, high and terrible as the depths of the woods around the homes of the supposed allies of the Many Mothers. In these trackless depths strange things sleep, mighty lizards the size of men that lurk in the deepest shades to ambush unsuspecting men and women, alongside red veins of hematite that jut here and there from the soil, and occasional hills of startlingly white marble that suddenly rise high even as tall as the massive trees.

To Ita pass scouts, and there they find a city in recovery, her walls rising high and proud, though only lightly patrolled. They seem only recently repaired, but graven with uncommon skill high above the valley floor of Ita's mountainous home.

Sorncost, whatever her flaws, lies peaceful beneath the lash of the Midnight Imperium. Indeed, the riders from Fastaqui find naught that could be construed as a defense. If anything her streets seem bereft of men and uncommonly inundated in widows and those who might have been wives but walk without any man. A curious thing to see in any land, but good news for those who fear an army from the north.

The Magocracy of Xcotl
Loud is the opposition to the reforms the Magocracy promulgates, but louder are the silent thanks of the slaves who now have hope in their lives. The payments free many men and women who have earned their freedom, and if any might consider resistance to the will of the Mages, their plans are checked by the obvious display of military might on the part of the rulers of the city. An additional boon is soon realized - raiders from the east, the Free Slaves who have troubled the city before, are turned in by loyal servants when they come next to infiltrate the city. The sight of their ringleaders nailed to the walls of the city will no doubt have cowed these dissidents...

1 Slave converted into Peasant. +10 Public Order

The Cartel
If formally the Empress of the Zhou condemns the actions of the Arameri, she sends no sign - only those merchants which ply the waters of Barbados seem to find the message dispatched to the north a wise action, and they loudly laud De Soto and his family for standing against the Elven threat and in favor of good governance and opposed to the true threat of the Black Sails. What those plaudits are worth is perhaps a matter to be discussed at a different time, but at the least it seems to validate the Cartel's actions in the minds of her less intellectual citizens.

The Stalheim Hierarchy
The northern climates of the plains of Cadmus are harsh compared to the temperate coastal woodlands of Tarasheim, but not so harsh that a surfeit of care and nourishing can't convince exotic plants with the pallid demeanor of the full moon to bloom there, singing in their translucent light of strange mysteries men do not yet perceive. A grove of Crystal Trees now flourishes in the white hills of the Queen of the North.

by **Aidannadia** » Fri Jan 31, 2020 10:35 pm

To the Lord of the Arameri,

We offer our gratitude for your continued cooperation to our non-aggression pact, and come bearing an offer you certainly can’t refuse. For your help in subduing the Black Sails to the South, in continued and sustained strategic alignment with our forces, we will offer passage to any Elven citizens that may wish to return to their home of Myth Alinor. Consider this offer carefully.

-The Cartel

Novas Arcanum wrote:
The Herald of the High Queen would speak, and his message would be made clear.

To the Lord of Barbados,

In good faith, we will require you to return our citizens first before we can risk sending any ships to attack the Black Sails. Return our people and the full might of the White Fleet will stand with you to help destroy the Dread Menace.

-The Arameri Dominion

To The Lady of the Arameri,

We can supply you with half of those willing to travel to your borders decided by us, with the second half sent following stabilization of the seas. You may send a dozen galleys alone to retrieve your citizens.

-the Cartel.

To the Lady of the Zhou,

The Cartel calls upon the Empress's services to rid this sea of the Black Sailed threat. As soon as your forces reach our borders, an offensive will be mounted against the Ngolo in an effort to liberate them from the sea-faring menace. We call upon the Empress's military to work on a plan of attack in tandem with the Cartel and the limited Stalheim forces that wish to send aid our way. We eagerly await your reply.

We also seek your assistance in mediating the conflict between the Elves and the Cartel once more, involving the Elven involvement in such a maneuver. We have agreed to free elven civilians to their custody following a sustained and consistent involvement in the Dark Crusade, but our voices have fallen on deaf... ears. Any sway with the leaders of the Elves that you could provide will also be eagerly appreciated to support the war effort.

-The Cartel

To the Lord of the Stalheim,

In just a few years time, we will lead an offensive on the Ngolo to free them in the Dark Crusade. We call upon whatever aid your people are willing to provide in this dire time to maintain order on the straits of the Endless Ocean.

-The Cartel

To the High Hammer of the Forge,

We appreciate and acknowledge our close historic bond in recent years, and while we understand that you may have reservations regarding such involvement, we invite your soldiers to aid our Coalition Forces in ridding the sea of the Black Sailed threat in the Dark Crusade. We eagerly await your response.

-The Cartel

by **Ralnis** » Sat Feb 01, 2020 8:47 pm

Lakmal Parish
Skaz Delta, Fastaqui

The home was wholesome, warm, and lively. A hidden sanctuary for those of pale skin and dead breath. It look opulent for the progenitors of their kind as the Uusharan only knew tents and the land for as long they can remember. Being rich in shadow was always a new feeling that reminded them of Xcotl and this made them think of new ideas to express their religion and magic to the new vampires.

However this night was centered on the one thing that they needed most, numbers. For more than half a decade the vampires had struggled to get more than 100 of their Coven and lost fifteen of their kind and now the elders wanted 500 of both human and vampire. It was a respectable number and one that would require them to recruit from all classes of Fastaqui.

The elders themselves agreed upon this and started to focused on an aspect that was opened to them as of right now. The War Guilds of Fastaqui have been massively recruiting new prospects for the military and their were still spots to fill. The elders had decided that this can kill three birds with one stone as many elders wanted to have vampires that can be skilled warriors and it gets their own into places of power while also recruiting from said place.

The elders picked 10 of their best to represent themselves and sent them to infiltrate the military. If this works than they would have more gains from it.

Action Send in 10 vampires to infiltrate the Fastaqui military through their recruitment.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sat Feb 01, 2020 9:47 pm

The Rising of the Depths

The Forge, a smithing haven as it was, was not unfamiliar to the dull roar of a city landscape. Today’s clamoring, however, was of a different breed.

Shouts in the streets. Shouts for freedom.

Heads turned in the direction of the unrest. The mouth of the Great Mines, on the edge of the city, was undoubtedly the source. The soldiers of the Forge, dispersed amongst the town on a much different mission, grabbed their weapons and set off at a run. There was work to be done.

Elsewhere, on the Forge Coast proper, the boats of the foreigners to the south were themselves a hive of activity. They had heard the shouts themselves - though more muffled, the Mines were not so far inland that they were inaudible, especially given that they were the shouts of a thousand. These marines armed themselves, and journey westward to help their allies.

As the soldiers massed and gathered from around the night-shrouded city, the sounds from the Mines redoubled. The flicker of torches in their hundred soon illuminated the small square where the minerals were drawn back to the surface from the immense pit, and many hundreds of hurrying forms in dense knots began streaming out of the ramps that descended into the Depths. Anger bellowed from many throats, a chanted “Death to the Oppressors! Down with the Hammers!”

Most of the rioters bore only pickaxes, shovels, tools, and the like. But a strangely large amount also had simple spears of bronze, and hammers for cracking armor, and wielded them with an ability which belied their nominal status as humble manual laborers. The noise of their massing redoubled as the first Forge warriors made it to the square, and their faces were screwed up in snarls of rage and grim determination, as if steeling themselves for a fight.

The first dozens of the Hammers’ men grouped at the entrance to the square, armed and ready for a fight. But they did not advance - they knew their orders, in the event of a situation like this - they were prepared, though more than a little overwhelmed.

“Let me through, men!” A man bellowed from behind the amassing forces, and they parted in response almost on instinct. A rather modestly dressed man, who looked like he spent more time in a smithy or blast furnace than anything, stepped forward. Shouts of “Hail the High Hammer!” briefly overwhelmed the shouts of the rioters, the trained soldiers far more organized in their unified cry. A hand came up - and there was silence, at least at the entrance of the square.

“The High Hammer!” the bellow came from a single throat, ragged and jagged with emotion, and then it came a wordless cry as the half-starved and desperate slaves charged. If there was one focal point for their anger, one word that could have incensed them, the presence of the leader of the men who had sent them to labor in the darkness was that factor. They came on heedlessly of any order, any organization, and semblance of strategy - fury and a blind hatred cultivated in the black depths overwhelming any reason. If the High Hammer might have spoken, his words disappeared in the hubbub of the slaves crossing the square, and they slammed into the lines of the disciplined Forgers like a wave against the stones of the shore.

It was a bloodbath. Though the warriors of the Forge were not exactly battle hardened, they were trained, and they had weapons which cut down the slaves like chaff, armor which resisted all but the most cunning of blows. But for the numbers of their foe, the skirmish would have been over immediately - but even numbers count for nothing. It took only moments, but swiftly several of the Forge’s finest were wrestled to the ground, immobilized by the sheer numbers of their enemies, and slain with cruel weapons thrust between the joints of their iron armor, or hammers beaten against heads that left blood leaking from unmoving helmets…

“We came to help you! We are all men of the Forge!” The High Hammer shouted from behind the line of his men, the fallen replaced with more soldiers in shining armor that didn’t seem to lack in numbers at all.

“We came to help you! We are all men of the Forge!” The soldiers who were behind the front line bellowed in unison, readying to join the fray but not yet cutting anyone down.
“We don’t want to hurt you! Back away and we’ll negotiate!” The High Hammer continued to relay shouts to the men, desperately trying to quell the angry mob.
“You don’t have to put your weapons down! Just back away!”
The soldiers warily advanced, protecting the bodies - and weapons - of their fallen comrades. They made it clear that they would only strike those attempting to strike them - those who backed away would not be chased.

With the soldiers unwilling to strike the rioting slaves, and pushing forward with the weight of discipline, for a few moments the mob hesitated. Perhaps more reasonable men, or those who bore less injustices, considered the words they heard - the appeal to a common kinship. They might have hesitated as they stood and listened - before the mob swept them forward again. Swiftly the numbers of the mob told, for on either side they pushed against the formation, assaulting them from angles not protected by shields or sturdy armor. Some scrabbled at the fallen weapons, trying to steal the iron weapons, but most were unsuccessful. Still like banshees the greater part of the mob howled, clawing hands of bronze and simple weapons doing their best to hack down the Forger soldiers so reticent to retaliate.

“Any who back down now will receive double rations for the next two years! On my word as High Hammer! May the Gods bear witness!” The soldiers passed on the message as before, their numbers still holding fast. More men arrived even as their allies were cut down, and the men of the Cartel grew closer with every moment.
“You force our hand, fellow Forgers! We wish not to cut you down, but to converse as EQUALS for the BETTER of us ALL!”

Perhaps if such concessions had been offered before the outbreak of the rebellion, men might have listened gladly. With their blood up though, and their tools already stained with scarlet from their overseers slain down below, few were willing to trust the word of the man that had sent them to the Mines in the first place. A few dozen slunk away from the back of the mob, squabbles breaking out here and there, but most pressed the assault, heartened by the sight of the bully-boys of the High Hammer laying broken by their comrades’ hands.

Others, of course, had other plans. Even as the melee continued, several hundred began to break away from the square into the city itself, and the sound of smashing wood came from several directions. Looting, pillaging, these were the activities even good men would partake in temporarily when the rule of law was lifted from their heads. Some no doubt were hungry. Some probably wanted a pretty trinket just in case all of this faltered. And some, no doubt, simply wanted revenge against the society that had chained them. In a few different places now the light of flames could be seen, torches dashed against roofs in anger and in the fetid lust of arson which inhabits the hearts of many.

More productively, though, for the masters of the Forge, their full strength was now gathered - two hundred and some souls in resplendent iron, even those guards summoned from slumber now standing in battle array about their captain, the High Hammer. The Cartel’s lads might take much longer to arrive, rowing in to the city as would be necessary from their ships beyond the harbormouth, but the city could defend herself fully at least.

“Screw it. We’ve given them too many chances. CUT THEM DOWN!” The High Hammer bellowed.
“FOR THE FORGE!” The soldiers roared. There would be no mercy from this point forward. Anyone who dared so much as raise a weapon against this force would perish. The might of the Forge burned within their weapons, and they steeled themselves at the sides of their comrades for battle.

Now was the time for battle to be joined in earnest. With their full might massed, the soldiers of the Forge waded into the throng of rioters, determined to end this sedition here and now. Iron weapons rose and fell in the glinting firelight of torches, snarling faces of slaves illuminated briefly as they darted forward to stab at their foes. Still many hundreds fought the soldiers, but they were untrained, ill-led, and only barely outnumbered their foes now that those more interested in looting and disorder had broken off from their serried ranks. Dozens fell now beneath the blades of the warriors, and though the others dragged down soldiers here and there, they began to give ground, less eager to face the advancing ranks.

The Forge soldiers took advantage of the ground given to construct a wide battle line - the flanks pushed back into a full arc now, forcing the swarm of rioters into one line of sight as best they could. The shambling peasants knew not how to handle a proper one-on-one battle.

“FORM UP! SHOW THEM HOW WE FIGHT!” The High Hammer bellowed. He had at one point or another acquired a fallen soldier’s blade, now taking his own place in the formation - not in the front line proper, but taking opportune attacks through it whenever possible. He was a man fighting for his life - but even more than that, for his city and his people.

As the Forger lines consolidated the slaves grew confused, unsure how to assault the men as the flanks of the formation drew back. Some took advantage of the maneuver to cut down warriors who stumbled over bodies or weapons, but others seemed less interested in the fight now that the odds were less in their favor - a man with rage in his heart will fight less vehemently when he is unsupported by his comrades. Swiftly the piles of slain gathered before the ironclad lines of the Forge, and now more slaves and serfs looked for ways to fall off to the sides or the rear instead of pushing forward with their weapons.

Seeing the fallen corpses before them, the ironclad soldiers felt a pang of heartbreak but grit their teeth and pressed forward. An ancient warsong of their ancestors came forth, to strike fear into the uncertain serfs. Led by the High Hammer, line after line was shouted by the stoic men - blades falling in unison, the beat of their song driving their formation. They refrained from driving into the heart of the enemy, for risk of being flanked once more, but settled in for the long haul - waiting for the enemy to inevitably grow tired of this slaughter.

The Forgers would not be outflanked - the numbers of the slaves now counting for little against the attenuated lines. As the next few fell to determined warriors in iron, those who remained of the host of slaves began to cease to advance, most just standing staring down the warriors and shouting epithets, but increasing numbers disappearing into the lanes and alleyways where they could leave their old lives of servitude behind. Fires now raged in places beyond the square, the sounds of looting coming more clearly from broken doors and outraged merchants, though doubtless many of the rioters were simply taking this chance to seize their freedom and begone from the Forge…

“Surrender or Die!”
“SURRENDER OR DIE!” The echo came from the line of warriors, now advancing towards the few hundred who remain.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND FACE THE HAMMER!” The arrowhead formation of the soldiers started to widen as the enemy numbers thinned, gaining ground steadily. Prisoners would be taken from those who remained - both for interrogation, and for safe keeping.

As the soldiers advanced, the last vestiges of the slave revolt melted away. Some dozens leapt forward, too much hate in their hearts to give in to fear, dragging down a last few Forge chosen warriors to their graves - but most fled headlong as the soldiers began moving forward running hither and thither, some off into the city, others back down into the mines. The rebellion, it seemed, was at an end..

“Split into squadrons and mop up those who remain. Chains if possible, the blade if not. Watch your corners, none of them know how to fight but they’ll get the drop on you.”
The men of the High Hammer quickly split into groups of around a dozen, now splitting off into the city or the mines to mop up those who fled. The marines who soon arrived would do the same - using the aid of merchants or citizens to identify would-be escapees.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Sun Feb 02, 2020 8:16 am

"Gods of the Hundred Thousand Kingdoms be praised"

Turn 31

Five wealth given to the Forge as "aid"

Thirty-two food given to Hierarchy in exchange for Crystal Tree Comprenshion

by **Elerian** » Sun Feb 02, 2020 9:07 pm

Aederfolk

by **The GAmeTopians** » Sun Feb 02, 2020 9:11 pm

The Forge Coast

In the aftermath of the Serf Revolt, things grow tense. But even as the arm of the law swept through the homes of those responsible, chasing down the source of this instability, the wealth of the city went into yet another blast furnace - another flame to burn bright at the Forge's heart.

by **Olthenia** » Mon Feb 03, 2020 4:24 pm

The Ayn Asouan Riverbed
Fastaqui
13th Day of the Arc of Nets, Year 526 of the Common Era

The day was one of celebration.

Whirling dust and the sound of hoofbeats filled the air. Above it all, searing sunlight and cloudless skies revealed a field of celebration. Because although the air sweltered, the vast crowds lining the bone-dry riverbed at Asouan were laughing. Smiling. Jostling. For after all, when camels raced - who could be unhappy? Sour old matrons gummed sweetened cunah-rinds as coloured palanquins fluttered in the breeze, while menfolk sweated, cursed and passed skins of sweetened water as tepid as the rest of them. Up and down the bone-dry riverbanks, children craned their necks to see, see, see! – willing the riders to come racing ‘round the infamous Kattaragh bend. Any moment now, any mome-

THERE.

With a cloud of dust close at their heels, the mass of camels bleated forlornly as they hove into view – man and beast shimmering in the noonday heat. With kicks and shouts, their riders urged them onwards in a final burst of speed. Some brave or desperate souls even brought out short whipwood canes to hammer home the urgency! Few dared strike too eagerly, however – for their distempered beasts were always prone to buck a rider who used the whip too freely. And being bucked from a camel at full tilt into a sunbaked riverbed? Oh, that way lay not just broken bones – but the end of a fine career.

The roar of the crowd met them like a wall. As soon as they grew close enough, eager viewers began hollering the names of their favourite riders. Jellajay! roared some; punching clenched fists in the air for the hero-daughter of the Western Quays. Makartha! hollered others; willing the butcher’s boy with the infamous blue headwrap on to an unheard of third win that summer. One giant of a man with the broad back and corded arms of a seasoned skiff-rower even hoisted a flag adorned with a slew of copper bells – their tinkling peals like the flutters of a hundred tiny hearts. As the gaggle of riders passed, some of them rode so darn hard bits and piece of their saddle and accoutrements fell clean off! One rider ever lost his cloak, the copper scales sewn to it flashing in the sun! Crowds of children – and even some adults! – scattered after it to tussle in the dust for bits and pieces. They’d show them off to jealous friends and curious fans afterwards; treasured trophies fairly won.

To an outsider, the principal river associated above all with the great, sprawling stilt-city of the Many Mothers was that which men and maps alike called the Skaz. In her shallows had Fastaqui been born, and along her banks generations of happy mothers had bathed their children, washed clothes, laughed and languished. Yet come the hottest of the summery days – the arcs when even the Crones of the Tiers hired barges to take their sweating, leaf-fanned selves to the middle of the Skaz to cool off? Oh, on those days a very different river held the soul and spirit of fair Fastaqui. That river, gods bless it, was the Asouan. Once a distant tributary to the mighty Skaz, its banks had shifted before even living memory. Nowadays, it skirted the hilly edges of the Gasping Dust, and saw nary a drop of water outside the rainy season. It was flat, mostly straight and perfect – just perfect – for racing noble camels. Needless to say; no summertime sport was more popular in all Fastaqui. No pastime more lauded and, amongst betting men and women, no subject more hotly debated.

While the Skaz held life and water for all Fastaqui – it was dry, sweltering Asouan that held her dreams.

Special Actions:

- A band of Settlers ventures east of Karowa this year, chasing the horizon towards the rising sun.

- Camel-scouts ride west of Sorncost this year; towards the ruined bones of the city whispered tales once named "Ellander". Is it home to ought but ghosts?

- Another force, equally camel-borne, will range north of Sorncost - towards the royal capital of Serryn. Is there a garrison present?

by **The Empire of Tau** » Tue Feb 04, 2020 9:32 am

Amidst the slaves and the legal reforms, a concern has been raised in the central bureaucracy. Projects have been delayed and pushed back on the current timetable and the issue will be worse after once the amount of enslaved falls. There is no plan to free every single slave in the whole city, just enough to calm down things. Pressure from the Efeate estate has been mounting and multiple jingoist coup attempts against the bureaucracy had happened in the months to the new year. Political tensions grow as the Efeate steps up their aggressive in the halls of government and out in public. The central bureaucracy has been in constant threat under the burden of ensuring public order among public protests from the free citizens of the Efeate. What’s more, central planners are wary of the economic impacts of freeing slaves. As said, projects are being set back and without slaves to work day and night, there is no way that anything would get done in time. The irrigation project has yet to be done and that project was set forth twenty years ago. Central planners, fearing that their progress is threatened, have opted to join the Efeate reactionaries to stop reform.

Solutions have been made forth to fix the delays on public projects. Xcotl sits on a massive pile of golden coins and crafts. The Xcotl bureaucracy has not a damn clue what to do with this coin. Piles upon piles of wealth and nothing to do with it. Government planners have tried to do something about this. Merchants have been sent out to almost every known contract they have. Xcotl is willing to trade massive amounts of wealth for base metals, immigrants, scholars, anything. If that does not work then the central planners would more or less just use those ungodly amounts of wealth to build a Great Library. The Xcotl bureaucracy has also found more need for people. Xcotl desires for more people. The growing number of births is not enough to sustain the growing ambitions of the central planners. Thus, Xcotl has issued papers on notice boards in everyplace that they could to inform anyone that wishes to come to Xcotl will gain a decent sum of wealth to their name (about 0.5 wealth for mechanics per pop). Xcotl merchants have been sent to the isles of the elves too. Xcotl is in need of certain metals, Blood-silver that the elves have, to use to manufacture arms and armors for the growing army. What have been debated is that gold shall be used in trade for the blood-silver, but in what rates is unknown.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Tue Feb 04, 2020 4:25 pm

Aidannadia wrote:To the Lord of the Arameri,

We offer our gratitude for your continued cooperation to our non-aggression pact, and come bearing an offer you certainly can’t refuse. For your help in subduing the Black Sails to the South, in continued and sustained strategic alignment with our forces, we will offer passage to any Elven citizens that may wish to return to their home of Myth Alinor. Consider this offer carefully.

-The Cartel

The Herald of the High Queen would speak, and his message would be made clear.

To the Lord of Barbados,

In good faith, we will require you to return our citizens first before we can risk sending any ships to attack the Black Sails. Return our people and the full might of the White Fleet will stand with you to help destroy the Dread Menace.

-The Arameri Dominion

To her Majesty the Empress of the Zhou

The Cartel calls on a crusade to destroy the dark forces. We have asked for them to return our citizens if we are to risk the lives of our marines. They have only offered half of our people back. Tell me if someone stole something or someone from you and promised to return what was taken would you find it acceptable that they only returned half of what they stole? Half a sack of apples? Half a sack of seed?Half the body of a loved one? We ask that you side with us just this once and persuade the Cartel to return all of our people unjustly torn from their homes.

-Respectfully the Arameri

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Wed Feb 05, 2020 10:52 am

Varra

Glory to the Varavians. Glory to Varra.

by **Nuxipal** » Wed Feb 05, 2020 1:34 pm

Kingdom of Nekhen

Sixth Year of the Reign of High King Settra - Year 463

Isolated within their desert homes, the Aslani work alongside their undead minions. Soon however, those minions would require additional magic to continue existing. However, until that time came, they would labor for the glory of Nekhen. The construction of a new market was designed to let the Aslani reach out and connect with outside people via trade.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Feb 07, 2020 8:46 pm

Year 526 of the Common Era Dawns!

An Unquiet Peace

A sense of dread steals across many lands - in Barbados they toss in their sleep, in Fastaqui the Crones cast unrested vigils upon the tomes of the ages, upon the heights of Cadmus they watch the stars to divine their courses. Every day it seems as if men wait with baited breath for news, for something, a tension as of a string drawn across a knife; none know when the silence may be broken, but they wait with trepidation for ought that will shatter the stillness... and yet it is a year like many others, blessed in the lack of news, in the uninteresting times.

The Cartel
From the eastern shores of the Endless come messengers under white sails that glisten with arcane light - missives from the Stalheimadrin confirming that their ships shall sail south come year's end to hunt the remnants of the Black Fleet. From the Zhou, a letter clad in golden wax - the Empress of the denizens of the North is most pleased with the news she has heard of the great wreck of the pirates upon the shores of Barbados, and the valor of those who put the brigands to the sword. She pledges her ships as well for this coalition, to end the threat of the Black Sails once and for all, and affirms her support for the course of action of dealing with external threats of great severity over trifles of the past.

Moreover there is good news to report within Barbados itself - fair half elven kindred teem once more within the streets of the city, sons now intermixed with the sires of the Barbadians after the fashion enabled by the mages years ago.

The Firstborn
Teeming are the barracks-yards of the Many Mothers this season, and into the ranks of the downtrodden, desperate, patriotic, and ambitious the deathless sons of Xcotl slip with ease, taking the Ashen Oaths alongside their supposed sisters. Their prowess in combat soon sets them apart as good candidates for promotion, naturally skilled in the arts of war, and several rise to lead squads and formations of those who wield the spears and bows of Fastaqui.

The Arameri Dominion
A year passes without incident, a year of knowledge and learning, but also a time of consternation for the masters of ships which ply the Endless Ocean. For all the mastery of the Endless Ocean which the Elves possess in the form of their light ships and stout-hearted marines, no ports to load with commerce and trade can be found from Myth Allanor to her lesser sisters - to the demands of their betters to send wealth to the hurting, trade to those with arcane mysteries, the harbormasters of Elvendom can only respond in futile sadness.

The Aederfolk
South of Dol Aelyd the second sons of the Aederfolk range - only to discover the shores of the deep blue sea, their fondest friend, though as yet untraveled by the sons of the Aeder. They return swiftly to the capitol, supplies unconsumed, prepared for a new venture.

The Forge
Though the men of the Forge, their cruelest and most cunning, do their best to ferret out the root of the rebellion... their efforts ultimately reward them merely with screams and broken bodies. Conditions in the mines, it seems, are most to blame for the rising; men and women condemned to work in the dark with barely air to breath, so far beneath the earth that the sun scarcely ever is seen. Any man will be driven to breaking ere long in such circumstances, and the desperation that the serfs felt in their souls is not hard to believe for the interrogators after seeing the labor that is required of them.

The Many Mothers of Fastaqui
East of Karowa, most loved daughter of the Skaz and the mountains that scrape the sky, the Great Forest unfolds in its unbroken depths. Sheer rock faces plunge along water-laden gorges toward the endless emerald acres, and through these shadowy reaches the explorers from fair Fastaqui roam. It is a wild country, but not inhospitable - great trees laden with yellow fruits the shape of the crescent moon flourish here, alongside immense flowers the color of the sunrise that glisten with an unnatural hue. As the explorers move here and there they come upon immense creatures like deer, each the size of a house on the move, who graze on the canopy overhead. They are not predators, but a few men are trampled underfoot as they move here and there, paying little more attention to the humans under their hooves than those explorers do to ants on the forest floor.

The quiet ruins of Ellander speak of nothing, save the ashes of old sorrows. Already they are being overcome by the woodlands and grasses that teemed here before the coming of man.

The tale of Serryn is much different. In the countryside surrounding the burgeoning metropolis warriors with skin like beaten obsidian can be seen coming and going in marching companies, fair-skinned warriors with the aspect of the Serrith in train alongside them. Serryn is an anthill upturned, an unquiet graveyard of the dead even by night, and the blossoms of bronze can be seen in almost every hand and upon every brow.

The Deepwood
It is a year of little happening, save curiosities of little note to many. Strange figures have been seen walking in the southlands, beyond the depths of the great forest. Some swear they are men wearing cloaks of fur who flee upon the approach of any civilized person, some claim they are immense wolves that walk on two legs, bounding away if they catch wind of a man's scent. Whatever their provenance, their sightings have been increasing.

by **Aidannadia** » Fri Feb 07, 2020 9:01 pm

To the Lord of Barbados,

If the other nations of the world are to join in the crusade to free the Ngolo then the Dominion will also be willing to lend it's forces. If Barbados is willing to accept the aid of the Elves then the White Fleet will join the battle against the Dread.We accept the terms of your offer for the good of the Endless.

-The Arameri

To the Arameri,

We welcome your involvement in our Crusade, and applaud you realizing the worth of our offer. We hope this leads to further stability and peace in the Endless Sea.

-The Cartel

*Galley returns to Barbados from the Forgers with any willing soldiers aboard.
*A rally point is set in Barbados for the coalition forces in the Dark Crusade.

A Strange World: The Strength of Empires [IC|Closed]

Who is online