Seventh Age (IC)

[North America Inc]

The Seventh Age: For Gods and Gold Theme IC| ARCHIVE |OOC|Map | Discord The Wedding Once Upon A Time... Located in the Golden Valley, surrounded by the Mountains of the West and the Seas to the East, the Glorious City of Volantia stands. For the past three thousands years, the City had evolved from a small Eldarian village to one of the immanent powers within Avalon and the Western World. From Invasions to the Plagues, the city has been challenged but has never fallen; a testament to the works of the Eldar and the children it has brought forth. Today of all days serves as no better example. It's midday, the sun hangs slightly off center as the salty air of the sea provides a constant cool temperature to match the general tone of the celebratory city. Pelicans, not vultures, swarmed the streets; eager to take any meager scrap that was left unattended. Along with their calls, music filled the air, both drowning out the other. Outside the city, hundreds of assorted camps gathered to take part in the festivities, whether as a participant or a vendor. Those from Avalon gather on the inland outer walls, fashioning themselves with either their familial or national colors while those in the East met in the Cothon of Volantia. Trampling over the finely tended grass, Avalonian Men, Elf Kin, and Dwarf indulge themselves even before the initial ceremony. Guards are much more lax then they should be, having already treated themselves with the abundance of cheap alcohol. Poorer vendors gather around any congregation they can find, shouting at their highest pitches about the great treasures that lay within their catalog. Only a few of the most gullible fools believe them. As we pass the city entrance, much more comes into view. Volantia, is not defined by one singular architectural style, but instead a whole slew of different if complimentary designs that allowed its splendor to be envied by all. From the bright colors of the Fifth Century to the Stoic Marble of the Sixth, each adds something new to the whole. Progressing further inward sees the buildings grow from simple shacks to World Wonders: from the Bronze Statue of Vanx standing ever proud to the Historical Acropolis and the Grand Temple in its center to Venolor's Castle towering on its hill. Visitors often find themselves astounded by the beauty, the stories proving themselves true. For the more accomplished individuals, a tourney was being held in the Ancient Amphitheater of the City. Here Young Knights seek to impress the maidens of the audience through sword fighting and jousting. The offerings this year had even been expanded to allow for Magic Tournaments, Sharp-Shooting, and proto-Gladiatorial fights for the Eldar who sought to be truly one with their roots. The Etrusian Road cuts from the Center Gate to the Acropolis, the hosting site for the event that so many have traveled to be a part of; the Road itself reserved for the most dignified attendees or the evening entertainment. What had started as a simple sight seeing by the natives of the cities had become a de-facto parade watch, as the Entertainment proudly demonstrated their exotic offerings. Benders from the Far East made a spectacle with their evocation of fire without Crystal, the move-set so much more fluid than your basic evocator. Magi conjure illusions into thin air and Bards serenaded the crowd, all the while, the children awed in wonder. Exotic Animals, from the majestic Unicorn to the Marvelous Sky Bison, made their way through the streets as their masters eagerly showed off their tricks. Beyond just all entertainers though, where the impressive mass of servants that made way for their dignitaries. Men of the Cloth traversed in their traditional White and Black Robes, burning incense and praying for the young couple. The Pontiff had long since arrived but the Choir was never one to shy away from hiding its wealth and elegance. Soldiers and Knights from every creed and nation within Choirdom marched in unison around their respective envoy, both on horseback and on foot. Carriages from the West and Litters from the East carried these most esteemed guests, most, privately, not glad about this arrangement. The Volantian Monarch and his Controlling Council saw it wise not to allow whole armies into their city, instead allowing for a compromise: beyond a small entourage around the guests themselves, security would be handled by the Choir's Paladins: the Adeptus Militum. Their impartiality could and should be trusted. All of this for a Wedding; a wedding for a Bride and Groom that had yet to even meet. This went beyond just the ceremony itself. Beyond it being the First day of the Forty-Ninth Year, the Year of Jubilee, this wedding had great geopolitical ramifications. The Kingdom of Valmange was quickly rising as an eminent power throughout the Western World and the vast coffers of Volantia offered new avenues to allow for that expansion. Many within Choirdom were wary about this, Valmange had done little to hide its imperial ambitions and many knew the real possibility of their own homes becoming the site of another Great Crusade. His Majesty Valjean II of House Heinala-du-Hoc needed only a child and his Empire would touch both the Pontus and the Tiberian. There were other issues that bared discussion as well: Lygos and its Illyrian Masters had recently finished their bridge to combine the East and West, the Revolutionaries in the Middle Countries, and the Intentions of the East had started to become clear. This wedding, hidden behind all its excess, was the perfect opportunity for the most powerful individuals of both Avalon and Eden to meet and discuss without arousing any sort of suspicion. A fact most were aware of, but none dare to utter in public. So for now they held their smiling faces high and enjoyed the excitement of the crowd, nothing to arose suspicion from their rivals. As the final litters of the Parade reached the center of the Acropolis, a cohort of sorts stood back and watched from the crowd gathered below. Nothing about their attire was odd, nothing that outed their intentions. From the blind peasant that stood in the corner listening to all to the Guard who wisely hid his stained shirt and memorized the guard rotations. They all knew their roles what they had to do in order to see it through. Rules To Be Aware Of 1. I am a Great One, my Word is law. My Co-OPs are my indoctrinated thralls, caring out my will in my stead. 2. If you have problems ask the community. 3. Utilize Common Sense. Think about your stuff before posting it. 4. Rule of Cool Applies. 5. Steamrolling is not allowed. Give players a chance to respond. If a player is habitually absent well... 6. Players who are not active at least once per week will have their character be put under limited OP control. After two weeks the nation will collapse or turn into an NPC faction. 7. That being said, if you have real world issues. Come to me. I will do my best to keep your Faction safe during your absence. Real Life happens and we all understand. 8. If you want to fight with an Individual, take it to TG. 9. No Spamming. Respect the Threads and everyone who posts in them. 10. This is the internet, however, lets keep any rage we have IC with our characters. 11. This is a character based RP, romance is allowed and accepted. However no smut, no sex, nothing that can shutdown this RP. 12. No anime. No PCs under 17, no Three hundred year old Elven Child, no costumes designed with one hand. 13. If Finland SSR or Bentus anyone spams the Discord with shipping goals, I will personally tell your mother. 14. Please, try your best to spell correctly. It is frustrating when a player misspells simple everyday words.

[Tysklandia]

The Wedding
Volantis
Grand-Duchess Elisabeth Richtert von Basshoff
First day of the Forty-Ninth Year of the seventh Age, the Year of Jubilee

The Grand parade was truly a sight to behold, but sadly one Elizabeth could not fully enjoy. Many of the great magical beasts and magical arts at display were things the Grand duchess had but seen in writing, in works of art or through the words of bards and teachers. A grand game to act as a prelude as one of the greatest political upheavals in centuries.

Volantis to the east, Valmange to the west, they were the stabilizing powers in a continent engulfed in revolutionary fire, of nations abandoning centuries of Feudalism by careful reformations, swift bloody revolutions or even more foreign and mysterious means. But these two powers combined? This ancient bulwark of nobility, joined with the oldest of stoic City states? Would they resist these new upstart powers together or simply chose to crush them afoot?

This new shift in power caused many back home to wonder what the future held for any of them. With the Grand Duke of North-Ithalid unwilling to part with his sickly newborn and neither the King of Heinmar-Omar or Dumaria willing to displease the Noraldurians, it was left to the young Grand-Duchess of Berga as the only noble of proper title to represent the Concordat in this grand event. Her youth and need for political favors making it easy for the Congress in Kal'Duma to pressure her to be their envoy. Her age, youth and need of a suitor hopefully making her more successful to find information and make connections in a City filled with the most powerful men of Avalon and Eden.

Her own humble convoy was near the rear of the grand row of dignitaries as they filed through the city, following the grand parade that was likely designed to both awe the smallfolk and to impress the various dignitaries of the wealth this union could bring to bear. Amongst the dozens of banners and colors present, were the power brokers of the world, all present in this city that once harbored the greatest conqueror known to history.

A handful of her Noble bannermen joined with a collection of Bergan Lancers acted as her allowed honor guard, their duty more so to announce her presence that it was for her security. With the veritable power of the Choir at display to ensure the safety of the various visitors, more men would only serve to cause a disturbance.

But the duchess quickly saw enough of the near decadent splendor of the events from the window of her covered Carriage, the parade and splendor outside was ignored in favor of the young duchess preparing herself for the political games to come. One had to be seen before one could be heard, a lesson a noblewoman had to learn early in life.

The nobility of Berga was never known for its splendor and wealth, but they still had their pride. A circlet of gold and emeralds acted as her crown, her dress being a more unconventional leather vest and corset in the brown and green colors that defined the wooded Bergan lands. A thin, but ornate ceremonial sword linked at her hip. The Grand-Duchess may be a Lady in Waiting, but her title still made her the sworn protector of the Grand-Duchy of Berga and its people. It was a neccesity that she showed to both her people and to foreign leaders that she was willing to take up said role. Even though her reputation as a peculiar, but respected figure in High Bergan and Concordat society, being a respected leader and Duchess was another thing entirely.

And although the Concordat may have not had internal conflict in decades, it wouldn't do to make the other members of the their alliance think they could bully a young duchess into complacency. Taking up the visage of a calculating leader, willing to take to the sword would at the very least cause some to think twice of playing games of silly intrigue.

A mere 2 winters ago, she was an heir in name only, her father still in his prime and healthy enough to still bear a son. But even in this age, sickness can be sudden and deadly. And within a fortnight, Elisabeth turned from a woman awaiting a proper match for marriage, into the Grand-Duchess of Berga and Protector of the Southern Concordat. Trust into a cut-throat world of politicks and rulership from one day to the next.

Now she was surrounded with splendor and wealth beyond compare, but crippled by the intrigue and political game that was required to please the Concordat Congress, the Bergan nobility, a growing army of suiters and the ever louder small folk... And on top of it all, for reasons beyond her control, she was to stand before the most influential of foreign lords on the continent and ensure the Concordat didn't end up left behind in the power structure that was to be... A small task to be sure.

---

---

The 37th Concordat Congress - Part I.
Kal'Duma

Kal'Duma was once merely the old dwarven fortress that guards the pass from Avalon to Dumaria. Sitting on one of the most passable routes through the Noraldurian mountains this far east, Kal'Duma has been a fortress that has kept watch and connected the eastern stretches of the Noraldurian mountain holds to their western siblings for centuries. Grafted into the side of the mountain, Kal'Duma was created initially as a fortress and still bears those marks, centuries later. The original city, now named the "dwarven quarter", is still separated from the rest of the settlement by a solid hundred paces, the old walls still intact and maintained, protecting the entrance to the mountain homes of the dwarven population and the deep shafts that access the deep roads and the mines. The new quarter beyond it is a small city on its own, driven primarily on the various diplomats, merchants and visitors Kal'Duma attracts as the political center of the Concordat.

The Congress is the single entity around which this new quarter is centered, it is in many forms a bastardized take on the old Volantian senate. This vast palatial complex holds the Concordat senate, in which representatives from the various member states and various selected interest groups solve minor disputes and organize the relations and trade between the members. In truth, they hold little true power as the Concordat remains a very decentralized entity. Its primary purpose, however, is to host the Concordat Congress, normally held every two years, with every member holding the right to call an Emergency congress at their whim.

In such a congress, the direct leaders, together with the senate, discuss primary concerns, internal issues, foreign threats and diplomacy. In theory, a consensus should be found, but often issues are eventually brought to a vote and political influence and favors are brought to bear for the various factions to bring their desires to a favorable conclusion. On the first month of 49th year of the seventh, the 37th Congress of the Dumarion Concordat is to be held, a full five months before its normal date. But the wedding between Valmange and Volantis sparked such a change in the balance of power that a departure from tradition was called for.

With the exclusion of the young Grand-Duchess of Berga, who has chosen a representative in her stead, the High-King of Noraldur, the king of Heinmar-Omar, the King of Dumaria, the Grand-duke of North-Ithalid and the speaker of the republic of Hertze-Klugel have all converged on Kal'Duma in recent days.

Here, they will discuss the future of the Dumarion Concordat in these uncertain times.

[Aidannadia]

As those within the Choirdom found bliss in the courts of Valmange and Volantis, those baneful under the influence of the Cartel too took joy. Today was a day of celebration in the Cartel, a reverie of passion. A local holiday in Canadport, one fill with gladiatorial fights and those activities most pleasurable, had gripped the city. Though Mother Arachne was approaching the later stages of her life, she too took part in the festivities though she did retire early to her estate to hold court with those that could restrain themselves somewhat. The discussions were long, but the Mother had had a vision, a sign from the Delos themselves, of a way forward. For years now, the Cartel struggled to export and import new materials and ideas from the West and the East, both hindered by the Illyrian pitbull of the North, Asmodeus, and the long sea route to Jin, and the general attitude of the West towards anything outside of their precious Choirdom. However, this vision saw a way to grip them by the billfold and pull them into her own sphere of influence once more, despite all these detracting factors.

She, on this day, created a special exploratory committee, bound to explore the Northeasterly river this summer for a path to the Far East, and to plan a path forward to establish a trade route along the Great North River that extended East, but plenty stood in their way: Envious Drukhari states, clawing for a place in the Cartel's world, and a Great Northern Horde that threatened the very nature of progress and even the rugged steppe terrain, with its harsh winters and wildlife threatened this venture, but the lure of power and profit pushed ever onward in the Court of Mother Arachne.

The next project initiated on this day was one of hard labor and determination... and of the procuring of a sufficient amount of slaves. A canal, through the narrow Western Holding's land bridge between Illyria and the rest of Eden, would prove necessary, given that other Northern nations would have similar reasons to pursue another route through to Jin; that being the relentless taxation by those along the Southern Coasterly route to Jin, where a merchant from Northern Avalon would travel to southern reaches of the Alderian Federation, then to the great Eden Nation of Moyotaifa, then through Tekumel and around the rest of Penglai, until finally making it to Jin, where his goods would be so overpriced that their margin would create a problem where only the most privileged of those in Jin would dare to trade with those that offered quality goods from the west. If one thing had been taught to the Cartel, it was the value of having a market dominated by those at the bottom of the economic system, those that were beholden to those more privileged than themselves. In order to procure the necessary individuals to complete such a task, the main thrust of the Cartel's army was transported to the Western holdings over this month, with the intention of sweeping east along the northern coast of Eden, pillaging the small human and Drukhari settlements that dotted the landscape.

The problem with both of these plans was a their reliance on coin for funding, but coin would not be hard to come by with the exportation of Bloodlust and Dimbell to the Western reaches of Avalon. First though, a small envoy of traders was sent to Tekumel, to test this model for consumption in the West. The objective was simple; there existed a northern peninsula in the land of Tekumel that was largely comprised of fellow Drukhari. Ancient contacts with this people maintained, despite the cold shoulder the Tekumel government gave the Cartel, barely acknowledging their neighbors to the North. There, Bloodlust would be exported within the week in a shipment of fish by a trader not directly tied to any one family at court, but instead a bumbling fool with reliable deniability. Within that cargo of fish, there lie a hidden export; large supplies of Bloodlust, sometimes stained with fish oil. This material had dramatic effects on the user, and given the aggressive nature of the Drukhari, would no doubt grate with the authority of locals.

An envoy was soon sent to the nation of Tekumel from Mother Arachne's proxy later that month.

To the Great Nation of Tekumel,

It has come to our attention that within the last week, a shipment of an illicit substance has made its way to your shores after being stolen from one of our holding facilities. The substance, ascribed the name Bloodlust, has a noticeable affect on aggression and physical strength of the user. It is highly addictive, and may spread throughout your shores if not contained. The Cartel offers its services in quelling any discontent that may come of this unfortunate mistake. We offer an antidote, and a boon to your nation; A substance by the name Dimbell, that in small quanities can be used to sedate a population long enough to reverse the effects of this drug. Unfortunately, given the high demand of this to the Vampriric state, we lack very much, but we are offering you a discounted price at this time. Please consider this offer carefully, as we adress this concern that grips both our nations.

Regards,

The Chekov Cartel

There was, of course, little trust between this nation and that of the Tekumel, and Mother Arachne had every reason to believe they would deny her immediately, but time will only tell how this drug will spread, especially if a shipment disappeared from the nation's stores from time to time. It was risky, and put Drukhari lives on foreign soil in serious distress, but a necessary experiment in the name of the primacy of profit.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

City of Volantis
Golden Valley

---

The doors of the gilded carriage opened and the young elven attendant bowed deeply at a near ninety-degree angle. Valjean of House Heinala-du-Hoc, second of his name, Royarch of Valmange wrung his hands together before returning them to his sides. His dress was superb, wearing a blue sable overcoat that clutched to his slim but broad-shouldered physique in a manner that made him appear edged. Around his neck hung a golden chain and on his fingers rings encrusted with jewels glistened. His finely made velvet cloak was embroidered with the lion of House Heinala-du-Hoc with golden threads and a slim shortsword hung from his belt. The Royarch stepped down the step of the carriage and stood tall, marveling at the architecture of the acropolis for a while before standing at the side of the step as his queen stepped out. Clarisse was clad in a dress and wearing jewelry that cost a small fortune, made by only the finest tailors and jewelers in Val Fontaine, the long dress flowed in gray, blue and bright pink with puffs and floral patters sewn in thread-of-gold and thread-of-silver. The number of bracelets covering the Valman Queen's wrists alone made soft metallic chimes as they clanked together when she moved her arms. Holding out his arm, Queen Clarisse gently placed her hand on it and stepped down from the carriage. The Royal Couple slowly walked, looking around, standing tall, dignified, examples of old-blooded Avalonian royalty. Around them the rest of the Valman delegation left their carriages, the Royarch's eldest son, Crown Prince Alphonse stood outside his carriage clad in a fine gray doublet, staring at the grand temple of the acropolis where he would later say his vows. Valjean's brother Etienne had not accompanied them, the Royarch needed a reliable man back in Val Fontaine to keep the affairs of the realm in order. His youngest brother was here however, Laurent had spent much of his time as a Knight Errant and walked clad in chainmail under an impeccably woven tabard, longsword on his hip. The Valman entourage numbered over 200 when including servants, attendants and a small group of Knights Palataines.

Queen Clarisse did not show a modicum of discomfort, even though the Royarch was well aware of how much his wife disliked long voyages. The first few days of their trip had been a jovial affair filled with singing and merriment, ribald japes, and impromptu races by young attendants up and down the length of the Royarch's entourage until their horses frothed at the mouth. The cheers of noblewomen and squires had echoed in their ears. Then it was replaced by days of repetitive monotony but now, finally, they were here. Fine Volantis, a city which had birthed great conquerors, a city of high culture with a history that gave it's inhabitants a rightful well of pride to drink deeply from. Volantis was also much more than that, it was a great opportunity for the Kingdom of Valmange, with close relations the realm would have a strong foothold extending to Pontus and the Tiberian, a way to siphon the vast wealth that flowed there to the coffers of Valmange, a base to project force across Eastern Avalon and Western Eden. He looked toward his son Alphonse, perhaps, one day, future scholars would tout a second Great Wedding in their histories as the start of a great golden age for Valmange, an imperial age more sustainable than the one before. The one that turned Valmange from a Kingdom of gold and glory to a Kingdom of iron and rust, something it took the lifetimes of two great men, his father and his grandfather to reverse.

The two royals walked up to their children who stood admiring a Bender's Far Eastern magics from distant Penglai. Royal Princesses Yvonne and Hedinelle laughed merrily watching the fiery shape of a serpentine drake conjured by the Bender fly over the great manors of the High Quarter while his second son Severin stood huddled close to his pretty young wife. A daughter of House Du-Pontival, Elodie's father owned land which was home to several great mining complexes, crucial for feeding the forges of Montsimmard and making House Du-Pontival very wealthy in the process.

"I would very much like for us to go down to the markets later, the manor by the seaside set aside for us is close to the Port's Bazaar I've heard." Queen Clarisse said.

"Very well, mon cherie." The Royarch replied with a nod. "Take the girls too then would you, I'm sure they'll find something for interesting for themselves."

"Won't you come with us?" The Queen asked, eyebrow raised.

"Of course I will." Valjean replied as if it was the most obvious thing of Elohim's green earth. "So will the boys and my brother, we need to have a look around down at the docks."

"Thinking of securing a part?" His wife asked.

"Certainly." The Royarch replied with nod.

"Let's try to get them to give it to us as part of the dowry then." Queen Clarisse said. "The Jetties of Volantis under exclusive contracts are priced to the thrice-damned heavens." She said tersely.

"Aye, if nothing else I'm sure they'll reduce the price after Alphonse gets married to that Princess of theirs." Valjean replied as the Royal couple walked along the line of preforming mages from near and far. Fine Eldarian architecture from Imperial eras long past still awed with their majesty. "The port of Volantis can hold more than 300 ships, if we can secure a jetty or two for twenty or so warships it would raise our ability to project force eastward much easier. If we can secure an west-east line of control, we can start bringing back order where there is only madness and heresy."

Clarisse looked at her husband. "You think of the Gemeinvesen? Will you make the announcement that we talked about on the way. We could gauge their response to it."

"Yes, mon cherie." Valjean replied matter-of-factly. "The exiled lords and preachers of old Estria can find a home in our land, then we can decide what we want to do with those who do take up our offer."

But first, there was a grand wedding reception to attend to, one that was sure to be remembered in the histories of Avalon and, well, the world.

[Laiakia]

Northern Tiberian Sea

---

The Tiberian Sea today was a foggy mess. No land could be seen for miles as a merchant ship flying the flag of the Calannór Trade League, a league within the Iladóliel Protectorate, traversed the waves. Their ship had tried to slip past two Asmodean 'tax' collector ship, more specifically a caravel and a carrack. Loud bangs were heard inside the fog as cannon balls came flying past the merchant ship, almost hitting it. The carrack continued to unleash volly after volly from their bow chasers as the caravel fired several chain shots aimed at the mast of the merchant. Unluckily for the merchant, the aim of the caravel as true and disabled the mast, halting the ship as it violently tried to turn and fire a broadside against the two ships. More shots came in from the carrack, hitting said side and killing many sailors. Seeing as they were hopelessly outgunned, the captain of the limping vessel waived a white flag towards the Asmodeans.

The two ships hurriedly dropped their anchor and boarded the vessel, quickly rounding up any resisting crew by force. After the crew was secured, a single man stepped aboard from the carrack. This man was clad in a grey coat with black cuffs, black liner and thin black brims around the button holes which was fitted with buttons from melted down elven silver stolen from other ships stepped onboard. He too wore brown leather boots and had a faded light-green bandana. Under his coat, he had a dirty, white shirt. An orange with yellow sash worn under a leather belt with a patinated bronze buckle and a leather baldric with a big, frame-shaped silver buckle, a smaller silver loop and a silver cover at the end, all three elaborately ornamented, complete his outfit. On his left hand he wore a black leather gauntlet, presumably in order to protect the hand. On his head, he carried a big, round, and dark hat that was adorned with feathers, most likely from a sort of bird. This man was none other than the Scourge of the Tiberian Sea, Hilther Barbarossa.

Barbarossa approached the scared crew and examined them closely. "Who among you do you name as captain?" The crew reluctantly pointed out an elven man clad in a fine brown coat.

The elf glared at the Asmodean. "You have no right to attack this ship, pirate scum! This is an unprovoked attack and you will pay! The "

Barbarossa chuckled at this filthy elf. "Really now? I certanly remember that we offered you and yer crew a chance to simply pay the passage tax, but you refused and tried to run our blockade. So in my eyes, you are the one at fault here, savy?" Barbarossa was now leaning slightly inwards towards the elf, lighting a cigar.

Their little conversation was broken as some crewmen started dragging out small chests full of wood, fish and salt from below decks. This pleased Barbarossa. "Splendid!" He looks around and spots a small dinghy. His head turns back to the elf captain, but spotted a junior officer in the midst of the crew. Barbarossa went over to him and pulled him up by his shirt.

"You will take that boat and row all the way back to your filthy elf nest and inform your filthy employer of what happened here today. Go. Now." The elf immidietly got up and sprinted for the dinghy, lowering it into the water. Barbarossa came up to the edge and tossed in a single fish and a single hawk feather, his calling card. "There, not a complete loss, eh? Make sure you show the feather to yer boss! Make sure they know who did this!" He laughed as he went back to the captain, allowing the junior officer to row as fast as he could.

"Tell me, captain.. Do ye fear death?" The elf gulped slightly as Barbarossa pulled out his sword, resting on it. The pirate continued with his monolouge. "Do you fear that dark abyss? Fearing to meet your god and pay for your sins?" The captain was now crying slightly and nodded.

Barbarossa smiled and bowed down to his level. "Do want to live?" The elf let out a meek sound.
"Yes.." The pirate laughed before putting a hand on the elf's shoulder.

"Too bad." The captain's eyes went wide as Barbarossa plunged his sharp sword right into his torso, killing him almost instantly by severing his lungs. With a job well done, he pulled his sword out and sheated it and started walking back to his carrack until a single sailor came up to him.

"Sir, what about the other survivors?" The pirate looked at the cowering elves and simply continued walking.

"There are no survivors." The sailor smirked and nodded at the other sailors that now stood behind the elves. They chuckled slightly before plunging their weapons into the skulls of the cowering merchant crew, ending their suffering permanently.

After this, the rest of the crews boarded their respective ships and set sail, but not before lighting a fuse in the gunpowder stockpile of the merchant ship that caused the entire ship to explode in a lightshow, showering pieces of wood everywhere in the near area. The pirates laughed at their new plunder, uncaring about the massacre that they had just committed and sailed back into the fog, disappearing like a ghost.

[Finland SSR]

Ukweli ta Moyotaifa

---

Volantia was a land which the Principality of Moyotaifa had historical ties to, ones which neither side would likely ever be able to forget - but ever since the Fifth Age, the two lands had grown distant. Informed of the wedding about to take place between the royal families of Valmange and Volantia, the Foreign Policy Msimamizi of the Principality merely informed Moyotaifa's diplomatic emissary present in Volantia to attend the ceremony. Several attendees of the Moyotaifan nobility, some as high ranking as the Kelele peers, chose to attend the event on their own accord as well, either because they were personally interested in the ceremony or were invited because of personal ties to some of the attendees. The events taking place in Western and Northern Avalon, though an important turning page in the history of the region and certainly something to keep note of as time passes - especially if the results of this union end up spilling into Eden, were not the primary concern of either the nation nor its government.

In the midst of idyllic, mercantile life of the Principality, a discussion was taking place in the heart of the city of Uongozi, the capital.

Coffee houses were commonplace across the Principality, and they were the attraction most commonly shown first to high ranking visitors. Serving the traditional drink of the region, a stimulating and rejuvenating substance, they served as not only the place for citizens to relax and have a cup, but also to play games with one another, participate in discussion, and especially share each other's insight, be it into politics, culture or research. They formed the backbone of the free political culture of the Principality, and came in numerous forms, accessible both to the wealthy and not so wealthy. Separated from the filthy city mass in parks or the countryside, the nobility and wealthy merchants owned entire pavillions, whereas the dense streets of the city would often hold small, family owned coffee shops, which only had enough seats and coffee for a few visitors at any given time. Even though they did not look prestigious, even an upper classman would not shy away from a chance to have a cup in such a small shop if they happened to pass by. Such as what was taking place now.

"Here is yours, bwana," Mshindi Siwazuri stated as he handed a cup. Even though he was an Arbitrator as well, he still often to use the honorific address - after all, while he was a commoner, his peer was Adama Caldrad, was a Kelele of the House of Caldrad. As the very non-Moyotaifan name implied, it was limited to the descendants of the Eldar nobility who founded the Principality, and the highest noble rank one can hold without being a member of the Royal Family. "So you really think that white man knows an another path to Jin?"

"Easier only in theory, not in practice, but yes. The Shining Seas and Pontus Ocean are far from easy to traverse and it's no mystery why none since Keanjaho have been able to cross them. But Avalon has gotten envious of our success and the mark-up, which means that the sailors and explorers on their coasts have drilled into their heads that they can just take a tour across the other side of the world."

"To reach Jin through the west?"

"Yes, and that is what the white man spoke before me. He even offered me to fund his expedition from Valmange to Jin and back - I, of course, simply shunned him."

"Clearly, the man must not have known Moyotaifa well. If you wish for someone to support an expedition which will undoubtedly kill you, you just need to ask Great Arbitrator Kihadimu."

Adama Caldrad cracked up right after a sip from his coffee mug. "Oh, do not even get me started on him..." Mshindi Siwazuri, however, decided to turn his eyes towards the sky, recalling his memories of studying geography as a cabin boy in the merchant fleet.

"Is it even possible? The distance between the western coasts of Avalon and eastern coasts of Penglai has been known in some form ever since the Fifth Age, and Etruscian tellographers have calculated the size of Tellus as well - you know, employing the shadows cast by the Sun at midday in various places, measuring the distance between them, and using tellometry... If you take both of these measurements and compare them, you can see that there is a vast ocean surrounding the world from east to west. That ocean is more vast than all three continents combined - and how can you possibly sail across that?"

"When has science and reason stopped people with a mission, Siwazuri?"

[Kantani Civilisation]

ENROUTE TO VOLANTIS
Manúlvon Modoráisen

---

It was, admittedly, fairly rare for a delegation of Iladóliel nobles as grand as this to ever make its way outside the borders of the Protectorate, though it was, admittedly, fairly exceptional times that called for it. A wedding - far more than an affair of love, this time; and yet concurrently, paradoxically, far less. Two individuals who hardly knew each other, from two very powerful Kingdoms. The reason why the delegation was there in the first place was absolutely clear. The union signified a union of nations as much as it did a union of individuals. That concept in and of itself was difficult to accept, even if they had not been two of Avalon's greatest powers. Alas, as it turned out, they were. It was all the more important, therefore, that the Iladóliel Protectorate made an impression. The Protectorate did have its own envoys to both states, but this was far more than what a simple gift for the bride and groom, some diplomatic niceties and a swift departure would allow. This grand ceremony had to be met with grandeur.

Fifteen Desílaceul, three generals, half of the Vútadie Guards and a regiment of Protectorate Knights. As gifts; gold, silver, and fifty vials of vár-adóriul, enough for a dozen dresses or coats, perhaps. The stuff was rare, though a bit more common in the Vár-Merenai than they'd let on. Perhaps the most surprising attendance was the man who would be at the head of the procession. In fact, Manúlvon could hardly believe it himself. Apparently he would be astride a horse by the time they reach the city. For a man so frail, his mind so obviously degrading at a quick rate, Manúlvon found it odd at best, downright concerning at worst that his friend, so advanced in years, would even attempt such a stunt. But it was not entirely unexpected for the Lord Protector to decree, and for the elves of the realm to shift Heaven and Tellus for his wishes to be achieved.

That led to perhaps the most odd of the additions to the Iladóliel party. The group who Manúlvon least trusted of all. There were many individuals in the group, some who obviously had their own secrets... Téunaisen Tanarívisen, for example, and his husband the General, were obviously in the pockets of Císcauva Calannór, and had conspired to get Sumennar Seménarisen, the current Lord Protector, elected, a secret that Manúlvon believed not even the Lord Protector had known. But these others... Black cloaks, pale skins even for Iladóliel elves, that odd and stuttery manner in which they spoke... Dórdari. Manúlvon did not trust them one bit. Even if he knew a bit more about them than most of the party did, they still put him on edge. Manúlvon knew that they were advanced alchemists, and by the black crystals around their necks, enchanters. But their eyes betrayed nothing... Perhaps that was part of their trick? Not to betray any hint of emotion, in order to remain hidden. Ingenious. Manúlvon could surmise why they were here... It still seemed risky, all the same. Manúlvon didn't like it.

Two Dórdari elves in their black cloaks exited the master quarters. If his usual guile did not suffice in this regard, he would have to ask directly. He had never tried to talk to a Dórdari personally before. Their sing-song tones and unusual stress patterns put him on edge. Over 60 years of life, most of that spent in intrigue and plotting of some kind, and some elves in black cloaks with weird voices were the thing he feared? It was pitiful, honestly. No, surely he could get over it.

"You, uh..." Manúlvon did not know the name of the one he spoke to. He assumed that the Dórdari would speak his own name in the long, drawn-out silence that Manúlvon left, but he did not. He finally settled on; "Alchemist. What is the state of the Lord Protector?"

The two elves seemed to look right through the Desílaceu, before looking slowly at each other. A face Manúlvon could only describe as pained spoke back to him.

"I am Brother Cuáriad. This is Brother Vútasion," the slow, dissonantly-pitched speech oozed out of Cuáriad's mouth, it penetrating every fibre of Manúlvon's being. He remembered anew why he resented them so much, "Brother Sumennar is resting. He looks forward to riding a stallion once more."

Manúlvon hesitated. Brother Sumennar? Is that what they were calling the Lord Protector? But he could not quiz them on it. He gulped, before nodding, "G-good. I look forward to it also."

"Please leave orders for Brother Sumennar not to be disturbed until the city is in sight," Vútasion spoke, a similar cadence to his voice, though substantially lighter. This one might have been only around 30 years old, if it weren't for the wrinkles around his face. Speaking of which, Cuáriad, other than his own set of wrinkles, seemed around the same age as Manúlvon himself. The paradox of the Dórdari would not be solved so easily, it seemed.

"Right. It will be done," Manúlvon replied, as if compelled to show respect.

"You seem unnerved, Desílaceu Manúlvon," Cuáriad spoke again this time, "Why is this?"

Manúlvon shook his head. Perhaps in surprise at the Dórdari knowing so much, perhaps a vain denial of what he said, "I-... I'm very worried for my Lord Protector."

"Do not worry, Desílaceu Manúlvon," Vútasion sung out again in dissonance, what seemed to be a smile appearing on his face, a terrifying sight, "Our order is only for the benefit of all elves. You should not fear us, Desílaceu Manúlvon."

"Now allow us to rest too, Desílaceu Manúlvon," Cuáriad continued, "For we tire. Do remember to get some rest yourself."

Manúlvon was not aware of it, but he did suddenly feel quite tired. He nodded towards the Dórdari elves, before moving to the deck. He relayed their instructions, not to wake the Lord Protector until the city was in sight, to a Vútadie-Cáunmos on duty. Then, moving groggily to his own quarters, he settled down to sleep.

---

ENROUTE TO VOLANTIS
Galíeran Ganarívisen

---

Lying in the ship's secondary chambers, Láuseren Galíeran Ganarívisen simply let the company of his husband distract him from the less positive aspects of his duties. He did particularly dislike long periods of ship travel. It was, perhaps, a blessing that, in the army, he did not have to experience much of it. He could only imagine what those in the navy must go through. Then again, most elves in the navy were Sésavairi. Though believing he knew the answer, he could not help but utter his thoughts aloud; "I wonder, how many Euvetárans have undertaken such long ship journeys?"

Téunaisen appeared to be deep in thought. Galíeran continued; "I suppose a few with the trade envoys, but in a military capacity? We are known to be the better fighters, but does that translate to taking long journeys aboard a ship to Volantis, of all places?"

Téunaisen hummed a dismissive answer. Galíeran turned his husband's face towards his, "Okay, what is going on? This entire journey, something has been weighing on your mind. The sea, perhaps?" Galíeran threw out that option as an obviously false suggestion. He knew it was more, and probably knew who exactly caused the frame of mind that Téunaisen was in - that witch, Císcauva Calannór. But he daren't say anything. That subject was a touchy one, even for the two loving spouses. Let Téunaisen bring it up himself if needed. Téunaisen turned over to face Galíeran directly. His deep blue eyes told the story. It was indeed Calannór, and Téunaisen was reaching the end of the metaphorical tether.

"You've always disliked her, haven't you?" Téunaisen spoke softly. Though he remained vague, there was always the possibility of someone hearing. Since no-one knew - at least, Galíeran believed no-one knew - of their involvement with the trade magnate, Galíeran knew why Téunaisen was always so careful. A revelation of that sort could be incredibly damaging to his own station, not to mention Galíeran's too, and the revealing of it would invoke the ire of said madwoman. But Galíeran knew he was sometimes unfair to her. She was a horrible woman, yes, but he really had to think as to whether there was ever a time that he didn't dislike her. Finally, he was able to respond. Reservedly, of course.

"I liked Ivaúlan, and I love you. Perhaps, as a mutual friend of yours - both, I mean - I respected Calannór too, for a time. But then, seeing how Ivaúlan would talk about her..." Galíeran cursed under his breath, keeping his often emotional side in check, "I lost respect for her soon after that. I worry about what she's doing to you. I wonder, when all of her plotting is done, what place you have in her brave new world? Will she raise you to riches and reward, or will you end up like Ivaúlan, who had attained both?"

Téunaisen nodded slowly, his dyed face reflecting the dim light from under the door, "I lost respect for her soon after what she did to Ivaúlan. At least, after I found out it was her..." Téunaisen tutted, "The cruellest game she played with us was allowing me to believe that he betrayed us, too. I hated him, until not long after his execution..."

Galíeran placed a finger on Téunaisen's mouth. He had cautioned at length about believing Calannór's lies at the time, and it was against his advice that Téunaisen had trusted her. If there was one thing in his lover that Galíeran had a hard time forgiving, it was that.

"What's done is done," he said, finally, before adding, "Where are you going with this?"

Galíeran's husband sighed deeply, shaking his head, "Calannór. She's given me something new to do."

Galíeran closed his eyes. Why did Téunaisen keep on having to do that which made no sense? That which only put them in danger? Galíeran finally opened his eyes and spoke.

"Forget the money, for a second. Forget the payment she gives upfront for her terrible tasks, forget the coin pouches she delivers throughout. And forget the difficulties, the risks, any snags that might turn up. Just focus on this: when this plot of hers has finished, when she's no longer needing you for this, when she's content in a job well done, will it have been worth it?"

Téunaisen thought for a moment. Galíeran could see that his question was difficult. Finally, a voice no louder than a whisper escaped from his lips; "She wants me to play a part in the assassination of the Lord Protector."

Galíeran's eyes widened. He could barely suppress the cursing under his breath; "Bácressan..." He thought over it in his own mind, "A-and so she wants you to rile the councils up behind a candidate? Has she named a name?"

"That's the trouble, Galíeran," Téunaisen strained, his own voice seemingly emotional, an unusual thing to hear, "I don't actually know what's in it for me - for us. For all I know, she wants to reorganise the entire council, or she might want to name me Lord Protector, so how can I know if it will be worth it? What's the point in asking for risks and rewards when the risks are plain to see, and the rewards are hidden? How can I choose fairly, when I could gain all or lose everything?"

Galíeran turned it over yet again. His husband was right. This was an incredible gamble. And there were few possible instances where he could see Téunaisen staying put in his station after this was done. There was no doubt, Calannór wanted Téunaisen to worry so much about the course of action that he would make mistakes. And Galíeran believed that she wanted those mistakes to manifest in Téunaisen's fall, just like Ivaúlan's before him. Galíeran could no longer sit idly by as his lover threw his life away to Calannór. They had to act.

"Then fuck her," Galíeran said.

Téunaisen's eyes seemingly expanded to the size of dinner plates, "WHAT?"

A misunderstanding; "No, fuck her. Fuck her, and fuck her plan, and fuck her fucking trade league, and all the fucking ships that sail under her. She needs you, but we don't need her once she's served her purpose. Let the tables finally turn for Císcauva Calannór," Galíeran sat up from the bed as he spoke, "Why does she want you to stir up the councils unless she is trying to be as far from the spotlight as possible? She will stay right back, and as long as word gets back to her that her job is being completed, she'll ignore anything you do. So use that. Rebel. Who cares what imbecile she picks for the next Lord Protector? You have half of the councils under your control, and I have a sizable portion of the army under mine. You revolt against her in the courts, and I arrest her on charges of sedition - the evidence that we could bring to that case, of course, being almost limitless. And then, when this is all over, you will be Lord Protector, and finally, we will be free of her."

Téunaisen sat there, speechless. But the look in his eyes told Galíeran that he knew what he'd said was right, "Okay, I guess so," he finally spoke up again, "So, the plan up to that point. What do we do with it?"

Galíeran himself became speechless. That was another matter entirely. Murder, not only that, the assassination of the Lord Protector? That was something very difficult to simply brush off. But, there was rationale to it. Or rationalisation. Perhaps he could let this one kind thought to Císcauva Calannór go free, she knew that it was long past time for the Lord Protector to be replaced. Galíeran spoke slowly, "I think, for the benefit of the realm, it is time for stronger leadership," he grabbed his husband's arms, "Your leadership. The realm is weak now. It must be given strength anew."

Téunaisen nodded, "I just hope you are correct."

A knock came from the door. Galíeran stood from the bed to see who it was. While in most situations, a Desílaceu would be more in demand, on this ship, it was assumed that a Láuseren, like Galíeran Ganarívisen, was the one more sought after. Opening the door a way, shirt buttoned loosely across his chest, Galíeran was faced with a Vútadie guardsman, moreover a Vútadie-Cáunmos, standing in full uniform on the other side.

"Guardsman," Galíeran spoke officiously, "What can I do for you?"

The guardsman stood to attention, "Láuseren, land has been sighted. By order of the Lord Protector, we are to awaken him at this point."

Galíeran nodded for a while, "And? Don't tell me you need a Láuseren to do the job any old guardsman could do?"

The guardsman spluttered, "Th-the men guarding the door. They..."

"A Vútadie guardsman, a sergeant no less, afraid of some men in black robes?" The Láuseren scoffed. He knew exactly what the guardsman was talking about, but perhaps it was best to raise the spirits a bit rather than accept the obvious - that the Dórdari were threatening, harrowing even; "Very well, Vútadie-Cáunmos, I shall fetch the Lord Protector. Be aware, there might be a couple of dignitaries, maybe an animal or two, on your way back up to top deck. Dismissed."

The guardsman turned and left. Galíeran closed the door, and began to get into his dress uniform; "Speak of the devil, I'll go and collect him," Galíeran quipped to Téunaisen, "Bloody Dórdari, though. Freaking out the men like that."

"I don't like them either," Téunaisen replied, "You know they don't even have representation in the Ris-Desílai? It's like they don't even exist, and yet here they are."

Galíeran applied his jacket, laughing, "You'd want one of them sitting in on council meetings?"

Téunaisen cocked his head, standing up himself, collecting his toga, "Might help to demystify them, you know?"

The General smiled, before striding over to Téunaisen and planting a kiss on his lips, "I should be off."

---

Galíeran strolled across the ship's deck to where the Lord Protector's chambers were. If he gauged the time correctly while he had been on the deck, then the Lord Protector would be in the process of his breakfast. He could just about feed himself, the Great Fog hadn't penetrated that much of his mental faculty thus far. But things like conversation... Apparently Sumennar Seménarisen had been an avid conversationalist, but now, he sat idly, working long and hard to understand jokes, sarcasm, even the complicated concepts that were standard to deal with as Lord Protector. He tripped over his words, and made mistakes in his grammar. A sad, sorry sight of a man. Galíeran was grateful that both he and Téunaisen were still this side of two centuries' of age. Had either been older, it would be a far more pressing concern, but they still had life left in them, so Galíeran hoped.

Galíeran approached the door. Two Dórdari stood by the door. They had been looking another direction, but at once they both turned their heads to face Galíeran. This gave Galíeran pause. One of them looked as if he'd seen a ghost, the other gently contented, but that too tempered with a maddened undertone. Neither were particularly friendly-looking. Galíeran could see why even a Vútadie guardsman had shied away from the quarters. But he had a duty to perform, and the guard had been on duty all night. Perhaps tiredness played a role? Nevertheless, he began to speak, to request entry.

"I've been asked to-"

He could not finish. One of the Dórdari swung open the door. Inside, though the room was largely darkened, Galíeran could hear... Laughter? Singing? The general eyed the Dórdari suspiciously as he stepped in. The servant who had been tending to the Lord Protector during the night was smiling, the servant-boy who had brought him his breakfast simply stared, mouth open, at the Lord Protector. As for the Lord Protector, he was standing, straight upright, a hand in his jacket, already dressed for the day, and he was singing. Some familiar lewd song from his youth; Galíeran had heard it from his own grandfather. The general joined the servant-boy in a look of shock, as Sumennar Seménarisen looked over to him, a twinkle in his eye.

"Láuseren Galíeran! I assume you are here to appraise me of the city situation. Don't worry, young Áleden here has appraised me already, Volantis is in sight, yes? I assume that means my steed shall be readied from the decks below."

Galíeran was stuck for a response. The old man's posture, it was not just healthy, it was youthful. He could finally manage to splutter towards the Lord Protector; "Sir... You look..."

"Now don't gawk at me, Láuseren, you are a married man," the Lord Protector laughed at his own joke, before finding a mirror to observe himself in, "But yes, I do suppose this coat is rather fetching. Nice fitting, I believe it's the same one as I wore nearly 50 years ago..." the Lord Protector's expression changed to one of thoughtfulness. Galíeran took the break in conversation to do some thinking of his own. The man knew him... He could barely remember the name of his late wife now.

Sumennar turned back to Galíeran, smiling again, though it seemed a little more forced this time; "I expect everyone will be eager to disembark. Make sure my Vútadiel are prepared, as are the knights and dignitaries. I will see you soon, Láuseren."

Galíeran stood to attention, and stepped out of the door. He stood there for a moment, pondering. He looked back towards the men in the black cloaks... Those Dórdari. They had something to do with this. As he observed the men guarding the door, he noticed one of them had a small red-brown patch below where he stood, like... Well, like dried blood. He looked up at the man's corresponding arm, seeing it was shaking slightly, but beneath the cloak, Galíeran could see nothing of the arm skin. Suddenly, the other Dórdari spoke.

"Has Brother Sumennar given you instructions, Láuseren Galíeran?"

The voice was chilling, otherworldly. Galíeran looked at the speaker's face - it appeared similarly shocked to how it had appeared before, with wizened features... No, wrinkled features. They still looked otherwise young. Galíeran stopped for a moment, before replying.

"Yes, he has..." he considered asking about what they had done to the Lord Protector. The Lord Protector who was so obviously frail, of mind and body. Before he could, though, the first Dórdari sang in a manner typical of their kind. Though the words he said sent shivers down Galíeran's spine.

"Then you must get to it, Láuseren Galíeran. 'For the benefit of the realm'."

---

SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTH KODIAK OCEAN
Aboard the Dúalgon

---

The Captain had predicted fair weather for the return journey to the Protectorate. The Dúalgon was a military vessel, a Díu-Vasínn, like a carrack, so it mattered little to most of the crew, save for the fact that fair weather was better for keeping one's guts. Even the most hardened Sésavairi sailors could get seasick, and even this close to shore, the Kodiak Ocean was a treacherous one. But for the time being, the Captain was correct. The winds were strong enough to sail the ship, but not so strong as to batter the sails and cause the mast to creak, and the seas were mostly calm also. The Dúalgon had just completed a patrol. Even though trade with the Illyrian Empire had resumed, tensions were not nonexistent. If conflict flared up, or armies were marshaling for war, then the out-of-bay patrols would be the first to know of it.

The calm of the air was soon replaced by shouting. Someone had sighted a boat, off the bow, to port. They were very specific - it was nothing more than a dinghy, a small lifeboat. The Captain looked out into the water. Sure enough, there one was. A single humanoid figure was inside. Could have been a human or an elf - wasn't sturdy enough for a dwarf, the sun was shining, so it wasn't a vampire, and other species were out of the question.

"Get 'im up," the Captain ordered as a proclamation.

Soon enough, two seamen descended the side of the ship, the sails were furled and the Dúalgon stopped in the water. Strangely, the individual on the boat put up resistance, even though the seamen confirmed he was an elf. Maybe one from Tir Ildathach? No, the dyes on his face suggested he was Sésavairi. He was Iladóliel, most definitely. He struck one of the seamen with a fish, so the seaman grabbed the scrawny elf and practically threw him up the ladder. Assisted by the other seaman, he scrambled onto the deck, gripping the fish tightly. The Captain walked onto the deck.

"Stop," he commanded, as much to his own men as to the newfound elf, "You've nothing to fear from us. I am Sésavairi, like you."

The elf began to lower his fish. Now that it was onboard, the Captain could smell it. It was becoming rotten. Or at least, not the most fresh. Probably had been kept in some form of preservative, but now it was out of it, nothing stopped it from going off. That meant it was probably from a trading boat of some description. The elf's clothing, a white buttoned shirt with black trousers, usually with a brown coat for warmth in the cold, though this one was conspicuously sans-coat, confirmed his suspicions. He was from the Calannór Trading League. The captain had seen this kind of thing before - junior officers of the League, couldn't handle the rough hours, stealing a lifeboat and abandoning ship. They usually brought more than a single fish, though.

"Now, we won't tell your employer that you've abandoned ship. We'll take you back to Séinn-Dárasiur, that's where we're headed."

The elf looked aghast towards the Captain, "I-," he had a short coughing fit, before continuing, "I didn't abandon ship... I- we were attacked."

The captain fought to contain a laugh, "Now who would attack a small merchant vessel carrying fish? I've heard it before... Look, desertion is one thing, but lying to a military official..."

"I'm not lying. He-he was a human... A black gauntlet, orange sash... Oh, and silver, and that big black hat with the feathers..."

"Barbarossa," one of the seamen slowly enunciated the words, giving them a certain weight that they deserved.

"Pipe down, you lot," the Captain responded, "Barbarossa doesn't go around attacking Calannór vessels."

The second in command on the ship beckoned the Captain over. They had a short conversation aside from the rest of the crew, before they both returned to the stranded sailor.

"Look, it's an intriguing story, but how do we know you're telling the truth here?"

The sailor reached into his back pocket. He produced from it a sight that made all upon the Dúalgon recoil in fear, including the formerly fearless Captain. A sign of such incredible awe and dread that a group of grown elves could not believe what they were seeing. If any had doubted, this confirmed for them what they didn't believe.

A single hawk feather.

[Kaledoria]

Chancellor Flaithri Ó Tuama of Tir Ildathach
At the wedding in Volantis

Flaithri allowed himself to be impressed by the display of wealth in Volantis. He himself was dressed in a fine white robe with fur appliques and wore some jewelry, made from silver and amber. He had an entourage of eleven men, three diplomats and eight bodyguards. But compared to the dignities of other lands, he looked like a pauper. Silently he hoped, the other nations would take it as a sign of humility and understatement but the truth was, he just was not a very rich men. Tir Ildathach was not a very rich nation when it came to the availability of luxury goods.

Watching the knights following the churchmen, Flaithri spotted a banner of the Order of the Flame and Star, too. He had not expected knights from the Tir to march with those from the nations loyal to the Pontiff. The chancellor surely thought, that the Arch-Bishop would not have send any knights here. 'A job with a big hat and a free excommunication' the position of Arch-Bishop of Tir Ildathach was sometimes humorously referred to. Now as far as Flaithri knew, the current (young) holder of that title had (so far) not been excommunicated personally, mostly by keeping all matters of faith to his own borders, trying to stay under the radar and hoping the Pontiff just forgot about him (or would ignore him intentionally so that the people of Choirdom were not reminded of the Ildathach special path). But yet, here where a dozen knights marching among the other creeds of the Choir. Flaithri guessed, that this had been decided by the Grandmaster of the Order independently rather then by the Arch-Bishop. The Flame and Star had -occasionally- taken a middle ground lately, when it came to discussions, which role the church was supposed to play in an enlightened land such as Tir Ildathach, showing some hints of sympathy for the Pontiff's doctrine. Whether their attendance here was seen as an insult or as an attempt at bridging the gap remained to be seen.


But the delegation was not here to look at the shiny parade - and honestly they were not here to give their wished to two members of foreign royalty either. Royalty - a concept, that had become quite alien to the Ildathachans. They were here for politics. Their first target was the delegation of their neighbor, the Iladóliel Protectorate. The recent construction of Ildathachan Carracks in the wharfs of Kaysaigh had put a bit of a stain on the relation of the two nations at the Kodiak Jet Stream. It was a display of respect for the Iladóliel naval power to approach them now. - And by all means they actually could be very helpful with their older naval experience.
The delegation approached the Iladóliel camp during a break. Flaithri split of from the rest of the group with two bodyguards (one of them with some magical abilities) and introduced himself to one of the guardsmen: "Greetings, I'm Flaithri Ó Tuama, Chancellor of Tir Ildathach, I would like to speak to one of your Lords about a project that could be beneficial to both our nations."



Edit: Previous magical technology removed

[Kantani Civilisation]

GÍENVALL
Císcauva Calannór

---

It was perhaps a dutiful obsessiveness that had encouraged Císcauva Calannór to remain in her counting-house that evening. The simplicity of numbers, how they went in and out of her ledger, was particularly fascinating. How they could simultaneously mean so little, yet infer so much. Rising and falling, day by day, like the tides that lapped against the coast at Gíenvall. So simple the arithmetic, yet with such far-reaching consequences either way. Wealth was one thing that changed people. Before she had attained it, Císcauva had possessed no drive for power, no love of the finer things. Books and learning... It had taught her what life was, how to work out its fine tuning. That was Císcauva's early life. It was this wide-reaching knowledge that brought her so many of life's gifts - companionship, love, family. They were all taken away from her. One war, one battle, ships clashing against ships in the night. Some bastard human admiral, an Asmodean, led his ships against the Protectorate's... The Protectorate lost. Císcauva lost. Everything in her life to that point fell to shit, lying on the bed of the Kodiak, rocked to its rest by the fish.

A single tear fell onto the parchment that the lady Calannór had been working on. She ripped off the page - still largely virgin in its record-keeping - and screwing it into a ball, angrily threw it to the ground. Closing her eyes, she sat back. She was not a religious woman. Never had been, even when attending the Church with her family. But whenever she could, whenever the pain of remembering let up slightly, she said a prayer for two lost souls. Opening her eyes to see the page on the ground, crumpled by her fist, she remembered what her life was now. She had spent a decade locked inside her chambers, left alone by the new Desílaceu, for he had understood. A kind man... Císcauva alternated between sobbing and screaming during the worst of those times, merely sitting there, dulled and emotionless, at their best. But she grew bitter and uncaring for the world. She grew cruel and emotionless. Emotions, she surmised, stood in the way. Would only hurt you. It had not yet been then that she decided that she could take over how things were run within the Protectorate; no, that came later. But she had not realised what an addictive drug a combination of money and power were.

Císcauva never thought she would become what she had. A cruel game of misfortune, turned into an even crueler game of accumulation. Císcauva prided herself on being master over a great many things, perhaps the most powerful woman who had ever existed in the Protectorate's history... She never realised that she only served a greater master. She never realised that when you pin your worth to money, you have indentured yourself in servitude of it. It was a parlour trick of wealth's own devising, to make itself seem attractive. Once you believed you had it seduced, that you danced with it upon the spinning ballroom of life, it bit into you, holding you tight, until it had finally consumed you. The ultimate parasite.

It was, however, perhaps also fortunate that Císcauva Calannór yet remained within her counting-house that evening. From the door, far below, she could hear a banging. The winds were low, that was caused by an elfin hand. Císcauva listened, as the sound of her assistant below, striding across the floor of the building's marble entrance hall faded yet slightly further away. The door opened, and she could hear very little.

"For the gods' sake!" a male's voice, an accent of the elves of Ínn-Lasgail, cut over the low murmur. A voice distressed, angry. Only cruelty could call Císcauva Calannór to allow her assistant to withstand the fury alone. Calannór rose, walking to the door of her office, opening both doors wide and standing atop the double staircase looking down towards the entrance hall.

"Let them in, Idrauvá," Calannór decreed, looking over the ones who wished to enter. Yes, more than one; in fact, three. An older elf, and a middle-aged one, both similarly styled in light blue naval uniforms, with the elder one evidently outranking the younger. The light blue was evidently evocative of the vár-adóriul that the Protectorate was so proud of, though it was far duller in sheen, and slightly less saturated in colour. Císcauva had become quite adept at telling the difference, and the Navy’s penchant of not using the real thing, merely pretending to, as a trick for the uninitiated, wore thin quickly. Finally, one of her own employees, by the red shirt. Scrawny young lad was a junior officer. He appeared to meekly mark the appearance of his employer by averting his eyes, though she'd already seen his face. Calannór surmised that she knew the reason for the men being here. The three slowly shuffled inside the door, towards where Calannór stood up high.

“Generally when one of my junior officers is brought back to me, captains such as yourself have the common courtesy of doing so during daylight hours. Or have weathered sea-elves such as yourself forgotten that, in civilised society at least, people have a tendency to rest at night?" Calannór's tone drove knives into the captain, who seemed to wither under her gaze and interrogation.

"Forgive me, mistress Calannór," the Captain spoke reverently, "But this is no mere matter of a runaway officer."

Císcauva cocked her head. It was true, all three of the men were unusually sullen, especially for two naval men who believed they were to be paid in full for the return of this officer; "Then you will forgive me for wondering why, instead of getting to the point, you are wasting my time, a resource I do not have an infinite amount of, and which I can assure you is more valuable than yours."

The second officer from the naval corps produced a small, brownish item. Císcauva could not quite see it. She slowly descended the left side of the staircase, lowered to the level of all three elves. The naval elf placed the object into Císcauva's hands. It was a hawk's feather. A curious item; brown, as she'd seen before. She flipped it over in her hands, trying to see if there were any identifying marks on it. Alas, none.

"Ah, yes. I understand. My junior officer has decided to take an interest in falconry," she mocked, tilting her head to one side as she did so, "Forgive me, gentlemen, but what am I supposed to ascertain from this?"

"That is no mere feather," the Captain managed to stammer, "Some say the man who gave it captains a ship crewed by the souls of the damned. Some say that he acts as some predatory beast upon the sea, that he ensnares his victims with thick claws, never letting up. Still others claim that he's been killed a thousand times, by a thousand different men, yet still lives and breathes."

Calannór was not having it; "I've heard enough of your idle sailors' gossip, Captain; these rumours do you no-"

"An Asmodean by the name of Hilther Barbarossa."

Císcauva choked on her words. A sharp icy pain shot up her spine, the cold hand of death seeming to toy with the tortured woman yet again. Painful memories invaded her mind, as that word stabbed deep into her heart, ripping it asunder with the force of a thousand knives.

"An... Asmodean?" She managed to splutter.

"Aye, Hilther Barbarossa," the Captain proclaimed, "A truly fearsome human. We've encountered problems with him before, generally around the Tiberian, that's where your man here was separated from his sh-"

Císcauva gripped onto her employee's arms, looking him deeply in the eyes. She cut off the rambling Captain, asking, "Is this true?"

The junior officer, evidently still shocked also, meekly nodded. Císcauva let out a gasp, but managed to contain herself soon after. She turned away from the three sailors; "Idrauvá."

Her assistant strode over to where Císcauva stood, "Yes, my lady?"

"Give the naval men their payment," she said sullenly, "And benefits for the officer here. He deserves it after what he's seen."

The elf-woman bowed, before showing the naval officers and Císcauva's employee into her own office. Císcauva herself slowly ascended the steps, the same side as she went down them, clinging to the deep red banister. Upon reaching the top, she slunk into her office, quietly shutting the door behind her. Too many memories, too much pain. She sat against the door, the sadness washing over her. The Asmodeans had already stolen so much from her, and now they wanted to steal yet more. She had given so much, and yet they wanted to keep taking. Why, after all they had done, could they not simply leave her be? Why did they have to hound her so, attacking directly to her heart in such a manner. Why were the fates so cruel as to allow her yet more pain from these... These monsters? Was this come-uppance from from the fates over her own dark deeds?

Sadness turned to rage. The fates did not know how dark she would be. The Asmodeans had stolen from her before. She would not let them get away with it again. She stood swiftly from sitting against the door and opened both of them with an echoing BANG that reverberated throughout the counting-house.

"NO!" she declared. The naval officers had just been paid their dues and, startled, turned around to face the magnate. She continued on as she began, "This butcher, this pirate, this... Asmodean, Barbarossa - he shall not get away without feeling the come-uppance of messing with my affairs! He shall not go another day without knowing what it feels like to look over his shoulders in fear of me! He shall not get away, a meek Císcauva Calannór simply letting his handiwork be as a mere indiscretion! I WILL NOT HAVE IT!"

She slammed the office doors behind her, intending to deliver a message to her assistant directly. Descending the stairs, the junior officer may well have been more afraid of his employer than he was the pirate who'd butchered his own crew. The naval officers were stunned, in place, and remained as such as she madly near-ran towards her assistant.

"Idrauvá, send word to the relevant people. I want a bounty placed on his head."

The Captain interjected, "Barbarossa has so many bounties to his name already, you'll just be adding to the pile."

Calannór turned to the Captain, "He's never had a bounty like this to his name, tórrach-tí!" the Captain, taken aback both by the foul insult and the confident, almost maddened manner in which she responded, shut his mouth in surprise; "No," the magnate continued, "This will be a Calannór bounty..."

---

VOLANTIS
Manúlvon Modoráisen

---

Manúlvon had never seen the Lord Protector in as good of a mindset as he was now. In fact, Manúlvon couldn't believe his eyes and ears. The Lord Protector was speaking as if he was a young man, certainly younger than he was now, perhaps even younger than Manúlvon had ever seen him. The elf went from being a fragile figure suffering in the throes of the Great Fog to being... The words simply weren't there for Manúlvon. But as the procession continued, the Desílaceul, Manúlvon one of them, in a few large golden carriages, he could not help but look out the window and watch his friend, the Lord Protector, waving gallantly at the crowd on the back of his stallion, a military escort of knights and three generals on horseback behind him. He hadn't spoken as much as he'd wanted to with the Lord Protector that morning...

But... There were questions. This was good, but it was too good. Nothing like this massive change in mental state happened in reality. This was not merely unheard of, it was theoretically impossible. There was no way it was permanent, anyway. Manúlvon wasn't sure what demons the Dórdari had been cavorting with in order to get this kind of power, but whatever caused it, it couldn't be anything good. The two other elves that Manúlvon shared the carriage with were less... Discerning.

"Mind you, look at him! He's a different elf to the one he was. Mark my words, if this is how the incumbency continues, he'll have my support until he's at least 400!"

"Don't be absurd, he must be faking it. No-one simply recovers from the Great Fog, no matter if they are Lord or Peasant."

Manúlvon felt he could agree with the latter Desílaceu, at least on the matter that no-one simply recovered.

"What do you think, Modoráisen?" the first quizzed Manúlvon. He turned around to look the others in the eyes, "You're closest to him. What do you think is cause for our Lord Protector's sudden change in spirits?"

Dórdari witchery, he wanted to say. But would it perhaps have been even more damning, to those who did not yet know, to hear he'd been affected by those creeps? "A good combination of sea air and exercise, I might imagine."

The second Desílaceu scoffed, before going on a rant about how gullible the other two were to the Lord Protector's trickery.

---

ILADÓLIEL CAMP IN VOLANTIS

---

Chancellor Flaithri Ó Tuama of Tir Ildathach
At the wedding in Volantis

The Vútadie guard-sergeant who had been approached by the Chancellor from Tir Ildathach looked down his nose at the Chancellor, allowing himself a slight sneer. It was no secret that Iladóliel resented other cultures simply for existing - that and being different to their own in enough ways to be noticeable. But it was not a guardsman's place, even a highly elite one like a Vútadie guardsman, to judge the dignitaries of other realms, merely to do all they could to ensure the swift and effective continuing of relations. After all, it was a large part of why the Iladóliel delegation too was present in the city for this occasion. The sergeant called over a lower-ranking guardsman to take over watching the Ildathachans - no reason to it other than suspicion, and went inside the grand tent that had been erected on a green in the city, mostly as accommodation for the soldiers, though also temporarily while the nobles awaited their own accommodation. The Vútadie Guard had magnificent uniforms. Their nearly white-blue capes shimmered in the light, a product of the vár-adóriul dyes they used, and armour that appeared yellow-gold. The sergeant entered into the tent to procure an appropriate lord for the Ildathachans, offering not as much as a sniff towards them to tell them to wait. At last, a man came out of the tent.

"I'm sorry for the hurriedness of the guards, but we're rather in the middle of something right now," the white-haired elf with red dye over most of his face spoke calmly and politely towards the Ildathachan delegation, "My name is Manúlvon Modoráisen, I am the Desílaceu of Tevéstor. I can speak for you in-lieu of the Lord Protector, who is currently..." his mind seemed to wander, before he returned to the topic at hand, "In any case, I would be delighted to arrange an appointment with you, Chancellor, at some point while we are both in the city. Perhaps somewhere away from the main body of lords and militants being kept in this district - I've heard of a tavern nearby that has a private room. I can organise to keep my mid-afternoon free to see you then," Modoráisen cocked his head, awaiting a hopefully amicable response from the Ildathachan.

[Laiakia]

The Gulf of Chekhov near Asmodeus
Hilther Barbarossa

---

The cold and dark waters of the gulf was silent on this day. Ravens and other birds were flying in the sky as the Demon Prince, the carrack of Hilther Barbarossa, along with his accompanying caravel. The crew of both ships were currently drinking rum and singing shanties, while the Scourge of the Tiberian sat within his cabin, toying with a skull. His thoughts went back to his youth and start of his pirating days. He'd joined up with the Asmodeans and gotten command of a caravel which was named the Cobra. Having been involved in many raids and attacks on merchant shipping, he'd built up his legend piece by bloody piece until he was put in command of his very own carrack a few years back. He honed his skills as a swordsman and often looked down upon the chivalry-infested knights and infantry of more noble nations.

He chuckled as he thought about the amount of bounties he had amassed over the year, but didn't dwell on this thought for long as land they'd be reaching land soon and he needed some fresh rum.

---

Asmodeus Throne Room
Master Lich Noraus

Darkness and cold. That was what Noraus was condemed to feel for eternity. His flesh and skin rotting away forced him to seal himself inside his suit of dark armor. Still, he had not the time nor the patience for self-pity. It was time for the daily meeting of the council. Six vampires treaded lightly and respectfully into the throne room and all bowed on one knee. The Spymasters, of which there were two of, spoke first.

"Master, we regret to inform you that no further leads have been found in locating Khel’zhuxr.." The lich stared silently at them before speaking in a dark and rough voice.

"One of you shall continue the hunt, the other shall have new orders. Convine amongst yourself while your benefectors deliver their reports." The two vampires respectfully treaded back and began whispering to eachother. As they did this, the Martial stepped up.

"Lord Noraus, our great navy continues to grow more experienced with each naval raid. None are truly a threat to our supremacy over their filthy lives." Noraus seemed pleased and simply nodded, causing the Marshal to tread lightly out of the room and return to his duty. Now, the Steward stepped up, speaking in a posh manner.

"My Lord, the city and our outlying territories are fully dedicated to our cause, they all support you!" Noraus truly hated that voice, but he was a good steward anyways, so he had to put up with it. Only the Chancellor and Preacher remained as said chancellor stepped up.

"Glorious leader! The filthy elves, dwarfs and heretics are continuing to pay for safe passage through the northern Tiberian, but there are still some who resist. They are being dealt with swiftly by your elected captains." Pleased at this, the lich nodded and only the Preacher remained.

"Oh Champion of Khel’zhuxr, Great Master of Undeath, My King, My Ruler, My Master! The population are comitted to our cult! They all serve His Greatness and you as his champion! Those who resist are being punished, hard. The unfaithful shall suffer for their sins!" Noraus nodded too. The Preacher got up and happily walked out, like he had met his greatest star.

[Tysklandia]

---

The 37th Concordat Congress - Part II.
Kal'Duma

---

The congress was an event that would take weeks at best, sometimes more. But if the first day of the 37th Congress was to set the tone, this iteration would be a long one indeed. The Speaker of Hertze-Klugel had slammed the Dumarians for their endless border conflicts in the north and their inability to solve the violence and the king had responded in anger, derailing the opening statements of the Congress for hours on end.

In truth, the other members realised the importance of these discussions, even if the Dumarians wished to keep the conflict internally. Dumarian Choir extremists joined with frontiersmen and clashed with northern pagans in a near constant rythm of systematic violence that had been present for decades, only to spiral out of control in the last years. Even entire detachments of Dumarian soldiers in the region couldn't quell the violence. The rest of the Concordat was fearing actual war if things failed to calm down. A war that could require the attention and support of the Concordat as a whole, due to the proximity of the Illyrian border.

But aside these northern concerns, it had become clear their were many things to discuss... The Speaker of Hertze-Klugel was clear that the tolls of the Illyrians had become intolerable and that the future of their entire republic and the Concordat was curtailed by the continued tarrifs levied by the pirate kings the Illyrians continued to harbor. Even though vast investments had been made to safeguard the Republican trade convoys, it was not enough to create enough safety and freedom for the merchantmen to make decent profit and investments for trade with Volantis and Eden. Harsh words were spoken and some believed that outright war would be the only solution to free the trade routes in the north.

The Noraldurians made clear that they had made definitive plans for their expeditions towards Penglai, with any who would aid them recieving in the potential profits. A mad plan to secure some form of beachhead to Eden and to systematically reclaim the deep roads their, to carve a path to Penglai and restoring the ancient dwarven pathways to their original purpose, to connect the dwarven people to their ancient homelands in the far-east. A plan that could very well drag the entire Concordat into war if the Noraldurians were brutish enough in their methods of reaching those goals.

And then ofcourse, the Southerns kingdom of Heinmar-Omar and the Grand-duchies believed the greater and more imminent threat lied in the revolutionary nations of the south or the growing power of Valmange. Their neighbours to the east, who crafted their own kings with near heretical magic and pretended it wasn't. The Southerners who had erupted into bloody revolution and drove to spread it. The Valmange king, with clear goals of Continental dominance and beyond. All clear threats to the stability the Concordat attempted to maintain. Of course, these noble goals muddied by long standing territorial claims to many of these "imminent threats", but enough of it was credible for the matter to require a response from the Congress as a whole.

All of these requests demanded attention from the Concordat and the congress as a whole. Pulling at the goodwill of its various members. Considering the various requests, it would be a long congress before every single one of these requests were brought to a conclusion.

[Kantani Civilisation]

GÍENVALL
Nerasténn Nialórisen

---

Nérastenn had known that he was, in many ways, lucky. In a great many ways. Born to lower-class Sésavairi stock, he had few prospects to his life thus far. His parents were essentially nobodies, content to live within the small yet comfortable life afforded them by a low-income farming job. Not pitiful, perhaps, but certainly less than glamorous. However, Nérastenn had been given patronage to attain an education. The donor was anonymous, though apparently had been a part of some kind of lottery, and it had set him up well in life from thereon out. After achieving his education in economics, all up to the level of master, he had been slated to join the army. However, instead, he had been given a job with the Calannór Trading League. Seemingly out of nowhere. The job had been a welcome relief - Nérastenn wasn't sure if military life was for him. The life of a trader was far more his speed. He had been placed on the dockyards, but soon was granted a job with the trading ships. The new opportunities that brought were seemingly limitless - seeing much of the world, gaining lots of coin, spending it in... Well, a variety of places. He was soon raised to a junior officer rank, essentially a Midshipman, aboard the vessel on which he travelled, training to become a Lieutenant later in life. Perhaps in a last stroke of luck, he was the only one to survive, while so many others had died.

"I WILL NOT HAVE IT!"

His angry employer stormed down the double staircase. In that moment, Nérastenn saw her angrier than he had ever thought possible in anyone, especially an elf. It seemed as if the red, white and black flags, the three ravens of the Calannór Trading League, reverberated in fear and respect for their master; their mistress - Císcauva Calannór. Perhaps most surprising, terrifying, was that Calannór began to storm towards Nérastenn. In that instant, he worried for his life, perhaps moreso than when being threatened by the Scourge of the Tiberian.

"Idrauvá, send word to the relevant people. I want a bounty placed on his head."

The assistant to whom Nérastenn had begun talking mere moments ago nodded her head, acceding to her employer's demands. Immediately, the captain, a gruff sailor through and through, began to speak his mind. The journey home had been a long one, not particularly enjoyable. Many of the military men aboard that ship simply wished to see if Barbarossa had said or done anything during the mere seconds Nérastenn had seen him. They even asked if he'd given Nérastenn the scar that lay upon his face... Alas, he had not. That was long ago, his mother had told him it was from an accident that had occurred in his infancy. Alas, the Captain had seemed to ask most of all, no doubt wanting to sell a falsified version of the tale to anyone he met later on. Yet again, however, the Captain spoke; "Barbarossa has so many bounties to his name already, you'll just be adding to the pile."

He made a very valid point. Why add another bounty when a thousand so far had fallen through? However, Nérastenn noticed Calannór's face turn a deep shade of purple - he'd almost have thought it was dye, had it not been for the similarly angry expression she wore on her face. Turning back to the Captain, she continued to speak; "He's never had a bounty like this to his name, tórrach-tí! No, this will be a Calannór bounty..."

Nérastenn wasn't sure if that was supposed to mean anything to him. He knew, for example, that Císcauva Calannór was influential in the realm, mainly in her work as a trader. Why would her gold be worth anything more than anyone else's? But whatever it was, the assistant, Idrauvá, seemed to know what it meant, and had already begun writing a list of names. The two naval men remained inside the door, watching the magnate continue her tirade, seemingly enjoying though also fearing her wrath.

"Make a note of this, Idrauvá; I want all the heavy hitters - Lammárisen, Visúvisen..."

"Adróisen, yes, I know the ones you want on your list, my lady," Idrauvá spoke in a tone that, at least Nérastenn would have believed, only she might have been permitted to use around her lady.

"Yes, her too," Calannór said dismissively, "Well you know what to do. Call for me if anything changes."

Idrauvá nodded, "And get some rest, my lady, you've had enough stress for one day."

Calannór turned to the two of them in Idrauvá's office area, and sighed, slowing down, "Yes, you are right," she spoke, before looking at Nérastenn more closely, "I'll be off soon. I can pick up my accounting tomorrow, as can you, Idrauvá. After you've finished with... This one."

The older elf strode away from the office. The sound of her shoes on the staircase marked her ascent back to her own office. Not very long after, the naval Captain peered around the door.

"Well, now... She's certainly a colourful character," he stated matter-of-factly, before speaking more directly to Nérastenn, "You do be sure to let us know if you need anything, laddie. There's always a place for you in the navy. Certainly away from this..."

"I'd encourage you to speak more kindly of Mistress Calannór, Captain," Idrauvá said bluntly to the naval elf, "You wouldn't want to see what the fallout of her actions could be if she were to become offended on top of what you have witnessed."

The Captain, fearing a certain come-uppance, hastily bid farewell to the two, before exiting from the front door in about as much haste. At last, Nérastenn was alone with the assistant Idrauvá. The silence of the evening, only periodically disturbed by the sound of Calannór moving overhead, was deafening. Nérastenn finally took the chance to look at Idrauvá more closely. She had stood out to him from the moment that the Captain had knocked at the door to the counting-house, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time, and in such ferocity, that Nérastenn had been unable to get a close look at the elven woman sitting across from him. She was still writing, her bleached white hair hanging down to the back of her head, kept from the front by a loose hair tie. She was...

"Seeing something you like?" Idrauvá flatly asked of the young elf, finishing up the writing of her list and putting it aside. Nérastenn shook his head vigorously; "So, you don't like what you're seeing?"

Nérastenn felt himself turning red. Idrauvá smiled, "Don't worry. Being around all those muscular men on the ships must rather change your perspective of how to appropriately handle yourself..."

And there it was. All of the awkwardness from the conversation before morphed into shock. Nérastenn hadn't really had time to get to grips with the fact that the men he was on that ship with... All of them were dead. He, by sheer luck, had been set free... A cruel twist. Nérastenn wasn't even sure if he could return to sea anymore, but the emptiness, the loss of so many friends, welled up inside of him. He couldn't help but begin sobbing. Idrauvá looked up at him.

"Oh bácressan, I didn't..."

Nérastenn held up a hand. He sniffed, tears yet coming from his eyes, but he could hold it in a little longer. He had taken no time to begin the healing process, if it was anyone's fault, it was surely his; "No, I've hurt you and you've hurt me," he said, sniffing, "We're even."

Idrauvá's eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded, "I'd hardly call that even... I'll have to make it up to you somehow, but..." She shook her head, "Alright. A later time. First things first, I'll need a name for the records."

Nérastenn looked back up; "Nerasténn Nialórisen."

"Age?"

"67 years."

Idrauvá finally raised her eyebrows, "Wow, younger than I'd have expected of even a junior officer..." She paused to think. Nérastenn could not tell what she was thinking, but by surmising from her facial expressions, expressions of shock, even through the professional apathy she tried to uphold, she was probably thinking about how unfortunate it was for a young officer such as that to be involved in an affair such as this. She coughed, before taking out a large folder, filled with various pieces of parchment. Finally, she found what she was looking for. Again, she furrowed her brow, "Huh..." she began, before producing a piece of red parchment.

"What's that?" Nérastenn asked, more about the expression of surprise than actually about the piece of parchment itself.

"Your employee records... I've just never seen this colour of parchment used for records before," she brought it to the table and, producing a quill and inkwell, she began to look down the list.

"Right, so I'll leave the recording of current events for later on... Mainly, the Mistress would like to offer some kind of recompense. The loss of... You know."

Nérastenn nodded, "I don't think I need it, particularly."

"Well, tough. It's not only policy, Mistress Calannór deems it one of her most important ones, so you will take it," she softened her tone a way, "Look, Nérastenn, I understand some of what you're going through. It's not some kind of shame you have to bear alone. You have been through trauma most of us would like to steer well clear of..."

"I can't sail again," Nérastenn stated, cutting off Idrauvá as she spoke, "You're going to ask, maybe not today, but one day, whether I can get back to the career I'd already gone down, but... As soon as I got off the ship here..."

"You never wanted to leave dry land again," Idrauvá surmised, finishing Nérastenn's thoughts, "Mistress Calannór... And I... We would want you to stay away from working. For a bit. Give you time to recover. If you don't have a place to stay, we will keep you housed nearby, if you want things to do, we can help you with that, but we don't expect you to be ready to engage in work again for a bit. Just know that, when you are ready, Mistress Calannór will have a place for you here again, should you want it."

Nérastenn paused for a moment, "This is all very kind. You, Mistress Calannór... I'd never expected - no offense, of course... I'd never expected Císcauva Calannór to..."

Idrauvá smiled sadly, "Nialórisen, you do not have to fear the three crows. The only ones who have to fear the Murder are the ones most deserving of it."

Idrauvá sat up in her chair, "Now," she said with purpose, smiling, "Will you take her up on her offer?"

---

VOLANTIS
Téunaisen Tanarívisen

---

Téunaisen had just been notified of what room he and his husband had been assigned for the time being in the city. The top room of some innhouse, a fairly upper-class one, decorated sparsely for the occasion. Téunaisen believed that the innkeeper had sniffed at the "lower elves" as they entered into his inn... Téunaisen felt he should have looked up to those who had successfully freed themselves from Eldar grasp over the years, but apparently begrudging grunts and a lack of respect was all that was to be offered on this occasion. The Eldar considered themselves high and mighty. Coincidentally, it did not matter what this innkeeper felt. Téunaisen, as well as most of the guests that would be gracing the halls of his inn, had achieved more in their lives to that point than he ever would. That conceitedness allowed Téunaisen a great comfort.

The Desílaceu's mind wandered back to the parade. Sure, it was a grand occasion. Téunaisen had been in the lead carriage, just behind the knights. He, as well as the other influential Desílaceul present there, had a brilliant view of everything... Including the Lord Protector, very much aware of his situation, sitting astride his stallion, waving to the crowd. It was a strange sight... It was uncanny. Moreover, it was all wrong. He knew as well as everyone there that the Lord Protector was turning into a vegetable day by day, and yet for some reason the fates had allowed him to deviate from this just for a day? As important a day as this? Surely, the Lord Protector must have known. Else why would he have insisted on coming?

Galíeran stepped into the room, wide-eyed. He knew something.

"What on Tellus happened to the Lord Protector?" Téunaisen immediately asked of his husband, "Please tell me you know, you saw him before this whole thing happened."

Galíeran shook his head, "It's... Unbelievable. He was as fit as if he was 50. He spoke with such memory, as if he had been cognizant forever. Age didn't even seem to weary him... I mean, you'd have seen him. Did he look like an elf over three centuries' age?"

Téunaisen shook his own head in kind, "No, not a bit."

"We cannot go through with a plot where it's essential that he is killed, Téunaisen. Yes, maybe when he was incapable, yes, when he showed no sign of recovery, but now?"

"Calannór was very clear, she wanted him dead."

Galíeran looked in shock at his husband, "Are you telling me that we'd kill a man not for mercy, not for the realm; we'd kill a man, fully conscious, clear of mind, because that witch told us to?"

Téunaisen rolled his eyes, "So, what? You want to tell Císcauva Calannór that her plan is immoral? The woman who'd likely kill all of us just to get ahead?"

"And you're telling me that you care what that old bat thinks?" Galíeran huffed, "She's a liability to all of us! The sooner we're rid of her..."

Téunaisen moved to hush Galíeran, placing a hand over his mouth. That brought Galíeran to a more clear frame of mind, at least so it seemed. He turned away, a tear running down his cheek.

"Téunaisen, I don't care about power, I don't care about wealth," Galíeran spoke softly, partly for fear of others hearing, partly from emotion, "Those things motivate you, not me. I care about you," he turned around, teary eyes looking into Téunaisen's own, "So you tell me what you, not Calannór, would have me do, and I will oblige."

Téunaisen embraced Galíeran, and Galíeran put his own arms around his husband. They stood there for a while, silently awaiting either of them speaking. Finally, Téunaisen did.

"You were right when you said she's a witch... She is awful."

Galíeran pulled away gently, "We need to decide how far we'll go. If not, we are like her."

Téunaisen nodded, "And the only way we can do that - gauge exactly how cognizant he is, and for how long."

Galíeran appeared confused. Téunaisen had been mulling it over in his head for a while now; he had formulated a series of thoughts that made... Well, some sense to him. Perhaps they wouldn't make sense to Galíeran, but he had to try. To make it known what he thought.

"We know that he was ill with the Great Fog. Every elf of that age, their minds numb as their bodies degrade, and they wait to die slowly, well... Well I think that maybe, just maybe, the Dórdari have something to do with it. They must be using their own magic to alter him, make him more aware of the world, to some end. Well, if they're doing that, unless they are a lot more skilled than any alchemists in the known world, it cannot be forever. It'll have to have a limit."

Galíeran shook his head, "Where are you going with this?"

Téunaisen held his husband's hands tightly; "Look," he said, "If the Lord Protector has recovered of his own accord, then that is good news for the realm. But if the Dórdari are somehow responsible, and if he returns to the state he was in beforehand... Well, then, we cannot justify letting the Protectorate rest on their whims for too long."

Galíeran seemed to understand. He nodded, "Alright," he said, wiping away the last vestiges of tears, "I will test him."

---

VOLANTIS
Sumennar Seménarisen

---

Life.

Life had finally filled the Lord Protector's mind once more, as he was set free from the oncoming grey that he had felt coming on these past few decades. They had been long and hard, not least because of his duties, of which there were many. But to feel oneself slipping away, to feel the most simple obstacles becoming mountains and the most easy tasks becoming complex... That was perhaps the hardest part. He could only imagine how others felt around him, wondering from one day to the next whether his mental abilities would survive any longer. The questions were more damaging than the realities themselves, he found.

Of course, the royalty in this Eldar land were being rather tardy in allowing Lord Protector Sumennar to visit with them. It almost made him wish to react with undue levels of spite. Maybe he could find some refreshment, perhaps something more... Of the flesh also - to sate his appetites in all areas. It wasn't as if they were in a rush to see him, so why should he be in a rush to see them? Though he wondered what the effects on his mental state might be if he did take some pleasure to himself... The two men he'd brought with him, he didn't assume they were particularly familiar with sensations such as pleasure or inebriation. They seemed only familiar with pain. It was, in itself, saddening, really. But he was not going to spend his day worrying on their behalf. Pleasure of all sorts would do him good.

"There you are, Lord Protector."

Sumennar turned to face the direction from which the voice came. He could see the elf, formal military uniform, on horseback as the Lord Protector himself was. The general in charge of his security. Galíeran Ganarívisen. Honourable, so he seemed. A decent elf, too. Deeply in love with his husband... Sumennar supposed that he could not resent the General's presence. Any plans he had, well they were only for wasting time. If the General wanted to speak, then he wanted to speak.

"Ah! Láuseren Galíeran! I must admit, I didn't realise I needed a military escort around this city; I believe they're supposed to be pretty civilised around these parts, if the historical records of our own nation are anything to go by. But, I could do with the company; saves me from getting into trouble. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Galíeran smiled back towards the Lord Protector, "I simply mean to give you said company. After all, Volantis! Quite a city indeed!"

Sumennar looked around, "Yes, the Eldar really built it well. Reminds me of Idánn, really. Great cities, both, though I feel this is a lot larger. More centralised, perhaps."

Galíeran laughed, "A good deal so, I'd imagine sire. Shall we explore a bit?"

The Lord Protector nodded, clicking for his horse, the magnificent black stallion, moving her forward. The two wound around the streets a way, before Galíeran resumed the conversation.

"Mind you, I'd suggest it's a good deal closer in style to my home than it is to anywhere on the coast."

Sumennar let out a haughty guffaw, "You really do not mince your words, do you General? You being Euvetáran and all."

Galíeran chuckled in turn, "I mean it as a compliment, sire. All of the coastal cities are a great deal more modern in style. I'd see it as an condemnation of the Inlands more than anything. Don't get me wrong, I admire the marble and quartz arches, but a bit too fancy for my tastes. No, Méilacoth is quite decent enough for me."

"Ah yes, you and Téunaisen both live there now," Sumennar believed he knew what the General was doing. He was trying to tease out information as to the Lord Protector's mental state. It couldn't do any harm, surely, to think more comprehensively about one's own past, "I moved to the site of my designated Lordship when I was posted there. Gíenvall, lovely city," he chuckled, "Though I was actually born in Méilacoth, as luck would have it."

Galíeran's eyes widened as he beamed. Yes, he was definitely trying to gauge his mental state - this information was readily available, "Really? Maybe you could give Téunaisen and me the tour of your old haunts? Though, I'm sure the city's changed a bit since you lived there."

"Oh, I wouldn't presume to drop in unannounced. Perhaps sometime in the next few years, however."

Galíeran seemed to take the notice to heart. That would at least give the impression he intended his good health to last. The general spoke again, a more dour look on his face, "That said, perhaps not all the memories would be happy ones."

"Oh? And I suppose you know which ones would not?" Sumennar turned to the General, sitting upright. The Lord Protector's face was far darker now. Galíeran lowered his own eyebrows.

"I have to know, sire. A lot depends on how well you fare."

Sumennar sighed, "I suppose you will continue to ask, and see any refusal to answer as avoiding the point, so very well. I was born in Méilacoth, the tides district, 328 years ago. My mother was named Narisé, my father Súmessain. I had two siblings, an elder sister named Nárissu, and a younger brother named Sumíset. We had three family pets when I grew up, two dogs named Siélun and Rhosséi and a moose named Taskaví; I preferred the moose. When I was 23, yes, 23, I cheated the entrance exam, I went to war. I won some great honours for my country and I was elevated to a fairly decent rank, below where you sit now, but don't presume that this allows you to claim you outrank me, I did my time," he looked pointedly at the General, before continuing, "132, I left the army, I'd done enough of service, wanted to make my mark on politics. 168, I was finally given a position on the Ris-Desílai - you know where I represented, I don't need to tell you again. I served dutifully, what more is there to say? 50 years ago, I was 278, I was elected Lord Protector, with all of the trappings that entails; have I told you enough, General, or are there more questions on your mind?"

Galíeran sighed, a seemingly pained expression on his face, "Just the one more, sire. Your wife."

For the first time, Sumennar's general look of annoyance turned into one of rage. He breathed deeply to try and let it escape his system before continuing, "Her name was Délassa. I met her while in Méilacoth. We married very soon after I left the army. It was a political marriage, but I grew to love her. She bore me no children, but that didn't matter," his lip began to tremble, "She died 68 years, six months and thirteen days ago, at exactly midday. Her final words to me were that the flowers smelled nice in the garden. Her death broke me, General. Very few people were there for me in those days, a cadre I have kept close to me ever since," he leant in close, his face darker now than it had been any time prior, "Neither you nor your husband were among them. So the next time you decide to use my misery to sate your own curiosity, don't blame me if you find a sword slashing through your neck. Am I understood, general?"

Galíeran nodded sheepishly. Sumennar breathed deeply, "I assumed you were better than this, General. Such a shame..."

Sumennar took off with his horse, leaving the General behind him.

[Laiakia]

Asmodeus

---

The streets of Asmodeus were jampacked with people walking up to the Middle City. Folks were bringing their parents, their children and pets to see the weekly show. Soon enough, the theater house of Asmodeus was fully packed, with people even sitting on the ground to watch the event. The lights were dimmed, curtains fell onto the windows and the drapes covering the stage were pulled back. On said stage stood the Preacher with a gleeful smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Girls and boys! Welcome all who wish to partake in this ritual! We shall not keep you waiting long, so bring forth the tribute!" Children smiled and giggled as two guards brought forth a middle-aged man, who looked scared and depressed. He had a gag in his mouth too. The Preacher patted him on the head and continued talking.

"This man is a former naval officer whomst tried to sell sensitive information to the outside world. As punishment for this, he has been condemed by the Champion of Khel'zhuxr, blessed be Him, to sacrificial death and tribute to our great God!" The crowd cheered as children watched on, amused at the beautiful scene unfolding.

"Do you have any last words, heretic?" The Preacher removed the man's gag.

"You are all sheep to the slaughter! These vampires are crazy! Escape before it's too la-" Before he could finish, the Preacher stuffed the gag back in and pulled out a ceremonial dagger with sharp teeth ingraved on it's sides. He then started chanting, which caused the rest of the onlookers to chant with him.

"Cahf ah nafl mglw'nafh hh' ahor syha'h ah'legeth, ng llll or'azath syha'hnahh n'ghftephai n'gha ahornah ah'mglw'nafh. Cahf ah nafl mglw'nafh hh' ahor syha'h ah'legeth, ng llll or'azath syha'hnahh n'ghftephai n'gha ahornah ah'mglw'nafh. Nilgh'ri hail. Nilgh'ri hail." With the last word spoken, the Preacher plunged the dagger into the man's chest multiple times, brutalizing him while slightly licking his lips at the blood dripping onto the stage.

"All hail! All hail the glorious true God!" The Preacher erupted into a crazy fit of laughing and motioned for the guards to toss the body into the rows of onlookers, mainly children who looked curious.

"Citizens! Your children are reborn in the light of Him as they drink the blood of this heretic! Drink! Drink and bask in the glory!"

The body hit the floor as curious children were motioned forward by their parents, saying to drink the blood. The kids carefully stuck their fingers in the pool of blood that was growing on the floor and went s i p p

The adults clapped as the kids slowly withdrew to their parents.

---

Asmodeus Docks
Hilther Barbarossa

The Demon Prince was now silently gliding into port, with very crewmember carrying boxes onto the deck of the ship, ready for unloading. Captain Barbarossa was leaning against the wooden railing while eating an apple. He waved at some of the other sailors at the dock who were watching his ship. Finally, they reached the dock and the ship was tied up. The crew instantly began throwing crates to eachother to unload the ship so they could get drunk faster. Barbarossa threw his half-eaten apple into the sea and began walking towards the dock, lightly brushing against the handle of his sword incase he had forgotten it.

The sailors cleared a small way for the captain, allowing him onto the shore, but he could not leave the ship unscaved as some fans of his swarmed him and asked for tales of their newest raid. Barbarossa shrugged as he felt someone bump into him. "Hey, laddey! Watch it!" He tried to look for the person who bumped into him, but his horde of fans blocked the view. He looked down at his hand and found that a simple piece of paper had been stuffed into his gauntlet. Taking it carefully out, he examined it and opened it, revealing a map with it's folds acting as pointers focused on an island the Northen Tiberian Sea. An island that Barbarossa knew very well. It was, after all, where he'd burned the crew of a ship alive. Turning the note, he found four simple words written on it; "You know the place."

The pirate stuffed the paper into his pocket and shoved his way through his fans. He needed a drink. A big one.

[Kaledoria]

Archmage Aoibheann Uí Seachnasaigh De Bandan
In a cog of the stormy northern coast of Tir Ildathach, at night

Aoibheann had decided to test the new spell herself. Two days she had to wait for the right weather and now there she was in a rainy storm in a vessel not normally fit for the job. With her were four younger mages, that kept lights around the ship but their primary function was to keep flight spells readied to be cast on the ship's crew, in case Aoib's spell was not powerful enough.

After a few "minor" waves (according to the captain. The maritimely inexperienced mages would have called it massive waves) the captain pointed north and shouted: "There's a big one, brace yourselves!" Aiob turned north and stared the wave down. the faint glow of the crystals on top of her staff did not blind her for the masses of water over in the darkness of the storm. When the wave finally hit them it was just a soft lifting of the ship, more gentle then the waves before.

A few more waves passed. "Wind's shifting, 15 degrees east," the first mate shouted from the steering wheel. The captain looked at the mage. This would be the point where he would order to adjust the main boom to shift the center of mass of the ship to compensate. In the middle of a storm this was a risky maneuver but better then if the wind would turn them and the waves could hit them from the sides. But the mage shouted "I got this!" Aoibheann lifted a hand above her head and closed the eyes to concentrate on the wind. Two small twisters manifested both sides of the ship in a few hundred feet and stayed there. "Can't believe it, Wind's steady again," the mate shouted the confirmation, that it had worked. Another huge wave quieted down just before hitting them, while the winds remained stable at the same time. "That's rather impressive," he said, more to himself but it seamed like she had heard him nevertheless (or just guessed his thoughts correctly): "This is still worthless, if it tires me out to fast. I need to be able to maintain it for six hours - No wait, an average mage should be able to maintain it for six hours, so I should do this at least one whole day." Another wave that previously had been dangerously large for a mere cog just gently lifted the ship before lowering it again and the see-sickness was visible in the mages accompanying their Archmage. "Just kidding," Aoibheann added. As she had gotten the hang of it, the maintenance of the spell obviously did not cause her unbearable mental stress.




Chancellor Flaithri Ó Tuama of Tir Ildathach
At the wedding in Volantis, meeting Manúlvon Modoráisen

"Desílaceu," Flaithri said and bowed deep. Although there were some similarities between the Iladóliel Ris-Desílai and the Ildathach Council, it was hard to tell whether the two of them were of equal status due to the different political systems of the two nations.
"You are speaking of the tavern with the cute painting of a black dragon outside - or maybe it was supposed to be a lindworm - yes, I saw that earlier. I'll be there. Just so you know what this is about: Me and a large number of communes of Ildathach plan to establish a prospecting outpost and possible colony on Lyngvi." The chancellor bit his farewell and left. Back with his entourage he planned the rest of the day: One diplomat was to scout out the emissaries of the so called "Gemeinwesen", the notorious nation that so many radical, easily to impress youth in Tir Ildathach idolized for all the wrong reasons these days. Flaithri planned to talk with them, too, hoping to open up some more diplomatic channels even though he was (explicitly) not authorized by the Homunculus Leader of the Tir to form any binding pacts or alliances with them right now.

Flaithri awaited Desílaceu Manúlvon at the inn. He was comfortable as this would force them to sit on matched chairs, which was always a good omen for productive talks.

Manúlvon Modoráisen entered into the tavern and, knowing as the Ildathachan did the place in which talks were best conducted, he moved to that area, and upon seeing the Ildathachan Chancellor, stood in front of the table and, making a small and formal bow, made his greetings.

“I apologise for the delay, Chancellor. I have had business elsewhere in the city. I assume you know how things are.”

Flaithri stood up and bowed, too: “Desílaceu Manúlvon! It was a short wait. The local cuisine is really good. A bit spicy maybe. Have a seat,” Manúlvon chose the seat opposite to where Flaithri had been sitting, and they sat down simultaneously.

“I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised that you were aware of this tavern,” Manúlvon spoke matter-of-factly, settling into the chair, “What sort of dealings have you had in Volantis that have brought you here?”

“My leader has sent me to show our nation’s presence in international diplomacy,” Flaithri answered. ”To initiate diplomatic contacts and connections and see what the other nations are up to these days. You know, general diplomacy. And then I got permission to talk with you about collaboration in this project in specific.” Flaithri explained his plan more in detail: "In the past, attempts to establish colonies on Lyngvi's coast have always failed. So much so, that for a human's life now, there hasn't even been another attempt actually. The reason was, that these attempts focused on creating a self-sufficient colony right from the start - which made sense two-hundred years ago, when any crossing of the Pontus ocean carried a huge risk of losing even the best ships. But today, we have made significant magical and nautical advancements. The route should not just be faster but safer by far. We can build a colony and provide essential goods they cannot produce locally - even stock up their granaries if harvest and fishing over there are not sufficient in a given year. In return, we have unexplored lands and unexploited natural resources. Even if the inland is not cartographed yet, there are at least some mountains and if we find gold or silver or even just really good iron there, this should cover our cost for the project. - But obviously the jackpot would be if we found Lyrium over there. The expertise of your people in crossing the sea could help this undertaking immensely and if you share the risk, I'm sure the possible gains could be enough for both of our nations, if the prospectors are successful."

Manúlvon leant forward in his chair, intrigued. What the Chancellor was speaking of - magic to assist in traversing the great distance between Avalon and Lyngvi - that must have been very advanced. He wondered if the Ildathachans had their own alchemical black sites, similar to how the Dórdari seemed to operate in the Protectorate. He thought for a moment; “Have you already developed the technology required to make this much safer crossing? Or is this a project for the future?”

“Spells have been developed to locally control the weather.” Flaithri said. He leaned back and nodded thoughtfully. A gesture of open hands to show he was not holding back unpleasant details, he added: “Small scale tests are very promising and the woman in charge of this should be testing it in front of our coast at some point these days. However there is no absolute guarantee that it will work on a Carrack in a high-sea storm in the same way that it works on a cog in a coastal storm. That is, why some experienced sailors will still be needed.”

Manúlvon smiled enigmatically. He made a mental note of what the Chancellor was saying, that it was a possible avenue to explore for the Protectorate itself. Manúlvon himself leaned back; “How much do you know, Chancellor, of the Protectorate’s naval prowess?”

“Your people built the first Carrack almost a century ago,” the Chancellor said. “Currently you have about thirty of them, give or take. Your nation uses relatively few oar-powered vessels. Twenty-five years ago, you sailed a ship to Kodiak and back, just to show you could.” The Chancellor smiled warmly. He also knew that the Iladóliel Elves liked the air of mystery around themselves but it was his job to know those things better than anyone else in his nation.

Manúlvon was impressed. Some of what he said was expected knowledge, some of the other facts perhaps a little more than Manúlvon thought he should know. But, most of what he said was true. He continued, “Then you know that we like a challenge. And we appreciate the opportunity to attempt great feats,” the Desílaceu placed his hands onto the table, tapping his index fingers against each other, “I am one member of the Ris, a great many others would have a more difficult time being convinced, so there is mainly one question that will be on their minds,” he smiled further, “What will you give us in return?”

Flaithri looked unhappy with this question: “Well, a fair share of whatever the colony finds, of course. I’m not looking to hire you like some transport company, I was offering you a part in the project. You can decide yourself, how much you want to invest and will gain a fair share of the profit, should the project make some. The greatest investment of course will be the settlers sent on the mission. We basically have the essentials covered - prospectors, fishers, carpenters, scouts and hunters. We have some sailors but not the quality we are hoping for, so this is the main area of expertise I was hoping you would provide. But if you want other jobs in the colony … Those little details can be negotiated in a bigger group. As well as the key by which expedition members, ships and supplies send get counted towards the contribution.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like your idea,” Manúlvon said, nodding encouragingly, “It’s ambitious. We like ambition. But the first question the Ris will ask me when I return home will be this; ‘why don’t we recruit some mages and do the trip ourselves, then take everything?’ We too have fishers, carpenters, scouts, hunters… Less in the prospecting department, but we can read up on it. No, the Ris wants to know how much you have faith in a joint arrangement. Because we can do this jointly.”

“Don’t bluff me,” Flaithri answered sternly. “It wasn't just the lack of the idea that stopped you from doing it until now, was it? It is a risk investment. We could end up finding nothing but rocks and dirt and snow and then we shipped about four hundred people twice across the ocean, as well as lots of stuff and we occupied mages for months, who could have used their gifts in other parts of the nation and it was all for nothing. If need be, I take that risk on my own but even I would be more comfortable sharing it. You don’t want to take the risk on your own or you would already be setting sails. But maybe half the risk is acceptable for your Ris?”

Manúlvon cocked his head. The Chancellor had a point, half the risk for a possible prize. He sighed contentedly, “Spoken like a true businessman. It’s good, a language we both can speak,” Manúlvon tapped his fingers again, “How about a preliminary trade? Because we both know we’re not just trusting Lyngvi to deliver, here, we’re supposed to trust each other. And if there truly is Lyrium on the shores of Lyngvi, then we know that, without the necessary trust, this could become a bloodbath of settlers killing each other, elves killing elves,” Manúlvon yet again leaned forward, “So I propose further negotiations. Technology, economy and diplomacy.”

“A trade of technology?” Flaithri wondered. “Technology is knowledge.The university of Aileach is open to all. Just buy or build a house in town and go there to learn. There really is no way we could ‘sell’ this knowledge to you.”

“So you would do for free what you could be paid for?” Manúlvon chuckled, “I may never understand your Ildathachan sensibilities, but if that is your opinion, then that leaves my economic and diplomatic proposals.”

“Well, educated people provide so much valuable work for the rest, both during and even more so after their time at the university. It would seem counterproductive to stop anyone from doing so unless they pay for it first. But then again we never had anyone who abused the system by only listening and never helping the others and who just leaves the Tir when he thinks he has learned enough. I don’t know how the teachers would react to that,” Flaithri said before coming to the diplomatic exchange: “You will need a house for the people who are planning the finer points of the expedition together with us. We could provide similar housing and support for your diplomats. The national council will also make sure that you are not harassed by the local commune and enjoy the same personal protection as the locals even without working towards the good of the commune. We should probably get the option to send a diplomat with some clerks to your capital in a similar manner. As for the economy, the two policies that are under the national council are the national import tariff and the pass-through exemption for goods. I can offer you that you only have to pay a very small tariff to move your goods into our national borders for sale, probably as low as one in twelve or even one in sixteen, if you match the offer. Beyond that your goods could move freely in our nation and you would only have to pay the additional tariffs imposed by the ONE local commune where you actually sell it. It’s outside my power to void that but I can give a guarantee, that you would get the same toll rate there as Ildathachians from other communes.”

"Very well then. We can offer you a similar deal within our own nation and its capital," Manúlvon would have preferred even closer ties but this was the furthest he was going to get the Ildathachian chancellor. So they called the Inn-keeper and ordered something to celebrate their future joint expedition.

[Tysklandia]

The Wedding - Part II
Volantis
Grand-Duchess Elisabeth Richtert von Basshoff
First day of the Forty-Ninth Year of the seventh Age, the Year of Jubilee
Evening

After her entry during the parade, Elisabeth had chosen to retire momentarily to a Villa in the old parts of Volantis, in loan from one of her contacts in the Order of Volantian Scholars. A gift in return for services to be rendered of course. But it soothed her better than to reside in a campaigning tent beyond the outer wall, along with the bulk of her retinue. As it stood now, she had taken two dozen men with her to secure the villa and to retain an aura of importance, whereas the rest of her hundred-man strong retinue remained encamped beyond the city walls. The Villa, seemingly built in the early sixth age, with strong Etrusian roots, had been heavily refurbished through the ages, or either constructed to mimic buildings from that bygone age. To Elisabeth it spoke of an ancient empire that should be rightly mourned. With heated baths, magnificent internal plaza's, water basins and fresco covered walls, this place truly seemed to erupt from one of her vaunted history tomes.

Her carriage and baggage had been unloaded swiftly, allowing for the horses to be returned to the encampment outside of the city walls, leaving Elisabeth and her small retinue to reside in the Villa until the ceremony would begin. It would give her some time to observe Volantis, time she fully intended to use . Even though the city was oppressively populated and busy, the Volantian libraries alone were a priceless opportunity. And this Villa would give her a calm place to center herself before each task she would set for herself. But for now, she had retired to the study of the Villa, to take a moment to rest from the long voyage and to organize her presence in Volantis.

. . .

A gentle song floated through the room, originating from an Ornate and enchanted music box, made from Noraldurian gemstones and Heinmari gold. One of Elisabeth's most prized possessions. Elisabeth herself could be found standing in a corner of the room, slowly observing the collection of tomes present as her hand flowed over the various thick leather spines. Behind one of the two desks present in the room sat one of her closest companions, the Cleric Bernard Hoffman. The man was nearing his hundred and twentieth year of age and had been the mentor and tutor of her father, now considered to be her closest advisor and one of her dearest of friends. As a faithful member of the Choir, the man had devoted his life to the domain of knowledge and recording the history of the Grand-Duchy of Berga and house Richtert. To Elisabeth, he was a voice of reason and experience foremost and second, he was a valuable source of information and knowledge on many a subject. In front of the remaining Oaken desk, likely claimed by the grand duchess, lay an impressive beast, drowned in slumber. A true Bergan Lupus Silva, an extremely rare hound, normally only seen in the possession of the nomadic wood-elves that lived in the deepest woodlands of Berga. For the past three years, the beast had been Elisabeth’s closest companion and friend and she was rarely seen without it.

Elisabeth and her elderly companion remained in comfortable silence, Bernard writing down notes on the various happenings of the day whilst Elisabeth browsed the library and seemed to collect tomes that gathered her interest into a growing pile on her desk. A desk filled with a small chaotic collection of very expensive items indeed. Along with the various books from the Volantian Scholar his collection, a small chest of Eurogen Crystals, five in total, had been a part of Elisabeth her luggage, Along with a small batch of Lyrium filled vials, although worth a small fortune, Elisabeth felt what she could potentially learn in this city, vindicated the risk of bringing these expensive items with her into a foreign city.

"My Lady, there is someone at the gate, requesting an audience?" A knock interrupted Elisabeth her collecting, leading her to glance towards the closed door that granted entry to the study. The Voice was familiar, but she could not place a name. That meant it wasn't one of her personal guard and more likely one of the Bergan Lancers she had taken with her. A quick response had the door opened and her guess vindicated. The Young man, nearing her own age, bore the typical uniform of the Bergan Lancers, the plate chest guard and the feathered helmet being the most notable attributes.

"Who is it?" Elisabeth had a curious, somewhat confused tone, mimicking her internal mood. She had not expected to be sought out, not this soon anyway. Any diplomatic efforts were, in her mind, to wait for the Ceremony and the aftermath of such. She had half a mind to outright deny the request, using acceptable excuses of fatigue or other duties to be attended to, but she was more curious to who would wish to seek her out so soon after her arrival to the city.

"An Elf, My lady... Eeeuhm... Manulvon Modorsen? A... A desilacu of the Protectorate..." It was painfully clear; the young man realized his botched pronunciation the moment he attempted to speak the words. Elisabeth couldn't blame the boy, but she failed to suppress a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow, that quickly made the young man blush and shift uncomfortably at his apparent failure. The protectorate was a land of foreign culture, foreign language and foreign names, often difficult for the southern Avalonians to pronounce, even with practice.

Elisabeth quickly attempted to place the name, but realized it was folly... The protectorate was far away for the grand duchy of Berga, especially with the Noraldurians in between them and the lands she was to maintain. But she had, of course, read up some information about their lands in the past, a strange land consisting of various city states, granting representatives into a senate, that translated in some form of elective monarchy, limited in power by its electors. Although they claimed it to be something radically different, it seemed to be a similar situation to Elisabeth her limited knowledge. And a Desilaceu? If she remembered correctly, this spoke of a senator of some kind in combination what they would call a grand-major or a Count. This would mean he was likely an official dignitary of some kind... But why? She knew she represented both the Grand-Duchy of Berga and the Concordat during the Ceremony, but why approach her, here and now... The question intrigued her, more so than the possible risks involved, solidifying her answer to the guard, who had seemingly already began sweating at the lack of response from his Duchess.

"Allow him entry in the foyer... I will have him sent for soon... And have the kitchen prepare some food and beverages for our guest..." Her response lacked any reprimanding, relieving the young man in a terribly visible manner, before he bowed deeply and left swiftly, leaving Elisabeth alone with Bernard for a limited amount of time. Time Elisabeth intended to use. "Now Bernard... What can you tell me of the Iladoliel politics and the Desilaceu?" With a sigh, the old man lowered his pencil and shared what information he had...

---

---

The Long March - Part I
The Tiberian Sea - Near the coast of the Banu Sultanate
Sometime during the first month of the Forty-Ninth Year of the seventh Age, the Year of Jubilee

The Noraldurians have long since held claim to the ancient deep roads, created by their ancestors, who first carved those subterranean pathways from the grand mountain homeland of Yo gu Shan all the way to the Noraldur. Although the pathways in Avalon are likely amongst the most intact and well maintained in the known world, the expanse of the network in Eden and Penglai outstrips that in Avalon by a large margin. Although decrepit, abandoned and conquered by beasts, vagrants and Drow, these roads still hide many dwarven heirlooms, historical artifacts and much lost history that the Noraldurians claim by birthright. It is still written in Noraldurian law, that any non-dwarf found in the deep roads may be executed immediately, for the crime on trespassing sacred ground. This outlandish claim is largely ignored by all lords across the known world, but Noraldur continues to lay this claim and has long sought to enforce it. But history has not been kind to the Dwarven kingdoms of Avalon, nor elsewhere, so their capability to do so has been near non-existent outside Avalon. News from the Penglai homelands is scarce and often years old. And in Eden, their lie no dwarven kingdoms of note that have the capability to enforce claims to the deep roads that lie underneath their feet.

But Noraldur, under the Concordat, has grown wealthy and more populous. The current high king has stated publicly that it is time for the long march east. To reclaim the ancient dwarven ways to the east and connect to their Penglai brethren. Unwilling to wait for the Congress that would occur in the early 49th year of the Seventh Age, the Noraldurian High king began to find his own solution, one he could influence directly and commit whatever resources he desired into. Even if this flew in the face of the treaties that built up the Dumarion Concordat in truth.

To Achieve this, the High king had contracted ships from Hertze-Klugel to ferry diplomats and merchants to the Banu Sultan in the year 47 and 48, to bear gifts and requests. The difficult position of the Sultanate across the Tiberian Sea was well known, civil war in those lands seemingly a rhythmic constant due to various concerns and there were many who believed the Sultanate would not survive the century. These elements seemed to make this the right time to bribe the Sultan to facilitate the long-desired expedition into the Eden deep roads. With gifts of gold, weapons and gunpowder and promises of military aid, the Sultan was convinced to sign an agreement, granting the High king of Noraldur a lease of some land of the Tiberean coast, that the Avalonian High king had selected as proper for their plans.

With this treaty in hand and the cooperation of Hertze-Klugel arranged, in return for further Noraldurian investments in the form of cannons and weapons for their ships, all that needed to be done, was to cross the northern Tiberean sea. A simple thing made incredibly dangerous by the perseverance of the Asmodean pirates that dominated the region. But in order to achieve another victory and to prove the capabilities of the small, but capable Republican fleet that Hertze-Klugel could bring to bear, they were prepared.

A mix of Heinmari Kriegsarbeiters, Noraldurian regimentals and Oathkeepers were collected to be shipped across the Tiberean Sea, aboard the fleet the republic prepared in whatever secrecy they could achieve. Merchant ships seemingly postponed other trade missions and the war ships were prepared and fitted under the cover of darkness to avoid the prying eyes of Illyrian spies.

When everything was prepared, and the wind was favorable, A sizeable portion of the republican fleet set sail in bulk under the cover of darkness, swiftly loading up their cargo of soldiers and mercenaries in the flooded Harbor coves of Kal'Hertze, before moving to rush across the Tiberean straight as swiftly as they could. With the Feder's gift at their heart, a dozen ships, comprised of merchant galleons and carracks, alongside a pair of war-galleons would attempt to transport the promised soldiers and coin to the Sultan alongside the workers for the excavation. Although slowed by ill weather and shifting winds, they made good progress and had swiftly outrun any Illyrian patrol vessel they had encountered thus far.

And as the lead ship heralded the message that the Eden Coastline was finally visible on the horizon, a moment of relief washed over the small fleet. Relief that didn't last long, as multiple Illyrian sails were spotted to the north soon after, spurred on by favorable wind on an intercept course...

The Long March - Part II
The Tiberian Sea - Near the coast of the Banu Sultanate
The Deck of the war-Carrack, "The frost mare"
Heinmari Kapitän der Männer, Erona Tara
Sometime during the first month of the Forty-Ninth Year of the seventh Age, the Year of Jubilee
Mid-Day

"Seems we'll have a fight on our hands after all, Kapitän..." The ordered monotonous activity on the ship had swiftly dissolved a flurry of yelling and running sailors, preparing the ship for battle, Tara stood calmly at the railing trying to peer in the distance to spot the Illyrian ships that were supposedly rushing to intercept them. Her Second, a grizzled human, bearing a grizzly burn scar across most of his face stood to her side, seemingly calm as he stated the obvious.

"It seems so, Old friend..." The young warrior-dwarf replied. If not for her tunic, and the various weapons attached to her belt, or the ghastly, thin scar that disfigured her otherwise rather fair dwarven visage, she would seem entirely out of place amongst these gruff, experienced sailors and the small horde of grizzled Kriegsarbeiters hidden below deck.

"Get yourself below deck and have the men don their armor. If we are lucky, they won't know how many of us are aboard this damned floating dinner table. Then we can take them as soon they chain; if they decide to board..." With a swift nod, her second acknowledged her request and rushed to the fore castle to meet with the captain of this 'ship'. Even from her position on the main deck, Tara could see the captain and his officers yelling at one another as a young sailor seemed to wave flags in a seemingly random manner and erratic to communicate with the other ships in their column.

After another fruitless attempt to gaze across the horizon, she pushed herself from the railing, refusing to even gaze at the rolling waves that threatened to twist her stomach into knots that would take hours to untangle. If the Illyrians wanted battle... Then she and her Kriegsarbeiters would gladly oblige.

[Elerian]

Western Frontier

The small town had been abandoned for years, and no one really knew what had happened. It was almost as if its residents had disappeared without a trace, an event that was not all too unusual on the bleak western frontier. When Tekumel patrols had discovered it using local maps, the place had seemed very eerie, an abandoned ghost town of sorts. Raiders and bandits had already taken everything of use, but the military command would have other uses for Hiamee. Situated on the borders of the vast Frontier, the former town posed as an ideal location for an outpost. It would serve both as a headquarters and supply base for troops in the area, monitoring rogue activity and helping to deter incursions into Tekumel. The outpost could also be used as a base for further operations into the Frontier, into which Tekumel would be able to continue to expand its borders.

Ordered by the generals, and approved by the newly minted Grand Marshal Dlamélish, a team of soldiers, engineers, and workers were dispatched from the nearest city. Significant renovations and repairs were made to a number of buildings as the team descended on Hiamee. The new outpost would contain an army headquarters, a government liaison office, along with temporary residential quarters. The hope was that, eventually, with enough encouragement, a new community could be resurrected from the ashes.

The hastily assembled group looked almost comical as they gathered on the outskirts of Hiamee. They were supposedly battle-hardened soldiers, men and women who had fended off countless bandit and raider attacks. Yet they looked anything but, with their ragged, dirty clothes and assortment of weaponry. The group of 200 soldiers were part of the newly-constituted Hiamee Cohort, which would serve as an advance screening force for the area. Its job was to scout out potential threats and report them to command, who would then assess the situation and decide whether or not to send further troops to secure the area. Most of the threats reported were bandits and wildlife, yet they posed little threat to the military, although the more organized groups could be particularly difficult. Rarely did they ever encounter a strong force this far West. The yellow flu, famine, shortages, and constant violence made sure of that.

"Attention!" The commander shouted. Almost immediately, the noise died down as heads turned to face him. "The military has decided that we, assembled here today, are the Hiamee Cohort. I'm sure this is all routine for you all, but we still need to brief you all on our operation." The commander beckoned towards one of his subordinates, who presented a crudely drawn map of the area. Dots, X's, arrows, and various other symbols were scattered across the map in a seemingly nonsensical manner. He began to explain it, much to the consternation of the increasingly restless crowd.

"The operation should be standard. Our initial screening force has reported nothing out of the ordinary. We should expect raiders, bandits, and hostile wildlife, but be prepared for anything." The commander concluded before dismissing the soldiers to return to their duties.

Khéiris, Northern Tekumel

The marketplace was alive with shouting merchants and bustling traders and customers, packed so thick the ground couldn't be seen underfoot and you almost needed a Ghutrah or a mask to withstand the dust kicked up by shuffling feet.

The commotion and cramped nature of the marketplace gave the young boy ample opportunity to sample oblivious people's pockets for all manner of valuables, from seeds, to bags of salt or sugar, cigarillos, to even a rare few coins.

The boy moved from person to person, dipping his hand quickly and deftly into their pockets and taking the first thing he touched, until he'd made his way through the crowd. Once he was in the clear of the streets again, he took off to his little nook made in between two chimney stacks, high above the streets and houses that made up Khéiris. He took a piece of stale bread from a rolled up blanket in the corner of the nook, and ate it whilst he looked out over the expanse of the city. Soldiers marched by in squads with their spears held at the ready, patrolling the streets and supposedly watching out for people like him. Traders pulled carts of goods about, to and from the marketplace, while the citizens strolled about, going to their homes, one of the city's many bars, a shop, a brothel, or their places of work.

As he was eating, the boy unloaded his pockets to see what his score was for the day. Two dozen seeds, two bags of sugar, one of salt, three cigarillos, and two copper coins. "Not a bad haul for a few hours work," he thought, stashing the illicit loot into a small wooden box he kept by his bedroll, placing them next to other things he’d stolen, and a faded canvas depicting a man and a woman standing side-by-side, both cradling an infant boy with massive smiles. The picture moved him to a sad smile, as he traced the two adults fondly with his bony fingers, before closing the box and replacing it in its intended place. He looked off into the city again, as the sky began to darken, when bells began to echo over the city, drowning out the ambient noise and silencing the populace. The boy quickly scaled down the side of the building to the streets, and ran to where a large crowd was forming at the gallows. "Forgot tonight was Friday," the boy thought to himself as he moved his way to the front of the crowd to see who the unlucky bastard was that week. As he made his way to the front, he caught a glimpse of a man being paraded through the streets by two soldiers, led by a man wearing a kepi, a silk threaded uniform, and an ornate officer’s sword on his hip. That man’s name was Heréksa, but was better known as the Justice of Khéiris. A strict but fair man, he had a reputation of keeping order at whatever costs, but also knew justice from brutality. Or at least, that's how he presented himself. The rumors fluctuated from him ordering brutal attacks on refugees, who were thought to be to blame for the Flux, to buying a week's worth of bread for a starving community in the slums of the city. No one knew the man's true nature, but whether people feared him or respected him, he held up the law, and only the Magistrate himself held more power in the city.

When the condemned man made his way to the gallows, the bag covering his face was removed, and the boy saw a familiar face: that of his mentor and closest confidant since his parent's death, Irion. Irion had only just turned eighteen, the legal age you could be executed, and the boy had heard rumors that he’d been arrested for mugging a foreign merchant several weeks ago. The boy found it hard to watch as the rope was placed over his friend's neck, as a soldier read out the charges of thievery, assault, and resisting arrest, before the bells abruptly stopped, the lever was pulled by an executioner that had escorted Irion, and he dropped a few feet before the rope snapped his neck and he was hanged in sight of the whole city. The boy wept silent tears, shoving his way back through the crowd and running back to his home, crying himself to sleep in the loneliness of the night.

Qadárn, Drahkari Stoa

The air was alive with blood, smoke, and shouting as the soldiers of 8th Legion completed their fourth assault on the last major rebel stronghold of the Drow secessionists. They had the rebels besieged for months, whilst the rest of the force tasked with this insurrection campaigned further East, tracking down pockets of rebels and bases of operation as they moved closer and closer to snuffing out the rebellion that had begun almost two years ago.

Captain Achan Pavar had been on campaign for the better part of a year, as had the rest of his Legion, and they'd seen little in the way of rest or recuperation, as the war machine marched ever forward, or were forced to defend themselves against the rebel onslaught whenever they gathered enough men and supplies in one area to do so. He and his men had fought bitter battles and skirmishes with everything they had. They fought with the new firearms the military had issued some Legions, but ammo was becoming increasingly rare as the Empire’s manufactories had a hard time keeping up with the army’s demands.

And now, for the first time in many months the gates of Qadárn stood open. With the scars of a siege spilling out from beyond the outer walls under the weak morning sunlight. It certainly didn’t present a cheerful prospect. That was until you walked among the tents, through the mud, curdled by men and horses. There, the battle-weary troops sat listless in the sun, drinking up the freedom that this dawn gave them. As for the rest, while they waited for their next orders, they passed their time in drinking, gambling and, most frequently, in telling stories.

These tales had become wilder and wilder as the days passed. They said that Imperator Sakyakumari, who was accompanying the Legion, had not slept throughout the long months of siege, that he could read the souls of men and was implacable in their judgement. They spoke of how the Drow had used dark sorceries to transform into Draconids and flee to Illyria as the siege came to a close. Among the battle hardened men, the most popular subject was that of the ghost Captain of the 8th, who had turned himself and his men invisible and stole into the enemy keep to open the gates and finally end this damnable siege.

The supposedly ghostly Captain Pavar listened to these tales with amusement, and walked through the camp to accept the ragged cheers and offers of drink that came with it. In truth he hadn’t used any sorcery to get into the rebel keep, just a bit of deception and luck. Now that the siege was over, the Legion had lingered here long enough. Pavar was sure they’d have new orders by early the following morning. They’d come to Qadárn in darkness, and they would leave the same way.

---

What was the administration of Tekumel to think of an offer from Chekov to quell a problem that they had started? And at a cost no less. It was extortion, and some bureaucrats thought it warranted some kind of retaliation. And yet, risking the spread of the drug was an outcome that clearer heads wanted to avoid. When the reality of the situation was revealed, word was sent to the highest authority.

Once appraised of the situation, the Imperator was rightfully livid. There was no love lost between Tekumel and Chekov. They prided themselves on bringing misery to everything they touched, and took pleasure from the havoc that they wrought. Tekumel was not immune to their trickery it seemed, despite its best attempts to extricate itself from them. In spite of their adherence to a strange code of commerce, they seemed to Tekumel to be bargaining from a position of weakness.

To the Chekov City-States,

Tekumel does not accept the terms of this agreement. A sufficient amount of antidote to counteract this shipment, and a delegation will come to Myyrah Khannar to answer for this disruption of the peace. If Chekov does not comply with these terms, there will be repercussions.

Tekumel Foreign Magister Suyi

[Ralnis]

The Imperial Palace,
The Capital City of Matizimupa,
The Solar Empire of Xantipak

As the sun grew up high in the sky over the tall ziggurats that dot the island city. The fiery star a sign of the Dragons and the gods that are associated with them. The very rays of light and warmth bathe the capital like a blanket upon the people who come out of their homes and bask in the glow. The plants and wildlife they sprang up around the city as their color is reflected from the shiny spectrum. The city slowly became the colors of a rainbow of blossoming flowers that hanged around the royal palace and the Telepathic Ziggurat.

The lovely rays bounced off the Empress as she had her servants prepare her for the day. Robes of many colors; violet, indigo, gold, and red. She is adorned with jewelry of obsidian, turquoise, and gold. Her feathers form a natural crown that connects to her head and the vibrant tropical blue and red scales. Her eyes slit and sharp as she was being pampered with the final touches of her regalia and walked out of her room to the palace proper.

Knights in scale male and steel spears stood in silence as their eyes never looked down on their Empress. As she left them, a larger dragonborn in a uniform fitting of a knight. However this one stood with more authority than most, and was adorned with more tribal iconography than most. It was normal for such things that officers, admirals and seneschals to the Royal Family.

"Ahh, Admiral Xanpoltoc," the Empress spoke with the usual smooth hiss," I didn't know you would be returning so soon from Tierra de Flores Hermosas so soon."

The Admiral bows as he walks with her," the colony I was staying it didn't have Telepathic Relay your Majesty. That confederation of primitives and slaves had launched another raid and I was stranded momentarily."

"Hmmm," the Empress nods," they have been a thorn in our northern side for years now. They have forced our claw and we now will have to put the full force of our might to shatter these foolish insurgents and bring them back into the Unity of the Sun. It must happen from time to time that these primitives need to be reminded of their betters. That the Dríada need to know that only the Dragons are their salvation from their troubles and should fear our holy fire. It is through the Solar Empire that the Tierra de Flores Hermosas will be tamed for the use of everyone and the growth of the Empire."

Xanpoltoc bows," as it shall always be your Majesty."

As the two walked through the palace and out into the streets. People came to bow in their respects as the two officials entered a boat that had a palanquin attachment for the Empress herself. The admiral took another boat as they traveled through the waterborne traffic of the city. Boats come through the carved riverways like carriages. Passing with travelers and laborers all the same.

Eventually the boats came to the communication garden district. Home to the Florians in the city and the various grown building styles that they made for themselves. There was a mixture of flowery homes and stone buildings overlaid and mixed in with one another. In the center of it was the large ziggurat. A large tree with branches that reached higher in the sky than any building. It's roots dug into the very ziggurat it sprouted from. It didn't look like it was constricting the building but it was pulsating and glowing blue.

Many dragonborn guards patrol the ziggurat and bow in the presence of their ruler and one of the admirals going up the stairs and through the opening of the ziggurat that was overlaid by the branches of the great tree. Within it there were many rooms and breeding centers that were lined with slaves that had been drugged into a state of permanent sleep by the plants that wrap them in a cocoon of vines that hold them in place as their children grown within, become strong enough to grow into proper Florian citizens of the Empire.

As she got to the center of the large tree that stemmed both inside and outside. There were a center of dryads that bowed to the dragonborn and got themselves rooted to the tree and their Florian servants started to feed them lyrium as they begun to glow all over the city. From the smallest flower to the tallest tree, all were enriched by nature magic that was being felt around the island and the telepathic relay across the nation.

The Empress got towards the tree and put her magic through it as she started to speak through the very roots imbedded in their city.

"Good morning everyone across our great capital. This is your ruler, Sun Empress Mazipotlhul and I am here to give you the current events across our glorious empire that is blessed by the light of the Sun. The most important issue to deal with is this rebel confederation known as the Tau Kul Maizpak. The Redeemers of Nature as they are called in our tongue have done an act of high sabotage as they had burned down a colonial relay in a misguided attempt to 'free' the Driada from their roots.

This has been seen as a true declaration of war upon these foolish miscreants who believe that they are saving lives with their acts of savagery. The good citizens of Xantipak have suffered too long with this blight of darkness that tries to sway people from the Sun's Unity and the Dragon's grace. It is our duty has the children of Xantipak, of the elements, the Dragons and the Sun to burn away this filth from our lands. They hide in the lands deeper beyond the colonies and strike with pirated ships. For this a full expedition with the Armada and the regimental marines of the 4th and 3rd will be sent to crush this threat and bring more of the Terra de Flores Hermosas to bear.

The second important news is that there are a number of islands in the Tlaloc and the frontier that have been marked for expansion by merchant guilds with allowances of those close to the colonies to allow Driada populations to grow with a title of vassalage or free city once they have been established and have met the requirements set by the Florian Caste System Act. These colonies will be seen in a series of spheres of expansions in ten year plans to increase the need for more increase in trade goods and profit expansion for the Empire's prestigious guilds.

On the last note of the morning before the day begins officially, the Exploratory Guild will be starting sign ups for naval expeditions going beyond our known lands. Further information can be seen at your local Guild office across the Empire. Sign ups will be going on until further notice.

Now lets us start the day with the city-wide prayer to the Dragons and the Sun itself."

After the prayer was conducted, Mazipotlhul got the news from the rest of the empire before the Florians got on their break. It appears that the representatives from Azta is going to be three days late to the court meeting. There appears to be turbulent storms from a moving hurricane. There has been some warning from the lighthouses of the eastern part of the country. The telepathic relay has also been sliglty disrupted because of the storms messing with the flora and uprooting trees.

All and all, it seemed that the representatives will be late. A couple of High Mothers from the Florians to speak on matters of their race. A war committee is being set up with the Admiralty to start making moves on a deeper invasion of the dark continent and the shattering of the rising rebellion. Many things seemed to ride on this meeting this week to start the moves.

Things must be prepared and plans need to be made in order for action to be made. Everything must be right Under the Sun.

[North America Inc]

The Wedding The Paladins of the Militum lined the entrances of the Acropolis, wearing their ceremonial plate mail and their iconic feathered wings. The men stood silent and held the line against the amassing crowd of onlookers eager to catch a look at the last members of the ceremony making their way inside. Numbering two hundred within the Acropolis alone, they also were concentrated in the main gate and port, wherein most expected the largest traffic of people. In keeping with their oath of piety, they were quick to reprimand any sort of indulgence they deemed immoral from the crowd. One had even gone so far to break a man's jaw after he was viewed to have drunk milk with his meat. Besides the Paladins, the City militia had brought on civilians in order to help them with their normal duties. The crowded streets made usual patrols difficult to enforce or oversee, so guards would often themselves forced to become judge and jury when dealing with an overly rambunctious crowd. Numbering in the thousands, those who had professional or military experience was much fewer; a sore spot for the city that prided itself on its reverence on law and social contracts. In tandem with the Wedding, the New Year also ushered in the Year of Jubilee; a once in seventy years event that signaled the beginning of the Great Reaping. Although not strictly followed, farmers are too stock up in the years leading up to the event to enjoy excess this year. This sabbatical year was, on paper, supposed to last the whole year as a sign of the blessing of the One True God; but in reality, most treated it as a ceremonial celebrations during its first day and keep to the same schedule afterwards. The day after the Wedding, the Esteemed Pontiff was to sacrifice on seventy cattle in the altar of the Acropolis to signify the year long event. Both crowns had wondered if such a decision to hold a wedding during the First Day of Jubilee was wise logistically, the strain alone could dampen the otherwise robust infrastructure of the whole league; ultimately such concerns were ignored and cast aside for the potential soft power such an event can demonstrate. The image of wealth and the signalling of a new era over Avalon was hard for the Monarchs of both nations to pass by. Their nations were set to rule over the known world, let the masses be satiated with bread and circus. As the esteemed ambassadors and prestigious guests of the venue arrived at the scene, the Volantian Court, in accordance of Choir by laws, were hard at work in ensuring a joyous but holy ceremony. The Incense burners were busy at work casting a spell of Cinnamon, to cover up the usual smell of the city. The Pontiff had already taken his place within the Grand Temple, resting after exhausting his body from the journey. He may be wise for his age, but Pontiff Hezekiah Aida was soon approaching the age where he would no longer be able to lead the church of Elohim. A fact most where aware but none were brave enough to speak aloud. The Golden in-crested Cathedra, brought with the entourage from Etrusia, laid at the end center of the Temple. From here he could cast a prayer for the pair, lead the ceremony, and eventually announce their holy union. But for now, he sleeps. The Grand Temple of Volantia has a long and complex history within the Acropolis and the city as a whole. The Grand Temple had been built and rebuilt three times; a peasant revolt and a fire being the cause. Thus the the current iteration, built only two hundred years ago, was a combination of both styles as well as the artist's interpretation. The color scheme was much more vibrant than the previous with even the roof of the temple covered in hundred's of different paintings depicting various parables and prophecies that the city revered. Elohim's children, once considered gods in their own right, had lost the central stage to their parent; instead crowding around the sides as ornate statues. Khn or the Kohanim, anointed clerics of the church, from all around the world came to view all of the holy artifacts they had heard so much about from their studies with strict reverence and curiosity. One Khn even went so far to rub the stones of Wisdom after hearing of its' enduring properties for matters of the flesh. All around the Temple and the Acropolis, wine flew freely as the guests began to situate themselves and relax with their contemporaries. Most were choosing to demonstrate their image with gaudy dresses and opulent accessories; young women eyed men through the crowds while the men made a fools of themselves. The Eldar stayed relatively distant from the rest of the races and nations, instead choosing to converse in their mother tongue with their people. They performed the same show as any of the other attendees but they did so with a stern face, a stern face being the divider between regal and faux. A few members of the Volantian Scholars were also in attendance, all of them Grandmasters of their proteges. They stayed relatively to themselves but their exotic fabrics and almost alien fashion sense ensured that they stood out: Men with dyed beards or Women with bare midriffs, the most egregious. They freely brandished their crystals as large decorated crystals around their necks along with their rejuvenated figures, another fashion accessory of theirs. They made a spectacle with not just their evocations but their intelligence, often conversing with expertise with entirely different social groups. It was all a show, a house of cards for the Elites of society to enjoy and lavish in. "How has a house of Elohim fallen to such a state?" A lone Hierophant asked as he stood alone at the entrance of the Temple. “You look beautiful…” Queen Ayda Fenrie, said as she applied the final touches to her daughter’s blue dress, the pair staring into a mirror. As the multitude of servants worked in the back, the daughter held back a sigh as she looked over her appearance. “What’s wrong?” Annebella replied, “It’s nothing mother.” With a tone that gave away her prevailing thoughts on the matter. Her mother was far too excited for her to disappoint her, and her father, well her father knew what was best for the People and the League. As her mother fastened the veil to ever subtly cover her daughter’s round ears, Annebella asked, “Mother what if I don’t care for the man.” “Nonsense…” the Queen Consort replied, “Valmangians are civilized. They aren’t like those nations, they're proper people.” “Of course.” Within the hall of Venolor’s Palace, the envoy to the acropolis was preparing its duties before the final descent, everything neatly organized on a set schedule. A few of the servants, however, eyed each other as they waited for a different schedule to come into fruition.

[Laiakia]

Disclaimer: This post was made in cooperation with Tysklandia.

The Long March Part II

The Tiberian Sea, a few kilometers off the coast from the Banu Sultanate

Captain Archibal “Havoc” Argutator and Kapitan Tara Eron Da Naak

---

A favourable wind whipped through the sails of the Asmodean fleet as Captain Archibal Argutator watched from his flag-ship, the veritable war-Carrack, the Iron Price. He had been put in command of the Tiberian operations while Captain Barbarossa was otherwise disposed. Archibal still clearly remembered the words of Barbarossa had said to him, upon parting.


“Yer in charge while im off on me own personal voyage, savey? If ye screw up, there is gonna be the devil to pay.” he had said. Archibal could only nod as the man he idolised wandered back aboard his legendary ship, the Demon Prince, and had set sail to a place unknown. Having gotten his orders, Argutator and a small armada of ships set sail towards a remote Illyrian port near the Tiberian, from where he would manage their grasp upon the northern Tiberean Sea.

It had been by sheer luck that Archibal hadn’t been drunk when an Ilyrian, filled with angsty sailors had come into the port. These pirates seemed distressed and quickly shared the news that there apparently was a blockade run being done by the Republican fleet from the port of Hertze at this very moment. Having no time to lose, he set sail with whatever ships he could muster to intercept these foolish sailors. His force consisting of 6 Caravels and 3 War-carracks including his own. As his ships left port, he had ordered a message to be sent to Asmodeus, informing them of the events.

. . .

Finally shaken out of his thoughts, he saw the ships of the republican armada begin nearing and realized that the formation was larger than what he expected. Even the warship Feder’s Gift as the helm of the Convoy, consisting of a dozen of Carracks and Galleons, slipping deep into the water.

The Pirate captain contemplated his choices, the Feder’s Gift was a formidable warship, one he did not favor to take with the force he had at hand. But neither could he bear the shame of letting this convoy slip through uncontested. And With Eden on the far-horizon, he had little time to contemplate his choices. Deciding on at, the very least, making a mark on this attempt of defiance and achieve the renown he clearly deserved, he resolved to pick apart a single quarry and cut it off from it’s escorts and take it and its crew as a prize.

If he returned home, having defied the prized warship of the Concordat and returned with a prize, he would return to port in Asmodeus with his praises sung, just like Barbarossa!

From his spyglass, he moved across the Convoy to select his quarry. The wind was in favor, and that meant his quarry was fighting the elements to continue their path, explaining why their escort ships were in such an ill-suited position. A pair of formidable, but lighter war-galleons, stocked with cannon were near the middle of the convoy, with the formidable two-decked Feder’s Gits leading a long row of Carracks, who lacked much in cannon, by what he could see from this distance.

Although the fleet seemed formidable, he could see the escorts slipping deep into the water, betraying their heavy load and with the wind in his favor, he could already see that the ships in the rear of the convoy were his to take without his enemy being able to turn into the wind to defy him. Deciding to play it safe, he picked the ship last in line to take as his prize.

A smile painted itself on Archibal as he could already imagine the rewards he could reap if returned with a prize laden with valuables on his very first raid. Perhaps he could join Barbarossa on his next raid if this one goes good? He shook his head, he had to focus on the present and not the future. His eyes hardened and he shouted to his crew like a true pirate.

“Gents! Ye see that ship in the back there? We’re taking ‘ere complete and true!”

The crew cheered as the die had been cast. His First Mate grabbed signaling flags and quickly began informing the rest of his small armada. The caravels were to quickly unfold their sails and were given the mission to pester and distract the Feder and the two war-galleons, while his two war-carracks were to shield the Iron Price as she would board the carrack.

With orders given, the flag of Asmodeus was hoisted, signaling their intent to republican convoy. And as the wind continued to give them good speed, they were upon the Republicans before they had the chance to fix their formation.

The fearsome blood-red skull flag of Asmodeus waved in the wind and heralded their doom..

Soon enough they were upon their prey.. The ships carrying valuable cargo such as gold and supplies had been in front, protected by the Feder and her smaller sister galleons. But as the Illyrian pirates swarmed to their rear, they could only struggle against the wind that stalled their attempts to turn and save them..

The battle began in fullest as the Large guns of the Feder roared loudly and began to fire ranging shots in an attempt to scare off their enemy. But Archibal may be inexperienced, he was no fool… The shots fell short and his ships were out of range. Accompanied by the roaring of his men, their own Bow cannons fired at their quarry.

Shattered wood and the screams of wounded men flew across the deck of the Frosty Mare as the Asmodean gunners proved themselves to be experts at their craft. Orders were roared out by her captain and repeated by his panicking sailors as their predicament became clear.

The few guns aboard the large Carrack, fitted as it was to carry cargo and men, roared as they returned fire with all meager six pieces placed on the Port side. The cannons on the starboard flank were already being loosened, in the hope they could be dragged to Port, but with the wind in their advantage, it seemed to be a meager hope.
Through the several frantic volly’s that followed in the minutes that came, it swiftly became clear they did not possess nearly enough firepower to dissuade the approaching ships bearing the feared blood-red banner of Asmodeus for their clear intent… They were determined in their attempts to close to boarding distance, their cannons continuing to roar to soften up their prey…

…

Tara slammed unto the deck as another cannonball blasted into the Frosty Mare, ripping apart a deck-cannon and mutilating the valiant crew that was rushing to reload the Noraldurian made brass beast. The Asmodean Carrack was already pulling alongside, it’s ravenous crew already audible with heretical taunts and insults as they prepared their boarding hooks and chains. Tara slowly pushed herself to her feet, reaching out to the Noraldurian war-axe that she had dropped in the chaos. Around her, the crew were preparing for the attack, arming themselves with swords, shields, crossbows, bows, billhooks and even the occasional musket or pistol.

With a single decorated Noraldurian war-axe in both hands, she stood amongst the Sailors, the only dwarf amongst seasoned human seamen, ready to meet the Asmodeans head on.

As The boarding hooks of the Iron Price dug into it’s prey, Captain Archibal took out his magnificent cutlass, letting it shine in the sunlight. A last volley of cannonballs was fired, shattering across the deck of the Frosty Mare, damning several men to a wet grave as they left a bloody path across the mid-deck of the Frosty mare.

Archibal’s Illyrian crew quickly began shooting at their prey with their crossbows and guns. Seeing the bloody toll he had already wreaked of his enemy, The Vampiric captain Capitalized on the current situation and ordered his men to take their prize!
His blood thirsty men quickly pulled on their boarding ropes and dragged the two ships closer, swiftly slamming several boarding ramps across the shortening distance of the two ships. Now with a sufficient way to cross, the pirates began streaming onto the ramp and aboard their republican prey. Others could not wait and simply jumped the distance or grabbed several ropes, attached to the masts, prepared to allow them to swing over.

The boarding had begun.

Blood swiftly flooded the deck of the frosty mare as their Sailors attempted to halt the onslaught, their captain yelling out orders and encouragements as he attempted to keep his frightened men together as the pirates swarmed aboard from all sides.

“HOLD THE LINE LADS! WE ARE REPUBLICAN SAILORS! THE BEST OF HERTZE!!, THE BRAVEST BASTARDS IN THE NORTHERN WATERS! CARVE THESE HERETICS BACK INTO THE SEA!”


With both Carracks almost equally matched in size, the advantages of the enlarged fore and aft-castles were negated as the enemy could board their ship from their own equivalents. The handful of loud gunpowder shots fired by both sides claimed their respective lives and wounded. This soon faded away, swiftly replaced with the sounds of metal hitting metal as the ship turned into a makeshift battlefield and the Illyrians slammed into the hastily and haphazardly prepared battleline of Republican sailors.

Waiting for the brave seamen to break the Illyrian charge, Tara, smaller than most combatants here by a few feet, rushed into battle, her skill with her weapon surprising an overconfident Illyrian pirate, his blade caught by her right and swiftly maneuvered away from her exposed throat, leaving his own torso open to the blade she held in her left. A blade that carved its way into his chest. And true to her profession, she released herself from her dying quarry in a swift and well practiced manner.

“CHAINS! CHAIN US TOGETHER!”

With a loud, thickly accented yell, Tara’s female voice boomed over the sounds of battle, instructing several prepared sailors and a handful of her own men on the front and aft castle of their ship to grasp their own boarding hooks and chains, attempting to find purchase on the other ship, denying their overconfident Illyrian attackers the chance to escape.

Captain Archibal himself soon joined the fray and walked over a boarding plank, quickly to sink his sword into an over-confident sailor. Even though he had not been in many a battle at sea, his skill with a sword was impeccable. His eyes glared with fire as he watched the Republicans throw hooks onto his ship, believing it to be foolish overconfidence.

He saw his moment once again and parried a strike from another who dared approach him in the chaotic battlefield around him. It was at this moment he realized, there were more fighting-men aboard this ship than what a normal merchantman would carry, but his men still outnumbered them and they had not been depleted by a relentless barrage of cannon. Nothing to concern himself with, he would just have to properly fight for his prize, he thought. His hand moved quickly and sliced across the neck of his current prey. He glanced back to his ship and smirked, seeing more of his pirate comrades rush into battle.

His men, composed of Illyrian slaves, mercenaries and cultists were bloodthirsty, covered in tattoos of Khel’zhuxr and Various scars, many obviously self-inflicted and of seeming religious intent. Their screams of rage and insane gleesent a slivers of fear down upon their quarry as Archibal turned once again, barely dodging a bolt which embedded itself in one of his unfortunate crew members. With a laugh he could or would not suppress, he rushed back into battle.

As the fight continued, A foul smell seemed to come from the Iron Price as the rotting severed heads from previous raids were taken from the hold and thrown unto the deck of the Frosty mare as a way to discourage them. As Archibal slew another unlucky sailor, he realised his victory was near. But as he surveyed the battlefield, the thunderous, but far off roar of the Feder’s guns made him realise he would never get his prize away from that blasted warship. He would have to take pleasure in simply looting and scuttling her instead.
With that, Archibal shouted orders to two of his nearby officers “Mister Gaal and Mister Prikitiki, locate their powder magazine and light it with a mediocre trail of gunpowder! We want some time to pillage this vessel after we’re done with these scurvy merchants!”

The two pirates, already smelling the victory at hand, nodded at his command and swiftly fought their way to a deck hatch that went into the bowels of the ship, slaughtering their way through the faltering sailors who had already begun to give ground to the ravenous Illyrian pirates.

Strangely enough unlocked, the two pirates swung open the hatch, peering into the unlit hold below. After a split second, a match was lit, illuminating half a dozen armor clad dwarven warriors. Their grey plate cuirriasses and destinct feathered helmets, renowned across northern Avalon, marked them as Heinmari Kriegsarbeiters. Three muskets had been lit the moment they had flung open the hatch and after just enough time for the two men to realise their folly, the guns fired their deadly ordinance with a flurry of smoke that blew unto the deck.

Time stood still for a moment, as the combatants nearby took a step back to take in what just happened. As the two pirates, fell lifelessly unto the deck, a loud warcry, sung in chorus roared from below deck.

“HEINMARIIII . . . KRIIIIIEEEEEG!!!”

The doors in the aft and rear towers were flung open, revealing the cargo of the Frosty Mare. Tara Eron Da Nogaak’s Company of Kriegsarbeiters. Professional Mercenaries, heralding from the kingdom of Heinmar-Omar, hired by the High King Thrundar to serve the Sultan. They were a part of a tradition of mercenaries from the region, renowned and sworn to see War as their profession, their calling in life, a way out of a life in the dreary coal and salt mines that dominated the region.

The Armored Clad dwarves and Humans from Heinmar-Omar, clad in full battledress, plate armor and all, charged forth with shield, sword and great-axe, spilling unto the deck as a murderous wave. As these Mercenaries joined the fray from the sides, the Captain of the Frosty Mare rallied his men, Yelling Commands for his men to clear the main deck and climb the front and aft-towers, leaving the long and broad middle deck for the experienced mercenaries to exploit. The shocked and bloodied sailors were more than glad to comply.

With her men now at her back, Tara glanced towards the enemy captain, easily identifiable by his extravagant dress and prowess in battle, his pale skin and macabre grin made more gruesome by the blood splattered across his gowns. The stories did not do these Illyrian pirates proud, they were more monster than men. Elohim curse these beasts, every single one of these bastards slain would earn them glory, in the eyes of men and the gods, of that Tara was certain.

After Marking him for herself and her men, by raising her war-axe in his direction, she mimicked their warcry once more, One quickly answered by her charging men.

“HEINMARIIII” - “KRIIEEEEEEEG!!!”

The cheeky little trap their quarry had sprung did not go unnoticed. The Asmodean pirates aboard the Frosty Mare were now heavily outnumbered, and many fell in instants as the deck was swarmed from both the fore and aft-castles. Captain Archibal noticed the charging horde of fighting men heading his way. And as the sailors he had been butchering cleared way for their charge, He saw he was significantly outnumbered, and shouted orders to his crew.

"GUNNERS, FIRE THE CANNONS INTO THEIR HULL! NOW!"

His orders were repeated by one of his officers and quickly the sound of booming guns were heard along with the heavy shake of the ship. The Frosty mare cracked and groaned as the barrage ripped the lower deck to shreds, several of the solid stone and iron balls even erupted through the other side, having wreaked havoc through the ship.

As he felt the Frosty Mare shift underneath him, he had enough, Archibal cursed under his breath as his men were being butchered in front of him, unable to handle the sudden tip in balance. His eyes landed back on the approaching tide of armor clad mercenaries that sprung forward from the lower deck of his quarry. Realising he could no longer win this fight, Archibal ordered a retreat. Several of the sailors back on the Iron Price had already drawn their swords and axes frantically chopping at the hooks and chains that the Frosty mare her crew had tossed over, while others were bringing up spears from below deck to fend off the republican counter-boarding attempts.

The gun-men in their mid-ship bowels were already loading another volley, slamming home the powder and shot frantically as the noise from the battle above seemed to be turning sour.

Realising he needed more time to get his men aboard the Iron Price, Archibal ordered five other pirates to stand with him, to cover the frantic retreat of his men.

Those few unfortunate souls who rushed the angered vampire as barked his orders, met a swift end as he ran his clawed hands through the flesh of one and wet his blade with another in but an blink of an eye.

The deck flowed red with blood, the boarding illyrians cut down by the bushel by the charging mercenaries as they scrambled to climb back unto their own ship. The Sailors of the Frosty mare in turn, attempted boarded the Iron Price via the fore and aft castle, a costly attempt as they were repulsed by pike, spear and shot from the Illyrian crew.

As the deck of the Frosty mare was swiftly cleared of the pirate presence the Heinmari prepared to follow their fleeing quarry, their four dozen cleaning out the few dying men on the republican deck with hammers and spikes, the screams of the dying cut short with brutal efficiency behind the anonymity of their helmets

As the mercenaries halted, reloading crossbows and guns, before crossing over, there was a slight lull in the battle, with Tara standing but a short distance from the Vampire captain blocking the path unto the Illyrian ship. As she tightened her grip on her blood drenched blades she barked at the Illyrian creature of corruption that stood in front of her.

Even if the true hatred for Illyrians and their corrupted spawn was reserved for the Noraldurians, she was still Omari. A dwarf raised as a faithful follower of Elohim and baptised by the Choir. It was not only her duty as a dwarf or a mercenary to seek vengeance for the countless crimes of the Illyrians who plagued the Tiberian sea, but as a servant of the gods it was their will to butcher this travesty of life itself.

Covered in the remains of half a dozen Illyrian cultists and with hatred in her eyes, Tara took a few steps forward, her men close behind as she addressed the Vampire that blocked her path directly, utter disgust evident in every word.

“Time to beg, Illyrian pest.”

Captain Archibal snarled at the Omari warrior that defied him and raised his blade in turn. “You dare challenge me, little worm?”

As if to put weight to his taunt, A roar of a dozen cannon came from behind, as a volley of c was fired from starboard as another Illyrian Carrack had maneuvered itself alongside the other flank of the Frosty Mare. And Once again, cannonball shattered through the decks of the ship, ripping apart what precious little integrity it held and causing mayhem amongst the republican crew that was frantically trying to keep the ship from sinking. An explosion erupted from below, spreading a shockwave through to aft-Castle, spreading a storm of wooden shrapnel, fire and smoke that momentarily engulfed the battlefield.

With the Frosty Mare alight in fire and listing dangerously, the sailors of the crippled ship abandoned all attempt to board the Iron Price and the Illyrian sailors continued to hack through the remaining boarding hooks and chains relatively unopposed, working swiftly to release the two ships from one another. Under fire from occasional republican bolt and shot, the pirate crew quickly making work to unfurl their sails and push the Iron Price loose from the Frosty Mare.

Grinning at the fire spreading across the Frosty Mare’s Aft, Archibal twirled his sword, tempting the Dwarven warrior that had turned his plan for a clean prize, into a pure blood bath.

“Gents, this one is mine.” He spoke, a bloody grin across his pale visage.

The five other pirates tasked with defending their captain yelled out in fanaticism only a cult could breed and rushed towards the wall of Heinmari steel, hoping to buy enough time for the Iron Price to break away and make its escape.

As his men slammed into the wall of steel, hammer and sword, The vampire captain snarled once more and showcased his Vampiric fangs as he roared his defiance. “You will see no mercy from me!” And with that, he raised his blade and rushed to clash steel with Tara, with frightening speed.

With barely enough time to raise her axe to block his strike, the Omari dwarf swiftly realised her predicament. He was strong, swift and his eyes spoke of nothing but sheer bloodlust. Blocking sword strike and slashing claw alike, Tara was swiftly forced back, almost stumbling into her own men.

The battle was terribly one sides as Tara Swiftly sported several wounds as she struggled to fend off the Vampire, who’s unnatural speed and strength she had clearly underestimated. With deft and near gracious strikes of his thin blade and the occasional swipe of his clawed hands, all the dwarf warrior could do was to deny him a killing strike as she acrued more and more glancing wounds by the second. To the Omari dwarf the battle that would take less than all of 2 minutes, seemed to take hours as time slowed down to a trickle for her as she frantically attempted to fend off the grinning vampire his assault. But her attempts were folly as she eventually slipped unto the blood and corpse covered deck, barely managing to lock Archibal’s blade that followed her fall he stood, towering over her.

Time stood still as a smile spread across the Vampire his blood covered visage, slowly pressing his blade down, overwhelming the dwarf her attempts to keep the blade from her exposed neck as it inched closer to draw blood. But before the Illyrian captain could finish the job, he swiftly glanced towards his left, having noticed the rapidly smoldering fuse of a Arquebus aimed directly towards him. Releasing Tara underneath him, he swiftly attempted ducked out of the shot, which merely grazed by his arm.

Before the Vampire could respond to the cheeky sailor that had the audacity to fire at him and draw blood, a loud thud, accompanied by a sharp pain shook the vampire from his stupor. Glancing below, he saw that the Omari mercenary he had been about to slay had rolled herself over to him and slammed the pike of her war-axe directly through his left foot, embedding it deep into the wood of the deck.

Realising that he had just been nailed to the floor of this accursed warship, his eyes widened as he found himself surrounded by dozens of angry Heinmari soldiers. Broken and bloodied, Tara glanced upwards towards Archibal with a bloody smile, and said.

“You should have begged…”

Before the Vampire could respond to the cheeky creature at his feet, a flurry of shot and bolt ripped his torso to shreds. With pain overwhelming all senses, he was forced to let inertia take it’s toll. As he fell to unto the deck, he could see his five compatriots being cut to shreds, surrounded and killed, one by one. As Tara climbed to her feet, and was given a freshly loaded pistol, the chaos and noise of the battle finally began to fade.

As Archibal felt his life fleeting from him, he could just barely make out the Iron Price pushing itself free from the Frosty Mare, the two crew’s still exchanging Arrow, bolt and shot in a wrath fueled orgy of Violence. Taking in the pleasure that his ship would survive the ordeal, he turned his head towards the dwarf that had sparked his doom. And as she pointed her pistol towards him, Tara spat, a vindictive smile plastered on her blood covered face.

“Any last words before I send you to hell?”

Archibal coughed roughly and spat some blood out of his mouth. "You have no idea what you have wrought upon yerself, dwarf.. Once Captain Barbarossa finds out about yer little convoy run.." He chuckled weakly as he felt coldness starting to take hold in his hands. "I'd truly like to see ye go up against him, but it seems Khel'zhuxr has other plans for me.." Letting out a sigh of tiredness, he used his remaining strength to set himself up on his knees.

"Do yer worst, she-dwarf."

The last Archibal saw in this life was a chuckle from Tara as he gazed in her eyes that showed nothing but contempt for him. To Her, he was but a beast, fueled by his abnormal form and the countless damning stories that had been told of his kind. And with that, a pull of the trigger ignited the powder and with a short fizzle and a bright flash, Archibal was no more.

But saver their victory, the men aboard the Frosty Mare could not. As the Iron price pulled away from its prey, another volley of shot was fired in vindictive vengeance. Spreading mayhem aboard the exhausted crew of the republican ship. Screaming bloody murder, the Illyrian sailors vowed to sink her before they would slink away to safety. But this promise would be swiftly broken as the Iron price finally came under fire from a war galleon that had managed to climb close enough through the wind to fire at the Illyrians beleaguering their charge.

But even without their captain, the Illyrians were skilled sailors and swiftly realised the dwindling odds in their favor. Maneuvering into the wind with speed, they began to slip away as the republican convoy finally managed to form a proper formation.

In the end of it all, everyone had paid a bloody toll this day. Half a dozen ships on both sides in dire need of repair, but in the end the Frosty mare was saved, although battered nearly into oblivion. As the Illyrians slipped away, the republicans failing to give chase, they were forced to leave a single ship behind, crippled by the Feder’s guns, consigning it’s crew to the murderous intent of the vengeance consumed republican sailors.

[Tysklandia]

---

The Long march - Part III
The Forty-Ninth Year of the seventh Age, the Year of Jubilee

---

---

Northern Banu Sultanate
Fortress Salah El-Din
Captain Tara Erona da Nogaak
"The Black Dogs" Kriegsarbeiters Regiment

"HOWLONG? THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE!!" The course scream of the foreigner spread far beyond the confines of the War-Tent, causing many of the industrious Kriegsarbeiters outside to halt their work for a moment and glance in the direction of what was the beating heart of their fledgling Siege Camp, the temporary home of the Kriegsarbeiter regiment in service of the Sultan of Banu.

The General, Gyal Ab-Salim, who had been selected as the Liaison of the Sultan, had been Cordial up until now. He was thankful enough that foreign mercenaries would be doing the bleeding, instead of his own. The Army of the Sultan, circling a strong core of trained Janissaries, was in dire need of rest and re-organization after a decade of continued conflict, lest he'd risk a mutiny or terrible defeat in the field. But no matter his gratitude for foreign soldiers, letting them dictate the terms and progress of the campaign was one step to far.

"You are under MY command, and I won't have you lot SIT here for weeks, getting fat! With your number and cannon, we can take this castle in days!"

Gyal Ab-Salim was rightfully livid, commanding a regal presence amongst the handful of foreign dwarves and humans in the tent. Salim, along with the few advisors he had brought along, were dressed distinctly for the Eden weather and bore markings of Eden Nobility, unlike the Avalonian Mercenaries, who were slow to adjust to the meandering heat of this continent and were dressed for war.

Tara stood to the side of her Colonel, them both grizzled veterans of the Estrian wars, that raged only some five years ago. The older, pipe smoking, bearded dwarf was the commander of "The black Dogs" regiment. One of six royally recognized Heinmar-Omari Kriegsarbeiter regiments. The Black Dog banner was raised specifically for the Estrian wars but had gained several marks on it’s standard for cracking forts and castles in their relatively short history. Many of its members, Tara and her Colonel included, were veterans of other, more renowned regiments, using the raising of a new regiment to climb to new heights of military office.

The Colonel was the holder of the royal Heinmari decree that allowed him to keep this number of men under arms. Tara herself was but a Captain under his command, one of his few dozen officers he held under employ to keep his men well under control, both in and out of battle.

The siege camp itself was centered well out of cannon range from Salah El-Din, this fortress that dominated the surrounding features of the surrounding area. A rudimentary wall of rubble, timber and earthworks was already prepared around the camp, slowly expanded with trenchworks that began to engulf the castle whole. The war tent itself was dominated by a grand table, engulfed in a series of old and freshly penned maps, detailing the surrounding territory in various set of scales, from a few miles, to dozens, to the entirety of the Sultanate or even all of Eden.

The map in center detailed Salah El-Din, an old, but formidable fortress that held sway of the north-eastern edges of the Banu territory. Having switched hands from loyalists to rebels, to insurrectionists multiple times in the past few years, the Sultan was in dire need to have it well and clear back under his control. With the Sultan undertaking efforts to ensure the loyalty and strength of his army, the foreign mercenaries under his employ could, in the meanwhile, undertake the bloody business of retaking Salah El-Din.
But to Salim, it seemed the slow plan of action the Kriegsarbeiters had in mind was not acceptable. Even if the rebels had spent the last few months reinforcing the castle with earthworks, ramparts, outworks and ditches; a siege lasting weeks, if not months, was out of the question.

"The fortress has been strengthened, storming it now has no chance of success." The grizzled Colonel his reply was blunt, his pipe puffing with every word. He placed a finger on the unfinished sketch of Salah-El-Din and continued. "The old walls have strengthened with Earthworks and dry moats in between their outer works and the inner castle, we could charge those walls for a week on end and only take it, when we fill that moat with bodies. You would lose your mercenaries and still not hold this fort."

The general scoffed, glaring at the grey-bearded dwarf in front of him. He knew the rebels had strengthened the fort, extensively so and likely with foreign aid. That was the entire reason why he wanted these foreigners to take the fort, instead of bleeding his own men trying to storm the place.

"That is why we hired you in the first place! To take this fort with speed. These rebels may be ill-organized, but even they can rouse up an army if you give them months to do so. The whole point of taking Salah El-Din, is to back these rebels into a corner until the Sultan can prepare his army. Your plan makes this entire siege pointless!"
As he made his point clear, he reinforced it by slamming his hand unto the table, causing several objects to tumble off it. A tense silence followed, with both the Sultan's general and the grizzled dwarf staring at one another. It was painfully clear that neither man would surrender their point any time soon and after a puzzling dozen seconds, Tara interjected, drawing the stares from both commanders.

"If the need is to draw the attention of the rebels and ensure they do not march beyond Salah El-Din, then we can achieve that here..."

A scoff came from the general, but her own Colonel raised his hand to halt his response, motioning her to continue.
"The Siege of Krikhalle, in 41... When they assaulted our encampment?" Bringing forth the example of a Siege both she and the Colonel had participated in, nearly 8 years ago, ensured the leader of her regiment realized her intent. "Ha! Of course,... A dangerous gamble, but if this rabble is as irregular as you mention them to be, it could surely work."

With a gleeful snort, the Colonel turned to the Salim and laid forth the plan. Beyond just the offensive siege works and trenches leading to Salah El-Din to bring the cannons close enough to deplete their defenses, a series of defensive earthworks, trenches and minor forts would envelop the besieging army, defending them from any force attempting to relieve the fortress.

"In 41, we had nearly battered Krikhalle into ruin before they came to relieve them. But we knew they were coming and had our cannons entrenched and defensive works built to protect our gunners and crossbows. They came at us thrice before they broke and Krikhalle surrendered after that. It's a decent plan, good as any, if you can provide scouts and supplies."

The general snorted and took note of sketch of Salah El-Din as the dwarf traced his finger over what could become the extent of the defensive works. "You don't have the men for this plan, you would need to dig day and night to make this work." The dwarf took his pipe and nodded, glancing towards his captains before addressing the general once more.

"The villages nearby could surely spare some men, coerced with coin perhaps? Digging the outer works is not dangerous labor, we'll handle the offensive trenches ourselves, it's what we do best."

With another scoff, the general stepped back from the table and raised his hands in disbelief. "Now you want us to cough up more coin? Simply because you refuse to assault the castle? This is outrageous!" Threatening to leave the war tent in anger, Tara interrupted once more, hoping to calm the situation down.

"We were tasked with taking Salah El-Din. With this plan, we will do that and ensure any relief army needs to dislodge us before marching further. Hiring some workers will barely put a dent in the coffers of the Sultan and achieve what he wants and more."

Halting at the entrance of the war-tent, the general sighed and turned around, frustration evident in his eyes. He glanced at the Colonel, then at Tara before angrily barking his tentative agreement and leaving the tent. After a minute of silence to ensure Salim had left out of earshot, the grizzled commander laughed and placed a hand on Tara's shoulder.

"Good job, youngling. With that quick-thinking head of yours, you'll make it far yet... Walk with me for a moment."
The aged dwarf Led Tara out of the tent, into the flurry of activity of the siege-camp. As the Eden heat lessened during the evening hours, hundreds of pickaxes and shovels were hard at work, digging a series of trench works around Salah El-Din. A Dozen officers ensuring the work went as planned.

The Kriegsarbeiters were notorious Siege-workers, knowledgeable of the worth of a well thought out series of defenses and the effort required to crack them. When many armies disliked the heavy labor involved with creating siege-works, the Kriegsarbeiters reveled in it. Siege-works were, to them, the true Art of warfare. Careful planning and weeks of preparation culminating in a battle of will between attacker and defender. A game of a time, discipline and skill in both strategy and tactics.

As they walked the perimeter, the occasional roar of cannon fire came from the walls and outworks of Salah el-din, ranging shots that landed well clear of the besiegers. The grand, Orange tinted walls of the fortress and the earthworks in front of it still loomed strong now, but Tara knew they would soon be battered by their cannons.

"They know they can't hit us, yet they fire. Do you know why, Kapitän?" The colonel posed the question as they watched the ammunition slam into the barren fields a hundred meters in front of them, flinging dirt and dust into the air.

"To Scare us, to let us know they have plenty of ammunition and powder to waste?" The answer seemed obvious, although it was given in an uncertain tone, as it was unlike the Colonel to ask such obvious questions. As the older dwarf stopped to gaze at Salah El-Din, illuminated as it was in the light of the setting sun, he replied.

"An experienced commander would do such a thing, day in day out, lower our morale and make our work seem meaningless... But If we persevere and continue our work regardless of their efforts. If we inch ever closer to their walls, the morale of the men behind those walls will suffer, just the same." The Colonel turned to Tara, nodding towards her in an affirmative manner before lighting his pipe.

"I expect great things of you Tara, continue as you have, and you will lead your own regiment one day."

With those words’ encouragement, the Colonel Left Tara to gaze upon Salah El-Din, the fortress where she could earn fame and renown, if she made her mark upon its ruins. Elohim willing, she would turn any fortress in Eden into nothing but rubble if it meant she would have the recognition she craved.

---

Western Banu Sultanate
Kal'Hirok

The nature of the deal High King Thrundar made with the Sultan of Banu is a source for much speculation abroad, but the core tenants seem obvious enough to extrapolate. A fleet laden with gold, Lyrium, weapons and men at arms were shipped across the Tiberean and in return the dwarves began excavating what is rumored to be an ancient dwarven ruin near the western coast of Banu.

A small barony sized plot of land was gifted in lease to the High King of Noraldur upon their arrival in Banu. And at the same time, a regiment of Heinmari mercenaries were placed under the control of the Sultan, along with gifts of Lyrium and wealth. The leased region, consisting of two dozen square mileage of relatively depopulated lands in the western coastal regions of the Sultanate had suffered heavily in the decades of civil strife in the area. With the farmsteads and hamlets on the territory impoverished and diminished. Although, for the purposes of the Noraldurians, this was of no consequence. For their reason of being here was an old dwarven ruin, half reclaimed by nature and long since picked clean. The absence of nuisances that would disrupt their work, was a boon to them.

This ruin swiftly became the center of their control of the region and was swiftly populated by a small Noraldurian regiment and a few dozen workers, Archeologists and Engineers that went to work immediately. An improvised fort was swiftly erected, and the groundwork of a more permanent site was swiftly prepared. As the civilian populace of their expedition went to work on excavating the ruins, they focused their efforts in unearthing the deep shaft and winding stairwells that would grant access to the sealed deep roads below. For that was their goal.

But the gift of the land was a cursed one in heart. As the Sultanate suffered from internal struggles, both ethnical and racial through its territory, having the Noraldurians take control of a swath of territory in his most rebellious province, given the large Drow populations here, was boon to him in every way. Within days of their arrival there had been violent conflict in the barony as the Dwarves solidified their claim by organizing a census and attempted to "move" a hamlet they deemed too close to their fort.

Although swiftly crushed by zealous and bloody Noraldurian force of arms, the ancient racial conflict between Drow and Dwarf was only reinforced by merciless dwarven hand and it soon became clear the violence will not end there. Although the dwarven commander of the site would rather simply cleanse the area of "hostile influences", such a solution would break their agreement with the Sultan and it would soon be made clear that the security of the area would cause the Noraldurians a great many headaches in the months to come.

---

---

The 37th Concordat Congress - Part III.
Kal'Duma

The Congress had always been a game of influence, one the Noraldurians dominated for centuries. But ever since the Von Basshoff dynasty claimed both Grand-Duchies in the Concordat, they had lost much of their dominating influence. And when their gambit across the Tiberean became known to the congress in session, it erupted in anger and righteous indignation as the Noraldurians and Hertze-Klugel had bypassed the Senate and Congress entirely. Although there had been no war and the deal with the Sultan could be interpreted as a mere proposal of trade, it was clear to everyone involved that the Noraldurians had overstepped their bounds.

But it seemed the High King had expected those reactions and was very willing to make amends, in contrast with loud and bold earlier statements. With deft political skill, the Dwarven High-king offered amends, loans and supplies to the other members of the Concordat, whilst reinforcing the deal they had made with Hertze-Klugel to supply their new "holdings" across the Tiberean Sea. The Potential profit and diplomatic tenure of increased relations with the Sultan was emphasized as a boon to the Concordat overall, adding to various attempts to calm the rage of the Congress.

In order to placate the grand majority of the Concordat, the High King of Noraldur has offered to hire the Ullek Clan in a grand contract to refurbish several defensive fortifications across the Concordat, defending key strategic cities and the border forts. This played directly into their fears and worry of renewed Illyrian conflict and the rising strength of Avalon and the revolutionaries to the south. Although the costs of the projects in themselves would not be covered, they would be supported by lowered prices on Noraldurian cannon and construction materials, making the enterprise of such works feasible where they otherwise would be impossible to undertake. And clearly, to the Noraldurians, the offering of such a grand, national scale project to the Ullek Clan would hopefully endear them closer to Noraldur itself, to the hopes that they could be later be convinced to void their services to the enemies of the Concordat.

Although these offers would not mend the issue the Heinmari, Bergan or Ithalidians had with the Noraldurian deal with the Banu Sultan, it offered enough compensation to not let the issue stall the entire Congress further. But the troubling events on the Tiberean Sea would add even more pressing issues to discuss before it could be brought to a fair conclusion.

---

Many Rumors are abound from the lands of the Dumarion Concordat, likely making their neighboring nations wary of what their intentions are...
-> The Grand-Duchies of Berga and North-Ithalid are rumored to have been purchasing large stockpiles of gunpowder and cannon
-> The Noraldurian forts on the Illyrian frontier have begun works to reinforce their holdings and stockpile ammunition and supplies.
-> The Noraldurian High King is rumored to have engaged in talks with the Zahino Banking Clan to open a massive loan.
-> The King of Dumaria has begun to raise a regiment of troops, with Heinmari instructors to provide their training. There are whispers that he has done little to quell the violence in the region and in fact hopes to use it as a pretext for war.
-> The Grand-Duchies of Berga and North-Ithalid have begun work to remodel defensive works around strategic cities and forts in their territory, primarily against the gemeinenwest border.
-> The republic has been purchasing cannon in large amounts, seemingly in preparation to fight the Illyrian stranglehold on the shipping lanes

---

---

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Volantis

The 49th Year of the Seventh Age, The year of Jubilee

The Acropolis

Grand-Duchess Elisabeth Rickert Von Basshoff // Royarch Valjean II - Queen Clarisse - (An NDH&Tysklandia production)

---

Elisabeth felt increasingly overwhelmed in the large crowds of the Acropolis. She and her small entourage had to wade through thousands in order to reach the steps of the Grand Temple, a flood of strange and extravagant behaviour flooding her senses all the way through. With her regel dress making the trip marginally more uncomfortable. Although embroidered and made of fine cloth in the brown, green and forest colors of her homeland, it stood in contrast with the bright and vibrant silks common in this rich land. Her corset, decorated and designed to mimic armor, alongside the thin dueling blade giving a slight martial visage whilst her skirt, long and fregal kept a feminine and regal flair to her dress. A marked balance for a foreign visit, she hoped.

As she toyed with her own decorated Blue-tinted Eucrogen Crystal, hanging from her neck in the manner of the Volantian order, she made entry in the decorated Grand Temple of Volantis, marveling at the grand Architecture in silence. Inside were hundreds of the most influential people in Avalon and beyond. foreign Royalty, the leadership of the Choir, Beyond Rich guildsmen, decadent members of the volantian order of scholars and dignitaries from all across the known world. To her, this was beyond extravagant. But then again, she realised that the people of Berga were a relatively modest and insular people. It would be best if she would blend with these people, act as they did, for the Concordat needed allies for what the future had to bring.

Swiftly enough after entry, her advisor, the elderly Cleric Herbert Hoffman, begged her for leave to examine the various elements of the temple, hoping to glimpse all that the temple had to offer. Swiftly giving the man leave to do so, she was left only in the company of only a handful of her most trusted companions. A pair of her most trustworthy personal guard, dressed in formal wear and a pair of her fair handmaidens, daughters of various influential nobles taken into her care to groom to ladies of the court.

After mingling briefly in the crowd, Elisabeth was swift to scan the crowd to find her quarry…The ceremony would be soon and their was one, very influential man she wished to speak with before it began. The venerable King Valjean II, the Monarch of The great southern kingdom of Valmange, the largest kingdom of Avalon and an influential player in the future of the continent.

The Valman royalty had slowly, with dignified grace walked the long way up to the acropolis to the Temple sprawling across the hill. Prince Alphonse walked at the head of the Valman column alongside his father and mother, his siblings and uncle following behind. Further behind was a small gaggle of highly positioned Valman courtiers and royal confidants who had been deemed worthy of the honor of accompanying the Royal Family on this important journey. Royarch Valjean cast a look at his son, Alphonse had been silent and of dour disposition in the morning as he had gotten dressed in his fineries, all made by the best tailors of the Val Fontaine Clothier’s Guild. His blue velvet doublet was threaded with the Lion of Valmange in cloth-of-gold, across his neck hung a heavy golden necklace encrusted with emeralds and a large ruby. Valjean smiled, he had raised him well, the boy knew and recognized his duty to the realm, he hadn’t complained in the morning at all, Princess Hedinelle on the other hand kept saying she couldn’t shake a “funny feeling”.

The rest of the Royal Family was dressed none the worse, as Queen Clarisse walked up the steps, a soft chime could be heard from all the jewelry she had on her. A dozen Chevaliers Palataines walked along with the Royal Family and the Valman guests of honor along with several Knights of the Adeptus Militum who cleared the way for the groom and his family. One final effort, and the Valman party arrived at the gates of the grand Temple of Volantis, the Royarch stood there for a while, admiring this great work of architecture which very much rivalled the grandeur of the Cathedral of Elohim’s Triumph back in Val Fontaine. As the Knights of the Adeptus swung open the massive doors, the Royarch could see that the inside of the Temple was no less grandiose.

A group of priests in gaudy robes slowly walked up to the Valman Royal Family and bowed deeply, the bow was soon returned. “Votre Majestais.” The Confessor at the head of the priestly column said. “Welcome to the Grand Temple of Volantis. If you would do us the honor of joining us to the rectory Prince Alphonse, we must start the anointing before the holy ceremony can begin.”

Alphonse looked at his mother and father. Queen Clarisse gave her eldest son a warm smile. “It’s time.” She walked up to him and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you son.”

“So am I.” Royarch Valjean said warmly and nodded to his heir. “Go on Alphonse.”

The Crown Prince managed a weak smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes, at least he was smiling, if perhaps not entirely sincerely. Soon he walked off with the priests to prepare for the ceremony and the Royal couple was left standing, their party had slowly dissolved. Their children were speaking to Princes and Princesses of various Avalonian Houses, each under the supervision of a Chevalier Palataine. His brother Prince Laurent was speaking to a Master of the Militum. “Mon cherie.” Valjean felt Clarisse tugging lightly at his sleeve. He turned and his Queen nodded to an elegant human noblewoman watching them from a short distance away. “I think it is time to make introductions.”

“Indeed.” Valjean replied and so the two walked over to the Bergan lady. The Royarch nodded politely, while the Queen gave Elizabeth a customary curtsy. “Good day to thee, your Highness. I am honored Dumaria is here to witness the holy union between my heir and a Princess of fair Volantis and that none other than the gracious Duchess of Berga herself is here to act as those eyes.” The Royarch said in an official, somewhat stiff tone of voice.

Returning the courtesy, Elisabeth upped the notion with a small, not subservient but noticeable, bow of respect to the foreign Liege. “A fair day indeed, Your Grace. Allow me to immediately give the well wishes of the Kings of Heinmar-Omar, Dumaria and of course, my Uncle, the Grand-Duke of North-Ithalid. The republic of Hertze and High King Thrundar send their respects to this grand Union as well.”

Elisabeth stood graciously, an accustomed regal stature and a comfortable, even tone of voice that was, to the experienced Valmange dignitaries, obviously an act of practice, rather that natural skill.

“I do hope my presence here was expected, It would of course be beyond folly to not give the valiant and faithful kingdom of Valmange it’s due Honor when they bind themselves with one a house as grand as Volantis. It was not easy to find fair gifts to present to such a grand event, I assure you.”

As Elisabeth spoke, she turned to her left, making a slight waving motion that directed a portion of her own entourage to disperse into the crowd, leaving only a pair of her guards and a single handmaiden to stand at a respectful distance behind her.

The Grand-Duchess of Berga was young, even for a human Liege. To many, she was considered little more than a child. But her reputation did precede, no matter how little. Her membership of the Volantian Order was the source of some whispers and her mannerisms had been described as, different, by various foreign courts who had met the Duchess before and after she achieved the title. It was clear to her more experienced Valmangean counterparts that the Duchess had been well educated, but that it was mostly as such. She was educated, but lacked the social skills and experience to make the game of noble discourse feel as effortless as other could. To their experienced eyes, her discomfort with the grand affair and busy event was all but obvious.

“Ah yes, we thank you very much for your words.” The Royarch said with a curt nod. “And do tell your uncle the Grand Duke that we send our best regards when you have a chance.” Queen Clarisse chimed in with a smile. With the long lifespans of Elf-kin, both Valjean and Clarisse had grown more than accustomed to the proper intonation and bearing of events such as these. It had become more than second nature as by now, after over 80 years for Valjean and nearly 80 years for Clarisse, it had indeed become nature.

As the Valman royals stood, the listened gracefully. “Oh your Grace.” The Queen said with a smile. “I am sure my son and his bride will absolutely adore what you have picked out for them.” She said, still holding her hand around her husband’s arm. “What truly matters is that you are here, your presence is the finest gift of all.”

“Indeed.” The Royarch said with a curt nod as his wife snapped her fingers, dismissing most of their entourage except two Palataines in their resplendent armor. “Now, that we have somewhat reduced the number of ears directed our way, a young woman of station and education such as you was surely not looking at me and my dear wife only to exchange the customary pleasantries and discuss the weather for a minute or two. Am I correct?”

Elisabeth suppressed a sheepish smile as she made a cursory glance to ensure nobody was too close for comfort before giving a small nod. Gaining composure she replied.

“True indeed. I must say, niceties and the like were never my strong suit. A handicap I shall surely need to labor to improve upon as I maintain the mantle of Grand-Duchess of Berga. But I am sure you both have many engagements to perform this day, so I will not impose myself too long.”

Turning slightly towards one of her handmaidens, elisabeth gave a slight nod, before an engraved cylinder was produced and given to the grand-duchess. Showing the object to the royarch and his queen, it seemed clearly simply an engraved and enchanted object to transport sealed messages inside..

“The Ambitions of Valmange abroad in service of the Pontiff are well known, but I and my allies in the Concordat hope that the dangers closer to home are of equal interest to your noble house. Our neighbours have long since quarreled with the Pontiff and have taken near heretical positions towards the Illyrians, not to mention the worrisome affairs in the gemeinenwest…”

Offering up the cylinder for the foreign lieges to accept, Elisabeth held a conflicted look for but a moment, before returning to a more neutral expression. Although it was clear she was speaking from what was likely a form of pre-prepared script, her words seemed to come from a place of legitimate worry and cause.

“We might have lost touch with our families in the south after the rebellions, but the murderous chaos that swallowed Estria is something that can threaten the stability of all our lands. We would be interested to know if your house has any plans in future to… mend this situation.”

Clarisse returned Elisabeth’s smile and gave her a warm, motherly gaze to put her at ease. Perhaps grandmotherly even, considering that she was in her late seventies. Valjean’s mood darkened at the mention of the Gemeinwesen, a damnable pseudo-state arisen in blood where people guided by ideals of anarchy had overthrow and that was good, just and holy. How anarchy can even be considered as an ideal by a person was utterly beyond the Royarch’s comprehension.

“Oh.” The royarch said with a slight of hand. “Such things come with experience, and with your renowned mind and undeniable academic success with the Order you will outshine us both in a year.” He said with a smile. As the Duchess of Bergas handmaid produced the small magically sealed cylinder, it piqued the interest of the Valman royal couple. A dispatch from the Assembly perhaps? That remained to be seen.

“Aye, your Grace.” Valjean said with a sigh, gazing off in the distance as he spoke before returning his gaze to Elizabeth this time hard and cold. “It seems that when the men of Valmange take up the call to holy battle, we shall no longer need to cross the oceans in order to fill the graves of the unbelievers.” His tone of voice was harder, more serious, just as his gaze. “Rest assured your grace, we may have ambitions for Valmange, and for the True Faith in the far corners of the world. But it would be foolish to expend ourselves on achieving them when the homefront in Avalon is not secure. When heresy rears its ugly head, it is the duty of any faithful liege to let the pyres crackle.” The Valman ruler said as if it was plain as day.

Queen Clarisse accepted the small cylinder, raising an eyebrow as she attempted to open it. “The Gemeinwesen is a significant threat to peace and order on the continent, and it has proven that revolutions end in bloodbath, we need only to look at the Terror of Erwin. Revolutions eat their own children it seems.” The Royarch said with a frown. “Now, I would have no qualms about a holy campaign to restore the rightful Estrian monarchy, with the Pontiff’s blessing of course. But it’s important that the correct state be restored properly. My small council has broached the subject many a time. I suppose similar issues have been raised in the Concordat as well since your Grace is taking it up here with me?”

A series of rapid blinks showed that Elisabeth was somewhat taken aback by the bashfulness of the Royarch’s reply. Something that she obviously had not expected. But considering the following nod and shifting of her posture, it seemed a response she was agreeable with. Glancing to the Queen, she spoke in a softer tone, with a hint of badly hidden pride.

“It will only reveal it’s contents between the first and second bell of midnight. It is of a Noraldurian design, one I mastered when I studied in Kal’Duma. I hoped it would ensure you would be able to read the contents in a more calm environment.” Reaching over and tracing over the woodwork of the Cylinder, several magical markings glowed with barely noticeable intensity, revealing a complex web of spells that crafted a lock of sorts unto the object.

“It contains a… proposition of sorts, from myself and my uncle, in name of the Grand-Duchies of Berga and North-Ithalid specifically, pertaining to what you speak of, Your Grace.” Releasing the object once more, allowing the symbols on the object to fade away once more, she turned to the Royarch once more. Raising her head slightly, hoping in a sense to convey a sense of confidence and respect, she addressed him.

“The agents of the Gemeinwest will soon enough cross beyond Estria itself and attempt to destroy the fabric of our societies, spread dissidence, chaos and bloodshed amongst the common folk. And If what happened in that cursed land is any indication, the devastation it will bring will be unprecedented and destroy any chance we have to enact more reasonable reforms… Sadly, the Noraldurians, nor the Dumarians or even the Hertze merchant families can be convinced to take a more… forceful stance, given the northern threats that demand their attention.”

Glancing towards the Cylinder in a somewhat obvious manner, before returning her gaze to the Royarch, Elisabeth finished with more cryptic words.

“I certainly hope that we can convince them of the benefits of such a stance with your aid and blessing.”

Clarisse chuckled a bit. “Oh how foolish of me.” She said with a poise laugh and friendly expression. Glancing over at the cylinder once more. “We shall make sure to open it at the appointed hour when the bells strike in a more private environ.” She continued and placed the message in a deep pocket hidden in the sleeve of her dress. The Royarch’s face made an expression of much more interest at the mention of a proposition.

He welcomed the possibility of a joint solution to the issue of the Estrian Revolution and it’s bloody aftermath. And the words of her Grace the Grand Duchess seemed… promising in his opinion so he listened intently, giving Elizabeth his undivided attention as she spoke before raising his own voice. “I very much look forward to what Berga and North-Ithalid have to propose in this matter. You speak true, things such as this must be smothered before they grow, as quick as possible. As I said earlier, the matter has been discussed in the debates of the Valman small council, and I am of the opinion that action must be taken. You can bring that information to your uncle and the Concordat, perhaps that can rile up the Hertze and perhaps even divert the gazes of the dwarves from their obsessive quest for revenge.”

“I will send you a message later, when I have had the chance to review the message in more detail upon the morrow.” The Valman monarch said and gave the Duchess a polite nod while the Queen gave a small, well-practiced and effortless curtsy. “Now we bid you a good day your Grace, the ceremony draws near.”