New Age: A Fantasy RP (Closed, IC)

[Pavlostani]

New Age

I hide this testament for the Singer Inquisitorious cannot be trusted.

The Dancing Bear
The Concert

Tobin Alsius had never experienced such a genteel robbery. He'd had enough time to enter the tavern, drink an ale, and flirt with one of the serving maids before the gentleman at the next table had decided to lift his purse.

"Now see here, Mr...?" One of the bandits started.

"Alsius. Tobin Alsius." Alsius said.

"Now see here, Mr. Alsius. You seem like a reasonable fellow. So tell you what. If you give us your purse, lute, and jewelry, your next drink is on me." The bandit said. Alsius nodded.

"In that case, I have an overwhelming fondness for that mead Lord Yaltin brews. Uh, Glenton mead. That's the stuff." He said. The bandit grinned. He was missing one of his middle teeth.

"Bartender! Two Glentons, one for the gentleman and one for me. Say, Tobin, mind if we sit and chat a while?"

Alsius gave his most charming smile.

"I'm all out of coin, but if you keep these coming," He gestured to the mead the frightened bartender brought to the table, "I can stay as long as you'd like. What can I call you?" He asked.

"My mama named me Haddik, but my friends call me Had." The bandit said.

"Well Had, let me congratulate you on that lute. It's not every day you get to play a Tevecappi lute." Alsius said. Haddik snorted.

"If that's a Tevecappi, then I'm a -" He paused and stared at the lute. The craftsmanship was subtle, but carving of the neck, the curve of the bowl, and the signature burned into one of the pegs were unmistakable. Haddik was quiet for a long moment.

"Either you stole a fine piece of art, or you're a court musician. A high ranking one too." He said.

"The latter. They used to call me the String of the Dawn. Of course, I'm retired these days" Alsius said. Haddik's eyes widened, and he silently handed back the lute and purse. Everyone knew of the String of the Dawn.

"Can you really boil a man's blood with a single chord?" Haddik asked quietly.

"Is that the story they're telling these days?" Alsius smiled. Haddik started to regain his confident expression when Alsius said, "I could freeze a man's blood. It took a few measures, not a chord too. I guess I could boil blood but something feels less refined about it and I never do it. Someone got the story all wrong."

"Well, ah, in the interest of full disclosure, I was just regretting some of my less scrupulous actions just now and I was hoping we could get started on the right foot. You see - " Haddik started when Alsius laughed.

"No I get it. You're not the only one who's turned to banditry. I had a falling out with the Archmage and turned to making some coin on the road. It's surprisingly easy when you're the world's best Worldsinger after the king's own bard and the Archmage. Of course, I was thinking about expanding my enterprise..." Alsius said.

"As it happens, I've been told I'm an excellent partner. I don't suppose you're looking for some help? I'm good with locks, blades, people..." Haddik asked. Alsius grinned.

"Welcome to the team Had. Bartender! Two more Glentons!"

Philharmonica
The Concert

King Matthias Shep often traveled incognito on the streets of Philharmonica. In a carriage with a bard in the Grand Bazaar, he could have been any one of the wealthy burghers who did business in the capital. It was a welcome break from the rigors of governance. It was also a chance to show off.

"Bass." He muttered to his bard, Phineas. The bard nodded, and strummed a low chord on his lute. Then with a booming voice, he began to chant a powerful bass, boiling the water around Shep's carriage and disturbing several shop owners.

"Skavin you lout!" A heavyset man emerged from a butcher's stall. Lamb's blood stained his apron and he carried a large cleaver. Ordinarily, baring steel before the king was a capital offense, but Shep was posing as a ink magnate named Skavin. The twinkle in the butcher's eye belied his gruff tone.

"Ho there Hayert! Is something wrong?" Shep asked innocently.

"I'm assuming the bass Worldsinger is that skinny tosh sitting next to you?" Hayert growled.

"Phin was holding back. If I really let him loose, he'd char all your pretty meats." Shep called back.

"I doubt that very much." Hayert said. There was a silence between the two, until Shep said,

"That sounds like a challenge my friend."

"Maybe it is. Let's do this. Your whip versus mine." Hayert replied.

The two set a wager, terms for the fight, and Hayert rustled his nephew from the back of his shop to watch over the store until he returned. Hayert climbed into a carriage in the back of his shop and produced a mandolin.

"An eight string. Nice." Shep observed. The two began barreling down the avenue and Hayert began to play and sing. His gravelly bass blasted from his carriage, and stones exploded around them.

"By Melody!" Shep gasped as rock shards scattered around him, frightening the horses. "Well, sing you lout!" He shouted to Phineas. The bard jumped into action, singing a powerful song in a low register about a knight overcoming four trials. Shep breathed in the joy of the Worldsong and braced himself as Phineas' song tore a building in two. Hayert had to duck as glass shards and stone nearly decapitated him.

"That beat!" Hayert gasped. "I yield."

After a short arrangement, Shep hurried his friend away and secretly produced a royal letter of credit to the shopkeepers who had been affected by the Worldsinger duel. A quartet of pipers would arrive on the morrow to repair the damage and the merchants would be compensated in full for the day lost to the commotion. With fun out of the way, Shep looked back at the castle on the sheer. It was time to return to governing.

Castle Philharmonica
The Concert

Castle Philharmonica was a curious product of the past and future. Built on the sheer cliff over most of Philharmonica, it had begun as a simple fortress. Strong walls and tall ramparts were well and good, but a cultured siege expert would notice the building's incredible acoustics. Music bounced off the walls and into mountains and city. Much like an opera hall amplifies the sound of the singer, the castle amplified the sound of its defenders. The entire building was a weapon designed to channel the Worldsong. As time progressed, so did the castle. Walls built outwards in a fashion that combined the design of a star fort with the acoustic brilliance of the original castle. Cannons replaced ballistae and the walls were thickened to withstand artillery fire. But the greatest weapon within the castle was no artillerist or rifleman, but a thirty year old man listening to reports in his tower."

"Archmage, we've located the king. He was having a bass duel with a Worldsinger merchant in the Grand Bazaar." The spy said to Archmage Kaeros the Soloist. Kaeros' mouth tightened but he said nothing.

"Archmage, we found it." The next spy announced.

"Bring it here." Kaeros ordered. The spy approached and laid an object at the Archmage's feet. It was round and wrapped in cloth. Kaeros knelt down and uncovered it. Inside was a vase depicting horrors. Horrors and -

"You did well. I'll have you rewarded handsomely for this." The Archmage told the spy.

"There's more sir. Look inside." The spy said. Kaeros reached into the vase and pulled out a sheet of paper. His face lit up -- an unusual expression on his usually grim face.

"The Apocalypse Prophet's testament itself?" He asked. The spy shrugged.

"I don't know. I didn't presume to..." He started.

"Your caution does you credit, but you may presume. It is your duty to understand the threats to our state and assist me in handling them." Kaeros chided the spy. He broke the paper's seal and read the first line.

I hide this testament for the Singer Inquisitorious cannot be trusted.

"Leave me. I have much to think on." Kaeros ordered.

[Ben M]

Entering the Beckreek Delta aboard the Pfingstrose: South-east Aeriath

---

Jan awoke with a start.

“Land Ho!” rang out from above decks, followed by the ringing of bells which cascaded from the bow to the aft, “By Wellgot there it is! Land Ho! Land Ho! Land Ho!”

Jan threw himself out of bed and donned his trusty hat. Sprinting upstairs he pushed through a throng of people along the starboard side of the bow. Sure enough, there it was, Aeriath! The river Beckreek spilled out lazily into a small delta, fertile farmland as far as the eye could see. To the east and extending north were the Alteic Mountains. Soaring to the clouds, Jan marveled at the towering rock before him. These were merely the foothills of the Alteics, yet were already as tall as the highest mountains in the Westwall, except of course for Königsruder, but Jan had never witnessed that majesty. However, these mountains also had another feature, besides their stature. Precious silver, which the colonists were here to mine.

This silver was crucial, and it was why the colonists were here in the first place. Aeriath had once, long ago been a major silver producer, and Karrianne, the prophet of their voyage, had been told by reputable diviners that the metal still lay within the mountains. The goal was to create a valuable colony, creating a local (and ostensibly cheaper) alternative to the Orcish or Selunyan imports. They were to bring glory to Wellgot, and bring their profits home. This was the deal they had struck when their church had chartered the Pfingstrose in the first place, it was not just to seek religious freedom.

Slowly the Pfingstrose glided towards the south of the delta, where she stopped around 500 feet from shore. This land was unlike that of Jan’s home, where the shore cut off abruptly, diving into the depths of the sea at breakneck pace. Here was a gentle and slow recession, which forced the Pfingstrose to stop far from the shoreline. To Jan this was strange, but in a good way. Every Schuirmer always felt a little odd at land, but this gentle transition felt more at peace, and the two regions were not as separate as before. A good Omen, thought Jan to himself, as he saw Karrianne climbing the stairs in the aft to ascend above the rudder.

“My fellow Wallfahreren, we have reached Aeriath” she shouted triumphantly to equally elated cheers. “I hereby dub this land and river Wellfluß. Join me now in giving thanks to God” and with that she bowed her head, reached into her dress and pulled out a vial of holy water, taken from the harbor of Ratheim, the oldest of the Schuirmer cities, and the place of all creation of mankind. Bowing his head Jan joined as Karrianne began sprinkling the water out onto the assembled crowd of Wallfahreren.

“Nautical Father, giver of life, creator of all, wind in our sails and water in our blood, hear our thanks and receive our warmest thoughts and feelings. May your blessings continue to rain upon us. We have come here devoted to your abyssal purpose, and thus find the bounty you hath gave us.”

A moment of silence passed over the crowd, until it was broken by Karrianne with a somber yet hopeful Amen. From there everyone sprung into action, the landing boats were lowered and everyone was loaded onto shore with all of their belongs. From there two groups were created, prospectors and town builders. The prospectors broke into even smaller groups to begin panning for silver, as well as searching for caves and prospective mining places. The Town builders set to work digging foundations and felling trees. Lots of work was ahead of them.

---

Exiting the Ytalac Delta

Sofie sighed as the Erfolg approached the exit of the Ytalac Delta. Another mild day of trading within the Qhel. Sofie had thought she could maybe bypass the Concertian merchants and trade directly with the Qhelekiin, but this time, just as every time before, she was barely able to break even. The Qhelekiin were, as a rule, unwilling to trade on a large scale with new merchants. This meant that the prices Sofie was getting were vaguely the same as those she would get sailing to the concert. This was a problem, since the Qhelekiin had vast amounts of delicious spices and amazingly well crafted goods, but these goods were mostly shipped out to the Concert who acted as obnoxious middlemen, undercutting the value of the items.

Suddenly her ship flew a signaling flag, odd since usually these waters were relatively quiet. Sofie looked up and audibly gasped. Two huge ships were sailing straight for the river. A quick glance confirmed that were indeed Schuimer vessels, by Sofie’s judgment a Great ship of War and a second rate Ship of the Line. These vessels dwarfed Sofie’s modest sloop. What were these massive vehicles of war doing here? Sofie dropped back to the aft to see her navigator mage, when suddenly the ship cut through a massive wave, and all hands were thrown to the deck.

---

Entering the Ytalec Delta, heading for Ysoldeth

---

Commodore Espen Karschluß leaned up against the forward pulpit as the Beherrscher cut through the ocean, heading into the Ytalec delta. Karschluß was tense but eager. His mission was clear, break open the Qhelekiin markets, and force them to accept a new treaty of exclusive trade in Ysoldeth with Schuimer merchants. He had at his command two ships, over 1,500 men, and 298 guns. They were an imposing sight, with his ship larger than most buildings, 4 guns decks above water, pushing through the water at breakneck speeds with magical winds filling his sails.
There was a problem though. The Qhelekiin were mostly inland, relying on shallow but fertile rivers only 5 meters at their deepest to access the sea. His gigantic ships would never fit. But that’s what his mages were for. Despite their depth, the Ytalec river churned out a lot of water, and water was exceedingly valuable for any half-decent Schuimer mage.
As they approached the river, and the depth visibly rose, Karschluß raised then dropped his hand. A large bell sounded, followed by a special Schuimer signal flag being dropped. This one was the inland flag, a pure green field with a blue triangle. All of a sudden as a unit, the mages, who had assembled behind him sprung into action. The boat suddenly lurched upwards, carried upon a huge tidal wave of water, which surged the river almost 50 feet above its banks, carrying the ships in its wake. This wave pushed forward, about 50 feet ahead of the Beherrscher and it’s companion ship the Dreizack. Emboldened the ships surged forward, and Karlschluß couldnt help but feel exhilarated.
“Onward to Ysoldeth!”

---

The Imperial Rathaus (parliament building): Ratheim

---

Minister Dirk Jagerwitz groaned to himself as he rounded a corner and was face to face with Duke van Ekenstein of Exslas, Captain in the Navy, Colonel in the Army and of course bastard son of King Friederich although no one would dare say the last title. Normally a bastard like him would have the decency to remain quiet, his familial ties would maintain his status and keep him well fed, but he would not be able to break into the larger political sphere. Unfortunately, these were not normal times.

“Ah, minister Jagerwitz, just the person I would like to see. Please excuse me minister Sminia”, and with that the Duke had crossed the few paces it took to block Dirk’s path.

“Would you mind walking with me minister? There is much to discuss!”

Dirk replied through gritted teeth, for the entreaty of duke, especially one as popular as the duke of Exlias was not able to be refused “Of course my Lord, where do you desire we walk to?”

“I though the park in Aldrick’s square would be a nice diversion, although our conversation should be brief enough that I doubt we will make it all the way there”

Dirk nodded and the pair set out, flanked by the personal guard of the duke’s. As they exited the building the spices of the market hit Jagerwitz’s nose. Rich spices from Qhelekiin, mystical orcish spices from Orhimm, or the distinct fishy smell of the Selunyan Lelynmore Salmon all mixed to make it’s own exotic smell, the scent of Kustenland, where all cultures meet. The pair walked along a short ways before the duke, looking agitated spoke first.

“Did you see that my father was not present agin?” to which Dirk could only nod in acknowledgment, “That is four sessions in a row he has not been present to start the ceremony to begin parliament. They read the same writ. There has been no explanation.”

“It is probably nothing. Your father is old. Sometimes old people need rest. King Eirik IV missed fourteen days eighty years ago when he-“

“and yet if memory serves Eirik was way on campaign against the Selunyans. so not try to equate missing from health with missing from necessity, minister. It is clear that something is awry. “

“And yet, without more evidence, our king seems to just be taking a small holiday to Meerzee, hardly undeserved at his age.”

“And yet,” countered the duke of Exslas, “I have it on good authority no naval dispatches have been sent to Meerzee or anywhere that would indicate a royal guard. We both know that he is still here in the city.”

“With all due respect my lord, but so what? Your father is old, he might simply and genuinely need rest. I am a royalist to my core, but even I can recognize that no king is infallible when their age passes seventy.” Dirk gritted his teeth, he knew what came next

“But certainly we need an official heir. Otherwise we could see another War of the Sails”

At that Dirk shuddered. The War of the Sails was an all out civil war in Kustenland fought beetween rival cadet branches of the Royal family before finally being won by the current Augustine branch. Many lives were lost, and many good men were amongst that number. Afterwards the political purges had lead to the great civil war, in which had established the parliamentary powers and jusrisdictions. Dirk certainly did not want another War of the Sails.

“Yet unlike then there are not multiple male claimants to the throne, my Lord” Jagerwitz retorted, “So clearly you have nothing to fear”

“This is true, but my father has refused to legitimize me” the Duke spat at that, a vulagr action which revealed his bastard nature. No other would dare spit on the thought of the king “and so my half-sister keeps drawing attention from other ministers, and I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed interested.”

“I assure you, my lord, that the crown is still absolute agnatic in succession, you have the strongest claim, despite the… uh… unfortunate circumstance surrounding your birth”

“You are the royalist minster, it is your duty to uphold the succession of the crown you claim as infallible and divine. See to it that the royalists unite around a MALE leader, as heritage ,tradition and the divine Wellgot intended.”

With that final remark the duke of Exslas left before Jagerwitz could reply. Dirk groaned then checked his surroundings, before even further despairing. They had walked further than expected, and he would have to hurry to make it back to the Rathaus before the session restarted.

[Drakmah]

Ritual Master Qetlztana
Apex of Ysoldeth

It was the strength of the breeze that always amazed the young ritualist each time he stood atop the largest pyramid in the city. Even at such a height, Qetlztana felt nothing but safety as he planted his feet on such a marvel of engineering. It had been built long before his birth, and would continue to watch over the landscape well after he died. When everyone he had ever known was buried in the catacombs below Exathoth, the cities of the gods would persist, and such a thought comforted him. But now was not the time for appreciation, as in his hands he held a beautiful crystal decanter, filled to the brim with the finest of waters the city could offer. Filtered through beautifully woven fabrics brought in from Zenarith, this liquid would serve as the offering to the great patron god of the city, it’s namesake, Ysoldeth. It was this god who had built much of the central portion of the city, bending the water of the river to his will. He used it to erode stone into blocks, and called the force of errant currents to carry them into place. The legends say that it was a marvelous thing to see, and as Qetlztana went to work inscribing the runes into the basin at the center of the apex, he could only dwell on the slightest pang of envy for those who’d been alive all that time ago. The view from this height was incredible, and wind’s touch on the gills that covered the sides of his neck served as a reminder of how close to divinity he really stood.

Having turned 62 just last cycle, the ritualist was the youngest in all of Zulcanos Mar to claim such a title. Having ascended to such authority early through the death of his mentor, Qetlztana had much to prove to the empire. It was incredibly rare, though not unheard of, for a Qhelekiin ritual master to pass away before their 100 year service was completed, but the previous head of Ysoldeth’s religion had developed some sort of condition in the middle to later time of his life. His speed and dexterity waned for years, and before long he had lost his ability to walk. Trekking up the hundreds of steps to reach the apex of sacrifice was already difficult enough, and the previous master's condition made him unable to do his duty. As such, the young apprentice had begun his term early.

Up until his mentor’s passing, Qetlztana spent much of his time keeping them company. Respecting one’s elders was an important part of Qhel culture, but even beyond that the young man felt a kinship with him that can only be forged over years of teaching. His thoughts often drifted to his old mentor when he traced out the ritual runes, his memory bringing forward episodes of long nights spent memorizing. He knew them by heart now, and by the time he’d finished them, the sun hadn’t moved more than a node.

Returning his writing utensil to his waist, Qetlztana took the decanter in both hands and began his prayer.

”Great and powerful lord of the waters, I grant this offering to you, Ysoldeth. The waters bend to your will, the rivers obey your command, and the basins of the underworld reveal themselves at your word. May those who sing your praise be granted your gifts, and those who stand against you drown in your fury. Take the water from your most cherished basin, and know that the people of the city do and always will have faith in you. May you be strengthened by this gift, and pleased by our reverence. For you to give us, what we now give to you. Itolli, Ysoldeth. Itolli.”

When the final word was spoken, the apex began to rumble, and the runes that Qetlztana had drawn began to glow a bright blue. After a few moments, the ritual master removed the stopper from the decanter and gently poured the liquid into the basin, ensuring none escaped or fell to the floor. The young man then stood back, and watched as the water began to slowly swirl, soon creating a whirlpool that seemed to gather the light of runes. Eventually, the energy that had been collected surged upwards in a streak of blue. Qetlztana had closed his eyes by the time it came, and felt the energy through his eyelids. Those who’d been at the base of the apex, having felt its activation, would have seen the beam fire into the air, dissipating just as quickly as it had materialized. When the light was gone, the ritual master opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of joy and relief. He had been trained to feel the emanation of energy which signaled success, and the hum he felt in his chest told him that his offering had been accepted. He would stay at the apex until the feeling stopped, to ensure that Ysoldeth had nothing more to tell him.

Walking around the basin, the runes which had been inscribed on it now gone, Qetlztana sat down on the opposite side of the apex. Being so close to a source of power was exhausting for ritual masters, and the young man found that the rest, paired with the fulfillment of a completed ritual and the soft humming he felt was what made everything worth it. From here, one could see the whole city, and the river that fed into the ocean. It was a peaceful view, and it was one that could only be enjoyed by someone in his position.

Today, his eyes were drawn to the foreign vessels that were out on the ocean. From where he sat, it seemed as though he could pinch them between his fingers. He knew them to be much bigger though, not that he’d seen them up close. In the travels of his Vellokar, he’d talked with those who worked closer to the sea that described them both with awe and with hesitation. While they certainly could not compare to the wonders of the Qhel, Qetlztana was young and curious, and found himself enjoying the elegance of the fabric that was hung to catch the wind. It was hard not to respect something so interconnected, and he’d heard tales of the labyrinths that made up the ropes and pulleys that kept everything in order. He thought to himself then how he’d like to go see one of these vessels, when he was old and his service done. Unless one of them came to the city, he’d never have such a chance, not that they could make it up the delta.

As they approached the river, the ritual master awaited their turn, hoping to see them from the side whilst they sailed along the coast. But such a turn never came, and Qetlztana cocked his head slightly to the side as they got closer. Pondering their intent, his thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of a bell. Looking closer, the young man could see water from the river swell around the ships, and before long they surged forward. He watched with widened eyes as they passed the coast and entered the river proper, and it became clear that by some unnatural means the vessels were moving up the river. Feeling his breath catch in his throat, the ritual master realized that they’d be able to move right up through the city, and with the speed they were moving it wouldn’t be too long before they reached the epicenter. He wasn’t sure of their intent, but he had to organize a response. Standing up, he hesitated, still feeling the hum inside of his chest. Looking up to the sky, Qetlztana took a deep breath and sighed.

“Ysoldeth forgive me…” He whispered, before slipping around the basin and rushing towards the stairs. As the highest religious figure in the city, the ritual master could do things that many civilians could not, and as he approached the two sets of parallel stairs, separated by a thick stone divider which held a flat surface on the top, Qetlztana closed his left fist and pulled towards his chest. He felt the resistance strain against his muscles, but as the deep blue tattoos that coated his skin came to light, the pressure gave and the waterfall that opened up out of the left side of the pyramid obeyed him. Arching from it’s natural path, it splashed onto the divider as he stepped up onto it, and without hesitation the young man leaped down. His heels slammed into the currents, but did not hit stone, and using his right hand as balance he was able to use the water to carry him to the bottom. While the speed of the stunt made his heart soar with adrenaline, he knew he had more important things to dwell on, and when he reached the bottom he sprung into action. When the slope on the divider ended, he landed on it running, the water spilling out behind him as he vaulted down onto the paved stones of the road. Nearby citizens looked on with reverence, as it wasn’t often that a ritual master used their gifted powers with haste. But Qetlztana could not think on that now, and rushed down the road toward the city's bureaucratic hall.

All turned to look as he passed them, his ceremonial robes fluttering behind him as he ran. From down here, the buildings around him blocked his view of the river, and not being able to see the approaching ships made him nervous. Soon, he was storming up the steps to one of the most important imperial buildings, and he had to remind himself that he had much more authority than he did a few years ago. He need not worry about disrespect at a time like this. Coming up to the large stone doors, the guards who stood at attention startled into action, but Qetlztana couldn’t wait for the 6 of them to open the door.

“Stand back!” He called, rushing up to where the two stone gates met. Taking only a moment to plant his feet, the highest religious authority in the city pushed. He threw all of his might behind him, both magical and physical, and before long the doors began to move. When they opened enough for him to enter, he slid through the gap and into the building, only to find the entire grand hall was looking at him.

“Master Qetlztana, is something wrong?” Asked one of the magistrates whose desk was seated not too far from the entrance.

“There is something that requires our attention.” Qetlztana replied, turning then to where the Arch Magistrate sat as he walked further into the hall.

“Revered Tilnetlanec!” He called out, his voice booming through the halls. “Assemble the watch and call the city council into session!” He then turned to look at the capital’s representative. “Esteemed Axtznetnc, contact the nearest military patrol and request that they report to the city at once.” At this, the Arch Magistrate stood and gave a small cough.

“Master Qetlztana, with all due respect, please explain the meaning of this.” The Arch Magistrate said, the much older Qhelekiin looking down from his high seat to where the ritual leader stood. Qetlztana smiled and took a deep breath, glancing around at everyone in the room.

“We have guests.”

Embalmer Veka
Exathoth Catacombs

If only Veka had joined with Aelias, then maybe he’d be able to see the sun again. Feeling any sort of warmth would do, but all that could be found so deep in the Halls of the Dead was bone numbing cold, a sensation that Veka had grown accustomed to. Taking a labored breath, the most pious servant of Exathoth began to navigate through the winding and seemingly endless hallways of his home. He’d seen to the last of the corpses, and with their maintenance complete he could go back to his quarters and rest for the day. To the untrained mind, his path would have seemed completely random, but Veka had discovered he had a knack at remembering directions, and before long had almost completely mapped out what otherwise could seem like a cruel maze.

This stunted, scrawny man stood a head shorter than most people of his race, and sported pale, almost shrivelled skin in comparison. There was nothing wrong with him per say, but the few years he’d spent so far below ground had deprived him of the environment most Qhelekiin thrive in. Food was sparse, but it came to him, delivered by other dejected members of the city. While he wasn’t trapped where he was, his duties consumed much of his time, and he couldn’t make the trip to the surface without risking falling his duties. Being loyal to the patron god of the city was the only thing he had left. Even after everything, he needed to stay in favor. Even still, he wasn’t even sure if he knew the way back up. He’d only travelled it once, when he first came down that first descent. But that was a different time, one that seemed so far away.

Veka reminisced about the last times he was happy quite often, remembering how excited he was to have come to Exathoth for the first time. The enormous buildings amazed his countryside mind, and delighted the child in him. It was then that him and his older brother promised each other they’d join here. But that was hard to think on, and Veka’s heart longed once more for his murdered brother.

When the two of them had grown, and finished their Vallokar, they’d chosen the city of the dead for their joining. Both of them had promising futures, Veka was to be a high ranking government official, and his brother the apprentice of the ritual master. It was all they had ever dreamed of, and together they were going to bring glory to the city, uphold its values, and serve proudly.

The dream wouldn’t last for long though, and soon Veka was hearing stories of how abusive the ritual master really was. His brother would come to see him with bruises and cuts, but no one seemed to care. It was okay, he’d say, and Veka would listen. It was worth it for a better future. This went on for cycles, and then for spans, never ceasing, never getting better.

Everything would crumble when the ritual master began lashing his brother in public, punishing him for missed runes or speaking out of turn. It was too much, and Veka left his post one day to put a stop to things. He shouted at the ritual master, told him all sorts of nasty things, and when the boy was done the highest religious figure of the city almost killed him. He would have finished, if his brother hadn’t attacked. He’d leaped onto his mentor, and Veka could only watch from the ground as his brother was murdered in front of him. By then there was too much of a scene, and the ritual master fled. When the guards came, no one would speak for them, too cowed by the power of the priest. The issues couldn’t go unpunished, and without an apprentice to step in, the ritual master was immune. It was blamed on Veka, and the lad was pushed in the darkest recesses of the catacombs. He’s heard nothing of the overworld since, forced to stay out of sight. He couldn’t even bury his brother, and his last memories were from when he watched him die.

Veka was pulled from his thoughts when he almost walked into a wall. Startled, he looked around and saw that the hallway headed in the other direction. Furrowing his brow, he wiped the tear from his cheek and stepped back, orienting himself back where he’d come from.

“No…” He said under his breath. He was sure he was right, the hallway was different. He travelled this way for years and he’d always gone left, but now he could only head right. He took a deep breath and banished his concerns. He knew this place in and out. He’d keep walking and he’d find his way. Taking the turn, he continued down the hallway, now acutely aware of his surroundings. His thoughts distracted him no more, and he could feel the pain in his half healed leg, the aching of his joints, the rasp of his lungs. The catacombs soon began to twist and turn without meaning, and Veka was left as dazed as when he first came down here. His heart began to hammer in his chest, and suddenly everything seemed so tight and confined.

Veka…

His head swivelled as he heard the voice, looking back and forth. His stomach was a pit, and he couldn’t help but pick up his pace, limping through what now seemed like a maze.

Veka…

It came again, and the lad could feel a shiver move through his spine. He could feel the blood in his veins, and it seemed to slow. Trying to move faster, to escape what was surely behind him yet was almost certainly in front of him, he hit an uneven stone and was flung forward, sprawling out on the ground in a heap. Heaving air in and out, he pushed his hands into the stone and hauled himself up. Looking around, he found that the hallway had given way to a large chamber, one he’d never seen before. Sitting up, he dabbed his hand against his lips and felt them soak into a warm, viscous liquid. Was this his own blood? He’d felt it a moment ago, but was he now bleeding? Catching his breath, he tried to orient himself when he heard it again.

Veka…

This time it was more than a whisper, and it was coming from the far end of the chamber. Too dizzy to even attempt escape, he half mindedly stood, his warped legs soon carrying him to the source of the voice. With only the dimmest of light, Veka made out what looked to be a chair. No, it was more than a chair, it was a throne. It called to him, preying on his desire to sit and rest. It would only be a moment, then he’d return to his quarters. He needed to sleep, so he could return to his duties. Walking up a few steps, Veka approached the throne and collapsed into it. It felt good to breathe, to let the worry slip away. But it wouldn’t last, and soon he was fighting to stay awake. The darkness of the catacombs enclosed around him, overwhelmed him, like a flood burying him with no hope for escape. It made him panic, made him call out for help. But no one would hear his screams.

Except for one.

[Quazin the Great]

---

The green fields of Aeriath, west of Beckreak River


Quentin pulled his wool vest closer as a chilled breeze swept across the valley floor. He turned his head towards the sun and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth on his face as the sheep baa’d incessantly around him.

“Just eat ya buggars!” Quentin chuckled “An quite yer yappin. I’d like ta be home fore supper witout worryin bout if yer eaten enuff.”

He shifted in his seat, a tall rock that gave him a good view of the flock, before reaching into his pocket and fishing out a small piece of dried meat. His sheepdog, seated at the base of the rock, looked up and let out a small bark, the scent of the dried flesh easily caught by her keen nose.

“Oh don’t ya start on me too, Mo,” the shepherd said, taking a bite out of the jerky before tossing the rest down to her. She snapped it out of the air and he chuckled, “Good catch there girl”

His eyes wandered towards the sea, where the water seemed to go on forever, far past the horizon. You could almost see the white crests of the waves as they lapped against the shore from here, almost smell the salty air. Alas, you likely would if not for the occasional wind coming down from the mountains. That wind always made Quentin a tad uncomfortable, as though it was an eerie warning, a brisk reminder of the mountains that loomed overhead, towering over Aeriath. Almost unnatural it was, but what did he know of the ways of the winds? He was just a shepherd, and likely would always be one, just as his father and his father before him.

“Well what’ll that be,” his thoughts came back to reality as his eyes caught movement through the glare of the sun off the water. “That in no rowboat is it Mo,” his eyes widened in awe, the largest vessel he’d ever seen, cutting through the water like a hoe through a freshly turned field. Or perhaps even more gracefully. He paused for a second to think of a better metaphor before shaking his head and standing up to get a better view. “Well I’ll be.” the shepherd whispered under his breath, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched the ship sail closer.

---

Somewhere beneath the mountains of Aeriath


Demus laudem domini nostri

The patter of her bare footsteps echoed through the stone halls, her fluttering cloak casting cascading shadows on etch embroidered marble and dark stained glass as she ran.

Auctor atrae sanguineum

She could hear the prayers and meditations of her brothers and sisters, both distant and near, the beat of her feet against the cold tile keeping in time with their chants. The oil lamps flickered eerily as she passed them, despite the glass chimneys meant to shield them from the wind.

Somnia nostra tuentis

The shadows seemed to contort and churn as she sprinted through the twisting and turning corridors, passing by rooms and branching hallways, some filled with figures dressed like her, some vacant and lightless, some both. This place was a maze to the unfamiliar, though the trick for navigation was quite simple, her eyes flitting from stained glass pane to stained glass pane, orienting herself with their depictions.

Libera nos in salutis nostri

There was a brief pause in her footsteps as she vaulted a stairway, landing softly at its base, her sprint unbroken. The chanting faded as she moved deeper into the compound, their whispers following her deeper and deeper as the flames of the lanterns took on a bluish hue. The sound of her footsteps became softer as the tiles transitioned to soft hewn stone, the stained glass and carved marble replaced by sunken relief depictions carved into solid granite. The hallway descended and curved gradually, almost never ending as though slowly spiraling down into the depths of the underworld. Their walls were occasionally lined with evenly spaced, narrow, unlit passageways, each smaller and darker than the next, many of them indistinguishable from shadowed alcoves.


She stopped at one of these passageways, turning her body sideways and squeezing into it. She slid herself along the stone walls, the sounds of her footsteps and the faint chants of her brethren replaced by the sound of cloth dragging along rough stone, and of the sound of her own breath, amplified by her mask and the closeness of the wall to her face. Her breath quieted as she developed a rhythm, moving as quickly as she could sideways through the passageway without making too much noise, the awkward movement carrying her deeper and deeper into the darkness.

After nearly a minute of this, a faint light could be seen at the end of the tunnel, and the passageway began to gradually widen. She could hear them now, their voices carrying through the dank air.


“He is becoming a problem.”

“He is but a single man, nothing we can’t handle”

“It’s not about what he is, it’s about what he represents”

“It’s the Schuimer influence, it poisons Aeriath, exposes them to false ideology”

“He should be taken care of.”

“He has too much support, too much-”


The voices ceased as she exited the passageway. 16 figures sat in stone thrones around a dark pit, a similar recess mirrored into the ceiling. Behind each of the figures resided a similar passage to the one from which she had just emerged, all similarly shrouded in darkness. The room was dimly illuminated from somewhere far above, the 16 faces clearly visible, hoods drawn back. They did not wear masks as she did, they did not need to, for there were no secrets to keep here.

She approached softly, keeping her head low as she leaned forwards, lifting her mask slightly to expose her mouth as the woman in front of her leaned back slightly, granting the messenger easier access to her ear. The others were silent as they awaited the news, the messenger’s whispers heard by only one. There was a brief pause and the woman nodded, leaning back forwards in her seat to address the council. The messenger melted into the shadows and kneeled in the passageway, awaiting further direction.

“A Schuimer vessel has been spotted east of Beckcreak River. They’ve deployed men and are cutting down trees, and seem to be setting up some kind of foothold. They number around 200.”
“Yet more Schuimer influence.”
“Why are they here? What could they possibly be doing.”
“Perhaps they think there’s some profit to be had."
"Their value is in the material.”
"They do not know our ways”
"They do not know of us”
“Regardless, they are a threat to our way of life."
"This cannot stand.”
“We would not do well to make our presence known.”
“Perhaps we could gain from this. Perhaps this is a blessing.”
“Perhaps”
“Or perhaps they will disrupt all that we have built.”
“Perhaps”
“We must know more. Gather the shadows.”

[Ben M]

At the mouth of the Wellfluß

---

Jan’s foot touched ground, and the familiar feeling of the rocking wave beneath his feet disappeared with uncomfortable solidity. Yet there was no time to hesitate, he was assigned to one of the silver panning teams, and the sooner they found the metal, the sooner their colony could become sustainable. As a result, his team gathered quickly, even as the majority of Wallfahreren set to work disembarking the Pfingstrose, felling the surrounding trees, and creating rudimentary cabins.

Jan’s team consisted of himself, Anna, Rozamond, and Gerritt. They were all friendly with each other, being of similar ages and attitudes, and thus worked well as a team. After a quick discussion the group decided to head out north, maybe slightly east, and hike up to find some mountain streams to pan in.

Luckily this wasn’t long or hard, so the team got to work, standing hunched over in the middle of the brook, sifting dirt and picking through rocks searching for precious silver. It was backbreaking work, and while the sun was not overly oppressive, working in the heat for as long as they had certainly took a toll. Sweat dripped off of Jan’s face as he focused. At the start of the expedition there had been a lot of lively chatter, anything to keep the spirits up and the mind occupied. Yet as the work ground on, as they climbed higher and higher, and as silver kept eluding them their chit chat faded away, replaced by the soft shhhk shhhk shhhk of the panning.

Finally they broke tree-line after a few hours of work. They all glanced at each-other nervously, for no silver had been found.

“Well, there isn’t much point in continuing upwards” Said Rozamund, “we would have found something in this stream by now if it existed.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Jan stooped down and splashed water over his head. Cool and refreshing, but completely devoid of silver. Everyone sat down on the banks to catch their breath.

Gerritt looked out back down upon the land. Jan’s gaze followed. Gentle sloping hills were covered in pasture land, seemingly for grazing small farm animals. Looking south, the colony could be barley made out, mostly because of the feverish motion of felled trees. Already there was a dent in the forrest, and small huts were starting to take shape.

A cold breeze raised the hairs on the back of Jan’s neck, but he thought nothing of it, excited by the new land and strange terrain. The forests here were less dense, the wood clearly inferior to the great timber of his homeland. Despite that, it had a quaint feeling, the trees were welcoming, and the pastures seemed relaxing. Jan felt his muscles relax, a pleasant feeling after hard labor.

“Oh! Look” gasped Anna, pointing out due west. “A village!”

Sure enough the steeples and gables of a small village stood atop a hill, not far in the distance. Jan could even sort of make out people.

“The Aeriath! They must know where the silver is! We should ask them.”

“Speak with heathens? What would they know. They abandoned the silver decades ago, that is why we are here, to take what they foolishly cast aside” replied Rozamund, a scowl crossing her face.

“No, she’s right.” Jan said thoughtfully, “We have to try everything, and this seems a hack of a lot easier and maybe more lucrative than panning. Lets go!”

Gerritt shrugged and looked at Rozamund, who sighed loudly.

“Fine, but when Karrianne gives us the lash for neglecting our duty and Wellgot himself, you all owe me an extra serving of that disgusting porridge they keep feeding us”
Jan giggled as he took off running down the hill. “Only if you can get there first!”

---

Approaching Ysoldeth

---

Commodore Karschluß surged with pride as they entered the river. The wave sweeping them up and transporting Beherrscher and the Dreizack zipped up the river. Yet now time was of the essence, The commodore knew they would have been spotted by now, and every second they saved would allow them to get in and disarray the normally very procedural Qhelekiin. For this reason Karschluß signaled again, and a signal flag, white with three blue wind lines was raised. The mages on deck shifted positions instantly, and suddenly the wind rushed from behind the ships, slamming into the sails and actually lurching the boat forward at an astonishing rate.

Drums sounded from the galley decks. This was actually a trick the Schuimer navy had adopted from the Concert. While obviously the drums were not magical or connected to any “world song”, they did have a drastic effect on the mages themselves, helping them focus their beats, and work together in a rhythmic pattern. In this way each mage could maintain a constant rush of wind by collaborating with individual gusts, the wave could push the ship forward, but be coordinated and turned by the group. The drum was deep and loud, designed to be heard even in the most ruthless of high seas storms.

As they rushed up the river, towards the ancient city of Ysoldeth, Karschluß thought about his options. A direct assault on the city was certainly impossible. It would take armies upon armies of men to break the walls, and even the fierce marines at his disposal would be quickly overwhelmed in direct conflict. Despite this, the commodore knew he needed to negotiate from a position of strength. How to achieve this was another matter, but he had a few ideas, most of them very risky.

His attention was distracted as they were about to crash into a few small river craft, probably fishermen. However, right before impact, some of the mages onboard the Beherrscher stomped their feet, creating miniature geysers, launching the boats up, then gently lowering them back down once the tsunami had passed, leading to the boats not capsizing. They continued this, as they began encounter more and more boats the closer they go to the city.

The great pyramid of Ysoldeth loomed overhead, the imposing structure dwarfing the buildings below. Despite that, the normal architecture itself was magnificent. The buildings were exquisitely decorated and detailed. Statues and fountains could be seen easily, lining roofs, walls and town squares. The roads were laid with intricate patterns of cobble stones, delicately placed together easily thousands of years ago. There was nothing like this anywhere but in the Qhel.

However, the Beherrscher and the Dreizack were blocked entry to the city, not by walls or enemies, but by a large but squat stone bridge. Karschluß considered just going over it, but that would be bold. It would be difficult to get over it if under fire, so it might complicate escape. Besides, best to the Qhel think they were safe, so that if he did storm over it, their morale and belief in the safety of the city would be foundational shaken. With that he signaled for a full stop. The drum beats sped up, before doing a triple hit and abruptly shifting the pace to a quiet and slow beat. The boat lurched, as the mages pushed the waves until they towered over the bridge, before whipping them back into a large tower of water, with the ships sitting atop. Now following the drum beats the circulated the water in a regular pattern, which helped the tower maintain shape, and keep the ships in place. It was impossible to control water at a stand still, and this way the mages could use motion to produce stillness.
With the ships stopped Karschluß had the crew raised the Kilo flag, a half-yellow half-blue flag, split down the middle. This was a universal signal fora desire to communicate. He was reasonably sure that someone is Ysoldeth would understand, but if not, he braced himself to have to explain such basic concepts of naval parley by getting a small conical megaphone to shout through.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Great Clan Carniforex Shipyard, Nal-Suttonim
Nam-el-Yurim, Nar-ol-Orhim

The horse drawn carriage rattled down the paved road along the docks. The driver, livered in the white-and-black uniform of Sealord Ozenu, ushered passerbys out of the way with his driving staff. The carriage itself was on the smaller side, of a solid build with some adornments. It was obviously not the carriage of the Sealord himself but likely one of his retainers.

Such a sight was not uncommon in the Shipyard District of the city. All of the Great Shipwright Clans owed the Sealord fealty, as with everyone in the city. The Sealord’s officials regularly visited the shipyards, for inspections and to levy taxes. Likewise, the Sealord’s own ships came from these yards. A young Carniforex lass, robed in the cloth of a senior apprentice, ran forth with a stool to receive the official. Had the Carniforex known a member of the Sealord’s Family was present, which wasn’t impossible, they would have sent a Master Shipwright. For an official, as the carriage so obviously was carrying, an apprentice of the main house was more than sufficient.

From inside the carriage stepped a massive orhimmi, easily eight feet tall. An oddity for sure, among the Sea Orcs, who tended towards a smaller stature which made the cramped underdecks of the Homes more livable. Another oddity was that the official wore the traditional Izriti garb. The Izriti covered the official from head to toe in the dyed fur of a Northern Horned Seal. The face was covered with likewise, leaving only the area of the eyes and nose uncovered deep within the recess of the cowl. The style was frankly archaic but some of the oldest elders still wore them at times. The apprentice shrugged. If there was an old official paying a visit, it was nothing strange.

The Sealord’s official reached into his robes and withdrew a letter. The apprentice took the letter and nearly dropped it in shock when she saw the signet. The electrum was pressed with the Mark of the Overlord. She bowed deeply and handed the letter back to the official, before guiding him into the foyer.

Another Carniforex clansmen, this a Master Shipwright, had witnessed the exchange from above the central courtyard. He too spotted the electrum signet of the Overlord and immediately rushed towards the Clanheart.

Inside the Clanheart, he found the Clan Elders pouring over plans for a new type of Home. They looked at him askance as he burst into the Clanheart, something even a Master shouldn’t do. Before any of the Elders could chasten him, he bowed towards the eldest.

“Matriarch Iytninu, Clanlord Iyeron, my humblest apologies for intruding into the Clanheart like this but an official from the Sealord has arrived. He bears the electrum seal.”

The Elders looked at each other in confusion and shock. To receive a signed letter from the Overord, the letter undoubtedly being a command for the clan, was a sign of grave times ahead. The Overlord rarely interacted with an individual Great Clan directly. To bypass the Council of Clans and the Diet indicated that this was a highly dangerous and sensitive affair. The Clandlord stood, followed by the Matriarch and two more elders.

“Master Yiztu, the official is in the foyer I presume? Go to the kitchens, and let them know to prepare the finest tea if they haven’t already. Apprentice Zixi, come in!”

A young lad entered the Clanheart, robed as the secretary of the Clanlord.

“Zixi, summon the Patriarch as well. We must treat our guest now.”

The Carniforex clan had several meeting rooms about their shipyard. They were, after all, one of the largest Orhimmi shipbuilders. They had a meeting room for each occasion, from small, simple rooms for common orders to teak-panelled, gold inlaid rooms for government business. The official was in the nicest of these, enjoying a cup of Concertian Tea when the clan elders entered.

“Honored Offical, might we have your name?”

The Clanlord bowed as he made his inquiry. The official did not return the bow, but rather reached deep into his robe and again removed the sealed letter. With a flourish, he cracked the seal and the letter unfurled. The official held it up for the elders to inspect. It was seemingly blank.

“I am Lord Kzin, a Censor of the Overlord and of the Confederal Council. I do swear you to uphold the secrecy of the mission of the Confederal Council. The Nam-el-Yurim Council of Clans has likewise been sworn, there is no need to seek their approval.”

With a flick of his wrist, Lord Kzin nicked his fingers and sent blood dripping down the page. Instead of flowing in random order, the blood twisted and turned, glowing a faint ruby. It was apparent now that Lord Kzin was a so-called True Blood, able to control the very liquid of life itself.

The elders gathered close, with the clanlord reading the writ for those whose sight had long left them.

“To All Great Shipwright Clans of the Nam-el-Yurim,

The Confederal Council and the Overlord do hereby order that one Home-sized berth be turned over towards the construction needs of the Nar-ol-Orhim immediately. Within the week of receipt of this message, every Great Clan will be required to begin construction on what is now termed a War Home. Designs will be sent shortly. Supplies will be provided by the state.”

The elders were shocked. For all Great Shipwright Clans to allocate a Home berth to construction was no small deed. And War Home was not a term many were familiar with. Lord Kzin could sense their confusion.

“A War Home is a new creation, or rather a new take on an old idea. We’ve long built frigates, brigs, schooners, and even a few Great Ships. And we’ve long built our esteemed Homes. But now the Council wants a warship the size of a Home. It is your job to make it so.”

Teotihuapolti Market
Ysoldeth, Zulcanos Mar

The smells of the meat market were enough to drive any Orhimmi made with hunger. The scent of fresh spices and a hint of smokey meats permeated the entire riverside square. Large chunks of special Qheleki Dry-Aged Ham hung outside butcheries. The vast majority of the folks in the square were the bronze-skinned and gilled Ysoldethians. A single Orhimmi coaster, shallow hulled for travel up the river and unmasted to venture under the bridges, was tied up at the marketside pier. As far as Izmir could tell, his band of Orhimmi traders were the only foreigners in the city. There were probably Singers somewhere in the city, plying as they did most of the international trade of the Qhel. Yet it was said that the Singers were more interested in the gems and gold of the Qhel. For the Orhimmi, at least respectable Sea Orhimmi like Izmir, there was only one good that the Qhel had worth trading for. Their cured meats. Izmir was in the process of bargaining for several extra salamis, a generally futile effort with the pro forma Qhel, when one of his sailors ran up to him, interrupting the haggling.

“Captain, *wheeze* Captain Izmir. You need to come back to the ship. Something strange is afloat.”

“What do you mean strange? This better be good. You’ve for sure cost me several Qhel Salamis. You know this is our second to last sanctioned trade mission for the season.”

“Sir, the Riverbloods are saying that it feels as if a massive tidal bore is approaching the city. But to them it feels wrong. We already know there’s no tidal bores on the Ysoldeth, and they say it feels too ordered to be natural.”

The two Orhimmi arrived at the river pier just in time to see the Schuirmer ships appear on the river bend. They were sailing upriver at a rate far faster than their sails alone could give. That alone did not concern Izmir. After all, his own Riverbloods propelled their coaster up the river without a mast or paddle. That allowed them to pass under the bridge. However these ships were tall ships, and would surely smash themselves into the stone structure. Or not, it would seem, as the river rose up and carried the ships to tower over the bridge on an impressive font of water. Izmir, if he hadn’t known already, would have then realized these could only be Schuirmer ships. Their water magic was impressive.

“Order the lads to load what we have now at the pier. Now! We can return for the other goods later if we need to. The Qhel will charge us sure, but they’ll hold what we don’t take till we return and pay. Prepare to cast off as soon as we can. I don’t like this one bit. There’s no good reason to sail those ships so forcefully up the river. We will return to the Home with what we have and return if everythings safe.”

As his men made to cast off, Izmir watched from the deck as the approaching ships raised the flag of parley. At least they weren’t going to open with cannon or magic. That at least, was good news.