Scions [Fantasy|Reboot|IC]

[Liecthenbourg]

The Kingdom of Relya

The Quarters of Ghazaros Tovmasian, Monastery of the Sun and Moon.
The Kingdom of Relya, Nekhur

---

The Vanguard
Folven, Tervain, Nekhur.

Camp had been erected in the early hours of the morning; with the walls of the town clear and visible. Khosrov had pressed his men onwards at an early march than normal, so that so when those who resided in Folven would awake, they could see beginning to wrap around their settlement the expansive siege camp of a force 30,000 strong.

Despite his annoyance, his irritation, his temperament, Khosrov remained composed and orderly. The orders were swift, simple and decisive. To begin construction of a camp in shifts; rudimentary stakes and ditches and walls. To begin the preparation of setting up the necessary infrastructure of the camp: kitchens and armouries, tents, sleeping quarters and stables. The order for his forces to begin the assembly of deconstructed siege engines was also given: and the foundations for those engines had begun in earnest.

Yet the Elven Prince himself had delegated much of the oversight to his capable retinue of noblemen officers; Kisharites, Relyans and Tyrians. Khosrov himself had taken to tune a lute, a gift that Kourken had received for his 50th birthday, as he sat under his purple marquee. He had no idea how to play the instrument; he had never learnt, but Kourken had fancied himself something of a poet. And Khosrov had seen his younger brother tune it a thousand times to know a little bit about that.

He plucked at a few of the strings aimlessly, listening to the mismatching notes and tones as the catgut reverberated with each tug.

It was during one of these horrendous attempts to recreate music that a horseman approached the tent. His face was weathered and kissed by the sun, and his armour was an interesting mix of interlocking metallic discs. Khosrov looked up at the man, having set the lute down beside him, and recognised him as one of the Talassan horse.

"Yes?" He asked in Elven, almost reflexively, before he repeated the question in the tongue of his sovereign. The man's shoulders relaxed a bit and he pointed back towards where the stables were being constructed.

"Villagers," he said, "we've rounded them up. As you instructed."

"Good," Khosrov replied and returned to tuning the lute for the time being.

Hours had past before Khosrov had stirred again. Bythe time that the sun had reached its highest point, the progress was steady. It had only been a few hours, and by no means were they ready for a prolonged siege. Indeed, it had winded down into less activity. But it was, of course, a ruse. Khosrov's intentions and motivations were to storm the city. Not to put it to siege. To lull the defenders into a preparation for a new normality; that the Bull of Nekhur would await outside their walls, was his goal.

Khosrov was a brash man. A calculating man, but brash nonetheless. He wished for a swift end to this. And, the resting troops within their tents, would need all the rest they could get. For his assault would likely come far sooner than anyone would have reasonably anticipated. It had certainly taken his officers by surprise when his plan was adapted further: and the forces of Nekhur would aim to disorient and disturb their foes by way of a night assault on the city through escalades and ladders.

But as of this moment, with the day as clear as it would be, Khosrov had gathered some of the youngest of the villagers that the Talassan horse had been able to straggle and corral back to the Elven camp. And then he had summoned some of the mages that had found themselves attached to Nekhur's forces: nothing of notable prowess as the great magic users, but competent enough that they were an invaluable asset in battle because of their prowess. They would never be committed directly; and many of these had been requested for their more subtle usage in combat.

And two began to incant and project the image of their Elven leader towards the defenders. He appeared much larger, standing as tall as a house, closer to the walls. His form fluttered and shook with the pull and intricacy of magic; but it was recognisable enough. He said nothing. He did nothing. He was unsure if anyone on the walls would've even cared, but he was certainly noticeable.

And he loaded a crossbow.

A second figure was conjured by these robed conjurers of illusions, projecting a young, nameless-to-Nekhur, villager. Their clothes were ragged, their body was scuffed and bruised from the kerfuffle that was their capture, and they were scared. No more than a young boy.

Yet in Khosrov's perception, as was Kourken.

And the mages were sure to capture the scene at large; as these illusions as tall as houses told the tale of what was happening at the camp.

Khosrov raised his crossbow and barked at the teenage boy to run.

And then he fired. By way of magic, the loosing of the quarrel cracked the sky like thunder, and the falling of the body was carried by a thaumaturgy of wind. And then silence. The images and illusions faded into nothing, as if dissipated by the wind, and Khosrov returned to sit down until he elected to shoot someone else later.

And this would continue; a mere taste for the blood he intended to spill. The blood that was sure to flow in the early hours of the next morning.

[Of the Quendi]

The Kingdom of Valamir
Kastan's Red Fort, the former Kingdom of Alagos
Under the Suzerainty of Gwydry maeb Gwydyon

---

Sir Artwyrys maeb Uthyr

4 Mede 1436 Anno Convocandi

---

Although he thought Kastan a gloomy and dank place, as different from the splendor of the old elven cities of Gwentanceastra and Gwneta Heulo Artwyrys could not deny his cousin's mead-hall had a certain charm, one not dimmed by a weeks worth of hard riding, inspecting the troops. The hall, built in stone on a hill at the top of the Red Fort, had been erected by none other than Imrys maeb Gwyrthyrn when he was still Hrothbert son of Thankrad, to celebrate his appointment as king of Alagos under the Valamirya High King he would soon replace, and it was the largest and grandest Seapeople mead-hall of the era, a place to hold a great number of thegns for feasting or council. A great hearth and many smaller ones filled the hall with brightness, warmth and joy. Its walls were decorated with weapons and banners taken from many enemies of its lords; Imrys, Gwydyon and Gwydry, and great tapestries depicting the history and legends of the Seapeople. Artwyrys, who identified far more with his Valamirya ancestry than with his Seapeople one could not deny a feeling of pride at being a Son of Wôtanaz when he was in the mead-hall, and as he saw the golden roof of the hall whose light shone far over the land he felt his spirits lifted after a long, arduous and disappointing journey.

As his cousin's hirdmen opened the great gates of the mead-hall letting Artwyrys in the young man mood was briefly darkened by the thought of his journey but then he pushed those dark thoughts aside, they would keep till he had greeted his cousin. Entering the hall Artwyrys saw Lord Gwydry maeb Gwydyon, Warden of and Prince in Alagos seated at the head of the royal table closest to the great hearth and furthest from the entrance. Apart from the ruler and a few attendants the hall was mostly empty. Artwyrys walked towards his cousin's table. He saw his cousin absentminded pouring over some scroll or parchment, not a pastime for which Lord Gwydry was known. Sure enough when Artwyrys approached Gwydry led parchment be parchment and turned to his cousin. "Greetings Artwyrys maeb Uthyr, greetings and well meet at my hearth and in my hall." Gwydry greeted his cousin.

Artwyrys answered him with similar nicety and though they where kin and brothers in arms for a couple of moments they exchanged ritual greetings. Only when Artwyrys had taken some bread and salt of one of Gwydry' serving wenches and every ceremonious ritual of the law of hospitality, as practiced by the Seapeople and their cousins the Mountain Men, had been observed did the two men dispense with the formality. Gwydry beckoned for Artwyrys to take a seat beside him at the royal table. Artwyrys took the seat, which gave him an excellent view of the head of the great Red Orc and troll hybrid creature that hang above the great hearth. Lopped of, Gwydry said, by Imrys at the height of the battle of Kastan it had supposedly belonged to a king among the Red Orcs, now it took pride of place as part of the decor of the mead-hall glaring menacingly at anyone entering the hall.

Gwydry handed Artwyrys a huge drinking horn which Artwyrys thought was fashioned from an Ironmark aurochs horn but which Gwydry insisted was made from an Alagoan troll horn, filled to the brim with mead. Artwyrys resisted moaning. His cousin was a great man but his heavy mead drinking was not something Artwyrys could keep up with. He took a healthy gulp of the horn but then put it aside. Gwydry smirked. "So how fares our army?" The lord of Alagos bluntly asked.

Artwyrys stared at the orc head for a moment pondering the question. He liked his cousin very much. They where kin, they had fought and bled together for several years now in Tervain which forged a closer bond than even kinship. Artwyrys could honestly say he would risk his life for his cousin and he did not for a moment doubt the feeling was mutual. But ever since Medrawt's death Artwyrys was not sure he quite trusted his cousin. So when he replied Artwyrys was guarded with his words. "The king's army fares well enough cousin. Your own troops and mine are in as high spirits as can be expected from men who have been a little too accustomed to retreat for the past couple of years. They are idle, they are disappointed in the lack of loot and they are still smarting from their retreat from Faesun. But they are eager enough for taking to the field again and giving the Nekhurians a lesson." Artwyrys declared with a proud smile. His words were no mere boast, years of disappointment in the field had not sapped the morale of the original Alago-Valamirean army.

Gwydry smiled back at Artwyrys, barring his teeth in a warm wolfish grin. "Well said cousin." The grinning prince-warden said, having apparently failed to note the rebuke in Artwyrys' stressing that the army belonged to the king and not to the two cousins. "I would expect no less of your men or mine. The triumphs in my mother's country may have been few and far between but none can claim that the troops have fought anything but valiantly. Without them the first Siege of Varla could not have been lifted and had we marched to Imbar everything could have still been different. Aye, no man can claim our troops are not proper warriors." Gwydry boasted, raising his own great troll horn and draining an enormous amount of the sweat mead to which he was so partial, forcing his cousin to drink from his own horn.

Wiping the foam from his mouth the prince-warden burped. "But you neglect to mention the Etyfedd's men, cousin." Gwydry insisted with an inquisitive gesture. Artwyrys nodded slowly. The Etyfedd's men. That was the problem. This the largest component of the army, the one that had seen very little action beyond terrorizing Tervine peasantry and engaging in skirmishes before they had to retreat from Faesun was in bad shape. The death of their commander had shook their confidence, even if the retreat from Faesun had technically been a victory, albeit the sort that no one would ever write a song about. The Etyfedd's large contingent lacked the gritty discipline and determination of the other two contingents. The men were in a sullen mood, shirking their duties and spending too much time in their cups or at the gambling tables, too many fights broke out, too many of Gwydry's peasants were brutalized. Why did Artwyrys not wish to speak openly with his cousin of this problem, he wondered as he looked at his cousin's open and trustworthy face. Because the root of the problem with the Etyfedd's force was its lack of a clear commander, and the solution was to give them one. And Artwyrys did not want Gwydry to be that commander.

Four years ago when the Sons of Wôtanaz first threw their lot in with Tervain Artwyrys had no such qualms. He had readily enough placed his own army, a force so small it was barely worthy of that title, under the command of his cousin. And Gwydry had never given him reason to regret the decision. He had been a capable commander in every engagement he had fought in. Maybe if Gwydry had been at Imbar things would really have been different. But after the Etyfedd arrived and took supreme command Artwyrys had gotten out of the habit of thinking of his cousin as a superior officer and the prospect of transferring control of a large Valamirean army to the most powerful vassal of Valamir did not please Artwyrys the slightest, kinsman and brother-in-arms or not.

Artwyrys sighed. In moments like these he longed for the simple life on his estates outside Gwenta Heulo where he didn't feel the need to be distrustful of a dear friend and kinsman. But until the king made other arrangements Artwyrys was a senior officer in the Valamirean army and would have to act the part. "The Etyfedd's men are disheartened." He answered his cousin. "The death of their commander and their subsequent hasty and chaotic retreat from the enemy has shook their confidence." Artwyrys said.

Gwydry nodded ponderously. "And who can blame them. From their perspective the retreat from Faesun must have looked like an ignominious defeat and the death of the Etyfedd like a disastrous loose and a bad omen. Only we can know how Medrawt saved the army from ruin at Faesun. Fighting on allyless against Nekhur deep within Tervain would have been a disastrous mistake." Gwydry said. He raised his drinking horn, which a serving wench had helpfully filled for him. "To the Etyfedd." The prince-warden declared before damn near emptying his horn in a single endless gulp. Artwyrys could hardly refuse to toast his own brother and so he drank as much as he could manage from his own horn.

The cousin's briefly fell silent thereafter. Gwydry asked a bit about how Artwyrys had arranged the quartering of some twenty five thousand troops stationed north of Kastan in garrisons along the border with Tervain. Artwyrys could have expounded at length on this topic and his troubles providing for so large a force in a land so poor as Alagos but he kept his remarks on it brief. When the topic seemed exhausted he politely inquired if something had happened in his absence from Kastan.

Gwydry nodded grimly, his mood seemingly darkened by the innocent query. "Aye cousin, much has changed. My sister arrived a few hours ahead of you her young son in tow, weeping of being driven in exile from her late husband's lands by Nekhurian brutes, she is with her mother now trying to compose herself. Women, aye? More importantly though, a letter from the king arrived, and news from Ironmark as well." Gwydry said. He produced the parchment he had been fidgeting with when Artwyrys arrived and threw it across the table. "Thus the will of Uthyr maeb Imrys." Gwydry grumbled. Artwyrys took the parchment which bore the sun and dragon seal of the King Most High of All Valamir with a surprised look at his cousin, wondering why he did not simply read the letter. Then he remembered that Gwydry was not much of a reader, and he opened the letter to read it himself.

By the time Artwyrys had finished the letter the blood had drained from his face leaving him pale as a corpse. "Surya save us!" The royal bastard exclaimed shaking his head in horror. Disbandment of the armies, exile from Valamir. Artwyrys started at the king's letter as if it had been poisonous. Gwydry chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah we might need that now." He remarked.

Artwyrys quickly reread the letter, hoping against hope that he had misunderstood something, yet a second reading did not soften the spiteful words of the great king the slightest. Artwyrys was banished for life from Valamir for falling to prevent the death of his half-brother the etyfedd. He was never again to see his home. As the realization of his exile sank in Artwyrys felt the loss keenly. To distract himself from the feeling he turned his attention to the king's command that his army be disbanded instead. The royal bastard's brow furrowed. This was folly. The Nekhurians was closer to the border than ever before, to disband the troops now in the campaign season without some sort of understanding with Nekhur and Tervain was to ask for trouble. In his justifiable grief the king was clearly not acting with the wisdom and foresight that he ought.

As Artwyrys pondered the letter from the king Gwydry finished of another horn of mead staring at his cousin. "I don't think a second reading will improve your father's words." Gwydry remarked in a grim display of gallow's humor. Artwyrys put down the letter and looked up at his cousin. All of his concerns about his cousin now seemed tenfold amplified. Even the most loyal subject could not be expected to receive a letter like that with good humor. Artwyrys sensed the potential for a rift between Kastan and Gwentanceastra. "Grim words indeed." He remarked cautiously. "But orders are orders. When will you disband your troops." Artwyrys asked. Gwydry looked at him with a sly smile. "Here I thought you was a great reader cousin? You will need to give our royal liege's letter a third read, he said nothing about the disbandment of the army of Alagos." Gwydry insisted.

Artwyrys shook his head. "He implied it. Strongly." Artwyrys insisted. Gwydry shrugged. "The king is angry he has lost his son and heir, he wrote an angry letter. I am not saying his letter implies anything of the sort, but if it does I am sure the king will soon change his mind on that score. It would be a grave mistake for me to disband the army just now, so I won't do it." Gwydry declared. Adamantly. Artwyrys blushed angrily. "If you will not disband your army what will you do warden?" Artwyrys demanded. "Nothing that would contradict the king's orders cousin." Gwydry insisted. "For as long as the king does not want me to send troops to Tervain I shall not send any." He said. "I couldn't do much without Medrawt and your forces anyway."

Artwyrys glared at his cousin trying to divine if the other man was telling him the truth. Not for the first time the royal bastard wished he was anywhere else. Back home on his estates, far from war where he did not need to be suspicious of and second-guess his best friend. Home, like a bolt of lightening the pain of the exile struck Artwyrys. The rolling hills of the Tor, the golden fields and the fens, the quiet lazy Afon river running through prosperous Arferni villages and hamlets. Gone forever, he was never to see them anymore. Instead he would probably have to stay in Kastan for good to keep an eye on his cousin and drink inordinate amounts of mead under the tragic gaze of a decapitated orc-half troll hybrid. "You mentioned news from Ironmark, cousin?" Artwyrys said, changing the subject.

Gwydry perked up excitedly. "Aye I did. Two days ago I heard that the Warden of the Mark, I forget his name, raised the Black Banner to march to the aid of Tervain. And I hear mercenaries paid by Serebyan may march with them." Gwydry said. Those news made Artwyrys forget for a moment his sorrows about his exile. "The Black Banner?" Artwyrys asked. "The Markers only do that when they intend to ride in force." He said, pondering the implications. If the Mark was about the make a major commitment to Tervain that changed everything. And made the disbandment of the king's armies particularly poorly timed. Gwydry nodded enthusiastically and then, inevitably, raised his horn. "To the Mark!" He roared, but this time Artwyrys decided he didn't need to join the toast. He liked the Aðadain as much as any Valamirean could but he had had his share of mead.

After Gwydry had had his toast Artwyrys asked him; "Do you know anything more about Aedelfrid and the Witangemot's intentions. Are they planning to fight Nekhur alone or do they have allies in Tervain? And what kind of arrangement do they have with Serebyan and these mercenaries you speak of?" Gwydry shrugged. "I take it Aedelfried is the Warden, eh? Name does ring a bell now you mention it. Anyway I hear the Markers plan to link up with my cousin of all people. If Medrawt hadn't been roped into trying to aid her and her paltry uprising at Faseun he would still be alive and the southern third of Tervain would be in his hands. But I guess this Aedelfrid must learn the hard way not to bet on women who know not the sharp end of a sword from the hilt. As for the relationship between the Mark and the shifty merchant princes your guess is as good as mine." Said Gwydry.

Artwyrys nodded ponderously. Princess Isabella. Not exactly an awe-inspiring leader. Artwyrys had been certain that Faseun would be the end of her, yet somehow she had managed to remain an actor and had taken Monroyel and a sizable territory on the border with Ironmark. If nothing else the Princess seemed to possess a fair amount of staying power. No doubt her father-in-law's doing. Her former father-in-law Artwyrys reminded himself looking suspiciously at his cousin. His words about his cousin had been harsh, unnecessarily harsh. Suddenly Artwyrys remembered that Pressyne de Tervain had tried to arrange a marriage between her son and princess Isabella before the later had married a Tervine nobleman. The match had been prevented by the king's refusal to allow his most powerful vassal to marry the daughter of one of his most powerful neighbors. But now Princess Isabella was unwed once again, and at least in her own estimation the heir to the throne of Tervain. That didn't exactly make her less desirable.

But, Artwyrys thought, if the Host of the Eórodain was riding to the aid of the princess she would surely become so dependent on the Mark that Gwydry would once again miss out on her hand and possibly a chance at the Tervine throne. Unless he himself sent aid to the princess. But the king had forbidden it. So if Gwydry wanted Isabella he would need to find a way to restart the war, with or without permission from Gwentanceastra; and since the armies of Valamir was to be recalled and Gwydry clearly would not disband his he would be well placed to stir up trouble on the border. "Well cousin." Artwyrys said calmly. "Seeing as I am banished from Valamir, I hope you would not object to me staying a while here at Kastan?" He asked. Gwydry smiled. "Not in the least dear cousin, I was just about to suggest it myself. With you here I am sure the stale provincial life of Kastan is soon going to get a lot more interesting." The Prince-Warden declared. Artwyrys smiled back. "I expect things will be very interesting indeed." He replied.

[Lunas Legion]

Herman de Durheyn, Duke of Durheyn
Folven, Tervain

An army was never a subtle thing. They were massive groups, slow and lumbering and possessed of a momentum of their own in some ways. Sentries on the walls had spotted the army on approach, a stream of torches stretching off into darkness as the army had approached during the night.

Herman de Durheyn was no idiot, no green commander to be spooked by an army arriving ahead of when he had expected it to do so, and so it was with a look of derision that he looked out of the Tower of Folven, a squat stone keep atop a raised mound in the center of the town's walls, at the assembly of the camp around the walls of Folven. He had not bothered to don his armour, instead keeping to a simple red tunic, while the smaller, pensive-looking figure of the Baron of Folven standing beside him, looking out from the walls, watching the Nekhurians as they went about assembling their siege lines.

"They will not attack today." Herman said, staring out from the walls. Partially to himself, partially to reassure his compatriot.

"And you are so confident because?" The Baron of Folven said, gesturing to the army outside his walls. "There are thirty thousand Nekhurians out there."

"Thirty thousand Nekhurians tired after a night march, tired after setting up camp, tired after drawing up siege lines." Herman replied, shaking his head. "No, they will not attack today. Tired men do not fight well in the open field, let alone attacking a fortified town."

"But-" The Baron of Folven fell silent as the ground lit up with magic. Even from here, they could see the large, magically flickering projection as it appeared. Herman squinted; it was quite a distance, even with the size of the projection, but the act of loading a crossbow was quite a distinct one.

"What are you up to, elf..." Herman said, tapping his fingered on the crenulation of the wall as a second image, that of a young boy. Herman couldn't tell how old he was. The taller figure's mouth moved, and the smaller started to run, scrambling to his feet-

The sky whip-cracked like thunder, the boy fell, wind whistling past his ears, and then the phantoms were gone.

"What was that?" The Baron asked, turning to Herman.

"A message." Herman said grimly. "There will be no quarter for us. To surrender is to die."

The Baron paled, but Herman de Durheyn just grinned. He had not taken up the banner of rebellion expecting his survival.

"Do not worry yourself, Baron." Herman chuckled. "Six thousand can hold back thirty from good walls. Nekhur will bleed itself upon us, and they will not find us wanting. If you excuse me, I must see to the men. Nerves must be resettled, after all." He turned away from the Baron, leaving him alone atop the walls to stare out at the encircling army.

[Krugmar]

Nekhur

Ruins of the River Palace, Varla
Tervain, Nekhur
10 Mede, 1436

The River Palace was a shell of its former self, utterly pillaged and looted during the single day Mnesus had granted his troops to run rampant in Varla. Only the Old Palace, and a few areas of importance, had been spared by his will. Most of the palace was intact structurally, though a few fires by drunken soldiers had destroyed some areas beyond simple repair.

It was here Mnesus had established his laboratory, though he used its sizeable area not to house legions of assistants and pupils, as many other master mages would, but to store his artifacts and experiments. It would serve in this function until order in Monroyel was restored, and he could move his work there. After that a decision had to be made, to restore the palace for his family, or raze it permanently and establish a fortress, to remind Tervain of its new permanent subjugation.

Around him stood twenty golems, twice the size of a Nekhurian, and currently lifeless and listless. They had been crafted over many decades, boasting frames made of the near-strongest steel. He had attempted to attain Colborn Steel, but only acquired enough for their weaponry. The Dwarves of the Ironmark were a stubborn bunch, and it had taken a decade of numerous attempts to sneak even a relatively small amount out. They were outfitted with other weaponry, made of Orichalcum, silver, obsidian, and other rare materials, to be ready for any occasion. Each had cost a small kingdom, but each had taught him a valuable lesson.

Their chests were open, revealing intricate mechanical insides, and a slot for a Mewe Crystal. Such a crystal could hold one or several echoes, which would be used to power the golems almost indefinitely. They were ruinously expensive, found only in good number in Agarath, hardly the most hospitable of places. His future army would require a more unique approach to power.

In front of him were twenty-one Mewe Crystals. Twenty clear-white, filled with ten echoes each. A thin string of energy connected them together, and to a tiny crystal, one one-hundredth their size.

He looked to the mirror to his left, and reached out his left hand. He chanted the words drilled into him over months and closed his eyes as a brilliant purple flash opened a small opening. He heard something lumber through, before it screeched as he pulled his hand inwards, crunching it into a fist. He felt power course through his veins, a voice cackling, and a hammer attempting to breach his mind's fortress. With a great cry he pushed his right hand out towards the crystal, and poured in this new power, and with it the intruder and its voice.

Taking a moment of respite, he opened his eyes and was satisfied to see the minute crystal before him glowing a faint pink, as was the faint energy string binding all the crystals.

He affixed the small crystal to a ring, and set it upon his finger.

"I am pleased to serve, my Lord." Said a voice in his head. It was slightly feminine, though its accent was strange, the words as alien to it, as it was alien to this world.

He smiled. Phase one was complete.

Ishkhanate

Forbidden Quarter, Gorodar
Hanva, Ishkhanate
18 Lothron, 1436

They were now deep within the mountains. They had passed through an elven entrance, into what had once been a grand underground city in the making. Firumbar's ambitions had burned bright but had been extinguished immediately upon his death. Mixed among the unmistakably elven architecture had been new dwarven quarters and restorations. Yet some centuries ago it had been quickly undone, most of the colony vanishing, the rest returning to an empty hold which they promptly abandoned.

Great roads into the deep had been carved by the dwarves with meticulous care, though after several miles they had stopped. There was no blockage, or signs of trauma. Instead they had seemingly merged into a far older system. It was no less sophisticated in design, and much care had been put into it, though it had not been designed for life above. No light from Brandystone shone through the deeps, no careful cultivation of edible Allowine or Eppernikle for hungry travellers. It would have been pitch black, were it not for an army of torches and mage-lights.

This was the labyrinth Imros had led them into, and it was one he was very familiar with. She was loathe to speak with the creature, but she had found herself walking beside it, and curiosity gained the better of her.

"These passages, they were crafted by your kind?" She asked.

Imros nodded, "A home in the deeps, where our enemy could not get to us. Though they were built long before my time."

"Are any of your kind left, from those days?"

The creature hesitated before responding, "Only one that I know of, the father of us all. We do not speak his name."

She knew all too well the taboo, that they believed even muttering his name was enough to summon him. They had a strange relationship with their progenitor. They loved him, hated him, worshipped him, feared him, all at once. Perhaps it was the same for themselves.

"How long until we reach the surface?" She asked, eager to escape this place. Though immensely curious and hungry for knowledge, she detested the feeling of being trapped. This was Imros' domain, and she hated it.

"Two days, three perhaps if we are delayed by any interlopers." It spoke.

She did not probe it further. She instead directed her attention to the many murals on the wall. They did not all present a war known only to a few scions of dead and dying races. They showed events of all kinds, some that she knew, some that she did not. Was it possible some of these were not records of the past, but instead prophecies of the future? Had she time, she would have taken notes and drawings of as many as possible, even if it meant lingering here.

And then she saw one which chilled her down to the bone. A figure that was unmistakably her father, reaching out to a white tower. The following murals were badly damaged, and she could not make out what they depicted. By the time they resumed, they were of figures and things she did not recognise.

She turned to ask Imros a question, but found that her companion had moved on ahead. She could see two diverging roads ahead. One would lead to Mestan and another victory for the Ishkhan. The other, she presumed, would lead to the dark depths of the world and a dark end for them all.

[Rodez]

Venant, Tervain
10 Mede, 1436


Gregor listened to Sicart Corriveau as the town's lieutenant made his retort. "What hope is there in forsaking our king for Isabella? You should know better than anyone the strength of an oath, Sir, why should we break ours?"

The grey-haired Inveigler, attired - at least to the town's defenders - in a false, sparkling suit of plated steel, thought for a tense moment. Then he cocked his head back up towards the wall. "Why should you men break your oaths? Aye, that is is the heart of the matter. But I should rather ask; why should you keep them? Your allegiance was commanded at the point of a blade! Nor was it your king that held the sword, but Nekhur, a foreign conqueror. Are you really so shameless as to let the Ati - and Sadyhattes, whom Mnesus has also made his puppet - dictate to the men of the kingdom that so recently was one of the shields of the southern realms? I can hardly believe my ears."

"You forget too, that the eorodain have never been defeated in open battle," bellowed Adalard Chaillou, one of the other Tervine Silver Cloaks. "You take their intervention lightly, I must say."

Gregor nodded. "We are fighting for our motherland, Sicart. Nekhur has the realm by nothing except its strength of arms, and we aim to reverse that. If none of you can take a chance for your country, perhaps we are speaking to the wrong men. Either way, I'll bandy words no longer. Let's have an answer, or Venant must fall by the blade."