Satori [ Open | Attn: Gholgoth ]

[Anagonia]

CSS Jupiter
Lexington-class Anagonian Battlecarrier
Anagonia Ocean; 120 Nautical Miles West of the Anagonian Mainland

In the years since the fall of the United Republic at the hands of Gothic forces, Anagonia had recovered well. A new government, with new leaders and new ideals had been established, forming a Confederacy of States disinterested in the conquest of foreign territories. The entirety of the military industrial complex had permanently shifted focus from moving fleets and forces abroad like a game of chess, as the Republic had once done; gaining treaties for the sole purpose of establishing foreign military bases from which to safely launch future invasions. It had been, if ever there was any nation to liken it to, similar to the imperialist ambitions of an overzealous United States of America - unsustainable on any level of economic prosperity, which in the end doomed the United Republic as its ego swelled and collapsed on itself. In these recent decades, however, forgotten and cast adrift from the Lords themselves, staved off from the fruits of victory and war - the Confederate States of Anagonia had prospered. They were now concentrated on something else, something peaceful and more far reaching. That of protecting regional trade.

The Confederacy was not without its swords. The CSS Jupiter was one of two newly constructed Battlecarriers in recent history, designed for the sole purpose of accompanying trading fleets from interregional powers and escorting them safely through Confederate territorial waters. The pride of Anagonia was that if there ever was a safe place in Gholgoth, in all of Gholgoth, it was the Confederacy - this in due part because of the high income from not only trade, but tourism from abroad. So it was with proper justification that further millions had been allocated to the Jupiter and her sister ship, the Neptune, and forcing the necessary fleets required to enforce peace through Confederate claims and, by extension, the international waters surrounding them. They were careful, of course, to avoid entering the waters of the Scandivans, for fear to upset a lucrative trading partner and ally. The farthest extent their forces would dare venture was traditionally just past Yallak on the southwestern end and just past the Draconian Imperium on the farthest northeastern end. In between these two mighty, strong powers would sail the Confederate fleets, in peace, protecting trade.

Today, however, was a special occasion.

In recent months, cruise ships from various ports around Gholgoth had been entering and passing through the Anagonia Ocean. The first time it happened, the ships gained the required naval escort, but due to issues abroad with their tourist companies they decided against future incursions as it had been interpreted as a thread to be escorted. Not wanting to discourage potential trade income, a representative from the Department of the Confederate Navy had been sent to clarify the situation; Confederate Naval forces were required by policy to escort all foreign and domestic trade through territorial waters, this also including cruise liners due to the necessity of civilian safekeeping. There was no cost to the foreign agencies, simply a free escort with potential for wonderful camera opportunities. A month later, the cruise liners resumed their path, and it was turning out to be a profitable run for them.

This was not what made this day special. Certainly the children on the edges of the deck on the cruise liner, waving at the men and women on the strange looking battleship/carrier hybrid made the sailors days - it always did seeing families taking interest and appreciation. Today, the Confederate President was residing on the Jupiter, undertaking a traditional inspection tour as was his privilege as Commander in Chief. The current cruise liner, a large one by the looks of it, was just a plus. The fleet comprising the Jupiter and her escorts, two TICONDEROGA-class Cruisers and a three Nightveil Class Guided Missile Frigates, was expected to stay with the cruise liner as it traversed the longest stretch of the Anagonia Ocean for another two days. Unless there was a national emergency or situation that warranted the attention of this Confederate naval fleet, they would remain on watch and station, protecting trade.

In all this, President Franklin Johnson was very pleased.

He had originally taken a ride aboard one of the attached Nightveil-class Frigates, the CSS Powder J. Springwell which had been accompanied by the similar class Stonewall Jefferson and Sam G. Harrington now attached to the fleet. They had proceeded westward from Port Anagonia, in the State of Saratoga, to meet up with the Jupiter and her two attached cruisers - Franklin had been briefed that a Voleur-class nuclear sub, the CSS Thunderstorm, had been attached as well but as per Silent Service protocol they remained dark. Regardless of the composition, the real treat of meeting the fine men and women of the Jupiter, as well as onboard the Powder J. Springwell, had been amplified by his present distraction of the cruiser liner Timpathia just off the Jupiters portside and a respectful distance away.

The Timpathia was a huge ship, larger than the Jupiter if that could be possible. Her construction looked traditional for most modern cruise liners, but the people on board placed the icing on the cake for their interactions and displays of attention. There was always, of course, bad apples in every encounter as Captain Alexander Juth had explained when he first met him aboard the Jupiter. Those over on the Timpathia, however, seemed rather pleasant and respectful. As the Captain and President stood on the bridge balcony, they and a few sailors below returned a rather driven greeting from the crowd on the cruise liner; evening festivities clearly beginning despite the sun still being present above. The President gave a smile to the Captain, the two retiring back into the bridge and entering the rear to the Stateroom Cabin for visiting VIP's, namely the Commander in Chief himself. Giving a thanks for opening the door to Captain Juth, Franklin entered, settling himself on one of the fine couches available. The Alexander sat opposite, both exhaling in a somewhat exhausted manner as they settled in.

"Seems like our money is mainly going to showboat for citizens abroad," Franklin joked as he chuckled, looking at Alexander. "I'd imagine this duty is a morale boost for the crew?"

Alexander had joined in the chuckle, nodding in affirmation to the Presidents question. "Yes sir, it really is. Usually we're at sea for months at a time. We'll make the traditional port of calls, but nothing beats the opportunity for the crew and airmen to - as you say - showboat."

"Yeah, well, the numbers don't lie. Trade is up, so is tourism, I think what we're doing is working," the President said, smiling.

"I couldn't agree more," the Captain replied, not really understanding the data being briefly referenced but nonetheless respectfully agreeing with his Commander in Chief. The aging Captain of 58 years grunted as he adjusted himself on the rather comfortable couch, one not present anywhere else but here on this ship. It was rare to enjoy it, and Alexander was making the most of these days with the President here. "Speaking of Trade, sir, did my Yeoman get with you concerning the recent communique from home?"

Franklin had to think for a moment, then nodded with an "ah!" as he recalled the specific event. "I did! A bit of fascinating news, I think. Government wide, wasn't it? I don't recall the specifics of Anagonians involvement with the Freekians, other than a Non-Aggression Pact during the era of the United Republic. As far as I'm aware I'll be getting a debrief tomorrow on the subject."

The Captain nodded, looking down at a folder on the wooden table separating the two. It had the logo of the Presidency on it, Alexander gesturing to it. "This came in not too long ago, sir. I suggest you read up on it, it should be brief. I'll go grab us some coffee. If I may be excused?"

"Of course," Franklin said, nodding. Why hadn't he noticed that before? Watching the Captain depart, he opened the folder, taking his time to go over the information.

---

Some time later, Captain Alexander Juth returned with two cups of coffee. After a courtesy knock on the bulkhead that proceeded with him entering per the President's invitation, he set a mug down nearest to his Commander in Chief, keeping his as he settled in the same spot as before. He observed the President was still reading over the information, no doubt a second time considering it had taken Alexander around twenty minutes to get to the galley and back - mostly due to stops to catch crew who were too distracted by the cruise liner and once to reprimand an airman who had been brought to him because he had "done stunts near the cruise ship", as his XO had stated. It was a brief conversation, considering the airmen had been a father to one of the children aboard. After a request to not do it again, considering the circumstances, the event was forgotten as the Captain had resumed his trek back to the VIP Stateroom.

After a polite sip of his coffee, Alexander spoke. "Anything relevant to us, sir?"

Franklin looked up, appraising the Captain briefly before setting the folder down. A moments pause as he, too, sipped the coffee. A word of thanks to the Captain. Some more silence as he President drifted into thought. Then, he said, "I'm not sure."

"Sir?"

The President turned his head to look at a nearby plant in the corner. It was real, live, just like the similar other two; a faux fiddle leaf tree, pruned recently and kept in greatest care by appearances. His eyes turned to the far wall nearest to the fiddle leaf tree he had looked at before, a rectangular portrait of a battle scene that, oddly enough, fit this specific circumstance. The CSS Jupiter and her sister-battlecarriers were replacements for the aging Anagonia-class Strike Carriers that had once been the tip of the sword of the Republics imperialist ambitions. The scene portrayed was that of the well-acclaimed USS Independence, nearly catastrophically damaged during a battle in the Greatest World War - the war that ended the United Republic following a Gothic Invasion. Unlike most victims of such an invasion, Anagonia had gotten off light; a civil war, collapse of government and society, almost total ruin - but no destruction from foreign powers.

"She's a museum ship now, isn't she?" Franklin asked, out of the blue.

"Sir?" the Captain repeated, perplexed until he gazed at the portrait Franklin was looking at. The Independence was painted there, on a stormy sea with a massive rupture in her forward hull, yet still floating. Two tugs beside her pulling her in to the distant dock, safe and home. Alexander had chosen that image because of the hope it brought, he had never thought of any further implication.

"Yes sir," he confirmed, quickly. "The Independence is permanently berthed in the Port of Liberty, sir. I took my kids there not too long ago. She's aged pretty well and the volunteer crew is doing a fantastic job, I think."

"Yeah," Franklin said, eyes focused but mind distant. "Much like us, like Anagonia, right?"

Taken aback by the statement, the Captain carefully turned his attention to his Commander in Chief. His voice lowered, considerate, attentive. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, we as a country were like the Independence," the President clarified. He looked at his Captain, eyes somewhat distant but now attentive. He quickly took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "Like her, we got one hell of a bloody nose, but we stayed afloat. We survived, thanks to Tiberius and the rest of them. We rebuilt, returned ourselves to our roots, prospered, lived on. What I'm reading here, in this folder-" he briefly flicked a finger against the edge of the folder on the table "-tells me, warns me that this can happen again. The next time it does, we won't be so lucky. From the files recovered, from all that information in there, whoever raised that flag and brought the attention of this region there isn't going to be Lord Dreadfire."

A silence, then, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Franklin nodded, gesturing in openness to the Captain. "Always!"

The Captain gave a nod and smile in appreciation, then returned to his attentive state and expression. "Why is this troubling you? From my history classes at the Academy, the nation of Automagfreek turned out to be an ally of ours. From what I understand, Anagonians before the war and even after revered the man and his country. Why would a flag raising change anything?"

"Because whoever raised that flag isn't the man our people celebrated," Franklin said, sighing as he sat back and looked back at the plant. "The briefing in that folder covered the basics; pillaging, wars, reckless wars. Destruction, death, untold millions dying, on a scale even the Kraven conflicts couldn't compare, if I get my history correct - which I'm probably not. The point stands, the Freekians are a thing to be feared, a threat to trade, commerce, and regional peace. My predecessors may have very well taken up this....this call to arms, to meet there, but I won't. I won't play part to this game, if that is what this is. I won't drag my country into another pointless war, I refuse to watch what we've build die because of blind servitude or ancient traditions. I can't."

A silence lingered as the two sat, drinking their coffee as minds either raced or considered their next words. A soft quite permeated then, only interrupted by the soft pops of fireworks from the cruise liner. They would have told beforehand their plans, and the Confederate ships would have known of the festivities. Then the President stood. It was still somewhat of a twilight sky when Franklin made his way out of the Stateroom and onto the balcony, coffee mug in hand. The Captain followed behind, his own mug in hand, turning his attention to Franklin who appeared to have a smile on his expression, then at the Timpathia.

"That is what we have built," Franklin began after a time. "There, all there, those civilians feeling safe. Those people, some Confederate citizens, happy and content and safe by our fleet right here. Our own people at home, happy and content. All of this, we've built together."

Alexander was silent, allowing his President to elaborate. Instead, he watched, observing, listening. Franklin continued.

"I'm going to stay on on the Jupiter until her course nears the edge of our waters near the Imperium, I'm going to enjoy these sights. The Vice President will be told tomorrow that the Confederacy shall play no part in these new games, and do you know why?"

Turning his attention fully to the President, he saw Franklin looking at him expectantly. He decided a response was appropriate. "No, sir, why?"

"Because if we do," Franklin continued, "we will lose this. This trust and faith of a good military power. Everything we've built and shed blood for. Every effort to unify a broken continent and people. Everything will die if we once again visit those Gothic halls. And I'll be damned if I'm the first Confederate President to repeat the mistakes of our forefathers and bring ruin to our prosperous country, to have Freekian boots here unannounced and uninvited. I'll be damned if I drag us into another war where more of our civilians die, where more of our future is dead. I'll be damned if I cause the pointless deaths of the men and women under my authority."

The last part, Alexander knew, was directed at him and the rest of those presently in service. On one hand, it could have easily have been taken as a show from a politician, air up the rectum type of deal. On the other, and as a consideration for the way politics worked in Anagonia, Alexander knew this feeling was genuine. There was no one to impress here, no one to prove anything to. These convictions were true to Franklin and his Presidency and why he had been elected. He was simply following his path, staying true, and in that regard Alexander respected him. In some minor, hidden way, the Captain also knew that the exposition of these words was more than a clarification of intent, it was an attempt at seeking council, from someone he perceived as worthy of it. In that regard, and in the regard of the respect he held, Alexander allowed his next words to carry the weight and justification that Franklin yearned for. It could have been anyone else, but it was him in this moment, and he'd be damned to let his President down.

"Very good sir," Alexander responded, conviction for his response apparent.

The two shared a look, a nod to each other, then finished their coffees as they observed the entertainment of others just thousands of feet away.

---

The Next Day

The news outlets reported the international event of the raising of the Freekian flag, but nothing further. No government response had been given by the Confederacy to the Gothic Pact, nor to the government of Automagfreek. The citizens of the country continued their progress as they existed as they did everyday, in a free and lively society provided to them by the sacrifices of their forefathers; lessons hard learned and never forgotten, even this far on. While the country prided itself as being one with Gholgoth, it also prided itself as being apart from it. The Confederate States of Anagonia would not respond to the call nor give any inclination of ever receiving it. The Confederacy would maintain its isolationist policies, outwardly appearing policies. The silence would be answers enough, hopefully behind that silence a history with justification for it, to never again repeat nor endure the mistakes birthing and deciding it.

Somewhere, in the Anagonia Ocean, the man behind the decision watched the fruits of his labor in governance. People were protected, citizens from within the region and without kept safe, trade ensured, tourism encouraged, economies secured. These were the policies of the Confederacy now, apparent by the many fleets of war now sailing for peace, detaining or destroying pirates and putting on a show for cruise liners. To some, it would appear worthless and without merit. To an Anagonian, freedom from tyranny was everything.

President Franklin Johnson continued his tour, unabashed by the concerns of Gholgoth as a whole, determined not to have his country dragged into ruin anymore.

[Kylarnatia]

The Gothic Chambers, ULE City
The Gothic Empire of Automagfreek, Gholgoth

“No.”

The word rang out across the chamber with authority and unwavering purpose. At the other end of the large ancient table that seated the Gothic Lords, stood the Caesar. She had stood there while the Lords of the Freekish Isles and Pantera had spoken their piece, her eyes unwavering and expression betraying nothing, steely-eyed and with the spark of a fire ever raging deep inside her. The gold of her resplendent, angelic-styled armour shone brightly in the bitter dimness of the cold and dusty Gothic Chamber, throwing back any shroud of darkness that attempted to embrace her. Instead they seemed to gravitate towards the hulking form of Lord Hyperion, who stood close behind her, creating a stark contrast between light and dark. Even those less spiritually-sensitive than some others in the room would feel a sense of otherworldliness emanating from the two of them, Caesar’s burning radiance drawing attention and awe while Hyperion’s enveloping shadow seemed to hang over the entire room with a sense of deadly foreboding to anyone who spoke or acted out of turn.

“I did not come here to play games, sons of House Dreadfire and House Vayn. I - Caesar Silvier Catherina Silvanus, fourth of her name, Lord of Gholgoth and Warden of the North - am here today to establish the truth. Unless your ears prove to be soft, I beckon you to listen and listen closely.”

There was but a moment’s pause to allow the spark in her words to strike, before she continued. At no point did she have to stress her voice beyond projecting it across the room or present a tone of anger, her sternness and swift inclinations in the expression of her words speaking with full and defiant authority, respectful to the point where it was earned but scolding and unflinching when it came to stating what she saw as the truth.

“You accuse us of having not been there for you in your time of most need. You accuse us of having ‘lost our way’. You believe that we abandoned your grandfather and his cause - this grand and ancient brotherhood of Gholgoth - when he breathed his last. The truth is, son of Dreadfire, your grandfather’s cause was once built upon the pillar of sand that was his life. The heart of this Alliance used to beat to his in unison, and it was his will - and his alone - that decided it’s fate. So long as he lived, the Alliance would stand immortal, and vice-versa. Yet, it was his decision to charge onto the beaches of Norska that day. It was his own failing that caused him to die, and when his mortality was realised, so was that of the Alliance of his day.”

Another brief moment’s pause, bystanders hidden in the shadows speaking in hushed and frightened voices, immediately drawn to silence again as Caesar spoke more, her words continually defiant and raging with a fire that was inextinguishable.

“Look around you,” She gestured with one long sweep of her arm, though her gazed remained fixed on him. “Where stand the thirteen Lords who founded this Alliance with your grandfather? Crimmond, or Sambizie? Artitsa, or Illior? They have become spectres, mere echoes whose time has long since ended. As dead as your grandfather. As soon as he drew his last, the promises once made meant little and no longer provided warmth or light even to those who once stood here. Despite all his indomitable strength and ability to provide, despite all his achievements and exploits, he was just that: a man. It was at that moment when he died that those of us who witnessed it realised - myself among them - that it was not sheer force alone that ensured ones safety, but the ability to grow and adapt. Those thirteen original Lords who you so fondly call to return did not realise this, and now they have faded to nought but ash and dust, unable to answer. Those of us who answer you now - who even deem you worthy of a response - come before you as the Alliance renewed, done away with the inherent weakness that was the reliance on your grandfather’s vaunted legacy to somehow save us. This is a weakness I sense in you, even now, son of Dreadfire.”

She now gestured towards him directly, her voice - while still maintaining measured poise - became sharper and struck out. “You think that your name alone is what earns you respect? You believe we owe you something, just because you carry his name? If you were truly him, you would have been able to act when the Reich put forth it’s tendrils and began to sow destruction and discord across the region, when we called for you and you did not answer. You would have acted decisively to end the unprovoked attacks of the Scandinvans against the Skyans - this violence of brother against brother, which you so decry - and when you were invited then, you did not answer. The same can be said of Pantera for all these many years. Yet you have the gall to accuse us of being the betrayers, the cowards. The Dreadfire of Old would not have stood for such baseless talk: he would act, break bread with his fellow brothers, and punish swiftly those who truly undermined his efforts. Yet here you sit in his place, spitting weak venom while playing fantasy and being comfortable within these aged and decaying halls, while the Lord Reaver dances mad around you for your bemusement.”

Gesturing around herself once more, now with both arms, her voice reaching a crescendo as her point drove itself home like a sword into the heart of an unruly beast, “So this is what has become of the vaunted House of Dreadfire! Driven to delusion and a near state of mourning - clamouring for a bygone age - while the once proud and stalwart people of the Freekish Isles dance drunkenly and with stunted minds in the streets that once hosted grand parades of the fiercest armies that this earth has ever witnessed! I came here expecting that same grandeur and sense of purpose; now all I find is nought but a poor man’s imitation. You may bear his name, but you are not him. You will never be him. It’s that foolish desire which has brought you and your people so low, that pursuit of a soul which no longer inhabits this mortal coil which has led you all to becoming more than an empty shell. Let it be said hereafter that the Reich’s greatest achievement was the crushing of the Freekish body and mind.”

Another pause, her head held high, radiance at its greatest intensity as she addressed both Damien and Valerin now. “You are correct in one respect, sons of Dreadfire and Vayn; that the status quo cannot continue. That, however, is your status quo. Senseless blood and violence will only doom you and your people to the same grave as your grandfathers and mine. Your demands for blood and fire will be realised, but save it for those who have truly wronged you - wronged us - and let yourself be tempered in them. We stand here now with the opportunity to heal old wounds and let the dead lie to rest; you possess the opportunity to become something new, to give your people a renewed purpose and a chance to live outside of your grandfather’s shadow. The Old Ways are no more; not forgotten, but reborn and stronger than before, bound not to the will of One but to the will of Many. The Alliance has endured; it is you who fell into chaos and disorder. If it were up to me you would join us as equals, but alas it is not mine to make. Act as you wish, but the more time spent trying to relive the days gone by only ensures that our children’s future and theirs is spent in the clasp of Slavers and the Reich. You can pursue that if you wish, but I will not.”

Looking confidently around the room into the faces of all the Lord’s who had deemed it worthy to present themselves here, she concluded as she looked back at their Freekish and Panteran hosts. “We have already made our choice. The choice is yours; stand with us and the Alliance - hear us as your brothers, and speak wisely - or chase this child’s dream and resign yourselves to the past forevermore, and stop wasting our time.”

Now finished, her stare remained fixed on both Damien and Valerin. In that moment the two might realise, if it had not already become apparent, that the Lords who had come before them had not come here in the same way as Lord’s past had done. The Caesar had meant every word - her eyes full and deep with purpose and unwavering loyalty to her convictions - and no threat of violence or act of same would change that. She had drawn back the curtain and pierced the veil, and her radiance shone so bright that not even God’s could smite her. Here now, they were faced with someone who had been forged in blood and fire, who embodied a spirit just as powerful as the late Dreadfire, and she was perhaps only one amongst them who possessed the same.

Things had truly changed, and no matter how much anyone wished it to be so, there was no going back.

[Automagfreek]

Vaerlin Vayne's laugh boomed throughout the Council Chambers. The raucous guffawing even brought a smirk to Damien's face as he glared at Catherina Silvanus coldly.

"I would choose your words more carefully next time, girl. You sit in the presence of killers." The Lord Reaver said after his laughter had subsided.

The Rigante stood as motionless as statues, yet their eyes were firmly fixated towards the table. Though the Crone had disappeared into the musty shadows, her heavy and raspy breathing served as a reminder of her presence. Damien Dreadfire had endured the monologue with amusement. Valerin Vayne glanced towards him to see if he wished to speak, and Damien gave a slight nod in reply.

"Such fine and pretty words, Silvier. You're fortunate to be speaking to me and not my grandfather, because he would have been much less forgiving of your insults. It's quite telling to me that throughout your doubtlessly well-rehearsed speech, you failed to even address a single point that I have raised. You speak of how Gholgoth is an Alliance reborn, and that the Old Ways are mere relics of the past. Yet in all of my readings of the histories, I cannot recall a time when Gholgoth was ever in the state of turmoil that it is in now. It was only when the Old Ways were forgotten that the Alliance began to rot from the inside."

The Lord Reaver echoed his sentiments, his indigo eyes wide and intense.

"Aye. Your people have not known the same suffering as Panterans have. For generations, you enjoyed the vigilant protection of House Vayne and House Dreadfire. But when tragedy and turmoil came to our shores and our houses needed to be put back into order, you cretins didn't know what to do with yourselves. How easy it is for you to spit on the legacy of millions of dead Reavers and Sentinels who built this thing, this Alliance that you have let fall into dismay. No, the only way Gholgoth lives on is by returning to what made it unstoppable in the first place."

Dreadfire rose from his seat and looked around the table with disdain. From the dark corner, the Crone clicked her nails and hawked her throat.

"The old Gholgoth would never have allowed brother to wage war against brother. The old Gholgoth would never have allowed colonization within the region, lest greed and suspicion sow distrust amongst its ranks. The old Gholgoth would have never tolerated the presence of foreign forces within our borders. This, 'new Gholgoth' that you represent is an abomination. You sit there and speak about progress and reforms, and for what? It didn't get you anywhere. You have usurped this region's legacy and put every single member state at risk. Judge me and my people all you want, but the Freekish Empire has returned now to set matters straight."

With a voice that boomed so loudly that the Freeks outside of the Council Chambers were likely to hear, Damien Dreadfire pointed an accusing finger at Catherina. His eyes burned and seethed like cinders, and for a moment the essence of The Destroyer lived anew.

"There is no stopping this now. It's going to be blood for blood until the heavens themselves bleed and cry out. It's the old days. The bad days. The all-or-nothing days. They're back. There are no choices left...and I'm ready for war."

Valerin Vayne stood and looked about the room. The Crone cackled with delight, emerging ever so slightly from the shadows.

"What say you, oh 'proud Lords of Gholgoth'?"

[The Peninsular]

"I am afraid I, in the name of Zneyvind AOK, agree with Lord Caesar, Lord Reaver.", Colonel Plisker took the opportunity. He had listened to the speeches and words thrown around in the chamber, and wished internally that he'd just weaseled his way out of the assignment. Now, he fixated Dreadfire and Valerin.

"At least in some points. Firstly, I am here to make it clear how the Outpost sees the situation. Omitting the fact that your government failed to regain the initiative after the death of a single man, Lord Dreadfire, the current status quo as my superiors see it does not allow for clamoring and nostalgia on the scale this meeting is seemingly supposed to invoke. There is a status quo. The best choice is to work with it, instead of attempting to tear it all down all over again. We highly recommend you follow this course of action. An alliance-internal war could destabilize all states involved majorly, and two so-called nations are just waiting for that to occur." He scanned the room again. "And everyone would be better off if you cut the rethorics and insults."

"Secondly, I am here to make the following also clear.", he continued, after making a short pause. "The Outpost will neither be standing with you, nor against you, Lord Dreadfire. Black and white distinctions like that are dangerous. Frankly: We do not care whether it was Automagfreek that founded this alliance. We do not care if you think you are entitled to a leadership role within said alliance. And we most definitely will not be taking orders from you."

[Emperor Pudu]

The Gothic Chamber, ULE City

Dengmu had waited his turn to speak. The Ceasar Silvier was right to take a hard line with the Supreme Warlord, but to acknowledge his premise at all was giving him too much, Dengmu thought. The Pudite Emperor's own inner monologue had been merciless; was the Alliance dead, perhaps, but was it buried? No. The only thing that was buried here was the head of the younger Damien, in the sand. The Alliance, Gholgoth, that was made in these dusty halls those many years before was dead, there was no doubt. Silvier was right to point out that none stood here today who had sworn that blood oath. But was there an alliance even now who called themselves Gholgoth, who sat as equals and pledged themselves to eachother's aid? Certainly there was, it was just that this Damien Dreadfire that stood before them and made demands was not one of those equals, or at least, he had not proved it. The histories of glorious ancestors and the long march of tradition were one thing, but what mattered now were the people who were assembled in this room. This was the first time any of the visiting Gothic Lords had laid eyes on Damien the Younger, and he seemed uninterested in becoming one of them.

The young man had asked a simple question, and despite everything else he deserved a straight answer. We are against you, Dengmu thought to himself. If you are asking us if we would stand beside Automagfreek or the Gholgoth alliance, we will choose Gholgoth, that is what it means to swear the oaths we have sworn to eachother. This Freekish warlord had sworn no oaths, Dengmu reasoned scornfully. If he wanted to build a new alliance on the bones of his grandfather's oaths then he would have competition, and it was here in this room.

Would the Freekish lord make war upon those who called themselves Gholgoth? Dengmu had no doubt the man had the courage, as well as the martial resources, to engage in such a fight. For all his honor, would he even let those lords assembled here leave peaceably? On this count the Pudite emperor could only hope, for there was no question of escaping this place otherwise. Dengmu's thoughts turned to his only son, Jilang Ming, the next in line for the Hewn Throne. This would be some kind of succession, he mused only half-jokingly: slain in a foreign capital on a diplomatic visit. Ming, Dengmu was sure, would not be dissuaded from war if the worst were to come to pass. The aging emperor held no illusions that it would be out of any filial loyalty the boy, or man Dengmu reminded himself, held toward his father or his father's allies. Ming was a proud and capricious leader, and was no supporter of this Gholgothic alliance, any more than he supported any foreign obligations. As a young man Ming had often made remarks to his father to that effect; that the Pudite emperors properly called themselves Pantokrats, the rulers of the world, was no mistake. In the eyes of the old rulers there were none equal to the one who sat on the Hewn Throne, and Dengmu was certain that this would be Ming's position if, or rather when, he came into his power. To allow such a succession now, over questions of Dengmu's pride and the wrath of a Dreadfire, seemed wholly irresponsible.

Was it therefore the most prudent thing to do, giving Ming this opportunity to demolish all the relationships that Dengmu had built here in this alliance? Dengmu did owe a great debt to many of those lords seated around him. Atticus, Nathan and Silvier, of course, and many others who were not present. The interests of the Pudite emperor had been entwined with those of his fellow Gothic Lords for some time now and they had done great service for him. He believed, no, he knew it was his responsibility to stand by them now. Of course, the ideal outcome in this unexpected situation was that the young Damien come over to the side of the new alliance, dispossessed of his grandiose pretenses, and be made just one more equal in the council of Gothic Lords that had only so recently concluded a very productive summit across the region in Citadel City. Unfortunately, this outcome seemed to be growing increasingly unlikely.

This Damien had wondered aloud where the Lords of Gholgoth were when his grandfather died? Well, where was Damien the Younger when the voices of this generation's Lords were raised in the White Citadel? A place was left open for him at the table, a matter of ceremony at the very least, but was he there? Absolutely not. Why should he be pandered to now? Was this not an alliance of equals?

Dengmu was poised between two equally valid, in his mind, positions in this matter. His duty to his allies was clear: to offer his own tacit support to the position taken by the Caesar and the newly elected Executor and the other leading diplomats among the Lords. But at the same time, this Damien had offered the room a very simple choice. Mincing words about it, arguing the semantics of alliance, is not what the hot-blooded Freekish warlord was here to do. Damien wanted those assembled to declare that they stood by him, or that they stood against him. If it was Silvier's intent to stand against him, then perhaps this would be easier than the Pudite emperor had initially believed. It seemed a clear choice to Dengmu. With a twinkling in his eyes he made his decision.

The Pudite Emperor stood, heaving his not insignificant bulk to his feet from the stone chair he sat upon, which elicited a discontented grunt from the out of shape man in his late fifties. He wore a dark blue soldier's uniform and was draped in a maroon colored sash trimmed in gold. The sash tugged at some of the ribbons and medals which hung on the emperor's left side; they rattled a bit, though not with the same weight as did the saber the older man wore at his hip. Anyone practiced with a blade could tell the thing he wore was no ceremony piece. It was a simple cutting instrument, and one it's wearer had handled skillfully in his youth, in situations far more black and white than even this one. Would today be the last day Dengmu lived to draw his sword in anger, or in self defense? Physically Dengmu did not cut the imposing figure of the younger and more martial Lords and their retainers. He stood about five and a half feet, and had a wrinkled complexion that played host to a pair of tired looking eyes. He was bald, though he wore a thin, wispy mustache on his broad face.

Dengmu fixed the Supreme Warlord Damien Dreadfire with a stern gaze. “If there are no choices left for us to make, Dreadfire, then you have chosen my next words for me. We stand with Gholgoth, and it is you who stand against us.” He planted both his feet and brought his hands up to the buttons on his uniform jacket, pulling it open to bear his breast, “Come here and strike me down, if that is your way. The all-or-nothing way of your dead grandfather. We shall see if these old hands yet have any fight left in them.” He dropped one gnarled hand to the hilt of his sword, and the other he placed over his heart. His next words were spoken in a low growl. “I will die for the Alliance.”

[Jagada]

Chamber of the Gothic Lords
ULE City, Automagfreek

The Secretary Supreme groaned internally as he watched the scene unfold before him. Damien the Younger had started much like he expected, with bluster and bravado, with threats of destruction and retribution. This was swiftly followed with accusations of incompetence, cowardice, and negligence towards the current Lords. All to be expected. Though the Young Dreadfire’s words were not totally without stain for it was his grandfather the Lord Dreadfire that had brought the Reich in their midst and let it fester next to the Briskans. It was Dreadfire that tolerated the machinations of the Slavers despite Automagfreek maintaining a staunch anti-slavery stance. Lord Dreadfire was a hero to the Jagites for having indirectly saved them from Kraven. Once the Freeks launched their invasion of the Reich’s old homeland they had given up the pursuit of the Jagites.

For all of that Damien the Younger held valid points. The Alliance was tearing itself apart and nothing really seemed able to stop it. Instead of casting its gaze out across the wider world its vast armies and enormous treasures had to be held in reserve as the Lords eyed each other with suspicion. He eyed Silvier as she continued her speech. The fact that Kylarnatia, Havensky, and Ghant had marched together to the Chamber was evidence of that. Executor Nathaniel came from a passive people, the Ghantish, and so he needed both moral and martial legitimacy. In stepped the Skyans and Kylarnatians each taking up their respective roles. If this wasn’t an inner circle to the Alliance then what was? This type of petty politics would only serve to create further divisions unless the other Lords accepted lesser status and followed the lead of this … this Triumvirate. But did Damien the Younger propose anything better?

The baying laughter of the Panteran filled the room and the chiding remarks began. Whatever intimidation the Caesar hoped for was quickly undone when neither Dreadfire nor the Lord Reaver responded well to the insults.

“You move too quickly Catherina,” thought Nalur. To him she had always seemed the most ambitious of the Lords. Her moment would come but she played her hand too fiercely now. Even if the Lords moved to side with her he didn’t think Automagfreek would much care. He wasn’t even certain they could defeat Dreadfire, even united. Its not like the region wasn’t already fighting a major war against the Scandivans. Not to mention if they had to fight both the Slaver King and Automagfreek, then the Reich wouldn’t waste such an opportunity. Could the region defeat all three? Unlikely, he thought. Best case they fought to a grinding standstill … then what? Outsiders would come in and make offerings to all sides to keep the wars going and keep Gholgoth weak.

“No,” thought Nalur, “I didn’t come this far to watch everything fall apart before we’ve had our revenge.”

Then the Pudite Emperor Dengmu stood up and made his challenge to Damien the Younger and the Secretary Supreme would wait no longer. He had come dressed in his typical attire -- a royal blue great coat decorated sparsely with his military honors and previous rank within the Common Army. He was an old man, well into his fifties and verging on sixty. He stood suddenly and swiftly, coming out of the leather padded seat.

“Enough,” he said simply. Staring at Emperor Dengmu and the Caesar of Kylarnatia and then at the Lords of Automagfreek and Pantera his mercury eyes blazing with purpose, “What is the purpose of this bluff and bluster?”

Nalur wasn’t a flashy man nor did he have much in the way of charisma. His voice was gravely but did not boom, his eyes were hard but lined with age.

Catherina, Plisker, and Dengmu had started off attacking Dreadfire, so he chose a different route. He turned away from the Freek and Panteran.

“Lords, I can appreciate your anger and resentment. Humility hasn’t exactly been a strong trait in the Region. Lords Dreadfire and Vayne do have valid points though. The original thirteen are the only reason we stand here. We should not be so quick to scornfully cast off their legacy or declare it defunct. We do have serious problems within the Alliance. Where once the thought of Goth versus Goth was unthinkable, we now have the Praetors to police ourselves. We have allowed the Macabeans to enter Gholgoth with the purpose of attacking the Slaver King.”

He held up a hand to stop any protest, “I frankly don't care if Fenric personally executed Macabean orphans. He is a Lord. He is entitled to the protection of this Alliance. He will be held to account … by this Alliance … for that attack on Citadel City. The Golden Throne should’ve never been given authorization to enter Gothic waters. The Reich should’ve been put down a long time ago, their expansion into Milograd checked and repelled. Yet we prove unable to do so.”

“The Union and I are just as much to blame as anyone else. We have failed in our duty to the Alliance. But pretending that Dreadfire and Vayne have no legitimate concerns is insanity and reeks of elitism.”

"Do not let your pride and ambitions be the catalyst for further schism in the Alliance," he said staring at each attendant Lord in turn, his eyes staying on Catherina a heartbeat longer than the others.

He turned to Damien and Valerin, “Catherina has a point. When your grandfather, bless his name, died on the shore of Milograd the Alliance was broken -- but it was cracking apart long before that. It was Lord Dreadfire’s choice to allow the Reich to settle in Gholgoth. That one cancerous decision has led to so much grief and disunity. His death was grieved in the ghettos my people called home back then. In Fostoria, his statue stands besides those of our own legends. The People have not forgotten House Dreadfire, but Lord you must accept that things have changed. Perhaps it is not what you would’ve done or what your illustrious grandfather would’ve done but it was the best we could do with the situation at hand.”

Ignoring the other Lords, Nalur kept his focus on both Dreadfire and Vayne.

“You want the Old Ways to return? So do I. You want a blood oath? I will happily bleed myself to show brotherhood and solidarity with you. There is much the Alliance can gain from the Old Ways, but washing away the alliance and brushing it aside is rash. We honor your grandfathers more than you think. Their statues reside in Pax Gothica, looking down upon all of us with stern gazes, undoubtedly judging us from whatever afterlife they believed in. The past has not been forgotten it has been honored Lords. I ask that you give this new system a chance. If it fails ... if it proves too weak. I shall stand with you to help tear it down. Brick by bloody brick. Until then, come to Pax Gothica and take up your honored spots as equals. Show us hows its done."

[Havensky]

Prime Minister Atticus and Queen Jessica Heart heard the cackle from Samael at about the same time. They looked at each other in a way that only two colleagues who had worked together for decades could each signaling that things were getting out of hand and deciding silently who would take point.

Dreadfire didn’t see it. The fact that Caesar could call him out on the carpet and not be shouted down from the rest of the crowd should have signaled that things had changed. Caesar’s speech had created an opening for everyone else to take more moderate stances and for Nalur to try and bridge the two sides. Only Caesar could have made that opening as one of the only people in the room who knew the original Dreadfire.

Within the span of a moment, Atticus had stepped forward passing an increasingly agitated Major Squall. He could already feel the chill of the Skyan Praetor’s anger emanating off his armor.

“Down boy, I got this one.” he said softly as he passed him putting a hand on his shoulder.

Atticus approached the young Dreadfire and made a wide gesture of welcome with his arms outstretched and palms open.

“If you’ll allow, let me take this moment of calm to properly introduce myself and my esteemed compatriots. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced even after all this time. My name is Prime Minister Lance Atticus duly elected by the People of Havensky. Before that, in my role as the Queen’s Open Hand and Secretary of State, I helped to author much of the reforms that you now contest.”

Atticus gestured to Major Squall and continued to speak, “This is Heartknight Major Gavin Squall of the Skyan Legion. He is also the first Skyan Praetor, so named by the Gothic Lords on our recommendation given his many deeds and campaigns against the Kraven Reich. I believe you will have a hard time finding another person in this room who has personally downed more Cappers.”

Atticus kept walking and this time gestured to Queen Heart.

“And if I may present, my Queen and Gothic Lord Jessica Heart. Prior to her election as Queen she served in the position of Secretary of State. And before that, perhaps before you were even born if I have your age correct, she was shot down by Kraven forces while serving as a nurse in the Humanitarian Fleet. She was captured. She escaped. She fought her former captors.

I tell you this by way of introduction because it seems like you don’t know us at all. You weren’t there when - decades later - the Reich captured her again causing us to invade Kraven-held Milograd. We brought an armada and were prepared to land on the Fortress Continent itself when the Caesar called the Lords together to find another way.

Do you know what happened next? We broke into Norska to get her back. We went to Caesar’s summit and my Queen demanded recognition as a Lord. That’s how we came to be here in the region built by your grandfathers.

I never met your grandfather or your father or you. This despite the many times we have attempted to open dialogue with you. I wrote to your government personally when we began to build the Citadel. When you called the last Summit here in ULE, it was I who appeared with gifts. A small personal airship that our finest shipbuilders handcrafted for you. We parked it at the airport. We stood in this very room and nobody from your government came to greet us. I wonder what ever happened to it?

When the Riech invaded Vetalia, we reached out… and heard nothing. So, we took matters into our own hands forming alliances with those you see before you to stop the bleeding of fellow Goths.

When the Scandivans invaded Shen Almaru, we reached out...and heard nothing. As you might have seen from your reports, when the Golden Throne declared war on the Scandivans we tried to broker a peace. We had no interest in our trade partner going to war with another Alliance member if we could help it. And you know what happened next? The slavers bombed our city.

Quite honestly, we had just about enough of the old ways. We wanted a change. So, we hosted our own Summit and proposed reforms. We told your government of this in advance. We invited you to the Summit. We gave you copies of the reforms ahead of time. We had a chair sitting for you at the event. We reached out time and time again and heard...nothing. Of course we took matters into our own hands - all of us - we had no other choice.

How can you rebuke us when all we have gotten from you is silence? You know nothing of us… the city we have raised here, the friendships we have forged in battle, the work we have done here.”

It was here Atticus paused. It was difficult to try and read Dreadfire to see if he was getting through. He suspected that Dreadfire had not been getting complete information or worse… he might have been getting bad information. He needed to push more to make his point.

“How much time have you spent outside your borders. I know you have not seen the Citadel. Have you seen indomitable Hell’s Gate or the Magna Mater Basilica? Have you stepped inside the Mördhaus or The Fool's Fortresses? I don’t know if you’re much into sightseeing, but I can’t help but think that you’d appreciate the vast armada being assembled against the Scandivans in preparation to enforce the will of the Gothic Lords? You can’t stand out on the deck of the Unity and tell me that we’ve completely given up on the old ways when in every direction there are warships are far as the eye can see?”

Atticus threw up his hands.

“You sound like a man who made up his mind about us before you even met us. Why don’t you go out into the world and see for yourself what Gholgoth has become?”

[Kylarnatia]

The Gothic Chambers, ULE City
The Gothic Empire of Automagfreek, Gholgoth

The Caesar's face bore an expression of absolute pride.

She knew that the so-called Dreadfire and his accomplices would rebuke anything she said. That they would try - with all their indomitable might - to smite her back down with petulant and demeaning barbs that at one point in time would have cowed lesser men. Unfortunately, they were out of luck. Her she still stood, unphased and unflinching in the face of the spittle that came her way, all of which fell to the stone floor before it could even hope to reach her. "The true Dreadfire would have made mountains move for less. Pity; had they stayed silent, they could have all been considered philosophers." She amused herself with the thought.

No, her earlier rebuke wasn't for those blinded by old glories. It was for her fellow Lords; the ones whom she swore blood oaths with, the ones who she saw as her brothers and sisters. They were the Lords of Gholgoth now; these men who stood before her, whoever they claimed to be, had lost their claim to it long ago. They did not want it any more? Fine. She cared not whether they did or what they truly had to think, for it was no longer their's to have. What mattered was rallying the New Order, lighting a spark so bright that it could never be extinguished, not even by the might of the Blood Pact. They would be indomitable, ferocious, and would be a force to be reckoned with; of this she did not doubt, but judging on the immediate responses of the room, the Alliance would meet them in every equal measure. Unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects. The equilibrium of Gholgoth had now firmly shifted into place.

One by one, Caesar witnessed the actions of Plisker, Dengmu, Nalur and then Atticus. She knew only what her briefings told her about Plisker and his kind, but she was amazed by their brazenness, and they were not alone. Dengmu was fearless, even in the face of the threat of death; she could not help but find it incredibly endearing, and - in that most Gothic of ways - charming. Nalur was well-known even to her as someone who was a political trickster, his tongue as silver as the strands of his hair, but nobody had the right to deny that the Jagites were a proud and enduring people who - perhaps more so than anyone else in the region - had earned the right to speak how they pleased to whomever they pleased and she was glad that he had swung in when he had. Then, of course, there was Atticus: perhaps the most humble and human of them all, standing in this dark and deprived place and speaking nothing but the pure and honest truth, perhaps the purest truth that had ever been spoken here. The fact it likely fell on deaf ears did not diminish it, for it was exactly what she wanted to hear. What they all needed to hear, and they would soon echo out far beyond these walls.

These walls no longer painted an accurate picture of what the Alliance had become, and with an educated guess, staring at them had driven the younger Damien mad. That he had missed these glories, that he could never be what his grandfather was; that those assembled before him had dared to step out of his grandfather's shadow when he did not, for she believed he did not possess the strength that they collectively did. So credit to him, for he played his part beautifully, even going as to outperform himself beyond her wildest expectations. He and the Lord Reaver seemed to believe she had tried to intimidate them and failed to their bemusement, but in reality having stated nothing but the truth in her heart had risen out of them an anger which demonstrated that truth not just to her, but to those assembled.

She would be true to her word, and entertain them no longer, refusing to answer their last question. Instead, with a confident smile etched across her face, she looked upon the faces of her fellow Lords - Dreadfire and Reaver not included - and gave them a look that beamed with warmth and appreciation. Even Nalur, who had before given her a dirty look; she was no stranger to men from abroad who looked down on her, but she knew that - even if he did not like her - he was far too clever to not realise why. This wasn't about either of them now, it was about the Alliance.

Triumphantly, she declared. "Damien Dreadfire is dead. Long live the Alliance."

Then, with one simple look at Lord Hyperion and her retinue and a turn of her heel, she departed with her head held high.

[Auman]

It came to her in a dream.

She was standing naked in a field of snow. Blackened silhouettes of hunched and deranged forms circling her, clutching red hot brands in mangled claws. The gibbering of the orcish tongue lapped at her senses like the barbs of a whip. She was cold and shaking, alone in the wilderness. This was not only a dream, but a nightmare formed from memory. An arm jumped out and pushed an iron deep into her breast, she was branded with a gruesome, inhuman, sigil. She screamed as snow was rubbed into the wound, her flesh blistering and her teeth clattering. The burns let in the cold and she was dying faster. She was alone and scared, a skinny girl fresh out of infantry school, isolated and captured by the worst scum imaginable, deadly relics of an ancient era... Funny how the past can haunt the present, the ghosts of Melkor Unchained were her first crucible, an introduction to the barbarity of this earth. Her first test, a lesson in and of itself that chaos was ever present, it was the prevailing reality.

The dream was always the same, except for this one time. She was standing naked in the field, but beside her was a man. They stood at attention, maintaining what shreds of dignity remained as the shadows howled and taunted them. The brand struck her flesh and she screamed, but when her legs gave out as they always did, she was caught in the embrace of powerful, muscular, arms. She looked up and saw a fire burning in his eyes, otherworldly yet utterly real and of this world. A dull sparkle as if fireworks erupted... The explosion of the universe into being. The orcish shadows punched and kicked the man, beat him with the firebrands and cut into his flesh with their swords, but he didn't yield.

He didn't bend.

He didn't bleed.

He didn't break.

His grip never faltered as he raised her up. His eyes never left her as they turned their bodies to face the onslaught. The orcs were enraged, their howls of mockery and victory turned now into shrieks of despair. Why was this happening?

"Together, they cannot harm us." He said. His voice was low and serene.

"Pain is an intellectual concept. It exists only within your mind and these things can be mastered. They can be controlled by your will alone. Pain is ultimately meaningless."

She was speechless, enthralled by the man that had saved her from this nightmare.

"What is your name, girl?"

"I am Alexis Villa." She said, her words left her lips on a whisper.

"And who are you?" He would ask, turning is eyes outward toward the threat.

"I am an infantry soldier."

"No, you are much more than that "

She awakened, drenched in sweat and alone, in her bed. It was early in the morning as the summer's dawning sun rose in the east. She laid on her back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. The light crept towards her face, casting a circular glow through the porthole. She got up abruptly and showered. Lingering with her thoughts as the hot water dappled her back. Her raven black hair was plastered to the coffee colored skin of her back. Upon the scapula of both shoulders she bore tattoos of the sun and moon, smiling precocious smiles. They were cute, yet defiantly concealing the scars left by the brands. Her hands drifted toward her breast, a sigil of a dead God concealed beneath the power of man, the symbol of her faith and of her people, which held objective and demonstrable strength in the world. A world, so it seemed, that had been coming apart at the seams.

She spent the day in a haze, considering the meaning of this dream. This man who saved her, his sculpted physique, the blackness of his shoulder length hair. The man of her dreams, who likely never existed nor ever would.

She donned her uniform, the subdued khaki of the Reman military, notable for its lack of notability. Brass buttons up the center, red piping along rounded lines, flat boards that squared off her shoulders. She became aware of the clacking of her jackboots upon the floor leading to the Great Hall. The world blurred and surreal as she took her seat with little fanfare. She absorbed the arguments and protestations, the mockery and the accusations. It seemed meaningless until Nalur spoke his words of conciliation. Her eyes found him, she was nodding along and slowly remembering why she had come.

Gholgoth was coming undone, the unity of the region had been frayed by internecine clashes between peoples that once treated one another as brothers and sisters. She blinked hard and the haze lifted. She was herself again. Silvier had left the room with her Hyperion, the strong arm that raised her up. She didn't know if the Caesar appreciated what they had done for her, what it meant to have someone so close to them. Alexis was alone, untouchable and isolated in her own position. As she watched Silvier leave, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Alexis turned to see who it could have been only to find that it was no one at all. Yet still, she felt the urge to rise and so she did.

She scanned the room, taking in the characters that had assembled about this round table. The petty thuggery of Brother Dreadfire, the dramatic shirt-tearing of Brother Dengmu and the call to reason of Brother Nalur. Her hand drifted unbidden to the dagger on her belt and she held firmly onto the hilt, gulping down the anxiety that grew in her gut.

"I am Stratos Alexis Villa." No response to her at all. She was invisible to them, she was no one. Not even the mightiest of the junior Lords, but by God and His graces, she was a Lord nonetheless and she would be heard. She drew her blade and directed the tip towards the sky and thus, her voice rang throughout the hall, low and subdued yet crystal clear. Loud without yelling, she proclaimed herself.

"I am Stratos Alexis Villa of Remus, child of Mars, Gothic by birth and Aumanii by the grace of God!" There was a murmur now, that faded into silence. She realized now that she was bearing a weapon in the Great Hall and tossed the dagger onto the table before her.

"We've come here to the honored hall of our fathers and what have we done?" She fixed her deep brown eyes on every Lord still present. "We have bickered and fought amongst ourselves. Made demands of our fellow Lords and threatened one another, we have stormed out!" Her arm unfolded in the general direction of the door.

"This talk has accomplished nothing because no one came to this place seeking dialogue. No Lord among you is here in the name of fraternity, no one of you has offered solutions to the problems plaguing our lands. This... This triple entente claims that they have done what was necessary to save this alliance and the solutions proffered dishonor us all... Brother wars! We have allowed a Dien to disgrace us all by sailing our waters and utilizing armed force upon the Scands. For all their faults and failings, they are still a part of of us, not apart from us and this is the holiest of all truths. They have strayed from the path of the righteous, this is true and it is on us to bring them justice. A Goth's justice!" Villa's smoldering gaze turned now to Damien Dreadfire the Younger.

"We all understand the importance of this place. Your grandfather lead this region through the age of alliance and saved everyone here from domination by foreign powers... But you are not him. You cannot sit here and fling your ire like snot from your nose, expecting it to stick. Do you have a plan? You speak sweet words about the old ways of blood and fire and scorn us all for taking up arms against our brothers... How do you plan to restore our glory? How do you plan to lead us? How do you plan to end these wars and bring the Kravenites and the Scands to heel? I will follow you and all of our brothers into the depths of hell, on that I'll swear an oath in blood, right here and right now!" She snatched the blade from the table and cut a little too deep into the palm of her hand, raising it for all to see. The blood ran free and smooth, staining the sleeve of her jacket.

"I will fight alongside my brother Lords. I will never shed your blood as long as we shed it for each other! So long as we can stop these brother wars and restore the honor of Gholgoth."

It was a challenge to everyone in the room. Bleed together, fight together and find a way to fix the problems that faced them. It was a gamble and Alexis understood this. As the hot ichor streamed down her arm, she felt a tinge of embarrassment. Would anyone stand and join her or would they just laugh? Did Damien bring them here to offer leadership, or was this merely a game to him.

[Dephire]

The aircraft landed with a soft whump and a door slid open on its side. Six heavily armored soldiers rushed out into a formation lining either side of the door. After a few moments they snapped to attention and a man stepped down a ramp that was slowly extending as he walked. He was clad in steel gray with dark blood red trim. He held a dragon-styled helmet in his right hand, which he kept by his side as he walked.

“Where are they now?” Fury’s voice was gruffer than that of Tristan the Pure. He was also taller and more muscular. His face always seemed to be in a scowl.

“They are nearly at the chambers now,” one of the soldiers said.

Fury nodded, “We will be fashionably late, but when has a Dephirian ever truly arrived on time?” He chuckled at his own joke, shook his head, and put on his helmet. “So be it.”

“Yes, my Lord!”

They loaded up in a large personnel carrier and made their way through ULE City.

After a short trip, Fury marched with purpose down the hallway, flanked on either side by the soldiers he arrived with. His eyes met those of Silvier as she exited the chamber. No words exchanged, but they could sense each other’s intentions. Upon reaching the doors to the chamber, Fury looked to the Sentinels, then entered.

“Blood and Fire!” The Dephirian shouted in the room as he walked through the threshold. “That is what your Lord of Lords has demanded!” His bootsteps clanking loudly against the stone floors. “You dare deny the very man who founded our alliance his command?!” The eye slots on the helmet lit aflame. “What happened to your honor? What happened to your pride? The Blood Oath was the sacred bond we all swore nigh a decade ago. Yes, we’ve lost brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers since that time, but we had always remained one alliance!”

He stepped to the chair for the Gothic Lord of Dephire, “I spoke to you plainly before. All of you are nothing but words backed by empty promises. Let me shed some light to the perseverance of the Dephirian people. While you sat back and talked, we were building. While you grieved we were enduring. While you worked on your paperwork, we were deploying. Citadel City was attacked and we amassed a military power to strike back. Not in defiance to the blood oath, but in defense of it!” He looked to the remaining lords in attendance, then looked to Damien. “I have over forty-five thousand ships sailing through Mille Mortifere at this very minute on its way to Shen Almaru to liberate it from Scandivan hold. This is the price they must pay for an attack on their fellow Gothic Lord.” He looked down to the table, “More will join from Dephirian territories in the coming months. It is my goal to flood Shen Almaru with enough of my might that Lord Fenric releases his hold on the Pudite home. Peacefully would be the most ideal, but we know he won’t simply surrender anything to dres’nalar’.”
Fury gauged the room, then saw Samael and Adam Halsley. “Hmm, you seem to be salivating through that mask of yours, reaper.”

“Oh? Why wouldn’t I be? You Lords are tempting me to count my chickens before they hatch. The back and forth bickering is also quite amusing. I mean no offense and humbly apologize if I have offended thee,” Samael bowed slightly. “Just remember that Fenric’s people have given me a most generous helping of… Well, that does not concern you. Please, continue with your speech. It seems everyone has one.” The old figure appeared to yawn.

Fury sighed, “This alliance with you, Lord Dreadfire, is the Alliance. I declare that abomination of the reforms moot without your blessing. If that is so, then I shall continue my allegiance to the Blood Oath I swore. If you declare my liberation of Shen Almaru as equally damning, then I shall give the order to stand down.”

He looked up to Damien once more, then took off his helmet. The irises of his eyes glowing bright purple, “If you command me to strike down those who defied you, then that is an order I will fulfill until my last dying breath. As was my Oath to this alliance. As was my promise to uphold Justice! Behold, mine anger and my fury shall be poured out upon this place, upon man, and upon beast, and upon the trees of the field, and upon the fruit of the ground; and it shall burn, and shall not be quenched.”

[Ghant]

“When the will defies fear, when duty throws the gauntlet down to fate, when honor scorns to compromise with death - that is heroism.” ― Robert G. Ingersoll

---

The Gothic Chamber
ULE City, Automagfreek

The Executor of Gholgoth walked slowly into the great hall, behind Silvier, Jessica Heart and Skyan Prime Minister Lance Atticus. It was deliberate, for he did not want to be the driving force of this meeting, at least not until the time was right. All the same, he wore the Executor’s Chains around his neck, and his men produced his own personal crown of swords to go along with it.

The Dreadfire lordling was curt in his greeting. "Enter, and be seated." Damien's voice boomed throughout the fire-lit Chamber, and one after another the Gothic Lords went to their assigned seats. Nathan took his seat last, watching the other Lords go this way and that, and watching Damien all the while. When they had all at last been seated, Nathan went to his, and sat down. Damien was also seated, though some of his retainers remained standing.

Then he spoke. "I am Damien of House Dreadfire, second of my name. With me stands Valerin of House Vayne, Lord Reaver of the Free Lands of Pantera. Together, our grandfathers forged the Blood Pact, which laid the foundations for Gholgoth itself."

Damien gestured towards the glass case on the other side of the room, and the golden chalice within it. "There lies our commitment and our allegiance to our Panteran brothers. With their very blood, our grandfathers made a sacred vow to one another to forever share the same fate. And it was that same understanding and promise that the thirteen founding Lords of Gholgoth made to one another. But the group of men I see here before me is a far cry from that legendary band of brothers."

Indeed it is, Nathan thought to himself. I’m still alive…

The one called Valerin of House Vayne stood with an imposing scowl as he glared at the lords present. Nathan knew men like him. He wasn’t intimidated. "The Freekish Empire died on the beaches of Milograd the day my grandfather was slain. He died not at the hands of some foreign nation or alliance. He died by Kraven bullets. Gothic bullets. And where were any of you when Lord Dreadfire fell? Where were any of you when the Empire failed and slipped into despair? We sacrificed everything to end that war and mend this brotherhood, and all we received for our efforts was your silence. And when they buried the man who founded Gholgoth, they buried this Alliance with him." Damien leaned against his high back leather chair and dug his fingers into it.

"Since that day, all of the core tents of the Alliance have been ignored. Colonies have sprung up across the region. Foreign armies have been allowed to tread on Gothic soil without so much as a unified response. And Goths make war upon fellow Goths. The latter is perhaps the most grievous of all."

On that much we agree, the Emperor thought with a nod of his head. The greatest tragedy of all.

"You have lost your way." Valerin Vayne said as Damien looked away in disgust, his attentions now focused on the Blood Chalice. "No longer do you share in the vision that was once Gholgoth. Instead of reaving, raping and pillaging our enemies abroad, you have brought chaos and dishonor into our home."

Turning back towards the Lords, Damien interrupted Valerin and continued to unleash his venom. "I'm sure you all have a long list of reasons for everything, I'm sure in your eyes it's all justified. But I'm here today to tell you that the status quo will no longer be tolerated. We will reclaim our position within the Alliance with fire and death if need be. These sacred Chambers will once more be the seat of Gothic power, not this Pax Gothica which you have so boldly built. The House that my grandfather Damien Dreadfire built will stand once more."

Valerin joined Damien in the sneering and scowling as he joined his master in taking a seat. "And you'll either stand with us, or stand against us. That choice I leave to you." The Dreadfire’s words were sharp, cutting the air like a knife. Nathan thought on those words, and what Damien wanted. He wants what his grandfather had, Nathan understood. He wants what I now have…

“No.” Silvier’s response to Damien was loud and booming. “I did not come here to play games, sons of House Dreadfire and House Vayn. I - Caesar Silvier Catherina Silvanus, fourth of her name, Lord of Gholgoth and Warden of the North - am here today to establish the truth. Unless your ears prove to be soft, I beckon you to listen and listen closely.”

…This is going to be good, thought the Executor, wishing that he had some popcorn for this moment. Alas, he had only his eyes to see and his ears to listen. After a brief pause, she continued. “You accuse us of having not been there for you in your time of most need. You accuse us of having ‘lost our way’. You believe that we abandoned your grandfather and his cause - this grand and ancient brotherhood of Gholgoth - when he breathed his last. The truth is, son of Dreadfire, your grandfather’s cause was once built upon the pillar of sand that was his life. The heart of this Alliance used to beat to his in unison, and it was his will - and his alone - that decided its fate. So long as he lived, the Alliance would stand immortal, and vice-versa. Yet, it was his decision to charge onto the beaches of Norska that day. It was his own failing that caused him to die, and when his mortality was realised, so was that of the Alliance of his day.”

After another pause, Silvier added “Look around you,” with a sweeping gesture of her arm. “Where stand the thirteen Lords who founded this Alliance with your grandfather? Crimmond, or Sambizie? Artitsa, or Illior? They have become specters, mere echoes whose time has long since ended. As dead as your grandfather. As soon as he drew his last, the promises once made meant little and no longer provided warmth or light even to those who once stood here. Despite all his indomitable strength and ability to provide, despite all his achievements and exploits, he was just that: a man. It was at that moment when he died that those of us who witnessed it realized - myself among them - that it was not sheer force alone that ensured ones safety, but the ability to grow and adapt. Those thirteen original Lords who you so fondly call to return did not realize this, and now they have faded to naught but ash and dust, unable to answer. Those of us who answer you now - who even deem you worthy of a response - come before you as the Alliance renewed, done away with the inherent weakness that was the reliance on your grandfather’s vaunted legacy to somehow save us. This is a weakness I sense in you, even now, son of Dreadfire.”

She now gestured right at Damien Dreadfire. “You think that your name alone is what earns you respect? You believe we owe you something, just because you carry his name? If you were truly him, you would have been able to act when the Reich put forth its tendrils and began to sow destruction and discord across the region, when we called for you and you did not answer. You would have acted decisively to end the unprovoked attacks of the Scandinvans against the Skyans - this violence of brother against brother, which you so decry - and when you were invited then, you did not answer. The same can be said of Pantera for all these many years. Yet you have the gall to accuse us of being the betrayers, the cowards. The Dreadfire of Old would not have stood for such baseless talk: he would act, break bread with his fellow brothers, and punish swiftly those who truly undermined his efforts. Yet here you sit in his place, spitting weak venom while playing fantasy and being comfortable within these aged and decaying halls, while the Lord Reaver dances mad around you for your bemusement.”

Gesturing around herself once more, now with both arms, her voice still booming, “So this is what has become of the vaunted House of Dreadfire! Driven to delusion and a near state of mourning - clamoring for a bygone age - while the once proud and stalwart people of the Freekish Isles dance drunkenly and with stunted minds in the streets that once hosted grand parades of the fiercest armies that this earth has ever witnessed! I came here expecting that same grandeur and sense of purpose; now all I find is naught but a poor man’s imitation. You may bear his name, but you are not him. You will never be him. It’s that foolish desire which has brought you and your people so low, that pursuit of a soul which no longer inhabits this mortal coil which has led you all to becoming more than an empty shell. Let it be said hereafter that the Reich’s greatest achievement was the crushing of the Freekish body and mind.”

At all this, Nathan thought damn, she’s pretty good at this. Though I have a feeling it will be poorly received. Nathan was like this Damien Dreadfire, once upon a time. A young, rash lord eager to take charge. When Nathan was that age, he didn’t like getting browbeaten by women either.

Silvier, after another moment’s pause, addressed Damien and his minions in unison. “You are correct in one respect, sons of Dreadfire and Vayne; that the status quo cannot continue. That, however, is your status quo. Senseless blood and violence will only doom you and your people to the same grave as your grandfathers and mine. Your demands for blood and fire will be realized, but save it for those who have truly wronged you - wronged us- and let yourself be tempered in them. We stand here now with the opportunity to heal old wounds and let the dead lie to rest; you possess the opportunity to become something new, to give your people a renewed purpose and a chance to live outside of your grandfather’s shadow. The Old Ways are no more; not forgotten, but reborn and stronger than before, bound not to the will of One but to the will of Many. The Alliance has endured; it is you who fell into chaos and disorder. If it were up to me you would join us as equals, but alas it is not mine to make. Act as you wish, but the more time spent trying to relive the days gone by only ensures that our children’s future and theirs is spent in the clasp of Slavers and the Reich. You can pursue that if you wish, but I will not.”

Almost done apparently, Silvier finished with “we have already made our choice. The choice is yours; stand with us and the Alliance - hear us as your brothers, and speak wisely - or chase this child’s dream and resign yourselves to the past forevermore, and stop wasting our time.”

Nathan’s anticipated response from Valerin and Damien played out as he expected. Valerin Vayne's laugh boomed throughout the Council Chambers. The raucous guffawing even brought a smirk to Damien's face as he glared at Catherina Silvanus coldly. "I would choose your words more carefully next time, girl. You sit in the presence of killers." Valerin said boldly.

So do you, boy, thought the Executor. He very much wanted to say that out loud, but he held his tongue. Now isn’t the time…not by a longshot…

Damien responded with "such fine and pretty words, Silvier. You're fortunate to be speaking to me and not my grandfather, because he would have been much less forgiving of your insults. It's quite telling to me that throughout your doubtlessly well-rehearsed speech, you failed to even address a single point that I have raised. You speak of how Gholgoth is an Alliance reborn, and that the Old Ways are mere relics of the past. Yet in all of my readings of the histories, I cannot recall a time when Gholgoth was ever in the state of turmoil that it is in now. It was only when the Old Ways were forgotten that the Alliance began to rot from the inside."

Like a well trained parrot, Valerin seconded his master’s words. "Aye. Your people have not known the same suffering as Panterans have. For generations, you enjoyed the vigilant protection of House Vayne and House Dreadfire. But when tragedy and turmoil came to our shores and our houses needed to be put back into order, you cretins didn't know what to do with yourselves. How easy it is for you to spit on the legacy of millions of dead Reavers and Sentinels who built this thing, this Alliance that you have let fall into dismay. No, the only way Gholgoth lives on is by returning to what made it unstoppable in the first place."

Dreadfire rose from his seat and looked around the table with disdain. From the dark corner, the Crone growled, "the old Gholgoth would never have allowed brother to wage war against brother. The old Gholgoth would never have allowed colonization within the region, lest greed and suspicion sow distrust amongst its ranks. The old Gholgoth would have never tolerated the presence of foreign forces within our borders. This, 'new Gholgoth' that you represent is an abomination. You sit there and speak about progress and reforms, and for what? It didn't get you anywhere. You have usurped this region's legacy and put every single member state at risk. Judge me and my people all you want, but the Freekish Empire has returned now to set matters straight."

With a voice that boomed so loudly that the Freeks outside of the Council Chambers were likely to hear, Damien Dreadfire pointed an accusing finger at Silvier. His gaze was filled with rage. "There is no stopping this now. It's going to be blood for blood until the heavens themselves bleed and cry out. It's the old days. The bad days. The all-or-nothing days. They're back. There are no choices left...and I'm ready for war."

The Executor rubbed his chin in silence and thought, then I hope to see you in it, personally.

Valerin Vayne stood and looked about the room, and the Crone cackled like a witch. "What say you, oh 'proud Lords of Gholgoth'?"

Nathan remained silent as the grave, though now his eyes shifted across the room. And here come the speeches…

The first one consisted of "I am afraid I, in the name of Zneyvind AOK, agree with Lord Caesar, Lord Reaver." Colonel Plisker was a brave man, or perhaps a fool, to be the first Lord after Silvier to speak. "At least in some points. Firstly, I am here to make it clear how the Outpost sees the situation. Omitting the fact that your government failed to regain the initiative after the death of a single man, Lord Dreadfire, the current status quo as my superiors see it does not allow for clamoring and nostalgia on the scale this meeting is seemingly supposed to invoke. There is a status quo. The best choice is to work with it, instead of attempting to tear it all down all over again. We highly recommend you follow this course of action. An alliance-internal war could destabilize all states involved majorly, and two so-called nations are just waiting for that to occur…and everyone would be better off if you cut the rhetoric and insults."

Yeah, like that’s going to work…

"Secondly, I am here to make the following also clear…the Outpost will neither be standing with you, nor against you, Lord Dreadfire. Black and white distinctions like that are dangerous. Frankly: We do not care whether it was Automagfreek that founded this alliance. We do not care if you think you are entitled to a leadership role within said alliance. And we most definitely will not be taking orders from you."

Dengmu, bless his disposed soul, spoke next. “If there are no choices left for us to make, Dreadfire, then you have chosen my next words for me. We stand with Gholgoth, and it is you who stand against us.” Bearing his chest, Dengmu added defiantly, “come here and strike me down, if that is your way. The all-or-nothing way of your dead grandfather. We shall see if these old hands yet have any fight left in them.” He dropped one gnarled hand to the hilt of his sword, and the other he placed over his heart. His next words were spoken in a low growl. “I will die for the Alliance.”

Well said, my Lord, well said, Nathan thought with a curt nod of approval. But that won’t be enough…

Nalur of Jagada cried out “enough. What is the purpose of this bluff and bluster? Lords, I can appreciate your anger and resentment. Humility hasn’t exactly been a strong trait in the Region. Lords Dreadfire and Vayne do have valid points though. The original thirteen are the only reason we stand here. We should not be so quick to scornfully cast off their legacy or declare it defunct. We do have serious problems within the Alliance. Where once the thought of Goth versus Goth was unthinkable, we now have the Praetors to police ourselves. We have allowed the Maccabbeans to enter Gholgoth with the purpose of attacking the Slaver King.”

He held up a hand to prevent being interrupted and continued, “I frankly don't care if Fenric personally executed Maccabbean orphans. He is a Lord. He is entitled to the protection of this Alliance. He will be held to account … by this Alliance … for that attack on Citadel City. The Golden Throne should’ve never been given authorization to enter Gothic waters. The Reich should’ve been put down a long time ago, their expansion into Milograd checked and repelled. Yet we prove unable to do so.”

Nathan couldn’t help but feel guilty about that, for he was one of the few that invited the Golden Throne into Gholgoth, though not before the Skyans did the same.

“The Union and I are just as much to blame as anyone else. We have failed in our duty to the Alliance. But pretending that Dreadfire and Vayne have no legitimate concerns is insanity and reeks of elitism. Do not let your pride and ambitions be the catalyst for further schism in the Alliance," Nalur said staring at each attendant Lord in turn, his eyes staying on Catherina a heartbeat longer than the others. Few things went unnoticed by the Executor.

Nalur then turned to Damien and Valerin, “Catherina has a point. When your grandfather, bless his name, died on the shore of Milograd the Alliance was broken -- but it was cracking apart long before that. It was Lord Dreadfire’s choice to allow the Reich to settle in Gholgoth. That one cancerous decision has led to so much grief and disunity. His death was grieved in the ghettos my people called home back then. In Fostoria, his statue stands besides those of our own legends. The People have not forgotten House Dreadfire, but Lord you must accept that things have changed. Perhaps it is not what you would’ve done or what your illustrious grandfather would’ve done but it was the best we could do with the situation at hand.”

“You want the Old Ways to return? So do I. You want a blood oath? I will happily bleed myself to show brotherhood and solidarity with you. There is much the Alliance can gain from the Old Ways, but washing away the alliance and brushing it aside is rash. We honor your grandfathers more than you think. Their statues reside in Pax Gothica, looking down upon all of us with stern gazes, undoubtedly judging us from whatever afterlife they believed in. The past has not been forgotten it has been honored Lords. I ask that you give this new system a chance. If it fails ... if it proves too weak. I shall stand with you to help tear it down. Brick by bloody brick. Until then, come to Pax Gothica and take up your honored spots as equals. Show us how it’s done." Nalur spoke bold and true, but would Damien be convinced of this genuine plea?

No, probably not…

Atticus was next to take a swing with his hammer at this great game of Whack-A-Dreadfire. “If you’ll allow, let me take this moment of calm to properly introduce myself and my esteemed compatriots. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced even after all this time. My name is Prime Minister Lance Atticus duly elected by the People of Havensky. Before that, in my role as the Queen’s Open Hand and Secretary of State, I helped to author much of the reforms that you now contest.”

Nathan began rubbing his forehead, though he avoided sighing. He’s being too nice…

Atticus gestured to Major Squall and continued to speak, “This is Heartknight Major Gavin Squall of the Skyan Legion. He is also the first Skyan Praetor, so named by the Gothic Lords on our recommendation given his many deeds and campaigns against the Kraven Reich. I believe you will have a hard time finding another person in this room who has personally downed more Cappers.”

Atticus kept walking and this time gestured to Queen Heart. “And if I may present, my Queen and Gothic Lord Jessica Heart. Prior to her election as Queen she served in the position of Secretary of State. And before that, perhaps before you were even born if I have your age correct, she was shot down by Kraven forces while serving as a nurse in the Humanitarian Fleet. She was captured. She escaped. She fought her former captors. I tell you this by way of introduction because it seems like you don’t know us at all. You weren’t there when - decades later - the Reich captured her again causing us to invade Kraven-held Milograd. We brought an armada and were prepared to land on the Fortress Continent itself when the Caesar called the Lords together to find another way. Do you know what happened next? We broke into Norska to get her back. We went to Caesar’s summit and my Queen demanded recognition as a Lord. That’s how we came to be here in the region built by your grandfathers. I never met your grandfather or your father or you. This despite the many times we have attempted to open dialogue with you. I wrote to your government personally when we began to build the Citadel. When you called the last Summit here in ULE, it was I who appeared with gifts. A small personal airship that our finest shipbuilders handcrafted for you. We parked it at the airport. We stood in this very room and nobody from your government came to greet us. I wonder what ever happened to it? When the Reich invaded Vetalia, we reached out… and heard nothing. So, we took matters into our own hands forming alliances with those you see before you to stop the bleeding of fellow Goths.”

During this presentation, Nathan couldn’t help but think this would make for a great memoir…

“When the Scandivans invaded Shen Almaru, we reached out...and heard nothing. As you might have seen from your reports, when the Golden Throne declared war on the Scandivans we tried to broker a peace. We had no interest in our trade partner going to war with another Alliance member if we could help it. And you know what happened next? The slavers bombed our city. Quite honestly, we had just about enough of the old ways. We wanted a change. So, we hosted our own Summit and proposed reforms. We told your government of this in advance. We invited you to the Summit. We gave you copies of the reforms ahead of time. We had a chair sitting for you at the event. We reached out time and time again and heard...nothing. Of course we took matters into our own hands - all of us - we had no other choice. How can you rebuke us when all we have gotten from you is silence? You know nothing of us… the city we have raised here, the friendships we have forged in battle, the work we have done here.” Atticus paused after that, perhaps to clear his throat.

Because that is an awful lot of talking, and I suspect that our young Dreadfire friend has a short attention span…

“How much time have you spent outside your borders. I know you have not seen the Citadel. Have you seen indomitable Hell’s Gate or the Magna Mater Basilica? Have you stepped inside the Mördhaus or The Fool's Fortresses? I don’t know if you’re much into sightseeing, but I can’t help but think that you’d appreciate the vast armada being assembled against the Scandivans in preparation to enforce the will of the Gothic Lords? You can’t stand out on the deck of the Unity and tell me that we’ve completely given up on the old ways when in every direction there are warships are far as the eye can see?” Atticus threw up his hands. “You sound like a man who made up his mind about us before you even met us. Why don’t you go out into the world and see for yourself what Gholgoth has become?”

Because he only cares about he wants Gholgoth to be… Nathan remained silent, from the beginning as planned, and pursed his lips as he caught Silvier out of the corner of his eye. She was about to go for round two, he knew her all too well.

"Damien Dreadfire is dead. Long live the Alliance," Silvier cried out. Then, with one simple look at Lord Hyperion and her retinue and a turn of her heel, she departed with her head held high.

Oh no you don’t, Nathan thought to himself as he signaled his Knight of Ducks down, and directed him with a whisper to “inform Silvier that she will want to stay until after I’ve spoken.” Ser Rolli nodded, and went off to catch Silvier and inform her of this.

The next speech followed shortly afterward. "I am Stratos Alexis Villa of Remus, child of Mars, Gothic by birth and Aumanii by the grace of God!" There was a murmur now, that faded into silence. Then she tossed a dagger onto the table before her.

How interesting…

"We've come here to the honored hall of our fathers and what have we done?" She stared at the other lords. "We have bickered and fought amongst ourselves. Made demands of our fellow Lords and threatened one another, we have stormed out!" Her arm unfolded in the general direction of the door.

Oh don’t worry, she’ll be back…

"This talk has accomplished nothing because no one came to this place seeking dialogue. No Lord among you is here in the name of fraternity, no one of you has offered solutions to the problems plaguing our lands. This... This triple entente claims that they have done what was necessary to save this alliance and the solutions proffered dishonor us all... Brother wars! We have allowed a Dien to disgrace us all by sailing our waters and utilizing armed force upon the Scands. For all their faults and failings, they are still a part of of us, not apart from us and this is the holiest of all truths. They have strayed from the path of the righteous, this is true and it is on us to bring them justice. A Goth's justice!" Villa then cast her gaze upon Damien.

"We all understand the importance of this place. Your grandfather led this region through the age of alliance and saved everyone here from domination by foreign powers... But you are not him. You cannot sit here and fling your ire like snot from your nose, expecting it to stick. Do you have a plan? You speak sweet words about the old ways of blood and fire and scorn us all for taking up arms against our brothers... How do you plan to restore our glory? How do you plan to lead us? How do you plan to end these wars and bring the Kravenites and the Scands to heel? I will follow you and all of our brothers into the depths of hell, on that I'll swear an oath in blood, right here and right now!" She snatched the blade from the table and cut a little too deep into the palm of her hand, raising it for all to see. The blood ran free and smooth, staining the sleeve of her jacket. I will fight alongside my brother Lords. I will never shed your blood as long as we shed it for each other! So long as we can stop these brother wars and restore the honor of Gholgoth." After Villa spoke, Nathan noticed the dagger on the table once more.

Ok, maybe now’s my time…

“Blood and Fire!” A Dephirian shouted in the room as he walked through the threshold. “That is what your Lord of Lords has demanded!”

…Or not…

The Dephirian’s boot steps clanked loudly against the stone floors. “You dare deny the very man who founded our alliance his command?!”

…Hard to defy a man that’s been dead for years…

The Dephirian continued. “What happened to your honor? What happened to your pride? The Blood Oath was the sacred bond we all swore nigh a decade ago. Yes, we’ve lost brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers since that time, but we had always remained one alliance! I spoke to you plainly before. All of you are nothing but words backed by empty promises. Let me shed some light to the perseverance of the Dephirian people. While you sat back and talked, we were building. While you grieved we were enduring. While you worked on your paperwork, we were deploying. Citadel City was attacked and we amassed a military power to strike back. Not in defiance to the blood oath, but in defense of it!”

The Dephirian looked to the remaining lords in attendance, then looked to Damien. “I have over forty-five thousand ships sailing through Mille Mortifere at this very minute on its way to Shen Almaru to liberate it from Scandivan hold. This is the price they must pay for an attack on their fellow Gothic Lord. More will join from Dephirian territories in the coming months. It is my goal to flood Shen Almaru with enough of my might that Lord Fenric releases his hold on the Pudite home. Peacefully would be the most ideal, but we know he won’t simply surrender anything to dres’nalar’.”

Fury gauged the room, then saw the Crone and Adam Halsley. “Hmm, you seem to be salivating through that mask of yours, reaper.”

“Oh? Why wouldn’t I be? You Lords are tempting me to count my chickens before they hatch. The back and forth bickering is also quite amusing. I mean no offense and humbly apologize if I have offended thee. Just remember that Fenric’s people have given me a most generous helping of… Well, that does not concern you. Please, continue with your speech. It seems everyone has one.” The old figure appeared to yawn.

…I won’t have a speech, you old hag…

The Dephirian sighed, “This alliance with you, Lord Dreadfire, is the Alliance. I declare that abomination of the reforms moot without your blessing. If that is so, then I shall continue my allegiance to the Blood Oath I swore. If you declare my liberation of Shen Almaru as equally damning, then I shall give the order to stand down.”

He looked up to Damien once more, and then the Dephirian removed his helmet. The irises of his eyes glowed a bright shade purple. Ah, just like my in-laws…

“If you command me to strike down those who defied you, then that is an order I will fulfill until my last dying breath. As was my Oath to this alliance. As was my promise to uphold Justice! Behold, mine anger and my fury shall be poured out upon this place, upon man, and upon beast, and upon the trees of the field, and upon the fruit of the ground; and it shall burn, and shall not be quenched.”

Well said. At this point, Nathan simply had had enough. He was tired of the speeches, tired of the posturing, tired of the chest pounding. It was a bunch of women, children and politicians endlessly braying like assess. Ok, now is the time…

At last, Nathan rose from his seat, having been silent since arriving. No more, for he cleared his throat and addressed Damien. “Greetings, Dreadfire. We haven’t met yet. Allow me to introduce myself.” Turning to his side he pointed at his herald off on the other side of the room, who wasn’t expecting to be pinged. The herald hastily butted the end of his staff into the floor and cried out the Executor’s name and titles.

“May I present His Imperial Majesty Nathan, Fourth of His Name, Executor of Gholgoth, Warden of the South, Emperor of Ghant, High King of the Ghantar, King of Low Ghant, King of Dienghant, King of Gholghant, Lord of Zahaghant, Lord of Gholgoth, Lord of Ghish, Lord of Gaztelua and Protector of the Realm.”

The Executor nodded curtly, and then looked at Damien with a blank expression, and spoke calmly, though firmly. “I usually speak last. I don’t have any speeches for you, no pleas, no stories, no offers, no appealing to emotion or sentiment.”

Nathan was known informally as the Gunslinger among his people, for his decision making process. He was very much a man that shot from the hip, in the heat of the moment. That’s how he worked, and maybe that’s why he was Executor now, because he was willing to surprise anyone and everyone with his peculiar methods of leadership and service.

If they didn’t now it then, they’ll know it now…

“I’m the Executor of Gholgoth, whether you like it or not. You want what I have, to be like your grandfather. Okay then.”

The Executor was a strict adherent to tradition. One of these traditions consisted of keeping one gauntlet on the belt, just in case it was needed to issue a challenge. It was Nathan’s ancestral gauntlet, passed down the line of his house for a thousand years, and seldom was it used.

It’s time had come. Nathan removed his ancestral gauntlet from his belt and threw it on the floor at Damien Dreadfire’s feet. At that moment, Nathan’s men gasped, even the most stalward of them. “I, Nathan, Executor of Gholgoth, challenge you, Damien Dreadfire, to single combat. If you submit me, I shall remove the chains of my office and put them in your hands, and I shall on bended knee offer you my crown and lay my ancestral sword at your feet and swear myself to your service.”

Nathan cocked his head then, and added, “but if I win, this charade ends, and you submit to me and acknowledge me as Executor of the Gothic Alliance, or not, but either way, the only blood that will be shed will be between you and I, right here and now, Damien Dreadfire. So what’s it going to be?”

The Executor waited for Damien’s response. Nathan thought that either Damien would refuse the challenge and appear a coward before all the Gothic Lords to see, or he would accept the challenge and Nathan would surely defeat him. For Nathan was twice Damien’s age, and therefore in his mind, surely was twice as skilled with a blade. Twice the killer too, I’d imagine. It was a bold play, but then again, Nathan was a bold man, one who was willing to stake his personal honor for what he believed in. Which is why I threw down the Gauntlet…

The Chains of Gholgoth encircle me, I wear a crown of swords,
I live and die for honor, to serve the Gothic Lords
My hand is dipped in silver and my cape a golden fern,
I could be hardly breathing and for lily pools I yearn.
Might one attempt to sabotage, I challenge thee a duel,
for none I call a brother would go against my rule.
You see, I am a leader, in more than many ways,
looking over peers with a prevailing mighty gaze.
A pretty word I'd give to you, should you come about,
my tongue it drips of thousands of lovers' long fought droughts.
But could you guess intention, with your mindset dauntless?
The time for child’s play is over, let’s throw down our gauntlets...

[Automagfreek]

Damien sat and listened to the other Lords make their rebuttals with indifference. Though some positive offers were made towards the Warlord, the atmosphere in the room was resoundingly a negative one. The meeting was deteriorating as he had expected it to, though the demands for single combat came as a surprise to him. While Dreadfire had a slight look of amusement, the Lord Reaver was having none of it. The threats had visibly agitated him to the point where polite silence would not be an option.

"What mighty warriors you are to challenge someone who has barely left their teen years. If such bravery is any indication of your leadership, then I'm sure you can rest easy knowing your armies would be adequate enough to best a nursing home full of geriatrics." Valerin laughed and spat his contempt.

The meeting had taken a turn after Silvier had abruptly left, though Nalur had tried his best to salvage the situation. But with open threats laid bare, the Lords awaited Damien's inevitable response. He paused for a few moments, content to make the others in the room wait a while longer. The thought of putting a lifetime of Sentinel program training on exhibition was tempting to him, but he decided that his point would be better made with words as opposed to fists and blades.

"You're missing my point, Atticus. You speak of Freekish silence as if it were indifference, but what you fail to realize is that after my grandfather's death, there was no central leadership to speak of. There was literally nobody there to answer the phone. There was no plan for succession. The rest of the Dreadfire family was dead, either by natural means or by the hands of others. So when Damien fell, the Empire fell with him. The only things keeping this nation together were the tribal chieftains, united only in their grief and loss of identity. Damien Dreadfire wasn't a man. He was every man. And it wasn't until I was old enough to step out of the shadows that we as a people found ourselves again. And after we had united once more, we as a people were ready to resume our role as the vanguard of Gholgoth. This Chamber is a symbol of honor, pride, and responsibility to we Freeks. And you all took that from us. We were first among equals, and we never wavered to keep the outside world at bay. By the blood and treasure of our people, all your lands were kept safe."

With a pang of bitterness, Damien lowered his gaze for a second.

"And with what was said in this Chamber today, there is little choice left. You have disrespected and mocked House Dreadfire and its people on our own soil. It cannot be overlooked."

Damien reached over to his phone which had been sitting face down on the table. Slowly he turned it over, revealing the screen to be lit with an app actively running.

"Our people will not tolerate this slight, and now they have heard it from your own lips. There can be no denying it."

The meeting in its entirety was being live-streamed, though only the audio had been broadcast. Every news outlet in Automagfreek would doubtlessly be carrying the transmission. Damien glanced over at Valerin with a clever half-grin, then looked back at the Lords and made as if to speak once more. But within moments, Vlad Shadowclaw burst into the room flanked by a squad of Sentinels. The Rigante jumped at the disturbance and prepared to defend the chamber to the death, but upon seeing the Freekish Chief of Staff they stood down.

Vlad was holding a tablet that showed live reporting from the Empire's largest media outlet, Freekish News Network. He showed it to the Lords with great concern. Though the audio was muted, the broadcast pictured throngs of armed and ravenous Freeks heading towards the Council Chambers. The network pundits speculated that the mob was nearly fifty thousand in size, and growing by the second.

"If you value your lives, then I suggest this meeting adjourn and you make for the helipad immediately. The whole Empire has heard what has transpired here, and they're out for blood. Transport helicopters are standing by to take you and your people to ULE International, and I suggest you leave the Empire at once. The Sentinels are as likely to hold this crowd back as they are to join them. Within an hour or two this whole city will be converging here."

Damien Dreadfire gave a helpless shrug in reply, then crossed his arms defiantly.

[Anagonia]

CSS Jupiter
Lexington-class Anagonian Battlecarrier
Anagonia Ocean; 120 Nautical Miles West of the Anagonian Mainland; escorting Civilian Cruise Liner Timpathia to International Waters

Franklin had been relaxing for the majority of the day. Vice President Edmond Goff, an older gentleman hailing from the marshlands of the Sovereign Republic of Liberty and a traditionalist at heart, had just concluded a live webcam report of his activities over the course of the last twenty-four hours. The beginning of the conversation had been formal, polite, and to business. During the absence of the President, the Confederacy was operating normally; two sovereign territorial challenge cases submitted to the Supreme Court of the Confederacy by the states of Lexington and Imperius, a massive wreck and pile-up on Interstate 1 leading into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics of Nodea Ruydav that threatened a bulk of land-travel trade, a militia of citizens that challenged the authority of the Confederate government was again addressed successfully by the Military Police. Overall, it had been a good day.

Until Edmond had concluded the conversation with, "Turn on the news." It had been a polite change of topic, subtle, but the emotional strain was clear. The signs on the face was clear, also. This was something the President needed to see.

The majority of the Lexington-class Battlecruisers, beginning with the CSS Enterprise, incorporated not only the traditional VIP suite that the Captain of the ship would sometimes utilize for himself, but also an Executive Officer suite that was intended for visiting dignitaries. This was located on deck below the VIP suite and situated right below it, saving space for future refits should it become necessary; considering the Lexington-class was officially the ship-of-the-line for the Confederate Navy, that was unlikely. In this Executive Suite, Franklin relaxed, or had been prior to watching the live broadcast from the Anagonian News Network which was showing news from Automagfreek and, apparently, a live replay of events from the meeting - the meeting of Lords that Franklin had opted to ignore. It turned out to be a very wise political move for the President of the Confederacy, having his name not mentioned in this apparent fiasco, having his credibility tarnish that of the Confederate States. He noted the ANN source having a bit expressing things to that extent, how the President had chosen to attend to the troops rather than a call to arms.

If the politicians in Anagonia could set their salaries and events in the world added to that, Franklin would have been a rich man. As it was, the people decided that based on performance, and Franklin deduced he was well overdue for a pay raise.

Money aside, this was also a very ominous situation for the Confederacy. As Franklin lay in his statesroom bed, a quaint single-wide bunk in a room about the size of the above VIP suite with all the comforts of home - a couch, restroom, shower, desk with computer, personal items, flower post - his mind was on the matters of the Alliance, Pax Gothica in particular. Anagonia had invested billions in their section of Pax Gothica, making it practically a home away from home, a visage of peace and tranquility in a land of war and chaos. It was one of the reasons why the Confederate Navy had insisted on regional and extra-regional trade protection patrols, fleets specifically dedicated to ensuring the continued commerce to the Confederate seat at Pax Gothica and the homeland further south-west of the place. With so much tied into this affair of the Alliance, so much invested - admittedly perhaps more minor compared to other nations involved - the recent media circus being displayed now would almost assuredly ruin that. There was no escaping the fact that the people of Anagonia were now furious, he knew it in his bones. He saw it on his best friends face, Edmond Goff.

The people of Anagonia had always courted the Freekians with a distant admiration. Before the fall of the United Republic, some of the international situations to transpire were directly a result of that admiration; wars, incursions, peacekeeping, and all that sort of thing. It was surmised that at the time of Chief Governor Dunan Ruu's demise in authority, he himself had been courting the Gothic Lord seat by declaring an invasion of Gholgoth to show his true power. None of that was confirmed, and any power confirmed was notically not considering the fall of the United Republic. In the end the seat of a Gothic Lord fell to an elected official, the authority passed on from President to President via a secret book kept between them, notes littering pages of protocol and conduct and responsibilities; a very important booklet journal that each and every President of the Confederacy kept with them.

At the thought of this booklet, Franklin reached onto the small nightstand to place his hands on it. He brought it up to his line of sight, adjusting the lamp behind him to shine its light on the thing, the cover worn and used over the many decades of its existence, golden lettering etched eternally on the cover - "Protocol of the Gothic Lord of Anagonia". A slight few fingers passing over the words, a feeling of connecting with his predecessors, then he opened it.

The first page was a page of credits. "Started by Tiberius Samsus," Franklin read aloud. "For the posterity of command, and the authority it brings."

A moment of silence as he thought over the importance of that statement. Then another page turned, then another. Notations from various Presidents as he reviewed Anagonia's interpretation of what a Gothic Lord was supposed to mean. Many of that had been established during their time with Alliance, but the majority of it was heavily influenced by the teachings and conduct of Automagfreek. A lot of it, in fact. Slowly he closed the booklet, putting it away for later review. His hands rested on his chest, eyes gazing at the ceiling as he felt the ship rock.

That lady from the The Ancient Empire of Kylarnatia, he had recognized her from somewhere. She had conducted herself rather admirably comparable to the other counterparts in the Alliance, insofar as the media was portraying it anyway. Her "polite" departure had already sparked a series of off-shoot discussions, much of which Franklin heard as he allowed the flat screen to stay on to ANN, anchors relaying words written out on teleprompters for them to say. There was much on his shoulders as of this moment, his previous decision to flatly stay out of this new rise of Automagfreek now out of the question. What had transpired today would refuse such a response on his behalf, and required some sort of position. He had to speak, had to talk, had to communicate. But he also wanted to communicate with that woman, whoever she had been - he was sure he knew her name. He flicked an eye to the screen, and at that moment her name was on it.

"Caesar Silvier Catherina Silvanus the Fourth," he read aloud. He was ashamed he didn't know it until this day, but he was intrigued. Anagonia being as invested in the Alliance as it was, he wanted to make sure he communicated with her personally on how to move forward with those investments.

In the meantime, however, there was the duty of addressing recent events. Until such time as he conducted and concluding business with the Caesar, something had to be said in the interim. He grunted, lifting himself from his bed, then carefully moving over to the computer; a modern one, flat screen, in-desk keyboard, connected directly to Confederate military satellites. He typed in the appropriate codes to access the diplomatic channels, sending a missive to his Chief of the Department of the Confederate States to relay this outbound. With a quiet intake of breath, then a sigh, he began to type.

---

PRIVATE COMMUNIQUE
TO: Damien Dreadfire, Supreme Warlord of The New Gothic Empire of Automagfreek
FROM: Franklin S. Johnson, President of the Confederate States of Anagonia

BEGIN:

To the Supreme Warlord Damien Dreadfire,

It is with great apologies that I extend our nations lack of presence at your hallowed halls, however upon discovering recent events that have transpired, it would appear that the silence that greeted you from our own end was just. It has been many years, decades even, since Anagonia has sent any form of communication to the Gothic Empire. I am somewhat ashamed that this is to be the first in that long duration silence. I bring with it, however, my utmost respect to your government. Due to recent events, it has been displayed that a probable threat to your security was shown. While it is known your Empire is more than capable of dealing with such things, I wish to extend to you our assurance as your duly appointed Gothic Lord that we shall stand with you should you be attacked. We are obligated, honor bound, to answer that call and we shall do so with due haste and precision.

This is not, unfortunately, a full admission to joining any future campaigns. Anagonia has changed significantly since our two nations last communicated. Our armies would best be suited to continuing our Alliance-led obligations of trade protection, instead of competing in wars we have very little vested interest in. I would like to invite you, in that same context, to permit yourself to visit the Confederacy. I assure you that the children of those children who admired the Freekians from afar still exist, and still is strong. Your visitation to our nation would bring us great honor. I, myself, would be privileged to meet you.

As it stands, unfortunately, I am obligated to my countrymen first. As of this communication I am with my forces as they escort trade through our waters, as is the reason for my absence. In your nations prominent absence our country has invested heavily in the Alliance and Pax Gothica, and we would like to state to you our neutrality in this war of brotherly affairs. We do not seek to take sides in this, rather I reiterate that we have not forgotten our two countries combined histories together, and as stated previously, we are prepared to engage the nation that first attacks you despite our reservations.

To your health and prosperity,
Franklin S. Johnson

END

[The Peninsular]

Colonel Plisker stood up from his seat. "So be it, then. Should you have any other question about us, I am sure your fellow Lords can provide answers.", he replied in a cold tone, before putting his beret back on, taking his tablet and going to the door. He looked around the room one last time. Dreadfire seemed calm on the outside, the other Lords all reacted to the message in their ways. Plisker had to internally fight himself from letting off a snarky comment on the situation. Had someone insulted the Peninsularian president, there would have been demonstrations, but no one would've outright lost control over the situation, he thought to himself. "Anger management, Dreadfire. Look it up.", he simply said, before turning on the heel and calmly walking out of the room.

When he was outside of earshot of the Sentinels, he called his guards, the pilots waiting at ULE Airport and the two drivers in their cars. "We are leaving. Immediately. The Freeks are freaking out over this and forming a veritable lynchmob. We'll meet in front of the hall in two minutes." The affirmatives came through from everyone. "What about the angry mob in front?", one of the pilots asked. "We're making a fast pick-up, not leaving anything here." "Some of them do have guns. Not to mention the Sentinels.", one of the drivers told him. "We'll not shoot.", Plisker told him after some consideration. "This airspace is swarming with fighters, and I'd like to get out of here alive."

As he walked down the halls, and began to hear the footsteps of other Gothic Lords coming out of the chamber, he made another call. The voice of General Glemser answered. "General, please tell me you got hold of that livestream." "I'm afraid not, Colonel. The satellite experienced connectivity issues. At least you didn't divulge any information beyond two simple words, so that is good.", the General answered. Plisker scoffed. "We need to make it clear next time that we need the budget. Cheaping out on a few sats was a bad idea." "Yes, indeed. In the mean time, we'll have to think of something, though luckily no one seems to have taken hold of the hint. Yet." "Let's hope. On another note, the situation's deteriorated. The entire city is in riot mood, so we're leaving asap."

His guards met up with him in front of the massive doors leading outside. Plisker could hear the crowd booing, yelling vulgar comments and a whole lot of threats. "Cars are outside.", the Lieutenant notified him. His eyepiece showed that the dropship was approaching fast. "Alright, we're going in 3... 2... 1... now!" The sounds of the approaching S.T.U.R.M. got louder as the group of nine hurried down the stairs. The crowd's jeering and yelling became exponentially louder as they saw Plisker and his guards, and even louder as the dropship approached. Somewhere, someone fired shots into the air. The dropship descended, and everything went fast. The door to the troop compartment slid open, and the group jumped inside. The two drivers, having gotten ready to run for it, jumped out of the armored sedans and joined them. With an almost sfx-y sounds, the transport clamps at the bottom of the vehicle latched onto the two black cars. "Everyone get yourself seated and buckle up!", one of the pilots yelled, as the dropship engaged its engines to the fullest, and shot back up into the sky, quickly vanishing from view of the still jeering crowd. Joining the two already circling fighters, the Outpost's delegation climbed to altitude, and, shortly after, made their way across the border.

[Havensky]

Atticus was visibly flabbergasted at the current state of events.

“Are we really going to let them...duel? What is this?”, asked Atticus privately to Heart.

“I think that’s up to Lord Dreadfire. It’s his party, not ours.” replied Heart with equal exacerbation as her metallic arm rested on her forehead parting through her red hair.

However, before the two Skyan leaders could say anything further the other shoe dropped. Lord Dreadfire had been broadcasting the whole meeting. It wasn’t actually a big deal to the two Skyans who lived in a world with open meetings acts and a robust free press and just always assumed whatever they said would become public eventually. However, the Skyans still thought it was quite rude and Atticus suspected that the Freekish government never intended this to be productive if they had opted to broadcast the whole thing. Surely, they had to have known how the Lords would respond to such an opening statement? Atticus, in the few moments he had to think before news of the crowds converging on the palace interrupted his thoughts, suspected that the broadcast had been set up specifically to rile up the crowd.

"If you value your lives, then I suggest this meeting adjourn and you make for the helipad immediately."[i]

"So be it." Nathan reached down to pick up his gauntlet, and then he turned to Damien and said "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come." Then he stepped back over towards the Skyans, amd awaited their next move.

It was Heart’s turn to roll her eyes as she threw her hands up in frustration as she saw Colonel Plisker leave. It was counter-productive to end the meeting now. She turned to hear Fury speak.

"If that is your wish, Lord Dreadfire, then I shall stay and accept any punishment your people seek to impose." Fury bowed, unsheathed his sword and handed it to the nearest Sentinel. He looked around the room before returning to his chair and sat down for the first time since his arrival. "I await my judgement."

Queen Heart groaned at the absurdity of the situation.

“Lord Dreadfire, with all due respect we still have business to discuss. I mean, to me this meeting was just now getting started. That’s how these things always work. One side lays out their issues, the other side lays out theirs, and we yell at each other for an hour or two till we get to an agreement that makes everyone happy. Besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to engage in hostile negotiations. There was that time at the Vetalian Palace where we had cappers storming the gates. I’m perfectly happy to stick around until we work this out the mob be damned.”

Squall, who had been standing behind Queen Heart and Atticus, stepped behind the pair and put a hand on both their shoulders.

“Your Majesty, while I know you like to ignore regulations I would like to point out that the Diplomatic Envoy Safety Act obligates me to evacuate you and the Prime Minister at this time. I’d also point out that as a Praetor, I have a duty to protect [i]all the Lords and if you stay they will stay and I’m not losing anyone today...Ma’am.”

Heart looked up at Squall with a mix of surprise, indignation and a little bit of pride.

“Are you seriously pulling rank on me??” she asked.

“Yes Ma'am.”, he said as he put on his helmet.

"Well I suppose that settles it," added the Executor as he looked around the chamber. By then Ser Rolli had returned and Nathan informed him that "we're leaving."

Squall raised his voice shifting it from his normally dutiful tone to one of authority.

“Alright people, Dux Imperator Hyperion radioed in on his way to the airport to say that the mob is getting pretty large and unruly. Lord Dreadfire wants us gone so we’re leaving. I’ve dispatched a Skyan helijet that’s big enough for all of us to fit. It’ll be there in one mike. I’ll take point to the helipad. Sir Rolli, do me a favor and watch our six. Every other guard with a lick of sense should form a circle around the Lords. Let’s go everyone - doubletime.”

Heart and Atticus reluctantly stood up to start heading towards the helipad. The Briskan guards started for form a circle around them as Squall started towards Nathan putting a hand on his shoulder.

“That means you too Lord Executor. It’s time to go.”

"You don't have to tell me twice." Nathan was hot on their heels, his men close behind him. He didn't look back into the chamber once he had departed.

OCC

Written with input from Ghant, Dephire, and Kylarnatia

[Delmonte]

Ludovico gestured to the speaker on the mahogany table in front of him and gave a quizzical look to Giannosco and the agent seated alongside him.

“Where did you get this feed from?”

“It’s being broadcast publicly. I... kind of just googled it. You shouldn't use the first couple of links because they're usually ads, but...” Giannosco replied. The two Di Canossa men exchanged blank stares.

“So, anyone can listen to this?”

“Yes, Chancellor.” The Special Police agent injected, “Most people are listening… on social media.”

“And they know this?” Ludovico gestured at the speaker again.

“Only the kid.” The agent said, nodding.

“How is that possible?”

“He’s recording it on his cell phone.”

Ludovico laughed, “Should I make everyone here put their phones in the basket by the door?”

Giannosco laughed at his cousin’s joke. His agent was silent while the lesser officials sitting in the shadows away from the table shifted uncomfortably.

“Wait,” Ludovico went on, “Why wouldn’t someone tell them? I mean, certainly everyone there has cell phones. And they have aides and attendants and such. Why wouldn’t someone tell them, ‘By the way, that kid is recording this entire thing. We’re number two on social media and #GothLeaks is trending.’?”

“Only number two?” Giannosco replied gamingly.

“I don’t think they’d be able to catch up with that video of a cat that thinks it’s a dog that was posted earlier this morning.”

“Good call. I don’t know, it doesn’t really make any sense, does it? You’d think that if this live stream was being broadcast everywhere and, you know, summoned a mob of fifty thousand fucking people as he claims someone would have informed at least one of the other leaders there.”

“Yeah, that just makes sense. And why… why is he being so… arch?” Ludovico wondered.

“Well, we have some theories on the matter. Their culture does not have a lot of literary content, it seems to be almost entirely about the following: black uniforms, talking about blood, talking about fire, and using wood-burning braziers as a light source (in spite of the smoke, the fact that it’s actually not a very good light source compared to electricity, and that it’s a serious hazard particularly given that modern buildings are not designed to accommodate open flame).”

“Architecture?”

“No mention.”

“Well… surely they must have a craft sector of their economy.”

“Probably, it’s not mentioned anywhere. They definitely make a lot of shiny black uniforms and braziers. Those have to come from somewhere.”

“Industry of any kind?”

“Well, if they have it they don’t talk about it, Chancellor. We’ve done as deep an analysis as we could on the incredibly sparse examples we could find. This is a culture where people are almost universally given birth names that are actual words. Things that you and I associate with very low class members of our society who think they’re being clever by naming their child Nevaeh because it’s Heaven spelled backwards. Things like that.”

“Like Dreadfire.”

“Yes, just two words that frighten children sort of… appended. Another great example is Vlad Shadowclaw.”

“No way.”

“It’s true, Vico. That is to say, Chancellor.”

Ludovico grinned and gave his cousin a fond pop on the shoulder with the dossier he held in his hand. “Yes, and don’t forget it!” Giannosco grinned. “I know what they call their largest shore-dwelling city.” Ludovico announced.

“Oh, it’s uhhh…” Giannosco looked through his papers, “It’s probably like Hellfire… Fireburn… Ironhellfire or something. Icefire… Burnfire?”

“I was going to say Port Manteau.”

“Excellent pun, Chancellor.” A voice from the shadows replied. This nameless functionary was trying to move up. Unfortunately for him, trying to move up oftentimes got you moved down. His attempt at standing out earned him the silent wrath of the formless colleagues on either side of him and he sheepishly receded back into the quiet jungle that was the Delmontese bureaucracy.

If he was lucky they would just make him lose his parking space and call it a day.

Like a proper, patriotic Delmontese gentleman should do when addressed by someone below his station, Ludovico blithely ignored the comment. “Continue.” He announced, waving the dossier that was now rolled up in his hand.

“Well, Chancellor. I know how crazy this sounds, but by all estimation… these are a people who do what they do and say what they say primarily because they think it makes them look… cool.”

“I see. Alert our finest misunderstood high school students. We have to bring in the big guns.”

“We’ve looked at records of them talking about having people killed and it’s all just a bit fetishistic and over the top. I mean, you and I have had people killed, right? And we don’t go on and on about it.” Giannosco went on, “It’s a pretty embarrassingly poorly kept secret that the Republic’s noble families are half statesmen, half mobsters.”

“Yes, of course, everyone knows that. Everyone knows that, right? We’re glorified gangsters and we kill people, sometimes for reasons that seem petty?” He looked around the room. Nods and verbal assents went around the room.

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“Of course, Chancellor.”

“Gangsters, sir, of course.”

“Yes.” Ludovico went on, “And obviously we deny it all, right? None of it’s true.”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“Every word a hollow lie, Chancellor.”

“There is no Mafia, we are just patriotic Delmontese businessmen who run the entire government and conduct government business out of our homes to… cut costs or… something. Chancellor.”

“Yes, and the families of any alleged victims of so called "organized" so called "crime" obviously have our complete support while they ask themselves about what the alleged victims may or may not have done to bring their circumstance upon them.” Ludovico stated, flatly, his voice droning with no change in tone or cadence. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Thoughts and prayers.” Giannosco agreed.

“Anyway, does any of this impact us?”

“Sort of. Other than giving late night comedy shows a lot of material, these disturbances somehow have the dangerous impact of making the Delmontese care more about how they are governed.”

“Well, that’s disastrous. Apathy is the bedrock of the Most Serene Republic.”

“Agreed. They think action should be taken and obviously that’s not something we want.” Giannosco continued, “Them thinking, that is. We don’t want that.”

“Right. Trade is what matters. Have the navy visit the most important enclaves. Get me a meeting with the Queen of Ice. And uhm… I don’t know, put out a report saying that the Freeks are harmless on account of how backwards they are. Run the footage of how they still use wood burning as a light source. Primitive, unintelligent. Run with that. Maybe show some pictures of their silly uniforms. Oh, and obviously double down on the disengagement campaigns. We want to project an air of boring, competent, but slightly corrupt governance that isn’t really interesting to hear about anyway. That is our message: Switch to the Weather Channel!”

Ludovico stood. The factotums surrounding him followed suit.

“Yes, Chancellor!”

“Well…” Giannosco began, “What if we offend them? With our report. After all they seem very emotional and not very intelligent. A potentially dangerous combination, particularly if they advance beyond a brazier and uniform based society.”

“Well, apparently these are people who don’t even know when they’re trending on the internet, so I think we’re in the clear. Also, Gianni, are you coming to the Illuminati meeting tonight? My place.”

The lesser bureaucrats were aghast. Surely, if there were a secret society they were not meant to know about it.

“I’m kidding! Jesus!” Ludovico stalked out of the room and tossed his blue sash on a coat rack. “Everyone out of my house, now. My program is on.”

[Jagada]

Chamber of the Gothic Lords
ULE City, Automagfreek

If you value your lives, then I suggest this meeting adjourn and you make for the helipad immediately. The whole Empire has heard what has transpired here, and they're out for blood. Transport helicopters are standing by to take you and your people to ULE International, and I suggest you leave the Empire at once. The Sentinels are as likely to hold this crowd back as they are to join them. Within an hour or two this whole city will be converging here.

The sheer audacity, thought Nalur. He had come from across the region with the intent to defuse the situation and work out some sort of compromise between Dreadfire and the Lords. Dreadfire was meant to be a counter to Silvier and her cabal, and now? Now Dreadfire just shrugged as he unleashed his people against them. Would the original thirteen have stood for this, he thought, maybe they wouldn’t have because they’d have towed the line? The Secretary Supreme wasn’t a narcissist as many claimed, he’d had to bow and beg before, accept being a whipping boy. Those times required it … for the long game he use to tell himself. Bowing before Damien now, and begging for his protection, would be catastrophic. Better to let the mob tear me apart, he mused.

The other Lords began filing out of the room behind Atticus and Squall. Nalur, still standing, looked over his shoulder to Volgus, “Gather the guards, it’s time to go.” Volgus’ typical, barely noticeable, smile wasn’t there. His visage was bland for once, a clear sign of his unease. He nodded and made his way out of the room. Nalur looked back to Dreadfire. His expression was bland, his political mask slipping smoothly over his true face. The Nalur al’Maw that was known back in Gharsash would’ve been stoic, cautious, and chosen his words carefully -- he wasn’t known to be a man of emotion. He’d built that stoic veneer for decades to keep the People confident in his leadership. He had only ever showed his true face when in personal, private meetings like this. This incident had shown him just how foolish that policy was.

“I truly hope this display was worth it, Lord Dreadfire,” said Nalur in a monotone edged with regret, “Lord Vayne.”

Nalur gave a nod in the direction of the Panteran Lord and a final nod to Dreadfire before turning and walking calmly out of the room. Once outside Volgus had already assembled the Janissaries. Their Sentinel counterparts were no doubt eyeing them, but Volgus had the foresight to have them keep their rifles slung.

“We go home Volgus,” said Nalur annoyed, “Next time I’m just going to send you.”

Volgus gave a nervous chuckle. The group began to make their way down the grim hallways of the palace towards the helipad.

[Emperor Pudu]

The Gothic Chamber, ULE City

Dengmu's chest was heaving, his hands trembled and he could feel the sweat trickling down his forehead and under his arms. His breathing was shallow and rapid and he knew his face must be flushed red. If he was lucky it would be mistaken for signs of his apparent wroth, though of course it was more the work of what could probably be described as a panic attack. It was then that Nathan threw down his gauntlet. Dengmu realized he had been standing for some minutes now, and that other Lords had taken the young Dreadfire's attentions off of him. Silvier was gone now, and a Dephirian had arrived. Unsure of what to do, the Pudite emperor listened to the challenge the regional Executor laid at the feet of the Freekish Supreme Warlord. As he listened Dengmu's breathing began to stabilize. He then felt a hand on his shoulder, which caused a sharp intake of breath. It was, of course, his loyal footman Chai Sang.

Dengmu had known Sang for more than twenty years now, though the monk had been in the service of Dengmu's father Shangjun for most of that time. It was only about seven months the man had been in the position he is now, as First Rank bodyguard for the emperor. According to the strictures of his order, Sang would serve in that position for one year before finally retiring, after having spent the previous twenty moving up through the preceding ranks in the emperor's personal guard. There were twenty more brother monks back aboard the Imperial Crane on the tarmac at ULE International that would someday, in their turns, take their place beside the Pantokrat. Today, though, it was Sang who had that honor and just this minute it was his duty to protect the emperor, which included protecting him from himself. The hand on Dengmu's shoulder calmed him, after initially startling him, and the older man turned to face the forty-something monk and they shared a quiet moment. Sang could read the anxiety in his emperor's face, and feel it in his energy as well. He spoke a soft word, “Breathe.”

With Nathan's challenge issued the Supreme Warlord, their host, again began to speak. Dengmu was calmer now, though he still stood, and the Pudite did his best to lay a steely gaze on the young man. He wasn't sure if it would have it's desired effect, but he tried anyway. As Damien spoke about the death of his grandfather and the losses his family suffered Dengmu's mind inevitably turned to his own father, killed by an assassin's bullet; his brother, dead of sickness; his sister, killed in war; his nephew, assassinated. Their successive deaths had shaken his empire too, Dengmu knew. He was never meant to come to the throne, the third child such as he was. It was to be his life to steer the ship of state from the assembly hall of the Shizheng, a statesman among the noble Ambans. He had dedicated his life to legislative work, including his long-sought after project now coming to fruition under his unexpected reign: the Five Points for National Advancement. To be thrust into a leadership position one did not expect and was not prepared for was something Dengmu could understand.

As Damien mentioned the succession once again Dengmu was made to think of his only son, Ming. It troubled him that his first thought of the man was 'where did I go wrong...'. Could Dengmu trust that his reforms, his people, that even his state, would be safe in the hands of his son? Ming wouldn't have come to this meeting, I know that for sure...' Dengmu thought to himself wryly. There was that at least. As Damien came to the end of his reply to Nathan and the other Lords, Dengmu was beginning to regain his composure. Sang gave the Emperor's shoulder one last pat before he returned his hands to the folds of his loose fitting white robe. As Damien lifted the phone to reveal his ploy it seemed to Dengmu as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He was stunned, aghast, disgusted. He almost gave another outburst right then and there, his blood again being up, but he remembered the word his footman had spoken to him. Breathe. Dengmu took a long breath.

Even when the reforms had been put forward and accepted in that last summit of the Lords, that most public facing and good-natured undertaking, cameras and recording devices were not permitted in the chamber during the private discussion of the Lords. If Damien felt the alliance had betrayed him and his nation, then now Dengmu knew that feeling. This whole meeting, Dengmu then reasoned, had been held in bad faith. What was the objective of the young warlord, Dengmu wondered to himself, if from the outset he did not trust that the Lords he was hosting would, or could, refrain from taking offense at the Freek's aggressive dismissal of all the work those Lords had done in the years of the Gothic Empire's isolation. This had been a trap all along, the Pudite emperor decided then. A political stunt which had been orchestrated to perfection, and Dengmu had played right into Damien the Younger's hands.

Now feeling thoroughly beaten, Dengmu had red flashes of violent, dangerous thoughts. He had been humiliated, and now the Freeks would taunt him as he was forced to flee? No, thought Dengmu in this rage-fueled moment, no. He would do as he resolved to do when he stood up to object to the Supreme Warlord's assertions. If Damien would not give him the death he sought in that moment then Dengmu knew there were hordes of Freeks beyond the hall that would feel entierly less restrained. They had heard the angry words of the Pudite Emperor, they knew what he thought of their young leader. Dengmu had no doubt they would not hesitate to tear him to shreds, but at least he wouldn't have to flee. He would do as he resolved to do. He would die for the Alliance.

His thoughts were racing now, visions of him surrounded by jeering Freekish crowds, stumbling, falling to the cobblestones and reduced to a red stain on the streets of ULE City. Perhaps he could leave one or two of them with a scar, something with which to remember the day they slew an emperor. Or, perhaps they would just shoot him as soon as they saw him and drag his body through the streets, making unsightly appearances on national and international news shows that evening. Again Chai Sang seemed to sense his master's unease and this time he stepped into Dengmu's eyeline and placed his hands on his emperor's arms. “You cannot,” was all the monk had to say. Dengmu allowed his eyes to meet those of Sang. He saw in them a deep well of calm, which he tried to draw upon, but he also caught a harder edge to the monk's look that it seemed Sang had failed to hide sufficiently from his emperor. Sang said then, “Though you know I would happily die here beside you, my life is cheap, yours is everything. You must live.” Dengmu merely nodded, somehow disappointed, though whether it was in himself or in his situation was unclear even to him.

Looking around the chamber Dengmu observed the reactions of the other assembled Lords. Most, if not all, seemed to share the Pudite's look of surprise and upset at the revelation of the Dreadfire's little trick. None had yet moved to leave, though it seemed obvious that it was what they must all now do. Dengmu wondered if any of them harbored thoughts similar to his own a moment before. How would they be remembered, a handful of Lords of Gholgoth, gone down fighting an army of enraged civilians. It would be remarkable, whatever side the rememberer was on, though whether it would be heroic sacrifice, futile gesture or comical farce would be up for debate. No, Dengmu was sure, we all must leave this place now. “The helipad,” was all Dengmu said, speaking to Sang in a low tone. The monk then turned toward the door, one arm on Dengmu's back as he walked beside him. There were no more words worth saying, Dengmu decided, he had nothing left to offer this utter disaster of a meeting.

The monk and the emperor wove their way quickly through the decidedly hostile looking ranks of Freekish guards and made their way at a quick pace toward the helipad where they had been assured there would be waiting rescue. Arriving at the place that was indicated Dengmu and Sang were somewhat awkwardly loaded into one of the spartan military helicopters and without word or ceremony, it took off. Dengmu did his best to get a look out the window as they flew over the city, and even with that limited look it was enough to thoroughly unnerve him. The streets seemed to be flowing like a river, a river it seemed to him, of wrath. The ride back over the city was silent. Dengmu did spare a passing thought for the armored sedan that Sang had driven him to the council hall in; that would be lost. Hopefully the Freeks just burned it and nobody bothered to disassemble and inspect the sensitive communications suite and classified armor materials it was outfitted with.

Finally, the wide lanes and blinking lights of the airport came into view. The Freekish pilot seemed to know where he was going, and moments later the helicopter was setting down a hundred meters or so away from the massive, wide-bodied Imperial Crane. It's rear stair, the one most protected from intervening sight-lines, was extended and a gaggle of black-clad guardsmen were seen to be huddling there. As the helicopter touched down they hustled to it's side doors to take possession of their emperor. These half dozen members of the Imperial First Cavalry Horseguard were all the professional bodyguards the emperor was traveling with, and it was unlikely they expected to see even the possibility of action today. Now they were in character, however, taciturn faces and unhesitating movements ushering Dengmu into the center of their cluster of bodies. Repeating coded words over their earpieces, the team bundled Dengmu quickly back to their aircraft and, without saying a word, walked him up the rear ramp and stood sentinel as the stairs were raised and the aircraft was again secure.

Moving through the aircraft, itself more than one hundred and fifty meters long, Dengmu felt the gaze of all of his staff and attendants on him. He stripped off his belt and sabre, tossing them into the hands of an unsuspecting aide. His jacket, he noticed with a smirk, was still unbuttoned and so he finished the job. Unbuttoning and pulling the uniform jacket off, he threw that one over the back of a leather seat as he moved toward his own quarters on the aircraft. In the Imperial cabin Dengmu found the two senior ministers which he had been traveling these last weeks alongside; Zhao Chen, the Chancellor of State and Xian Longji, the Imperial Academian. As their emperor ended both men were seen to shut off tablets they had apparently been watching intently. “So you've heard, then.” Dengmu stated more than he asked. Chancellor Zhao replied, “Quite, my lord. We heard everything.” As Dengmu slumped into a comfortable chair he felt the aircraft begin to move. “Can't get out of here soon enough,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone else. “A drink!” Dengmu called out to no-one in particular, and shortly afterward a glass of whisky appeared beside him. Dengmu drank deeply, finishing with a grimace that it was impossible to know if was a result of the strong drink or the recent happenings.

“It was an ambush, he never meant to actually talk to us. He spoke at us, and we at him.” Dengmu began to speak, “It would have been better if we had not come at all.” At that sentiment Chancellor Zhao let out a discourteous grunt of agreement, for he had been opposed to the trip into Automagfreek from the start. Zhao was silent after that, but Dengmu noticed Academian Xian looked like he had something to say. Finishing his first glass of whisky with a gulp, Dengmu looked to his education minister, “Well, Academian?” At that invitation Xian started abruptly, “The Blood Pact is old, older than Gholgoth, it signifies the brotherhood of some of the earliest founding members of the regional alliance,” Dengmu nodded, waiting to hear something he didn't know while his whisky was being refilled, “This young Dreadfire now seems to feel he has lost the pride of place his nation once had at the head of Gholgoth. In recent years of course the alliance has been one of relative equals, but that was not always the case. We heard Damien use the phrase 'first among equals' for a reason. We no longer make that distinction in modern Gholgoth,” Dengmu began to sip at his drink. “Now with Damien having effectively pulled out of the alliance his grandfather founded, and with his falling back to the older, more conservative Blood Pact allies, it is a signal that Damien still seeks international legitimacy even as he decries the new Gholgoth as illegitimate.”

”So what does that mean,” Dengmu questioned. “It means,” Xian continued, “That this is not a lost cause. Damien may take action in the near future against the Gholgothic alliance. Not military action, I think, but certainly harsh diplomatic action is to be expected. The language and attitude of ULE City will be decidedly hostile for some time, but it won't mean a return to isolationism. The beast has awoken, to return to your metaphor at our arrival. If Damien is looking to rebuild an alliance for himself then he will start by rousing his Pact allies. The Panterans already appear to be on board. Crimmond is next. Other, more conservative, old-guard nations may follow. Artitsa, Novacom, these are the sorts of nations we might see staking out a position on this incident next. It is going to create two rival Gothic alliances.” Dengmu again took a thoughtful sip of his whisky, “So, will there be a war?” the emperor asked. Xian was less certain of this, “Whenever you have two large blocs of powerful nations struggling for influence and position in the same spheres then of course conflict is possible, perhaps even likely, but I'd wager Damien's rhetoric about Goths fighting Goths will continue to hold him at bay for now. Even if he does discount the legitimacy of the new alliance, many of those who claim membership in that alliance are old, respected Goths. We were this close to having a Drakonian Executor of the alliance, for example. Sambizie has very close ties to the Imperium Antiquum. These are Goths whose pedigree Damien cannot discount, yet who are likely to continue to support the new regime, or at least prominent members thereof. It may be enough to prevent a war.”

As the large airliner gained altitude Dengmu turned again to look out the window at the receding vision of the Freekish capital. From here it looked much the same as it had on their arrival, though Dengmu knew much in fact had changed. “In any case,” the emperor said, “I don't expect we'll be making any state visits to Automagfreek any time soon.” The party settled into an uneasy silence then for an hour or more, Dengmu still visibly nervous as long as the aircraft was inside Freekish airspace. They were bound again for Mille Mortifere, to the ersatz Pudite supply base that had been established nearby to Port Imperial. As they flew, by now well outside the Freekish air defense zone, Dengmu picked up the satellite phone that was installed in the counter top beside his seat and began turning the receiver over in his hand. “Dial the palace,” Dengmu said then, “I want to speak to my son.” As the staff prepared the connection, Dengmu again let his gaze turn out the window and over the wings of the Crane.

It was then that the wing exploded.

[Lamehk]

Private Meeting Room, Blackspine Fortress
The City of Vaulkhar, Lamehk

The man sat awkwardly in the chair before Lorkahn's desk as the silence continued. He was a large, muscular man, with long, dark brown hair hanging loosely to his shoulders, a french fork beard and a long scar running down his left cheek. He was undoubtedly a cold blooded murderer. In any other situation he would be a dominating presence, but here, he was a timid schoolboy in the principals office.

'Lord?' he questioned trepidly.

As if oblivious to the question, or even presence of the man, Lorkahn Malus stood at a window, gazing out over the city of Vaulkhar far below the mountain side fortress that was his ancestral home. In what was almost a natural phenomenon in Lamehk, the sun had temporarily broken through the thick cloud cover and Lorkahn watched as its radiance danced across the urban sprawl that covered the mountains foothills, occasionally taking sips of the cognac he was holding.

The man appeared torn. He couldn't stand the silence and was sure he wanted to be anywhere else but equally sure that he was in no position to be imposing upon his Archon's patience given the unfortunate cause of the meeting. Finally, when impatience won out over better judgement, he spoke again.

'If I may, Lord,' he began, but then fell silent as Lorkahn immediately turned away from the window.

'You may not.' Lorkahn crossed the room and placed his drink down upon the corner of the desk. 'I'm disappointed Zadec of House Kaldath. I'm not unreasonable, am I? I elevated your House, I elevated you to Exarch, and asked very little in return. Yet here we are.'

Sweat was now visibly glistening on the Zadec's brow and he suddenly began to miss the silence. He made as if to speak, but no sounds emerged. Lorkahn raised an eyebrow inquisitively, waiting. Before the impasse could be resolved however, the door to the meeting room burst open and Serana Malus, Lorkahn's ever brazen daughter strolled into the room, laughing.

'You have to see this, father!' she exclaimed, as her laughter ended and she sighed contentedly.

'Could it have waited?' asked Lorkahn, turning his attention to his daughter but not missing the slight sign of relief on Zadec's face at the interruption.

Serana shrugged, holding out a tablet for her father. 'Probably.'

Lorkahn shook his head faintly but took the device from her.

'You can go,' said Lorkahn, waving his other hand dismissively as he held up the tablet and started looking over the contents on the screen. Coverage of the leaked discussions coming out of Automagfreek and the subsequent hasty departure of many of the Gothic Lords.

Ignoring all concepts of personal space, Serana sidled up to Zadec, and then leaning in close, whispered into his ear. 'He's talking to you, fool.'

A mixture of indignation and fear, Zadec backed away and made rapidly for the door. Lorkahn's voice trailed after him as he went. 'Fix your mistake quickly, or I will.'

'So?' queried Serana, circling the desk and plonking herself down in her fathers chair, feet resting upon the desk top. 'Almost a shame you ignored the whole thing now, that would have been quite the show to see in person.'

Lorkahn swapped the tablet for his drink again, and then returned to the window. The sun was gone and the land dwelt in shadow again. 'You didn't miss anything,' he told his daughter, 'like moths they went to the flame and then got burned, who knew? The real show is what follows. Ready my plane.'

[Automagfreek]

The massive crowd of Freeks had swelled to over a hundred and twenty thousand by the time they arrived at the steps of the Council Chambers. Traffic within the city had ground to a halt, and Sentinel forces were reluctant to do much of anything about it. At the front of the mob was a man known as Garegel, a controversial figure who led the Temple of the Dawn, more commonly known as the 'Dreadfire Cult'. Alongside him were hundreds of devout cultists, each armed with a variety of firearms and melee weapons. As they approached the steps of the ancient temple, long since converted and known as the Council Chambers, the Sentinels manning the outer perimeter stood down.

"Search the area and find them!" Garegel cried out loudly, a crazed and frenzied look about him.

As scores of his cultists ascended the steps and prepared to breach the outer doors, they opened suddenly and swiftly. Out stepped Damien Dreadfire, flanked by half a dozen Sentinels, and the Lord Reaver and his Rigante. The mod erupted into chaos, some cheering their Supreme Warlord while others roared and bayed for blood. Lord Dreadfire raised his hands to silence the crowd, and gradually a hush fell over the Freekish hoard.

"My people! You have heard it with your own ears. The Alliance, which our Empire has given so much to build and protect, has turned their backs on us. No longer are we the revered vanguards of Gholgoth. Silvier and her lackeys have usurped our rightful place at the helm of the Alliance, and as you have heard for yourselves, she has declared House Dreadfire to be dead!"

Damien's words whipped the mob into a visible frenzy, and he again attempted to silence their cries.

"I promise you this, sons and daughters of the Empire; they will rue this day. No longer shall Freekish blood and treasure be spent to protect any of those who have disrespected us inside of our own home! We will not bow and scrape before these so-called 'Lord's'. We will not sit in Pax Gothica, their house of blasphemy. And we will not seek to mend the ties that they have severed so brazenly. From this day forth, our destiny is our own, alongside our brother Reavers and any Lord who still remains true to the vision of the original thirteen! Go now, return to your homes and tend to your families. Should the Alliance seek to provoke our wrath, then we must be prepared."

"Long live Lord Dreadfire!" Garegel shouted, to the raucous approval of the Freeks. He and his cultists then swarmed the Council Chambers and began to search the grounds for any Lord that still remained. Their efforts proved fruitless, as everyone had been safely evacuated once Damien's scheme had been revealed.

Damien turned and entered the Council Chambers once more, his entourage close behind. Once inside, he dismissed them and made his way towards the hall where the days' events had played out. The room was now quiet save for the crackling of the large wood fire at the center of the table. He stood and pondered for a moment what his next actions would be, though he was interrupted by Garegel shortly after.

"My Lord." The cultist said, bowing low and averting his eyes.

Garegel was perhaps the only man that made him uncomfortable. They had met several times to partake in ceremonies intended to "honor his ancestors and channel their strength", as Garegel put it, though the bizarre rituals seemed far darker and more sinister than he was letting on.

"What may I ask are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your... people?" Damien asked hesitantly.

"I came to offer my congratulations. You defended the honor of your people well and cemented yourself as a strong leader. There is a fire inside of you, I can sense it even now." Garegel looked curiously at Damien and smiled sinisterly.

"I'm not sure what came over me in there. For a moment I was ready to kill each and every one of them where they stood. I've never felt such... rage in my life." Damien replied.

"What do you remember?" The cult leader asked, his excitement clearly growing by the moment.

"It felt as though I was watching myself, from the outside. It's difficult to explain. There was a certain familiarity about the whole affair as well, something I can't quite put my finger on."

Garegel's hands then clasped firmly around the sides of Damien's head. Leaning in close until their noses nearly touched, he stared deeply into the black abyss of Dreadfire's eyes as if he were searching for something. He squinted, then gasped in alarm as the blackness gave way to a swirling red haze. Within the darkest recesses of Damien's pupils, the crimson cloud danced about briefly before fading into nothingness. Garegel smiled, then whispered softly. "Welcome home, my Lord."

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OOC: Satori is now finished. The next thread is linked here.