Dieu et mon Droit [IC/Invite Only]

[Caltarania]

Dieu et mon Droit

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OOC | Map

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It has been six million years since Maerios, God of the Earth, forged - from nothing - the mortal world of Acheron. Since then, other Gods have made their mark on the - at first - lifeless planet. Khasku, Goddess of the Sea, coaxed the world in a layer of ocean, allowing the Gods of Life and Nature used their combined force to end the reign of death and bring life to the desolate rock. They were followed by Celestius, God of Knowledge, who took it upon himself to alter the life forms created by the two other Gods to create a race of intelligent beings. The other Gods, too, soon followed the lead of Celestius and used their own skills, in some cases knowledge stolen from Celestius' Library, to create their own followers. Nations formed, and now they look up to the Gods once more for guidance.

[Liecthenbourg]

Incendius
The Capital City of the Draconian's was impressive indeed, a sprawling city built upon a large plateau of rock that formed a crescent shape within the volcano - above the seas of lava that provided the Draconian's their warmth and comfort. The heat from the volcano was essential; it heated water for baths, provided the source of the flames for the meals that required it, provided the heat for forging and so forth. The city's buildings were built of the strongest stone and water had been diverted into the city via aqueducts for practicality and use, it trickling down specially crafted sections that were situated alongside the immense steps of the city that led up the Grand Temple of the Order of Ignis, a huge structure which served as the seat of the Government of the Draconians, the seat of the Head of the Order of Ignis as he presided over his people and gave them insight into how Dracognis viewed them this day. Along the outside of the volcano, the fertile lands typical of such a location, did the Draconians have their immense farms that grew crops galore.

One would think a territory like this would be incredibly dangerous to live in, and they would not be wrong. This was the only city in the Draconian Hegemony that did this, all the rest gathered their preferred heat sources from hot springs, natural warm air vents and even several desert towns. But the sons of Dracognis had faith in their deity, he would not turn his back upon his people and cause them harm with an eruption. However, the reptilians themselves could never truly be certain of this and thus... had their ways of appeasing the noble God.

Battered knees were dragged across the floor, knees of a man who's head was held low as his arms were held by two great chains. These chains were pulled by two Guardians of the Flame, the Guards of the city of Incendius. Both reptilians were armoured from head to two in incredibly heavy plate, their wings being only protected by chainmail that limited movement substantially less than the plate that was originally designed for the suit of armour. They continued advancing, occasional groans of pain escaping the dried lips of their prisoner as he was not accustomed to the heat.

"Quiet you!" one of the Guards hissed, yanking the chain in his hands forcefully, causing the man to stumble onto the floor. He held his tongue as the pain rushed through him before the journey continued.

He was dragged for what seemed like hours and with blindfolded eyes his vision grew weaker and weaker, longing to see the light. Soon, he heard the rustling of keys and felt his arms be relieved of a burden. That was before he felt a taloned hand push him against the floor. Suddenly the man heard a knife being drawn from its scabbard and soon he was being held upright again. His eyes could slowly make out the knife as it headed towards them. Though he knew it would do nothing, he shut them instinctively and hoped for the best. To his relief, the next sound he heard was the ripping of cloth and the sheathing of the knife - he blinked, his eyes becoming accustomed to the bright light of the inner volcano.

And that was when he noticed it; he was no longer on the rock he had been dragged across but instead he was being held in a giant metal cage, suspended by a system of pulleys just infront of a large overhang. He screamed internally, having not the courage to be vocal about his fears. This was interrupted however, as his tired eyes looked forward, down the overhang towards a large crowd of individuals. Individuals watching him. A silence followed, only broken by the bubbling of the lava down below (Quite a drop, might I add). Breaking the silence were the footsteps of a unique individual, even for a species of lizards. He was tall, frail and wearing an immense cloak of white adorned with a large red dragon upon the chest area. The figure's head was adorned with a great ceremonial hat, crafted to look like a mitre made of flame. He held onto a great bejewelled staff with a dragon perched at the top in his left hand and in the crook of his right arm he held a book. Within a few minutes, the elderly figure had approached the pedestal on the overhang.

With a quick movement of his jaws and a flaring of his nostrils the Head of the Order of Ignis placed the book down upon the pedestal. His reptilian eyes seemed hungry and they scanned the human inquisitively before his hand slammed against the open page of the book. The man merely gulped, staring at the Head of the Order, a look of plead on his face. The Draconian ignored him, his teeth forming a grin as he began to read aloud the words from the book. Within a few minutes he neared the end of his speak of scripture.

"... And Dracognis gave us our fire for our lives and thus, we must give back to him the fire of another."

The Human's eyes widened once more, he attempted to speak but could say nothing. He attempted to break free from his holding but to no avail. He prayed to his God and yet it fell upon deaf ears. The Head of the Order, who was known to his people as Tyranus cackled slightly as he drew forth his ceremonial blade and slashed at the rope suspending the cage. "AND WE MUST CAST THEM INTO A FIERY PIT!" Within a few seconds the rope had flown forward, moving past the pulleys that held it rapidly before breaking free, causing the cage to fall down below. A final scream was heard, it grew quieter and quieter before the bubbling of the lava intensified and Tyranus addressed his people.

"Let the Fires of the Unworthy be returned to Dracognis!"

[Photana]

Somewhere in the Domain of the Ghul Hordes

The vast clearing was covered in pinkish-grey bodies, but this was not the site of a battle. Vultures gathered overhead, but a war had not be fought. The bodies stir from their rest, open their black-eyes to what they were watching over. In the center of this circle, a man stood. He was one of their kind, a Ghul of the God of Change, but different. He was taller than them, even as the tallest stood up, they still stood in his shadow. He was unchanged, shared little but body with his brethren that stood around him, but something radiated from him, not physically, but the closer that a Ghul could get, the bolder he felt.

They knew what this meant.

Their Lord, The Greater Daemon of Change, The Great Motivator, The Beast of a Thousand Mouths, Uhg-Shuulmith, had blessed them with his Avatar.

He needn't speak, for the Ghuls surrounding him bowed to his will immediately. He was an Avatar of their God, was he not?

As he walked forward, towards a large hill in the distance, his Ghuls followed, without a command. The enchantments on their bodies glowed purple, as did their eyes. This march was noticed by other bands of Ghul nearby, and they too join the march behind the Avatar of the God. By the time the procession reaches the base of the Hill, it stretches a mile back, three ranks wide. As the Avatar marched up the hill, his reason for coming here became clear. Enchantments of purple and gold, symbols to the God of Change, lay scattered everywhere. Charmed Wards lit themselves up for this procession, as they ascended the path that was ascended only once in many generations.

At the top of the hill, a large stone circle, each stone runed, warded, enchanted, and hexed, stood silently glowing in the fast dying light. The stones lit up as the Chosen approached them, throwing purple and gold into the night sky, and into the eyes of the Ghuls that had followed Him here.

The Avatar walked calmly into the center of the circle, lifted his hands into the sky, and within seconds, was consumed within a beam - a beacon. It shot miles into the heavens, high enough that even the farthest traveled band of Ghuls could not see it. The beacon called them. It yelled to them, assaulted their sense of sight with it's chaotic light changes, and this beacon told all the Ghul one thing, and one thing alone.

Their God had work for them.

[Caltarania]

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Moviskis Veiaiis

The bustling capital of the Elven Confederation was quite a sight to behold. Built of stone bright white, it was a testimony to the power of the elves; to the power created when knowledge is combined with magic. The city was one of the first of it's size built on Acheron. The stone was mined and cut by Dwarves from the west, with the white finish being added by Elven magic. It was built by and for the Elves, using an immense amount of magic channeled from the minds of thousands of Elves. It soon became home to Celestius and his Library, and that is from where the city draws it's name. Moviskis Veiaiis; the Great Library. It became known as the capital for that fact, but in reality that title is nothing more than for bragging rights. Each city in the Confederation has it's own governance and way of law. Rynaevha, for example, was a city that was run by, and trained, warriors. Young girls are taken and put through rigorous training to become Rynaevhan Spearmaidens; the most feared of all the Elven soldiers.

As Dawn broke, the head women of the families set off for their work. Soldiers, politicians, shopkeepers. In a matriarchal society such as this one, most of the high profile jobs were performed by women with men being an unorthodox but common sight in most professions. Only in farming are males the dominant gender. Researchers and scientists are evenly split; the thirst for knowledge can never be ignored, gender is irrelevant. The politicians entered their debates, with the Observer Magisterial watching over them. She never did quite like politics; she was only in this position due to her being the most intelligent among the Elves, and her special connection with the Scholar. Indeed, Aenda Seren simply listened to the bickering of the oligarchs of Moviskis Veiaiis and nodded. She wished that this bland day to day routine would end; a welcome interruption. And, like the magic she had perfected, she got it.

In an unprecedented event, the Scholar slowly opened the doors of the Library and walked down into the streets. His large stature slowly dissolved as he changed his size to, almost, match that of the average elf. He patted down his dusty robe and walked, with purpose, towards the Hall of Whispers; where the Observer Magisterial was overseeing the governmental meeting. He, of course, drew attention from the crowds of elves in the city, eager and happy to see their God. He did not halt his advance, but he did smile and acknowledge them. Eventually, they realized his situation, and left him to his work. Eventually, Celestius reached the Hall and opened the large doors slowly. He looked in, and gave a shy nod to Aenda, who gave him a first disbelieving and then excited and hopeful look. Aenda leaped out of her throne and ran straight to Celestius, whom she immediately embraced in a warm hug.

"I've missed you." she said, not allowing herself to leave his embrace. "I've waited so long for this day, my love." she looked up at his face, and smiled. Celestius gave a semi-blush, before correcting himself. "I know. But I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you." Celestius said deeply, before gently pushing himself from her embrace. He then spoke to the council. "Representatives of Moviskis Veiaiis! Long and hard I have worked, long and hard. I have searched my vast array of knowledge, and I believe I have found something... something extraordinary, even by the standards of a God. I request your support in preparing for a possible war with Valantar, the embodiment of death itself. Do you stand with me, loyal subjects? Will you allow me to end the scourge, to fix the gap?" The council all, collectively, rose their three middle fingers in agreement. Celestius nodded, and turned to Aenda before speaking to her in a calming voice.

"I need to see her." Aenda frowned. "She doesn't want to see you, you know that. She hasn't got over the fact you abandoned her, and for good reason! You left her as with me as a child only to return now when she is a young adult!" Aenda said in reply, slightly bitterly. Celestius nodded. "Understandable. But I must see her. She is destined to lead the Elves. She is destined to be my Champion. She is the only elf with the blood of a God. I need her. We need her." he said, fading out at the end. Aenda nodded and spoke. "She's in the confession room." Celestius smiled, and embraced Aenda again, before leaving to the confession room to the right.

Celestius entered the room to see the Demi-God knelt on the floor, her eyes shut with her head titled towards the ground. Her hands clasped something in front of her chest. She knew he was here, she was part God after all. Celestius took another step into the room, and began to explain. "I'm sorry." he said, in a surprisingly emotional voice. The Demi-God smiled a little bit. "Twenty seven years." she said in a calm monotone voice. Celestius was slightly confused, oddly enough. "Twenty seven years?" he repeated. She smirked even greater now. "It's taken you twenty seven years to apologize for leaving me." she said in a slightly more uplifting voice. Celestius let out a proverbial sigh of relief and then began to explain. "Oencia, I am deeply sorry. But it was important." Oencia nodded, and stood up. She tapped the dust off her shoulders and looked her father eye's on. "So you need me to be your champion?" she said in a hearty voice. Celestius was confused for a microsecond, before remembering that his daughter was, funnily enough, part God and could use her Godly knowledge to determine his plan of action. Celestius then spoke once more. "So, you know of my plans to kill Death?" Oencia smirked. "Dad, of course I do."

[G-Tech Corporation]

Jarnfaesten, The Mountains of Sunset
Lesser Postern, Second Ring

Up to the black iron of the door-watch the line of peasants and farmers walked, some trudging under heavy burdens, some leading beasts carrying weightier packages still. Dwarf, man, both came to the Nightwall to seek egress into the Hall of the Mountain King. Above their heads the pennant of Brightlord Jarmungard flapped in the stiff chill breeze, frozen air from the glacial heights pulling tight the woven silk that displayed the symbol of a white wolf ravening across a field of deepest sable; in the colors of order ever were the tendencies of chaos picked out, for such was the way of the Dwarves. While respecting the power of anarchy and free thinking for their contributions to society, their inventions and innovations without which no true craft could be performed, the stalwart folk of Jarn were not given to flights of fancy. Change was measured, merits weighed, all accounted for, for such were the ways of Maerios of old. In the heat of the forge precision was exacting; one thimblefull of nickel out of place, or at the wrong heat, and the steel could be ruined. Just as the talented smiths and smelters of the sons of the Earth refined iron and precious metals, so too did the Fire-Father smelt down his folk, to make them stronger, feller, more like him in heart and mind. All this Door-Warden Hjerm Strikehand thought upon as he leaned against the postern gate, his banded starmetal armor about him.

Young for his position, Hjerm was the fourth son of the Brightlord, set here to learn the ways of the Blackguards ere he came of the age to take a command of his own. To many that meant glorious combat against the hill tribes of southern Ertmar, but the wild men had been lamentably peaceable this last season. Merchants from down that way spoke of movements of the Ghuls in past the reaches of the Great Greenwood, which the petty kings of Scalion and Tular were said to be much occupied with. The flesh-men were of little concern to the Marches of the Highprince; against mere men they were a potent threat indeed, but mere flesh and bone could never hope to triumph against properly forged steel and unyielding stone. Unconsciously Hjerm's fingers went to his short cutting-axe, the favored weapon of the Blackguards; his hair, though tinged with the red of the read of the divine, was more properly the color of blood than the color of the hot crimson of the earth that flowed in Maerios veins. Almost the youth hungered for battle; uncounted nights had he heard recited in the mead halls the lays of Revalin and Ardhelm, the Mighty of Jarn, first lord of the Dwarves during the time of Stars. In his head since he was a lad barely able to hold a blade had the soldier dreamt of glory, of combat, and what did he get now? Guard duty. This land was one of peace, his father had said, peace maintained by the might of Dwarven arms. The Passages of the March of Mahadros, won in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears by the hosts of the Elves and Dwarves, throwing the Shadow Men back to the south as they thought to destroy the Elfen hold of Theringol. The Silver Ice, kept free by blood spilt on the white earth in the ages of Hjerm's father's father, the Frost-Hordes of the Autart of Kithat broken upon the hammers of the Bloodborn of Kathgard.

Only by vigilance and valor did the righteous prosper. Freedom, as the adage went, was not free, but rather won by blood and steel. This all knew, though few were willing to pay the price these days. In Scalion and Tular were the signs evident; in ages past, the Dwarves would have cast out such vile men from their southern marches; such disorder and depravity would not be allowed to even exist within the sight of the Peak of the Mirror. But such was not so as the sun set upon Archeron, for the Ten Clans had turned inwards. In the depths of their halls more Dwarves were concerned these days with the work of their hands, with their clever devices and cunning steelwork, than with the darkness gathering outside. In the time of Hjerm's youth friendly kingdoms of men had become sparse. The doors of the citadels were more often than not shut to outsiders, and the terraces kept in secret valleys where none could come save by flying, not in the open reaches of the sun where they had been kept of old.

But such was not the concern of the young Dwarf-captain, watching over the comings and goings at a lesser gate of a small hold of the people of the earth. That was the concern of the Lord of the Forge.

And he was ever watchful.

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

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The Great Palace of Leannanachd

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Leannanachd, Rìoghachd Dìlseachd

It was high upon a hill in the great city of Leannanachd where the Goddess of Love resided. Within the halls of his Great Palace the true secrets of love remained, or so his subjects thought. For Clíodhno was the rule of Rìoghachd Dìlseachd, and a fair one at that. He was not alone in governing his real, of course. The females of his subjects, officially known as the Guardians of Love, ruled alongside him as members of the Court. The Court did not operate out of the Great Palace, however. They, like the other Guardians, live down in Leannanachd below the Great Palace. The city itself is always filled with life and glistens below the Great Palace. In the center of the city lies the Parthenon of Love, the center of worship for all Clíodhno's subjects. Pilgrims travel from all over his realm to visit the Parthenon devoted to their ruler.

Within Guardian Society, also known as Keltic (of which it shall be referenced as from here on), females are placed on a pedestal almost as high as Clíodhno. They are at the top of the social pyramid. The various males fall below them, ranked by their profession. The Soldiers of Clíodhno fall below the females and they are followed by the males who take part in government, the few that do. The females within Keltic Society of course have plenty to chose from when it comes to their own lovers, something every subject of Clíodhno does in fact have. One might wonder: How does a realm where the males outnumber the females almost twenty to one have so many pairings? Well, the answer is quite simple. The Kelts that do not find females find males with whom they love. This is a common practice within the realm, of course, and often leads to population problems. This is, however, easily fixed by Clíodhno himself. For within his Great Palace Clío sculpts his Guardians by hand, a tedious process that requires days, sometimes weeks, before it is finished. Each and every one of Clíodhno's Guardians are in fact a sight to behold, renowned throughout the earth for their beauty, something Clíodhno takes much pride in.

Not too far from Clíodhno's realm lies that of his brother, Tyr. The two are fraternal twins who seldom see eye to eye, and whose personalities are also entwined. As one becomes more chaotic, the other becomes more orderly. And when the other becomes more chaotic, one becomes more orderly. Two maintain an uneasy balance of contempt and genuine love for one another, but they somehow manage. The two associate with one another from time to time, but they mainly remain out of the other's realms. A visit from Tyr is of course embraced by the Keltic peoples, for the contempt Clíodhno has for his brother his subjects do not share, something that the females of Keltic Society often chose to ignore.

For now, Rìoghachd Dìlseachd remained on its own, with inner prosperity. Would this prosperity last? Well, only time would tell, of course.

[Cymrea]

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The Fortress of Khazan Dar

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Khazan Dar, Kingdom of Markoth

He began at the edge of the vale. Kneeling, the loamy ground of the floodplain gave slightly beneath him. He reached a broad, thick hand into the stream there and brought the water to his mouth, letting the cool liquid trickle along the sides of his tongue and down his throat. It tasted of minerals and algae – good earthen flavours; perhaps the vale was finally ready for crops again. It had been many summers since anything would grow in Khazan Vale. Such was the price of victory.

Satisfied, he stood. The ground sprang back and the saturated soil absorbed the small puddle that had formed under his darksteel greave. He took a deep breath and tasted the air as well. Casting his violet eyes back toward the city, he could clearly see the storm clouds forming against the surrounding mountains.

The sunlight slashed between two tall peaks to the east, casting a watery golden glow on that side of Khazan Dar. The Stone City, it was named in the conqueror’s tongue of the orcs. Not especially creative, but it suited the colossal fortress nonetheless. It had been carved from a smaller mountain that thrust like a wolf’s tooth from the soft jawline of the fertile green vale. What had begun centuries ago at the feet of the mount with caverns and low walls now included every bit of living rock: curtain walls, bridges, enormous towers like the spears of almighty Tyr – all thrusting skyward, much of it above the clouds. Khazan Dar loomed over the vale, dominating the land around it.

The fortress city was old, wind and water worn, but it stood elf-proud and iron-hard like an old warrior. And like those venerable elders, its continued existence was a bold testament to its strength and experience. Only the strongest, the worthiest warrior could command such a fortress and the thousands of orcs within. For the past twelve summers, he – Warlord Bael Bloodrune – was that commander.

Bael headed back toward the fortress. Clad only in his darksteel armour, he was not overly encumbered and kept his pace light. A fist of young warriors emerged from Khazan Dar as he approached the North Gate. Their lighter green hides indicated their youth, as did their snarling vigour. They ran in formation, bearing all the armour and weapons they would wear into battle. Alongside them ran their serjeant, a dark-skinned veteran with a scar running over one milky eye and a topknot of snowy hair cascading down the back of his otherwise bare head. The serjeant roared an order and cracked a whip above the heads of the young warriors. They picked up their pace and pounded fists to their chests as they passed their Warlord, shouting his name.

“All praises to Tyr!” he bellowed back. The fist of warriors repeated his words, but Bael was already focused again upon the gate. When the portcullis was raised, it was an open mouth of stone with a long throat that could swallow three full fists of enemies before they reached the hinged ironwood gate. And when that mouth was full the portcullis would crash shut, the murderholes would open, and the North Gate would devour the enemies trapped within.

Bael passed beneath the stone archway and continued inside. Posted sentinels ensured the gate was open for the warlord and he entered the city. The gate opened onto a wide square, surrounded by thick stone walls with towers and battlements; a broad avenue stretched away to either side. At the far end of the square was a narrow cleft in the rock, the entryway into the warrens of Khazan Dar.

The streets were narrow and dimly lit by torches and by bioluminescent lichens and fungi. In the deep shadows were the entrances to the cavernous barracks and training halls. Bael followed the labyrinthine pathways up and up, climbing through the avenues where the women and adolescents lived and worked, up to the open-air temples and halls where the leadership resided. In cleverly engineered channels in the stone walls moved heated water, brought to a boil by geothermal vents deep below in the roots of the mount. Even so high up, the water was kept hot through pressure and the entire fortress was blood warm.

Three hours had passed since Bael stood by the stream in the vale. Now he strode into the throne hall, an immense round chamber, pillared with massive columns and domed with the very peak of the mountain. Save for the low wall that encircled the space, the hall was open to the icy air. Breathing easily and relishing the contrast between the thermals of heat from the fires and walls and the frigid breezes, Bael Bloodrune sat upon the carved marble seat of power.

Durga Skycaller, chief shaman of Khazan Dar, placed the Warlord’s darksteel coronet upon Bael’s brow, the thick twisted ram’s horns curling on either side of his head. The shaman return to his appointed place near the throne. With a nod and a gesture, Bael indicated his readiness to the heralds.

“Bring in the prisoner,” he ordered.

[Cymrea]

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The Fortress of Khazan Dar

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Khazan Dar, Kingdom of Markoth

The prisoner could be discerned before he was even dragged into the throne hall by two Blood Guards. A soft golden glow seem to exude from his very being. His broad snowy pinions were bound behind him with thick netting and he was was tossed face down before Bael Bloodrune, Warlord of Khazan Dar.

Disheveled and heavily bruised, the prisoner attempted to stand, only to be shoved to his knees by the guard. To Bael's eyes, this angel appeared to have his proud defiance beaten out of him. A broken nose, split lip, and deep purple-and-green bruising marred his once radiant countenance. The angel's eyes held no hope, only a distant gaze.

"Kolgar," Bael called to the commander of his Blood Guards. "Why has this servant of almighty Tyr's divine brother been taken?"

Kolgar, a tall and powerful brute even for an orc, stepped forward. "My Lord, this angel was caught spying in the highest reaches of the Raven Tower. The Guard on watch ensnared him in the very net that binds him now and carried him down into the donjons to await your judgment."

Bael digested this before speaking to the prisoner. "What is your name, angel?"

The prisoner whispered something only half articulated.

The warlord stood from his throne and moved closer to the man. With a hand under the angel's arm, he lifted the prisoner to his feet. "Speak louder so that I can hear you. Tell me your name."

The angel's eyes focused, moved to Bael's and locked there. "Just kill me, orc."

Bael considered the statement for a moment, then placed his broad hand upon the angel's slender shoulder. "I could do that," Bael said in his conversational growl. "I could take your bones from your body as fetters and return your meat to Clíodhno. Or I could simply have you tossed into one of the underground rivers of liquid stone and see if you wash up on an Incendian shore for the Draconians to find."

The warlord took the angel's face in his broad palm and turned it up to face him. "But I'd rather have your name."

There was no reaction from the prisoner save for his dire words spoken in a hollow voice. "You understand nothing, orc. Acheron is at the precipice of annihilation. The gods prepare for war, and mortals cannot survive their divine thrashings."

The angel clapped pale, delicate hands upon the iron jaw of the orcish warlord. His eyes blazed with a mad light as he shouted, his high voice reverberating from the dome high above. "Death cannot be slain! It is fatal vanity to try! And yet they will try! We are all--"

With a sharp crack, as of marble shattering, the unnamed angel's neck broke under Bael's clenching hand. At that very moment, the warlord was certain he could feel divine eyes upon him. He hoped they were Tyr's.

He let the body crumple to the cold stone floor. To Kolgar he commanded, "See that this shell is returned to Leannanachd."

[Caltarania]

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Rynaevha

The city of Rynaevha stood undefeated atop the mountainous shorelines of Greater Vaeska. It was a majestic city, with large and menacing iron gates at the eastern row of the large stone walls adorned with intricate carvings of battles fought in the name of Rynaevha. The walls were lush with guards, mostly bowmen of lower rank, who monitored the situation both in and outside of the city. Large watchtowers dotted the walls, and they too were teeming with soldiers of Rynaevha. The city was not like Moviskis Veiaiis, that was for sure. Of all the cities in the Elven Confederation, Rynaevha was probably the most distinct, both culturally and politically. It was, also, by far the most militarily powerful of all the Elven cities. While Moviskis Veiaiis was run by 'elected' oligarchs, Rynaevha was run by two dual monarchs, known as the Twin Despots. They both hold absolute power and are, generally, the two most physically powerful of the Rynaevhans, or the two with the most charisma.

A large, wooden ship pulled into a small port town of outside of, but not far from, Rynaevha. From the ship emerged an elf with hair of blonde and eyes of red. She wore a golden tiara with a diamond placed in the centre. That was, without a doubt, the new Champion of Celestius; the Demi-God Oencia. She was clad in golden armour with diamond rims and she had, sheathed, two spears with blades made entirely of diamond. She walked with purpose, her head held high and her crimson red eyes piercing through the city walls. She reached the gates, and by will of magic forced them open. She walked into the city with a stern, but calm, look on her face. She walked, with pace, towards the Duel Palace.

The Duel Palace was a colossal structure a top a large ridge in the centre of the city. It was home to the Twin Despots, and, also, adjacent to the Great Arena, where the Rynaevhan Spearmaidens both trained for battle and also performed in 'sporting' events. Oencia wasn't a big fan of the way the Spearmaidens began their training, after all she saw kidnapping as worse than murder in many cases, but she knew one thing; her Father was going to do something reckless, and if she was going to defend the home front then she'd need every asset she could get her hands on. As Oencia neared the Duel Palace, she prepared herself. She had quite the history, one could say, with Despot Mael. Nevertheless, Oencia forced open the giant Iron doors which blocked entrance to the palace and entered into the dome-shaped room. She then stopped moving, and looked around. There was a large staircase going up both sides of the room, with both of them beginning in front of her. It was then that she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps and, after, that of a familiar voice.

"Oencia. I had a feeling we would be meeting again." said a slim figure in a slightly sultry tone while walking out of the dark hallway. The figure revealed herself as she stepped into the light, her revealing golden armour glistening in the sunlight provided by the large skylight, while her short leather pteruge seemed to sizzle as if it was being cooked for consumption. Her golden helmet with fur of red adorned upon it fit perfectly upon her rounded head of which orange hair spewed forth and waved in the small breeze that entered the room, as did her long red cape. Oencia found herself having to contain mixed emotions. Anger and hatred, love and desire. Oencia suppressed her mortality and spoke to the woman. "You know why I'm here then, Mael?" she said with a demanding, yet calming, tone. Mael let out a faint sigh. "Yes, Oencia. I am, along with Qein, the most powerful individual in Rynaevhan and an influential figure in the Elven Confederation; I have people tell me everything." Mael said. Oencia nodded and advanced into the room. "So you know that I need the Spearmaidens?" she said, in a questioning voice. Mael nodded.

Mael then moved closer to Oencia. "But I have a favour of my own to ask." Mael said, edging ever closer to Oencia. "Let me fight beside you as we lead our people in to the New Age." she said with a mixed tone of hope and anxiety. Oencia mentally questioned Mael's request, before nodding. "Consider yourself recruited. I presume you'll leave Qein in charge of everything here?" Oencia questioned. Mael nodded. "Yes. I will take the Spearmaidens and the majority of our forces with us. Speaking of which, where do you travel to next?" Mael asked. Oencia looked Mael straight in the eye. "Velasia. We're going to need a proper fleet if we want to do this properly."

[Lunas Legion]

The Nameless City, The Kingdom of Heaven

Only a place quite as strange and unusual as The Nameless City was truly deserving of that name. Few had ever seen it, concealed as it was behind the snowstorms that tore across the Kingdom of Heaven, and fewer still had managed to leave with their sanity intact.

The city itself was a geometric nightmare; streets doubled back on themselves. Buildings were seemingly randomly joined together by bridges, or simply mashed together. Even worse was the city's nature; built in 3 dimensions, this only complicated the freezing and bizzare maze that was The Nameless City.

The nature of it's inhabitants did not help either. Simply being close to a Celestial was enough to drive a person insane. A city of them... Well, that was best left unknown.

The city's creator and designer, however, was uninterested in the impact her city had on the sanity of mortals. After all, it was not her fault that her designs, inspired by her own heavens, had such effects on their unenlightened and incapable minds.

The room she currently sat in was a perfect half-sphere, empty except for herself, and a large orrery that showed the positions of her sun, her moon and her other creations at the current time. The orrery had taken an exceedingly long time to construct; making a mechanical representation of celestial mechanics was never going to be easy, and even less so when your own skills with mechanics were not particularly good.

As such, the room was also silent, except for the ticking of the orrery as it slowly moved.

Syeli had her Celestials under strict commands that she was never to be disturbed; she was above their petty politicking and the deals mortals struck with each other over trivial things. They had sometimes even believed her to be dead, of all things; but as the sun and moon kept to their eternal cycle, that provided all the evidence they needed.

Her eyes flashed open, the room suddenly exploding with a blinding white light which slowly faded.

"So, you have returned..." Her voice echoed through the chamber. "The question is why. But that is the eternal question. Why do anything? Why return at all? Why return now? Yet I fear I shall not like the answer I recieve, once it comes, for everything is answered in the fullness of time."

Syeli closed her eyes again.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Mournhold, South Coast of the Sea of Death, Marches of Hardilmar

From the south they came, marching in disciplined ranks. Not Dwarves, the usual patrollers of this road, but goblins. Thousands of them. The teeming hordes came slavering and chanting, a swarming devourer, burning rick and cot. Savagery, disorder, all rushing towards the capital of the kingdom of Hardilmar.

Captain Gershwin watched it from atop the stone curtain wall that protected the clustered buildings of the city, squatting mushrooms atop the ridge beyond which the sea waves crashed in their characteristic violence. The cries of the refugees, deep tones of men calling for orderly lines, women keeping track of their little ones; below his feet at the great gate they sounded, as the few soldiers the kingdom possessed marshaled on the walls. Over the think granite crenellations helmeted faces peered towards the horde as it marched towards the walls. Goblins were simple creatures, but numerous and fell, in possession of low cunning and a shocking brutality that could not be denied.

A siege it would be then. Only time would tell of their supplies could last; with any luck the disruption in caravans would draw the attention of Erndorn to the south.

[Bujahla]

---

Satyr Tales
"Our Origins"

---

-- WIP --

[Cymrea]

---

The Capital of Markoth Dar

---

Markoth Dar, Kingdom of Markoth

Even out of his master-forged armour, Khanos - King of Markoth, Overlord of the Orcs, and Chosen of Tyr - was an immense figure, nearly a full spear in height. Clad only in a leather kilt, and dripping with blood that was not his, he stepped out of the training pit. Behind him lay the broken, dismembered, and disemboweled remains of his sparring opponents. To train against the king was a high honour, but not an honour one survived to boast of. The torn and shattered bodies were sacrifices to Tyr, offered by the opponents - willingly or not - and consecrated in mortal combat with Tyr's chosen avatar of war on Acheron.

Oftentimes Tyr would watch invisibly from the shadows. Occasionally, however, Tyr would guide Khanos directly. When that happened, the orc king became an implacable embodiment of violence and martial skill. A golden glow would emanate from beneath Khanos' deep green flesh; his strikes came with blinding quickness, with stone-shattering power. Khanos dealt catastrophic damage to everything he struck, smashing defences and permitting no counters.

This day, Tyr had not been present and the carnage in the pit was the work of the orc king alone.

Khanos donned his armour before returning his weapons to their customary places. On his right hip, Soulrender; a broad blade, more than a metre long and wickedly barbed. Inscribed on the sword were holy bloodrunes that were said to transport the soul of any being slain by the blade directly to Valantar. Shamanistic legend purported the blade to be an ancient gift to Tyr from God of Death himself. The truth was much more sinister.

On his back was sheathed Sunder, a massive darksteel axe with bloodrunes consecrating the weapon as an instrument of worship to Tyr. Every swing was a prayer, every kill was an offering. Atop the shaft, between the half-moon blades, was affixed the spherical magmathyst Pyrebond. The flame-coloured magmathyst gems were incredibly rare, formed deep within the bowels of Acheron. Pyrebond was a treatise gift, exchanged with Tyranus, the Lord of Incendius, many summers ago.

Armed and armoured, Khanos proceeded to the throne room. An emissary of Incendius had arrived in Markoth Dar and the orc king intended to grant him an immediate audience. For many long centuries in the past, the orcs and draconians had engaged in glorious battle. Each had earned the grudging respect of the other, and over time that respect had developed into coexistence. Peace was never truly attained, or even attainable for the servants of Tyr, but now when orcs and draconians killed one another, it was for only the most grievous of provocations.

Khanos crossed the cavernous throne room, passing between his War Hounds. His elite guard was composed of twelve of the most fearsome champions of the orcish race, each one renowned across Markoth and worthy of his own battle song. He climbed the twelve basalt steps and sat unceremoniously upon his immense throne of bloodstained bone. Khanos wore no crown. The King of Markoth needed none; his absolute sovereignty was unmistakable.

With a nod, the Incendian envoy was ushered in.



Khanos - King of Markoth, Overlord of the Orcs, Chosen of Tyr

[Caltarania]

---

---

Velasia

In the eastern section of the Confederation stood Velasia, the city by the sea. The city was famed for it's vast array of trade routes and impressive naval power, and had by some been called the 'Trading Capital' of the nation. It was the primary port for the naval link between the Elven Confederation and Draconian Hegemony, and allowed trade between the two nations to occur across the vast Long Sea. The city's navy was, by far, the main selling point of the city. It had a navy six times the size that of the next city, and had more trade output than the rest of the cities in the Confederation combined. Trade was of such importance that it took a front seat in the cities political system. The government of Velasia was described by most as a Republic of the Merchants. While Moviskis Veiaiis was run by oligarchic politicians who held power through heart and voice, Velasia was run by scrupulous merchants who held power through coin and trade. The leader of this city was known as the High Mayor; an individual elected from and by the merchant class. The position of High Mayor was almost exclusively held by either the richest merchant or the most powerful naval officer.

Unto the vast docks of the city docked a large ship of wood with sails of white cloth. From it emerged both the Demi-Goddess Oencia, Champion of Celestius, and Despot Mael of Rynaevha. They most definitely stood out among the dock workers; most of whom were either Draconian or Human. Oencia and Mael continued forth, passing by the dockworkers without so much as a single look. When they had left the docks behind them, Oencia and Mael began to converse. Oencia spoke first. "It's quite sad that the Draconian immigrants rarely grow past the position of dockworker." Mael almost laughed. "I should think so! The Draconians have no grace or skill in much, Oencia, scrubbing ships is all they'll ever amount to in the society of this city." Mael said in an elitist tone. Oencia scowled and replied in a snarky undertone. "No, Mael, it's wrong. They were birthed by another God and sought refuge in our nation. We should treat them like heroes, not lesser beings." Mael giggled to herself. "Look at you, and your sense of morality. You're part Goddess, I thought you would have grown bored of your human feelings by now." Mael said in a sarcastic manner. Oencia turned to face Mael and refrained herself from slapping her. "I'd have though you'd have learnt how to be moral. Guess I was wrong."

The two female warriors, after a few hours of walking and receiving directions, reached the told location of the High Mayor, Traevin. He was, interestingly, one of the few male elves to make his way into a position of power. He wore a loose merchant hat of golden colour and a long robe of purple and white. He was stood in a dark and rather lower class slum-district of the city, knelt down on a single knee with his face looking towards the small stream which flew by the place. He was clutching something within his two arms, and was almost entirely silent. Oencia was cautious, and refused to make the first move. Mael, however, was a vicious and restless personality and therefore strolled right behind him and spoke in a rather loud voice. "Pal, I don't mean to interrupt your sitting around doing nothing, but we're in some sort of a hurry, so if you could stop being a-" Mael's speech was stopped by Oencia who very nearly guided her hand straight into Mael's face. Traevin stood up, his arms still hidden from view and clenching something, and then turned around. When he did so, he displayed the horror he had uncovered to Oencia and Mael. He held, in his arms, a young draconian girl. The age of the girl was not immediately obvious, but she was, almost definitely, less than two years old. The girl was completely lifeless, her wings - not yet fully developed - were shriveled, and her face was as cold as ice.

Finally, Traevin broke the ice. "She's dead." he said, in a distraught and saddening tone. She's dead, and there was nothing I could do to save her. I, the most powerful elf in Velasia, was powerless to save her. I couldn't stop the disease which ravaged her soul and took her to Valantar." Traevin was teary eyed, but not explicitly crying. By this point, the little morality which Mael still held had taken effect and she was not only speechless, but frozen still also. Oencia, too, did not reply. This is when Traevin, carefully, placed the corpse onto the cold stone pavement and and looked towards the two women. "I know why you're here." he said, taking his hat from his head and holding it in front of his chest. "And I want to tell you that, with all my heart, I will help you. But, in return, I need you to promise me right here that, if he fails, you will aid me in making this city a fairer place." Traevin approached Mael, then, and clasped her back. The normal Mael would probably have ended Traevin's existence by now, but she didn't feel normal. She felt not weakened, but somehow stronger. She wondered if that was possible. Could it be that emotion enhanced her ferocity rather than harm it?

Oencia then spoke in a reassuring voice. "I promise, Traevin. I promise to help you make Velasia a fairer place." Traevin smiled. "Good, glad to hear it." Traevin said, before wiping the tears from his face. "I'll take you to the docks. I can promise you the support of the Velasian navy, and I'm sure that we will be able to convince those humans of Velasia who follow Khasku to aid you, also. I can't promise anything on their part, though. They operate independently of the city." Traevin explained, in his relatively deep voice. Oencia nodded, and Mael started to come back into play. She slapped Traevin, first of all, and then spoke. "Thank you." she said, in a move that both surprised Oencia and Traevin. "At the same time, how dare you touch the first of the Twin Despots of Rynaevha!" she said, in a move which did not surprise either of the two. Traevin then, as they walked to the docks, questioned Oencia. "I presume that, if you are raising levies, you will be moving onto another city soon. Where will we be headed, Champion?" Oencia then replied to Traevin's question. "Ihasae. We're going to need some airpower."

[Liecthenbourg]

Incendius
Tyranus patted his chest rather forcefully, resulting in him breaking into a short coughing fit. He collected himself, adjusting his mitre and dusting down his cloak. The figure sitting directly infront of him, across the large oaken desk, blinked.

"Your body is growing frail, Tyranus. How old are you now? The figure escapes my memory"

The Head of the Order of Ignis set down his cup of Elven Tea, a common beverage heavily enjoyed by commoner, noble and priest.
"I have been on this plane of existance for 127 years. I have been in this position, that of High Priest, for 84 years of my life."

A short chuckle escaped the lips of the God, he had brought himself down in size, to that of the High Priest, for convenience and relatability. "I know, I appointed you. Your gift with fire... was, and I'm sure still is, most impressive."

"I thank you, but I have not excersized the ability for quite some time."

Now Dracognis grinned, his taloned hands intertwining. "You have not? Well then, follow me." Before the Draconian could respond Dracognis had already left. The High Priest sipped the remainder of his tea from the porcelain cup and placed it upon the saucer situated on his desk. He grabbed his staff, his keys and departed for the door.

---

The Alter of Fire, Incendius
Situated at the end of the sacrificial overhang was a great marble alter adorned with gold, jewels, depictions and the skull of the first High Priest, Azkaltha. Dracognis stood with his arms folded, watching with great interesting as Tyranus stood by the altar. The High Priest's hands were pressed against the Holy Table. He looked forward, extending his hands out forward and they began shaking as the dormant mana within them sparked to life, causing Tyranus' normally purple scales become highlighted with an intense red hue.

Down below the sea of lava bubbled and boiled to no end before a great snake shaped piece of it flew upwards, becoming visible to both the God ans his Prophet. Tyranus swayed his robed arms to the left, causing the lava to folllow. He stood upon the overhang, conducting the lava in an orchestral fire forming into shapes and images. After a few minutes, he began to make the lave travel in spirals but before long he allowed his piece to return to the sea and he too did slump against the alter, the red hue on his scales fading away.

"That most impressive my friend, you still have the power within you." Dracognis said, picking up the High Priest and setting him upright. The Draconian held onto his staff, using it as a support.

"I... don't believe I can do that for some time..."

"That matters not, High Priest. Now I must depart to my dearests home - I shall speak to you tomorrow."

---

Markoth Dar
The Draconian Emissary, Omfridius, advanced throughout the throne room cautiously and carefully. The fires of the immense hall illuminated him from all angles revealing his finely tailored silk clothing. It was a great magenta in colour, a favourite of many middle classed citizens.

Before long he had bowed before the Orc King Khanos and reached into his satchel. He brought forth a scroll and began to read it aloud.

"King Khanos, Mighty Orc Warlord. Wacia has been plunged in fire and war in the past, millenia ago by our people. Now we coexist in relative harmony upon the continent with our peoples trading and having a great respect for one another." The diplomat went on for a few more sentences about known history and whatnot before arriving to the point. "Our peoples are the uncontested rulers of the continent and so I wish to humbly suggest that we agree to divide this continent, or any land within it you deem fit, between us with pre determined borders to avoid any more bloodshed between our great people. Yours Faithfully, High Priest Tyranus, Head of the Order of Ignis."

[Cymrea]

---

The Capital of Markoth Dar

---

Markoth Dar, Kingdom of Markoth

Khanos listened to the draconian envoy patiently. The chosen of Dracognis had long ago earned the respect of Markoth, as the orcs had of Incendius. He nodded in acknowledgement of their shared history and smiled wryly at the idea that Tyranus would humbly suggest anything. The old reptile was almost as ruthless as he was himself - one did not rule the draconian realm through humility but by guile and brute force.

The orc king's smile widened with the suggestion that the two kingdom's simply divide Wacia between them. To Omfridius, the smile must have appeared as a snarling grimace as Khanos' thick green lips pulled back from tusks and teeth. The envoy tilted his reptilian head, but there was no fear in the draconian's eyes. Tyranus chose his representative well.

Khanos showed his respect by standing from his throne and facing Omfridius directly, locking his deep crimson eyes on the emissary, and speaking in his growling bass voice.

"If it has not yet been said to you, Omfridius of Incendius, I welcome you to Markoth Dar. Few creatures could stride boldly into my hall and speak directly to me without soiling themselves. But orcs and draconians have worshipped their gods together with blood and fire for many long centuries, it is true, and the stout hearts of Incendius are recognised in Markoth. You do your High Priest honour with your courage and the faithful delivery of his words.

"I agree that we should divide Wacia between our realms and rule over all of it, jointly. The xaxonites will prove problematic, as they are favoured of their own god and not the simple creatures of the ash plains. But the battle will be glorious and much blood will be shed.

"You will be granted a suite of apartments befitting your station and any accommodations you desire while I meet with my strategists," he smiled again, "and my cartographer."

Khanos stepped down from the raised dais and stood before the draconian, placing a massive hand upon Omfridius' shoulder. "When my proposal for Tyranus is ready, I will summon you. Until then rest and enjoy a respite."

[Cymrea]

---

The Xaxon Wastes

---

Three hundred leagues west of Markoth

Serjeant Koth Ironhide bellowed for the fist to halt. As one, the hundred young orc warriors ceased their marching and stood waiting for Koth's next order. This fist showed promise, the serjeant thought. Their discipline was solid and their aggression was controlled, held in check to be used in battle. Violence and brutality were tools of war to be employed with the same skill as an axe or spear.

"Drink water!" he roared. Horns and skins of blood-warm water were taken from belts and the warriors hydrated. The day was long and blisteringly hot; the Xaxon Wastes were lethal, as evidenced by the great ridges of bone - all that remained of monstrous desert dwelling creatures. Razor sharp jags of sandstone, shifting furnace-hot sands, and even carnivorous insects: each was just another obstacle to be overcome. Koth had mastered this environment in his decades of battle here on the western marches bordering Markoth. The wastes were not the opponent, however - merely the whetstone upon which the young fist would be ground and sharpened before engaging the enemy.

This fist hailed from Dragontail Ridge, a small fortified town on the western edge of Markoth, bordering the rugged hinterlands. By dint of long tradition, the final rite of training was a raid against the xaxonites of the Wastes. For eight grueling days the fist had marched west into the lands where the sun fell, in search of worthy foes. Koth had found signs of xaxonites' passing, and had led the fist in pursuit. Not that the nomads were fleeing; quite the contrary, the chosen of the goddess Xadenas would have turned directly into them and joined battle immediately. It was likely the xaxonites were not aware of the orcs yet.

That changed in a flashing moment as a high peal of horn-call sounded from the horizon. Koth cast his orange eyes to the west and saw the xaxonite scout on the ridge of sand there. Disgusted that they had been spotted first, Koth snarled.

"Form a staggered line! Prepare for battle!"

The young orc warriors bellowed their excitement as they strung out in a double line of fifty across and two deep. Spears and swords and axes bristled in great green hands as the fist faced the oncoming enemy. Koth strode across the front of their line, ignoring the distant warcries at his back.

"You've trained long and hard! You've shown me your prowess and proven yourselves worthy of holy battle! Now in this, your final lesson, you will demonstrate your worth to Tyr, or you will be carried in defeat to Valantar! You hold the instruments of prayer in your fists! And there," he thrust a thick finger behind him at the approaching xaxonite skirmishers, "is your offering to the Almighty God of War!"

Koth drew his own seasoned weapons and turned. The xaxonites were a bowshot away and coming fast. Judging by his eye and drawing on long experience, Koth picked his moment. When the enemy had drawn close enough he roared one last order.

"Charge!"

[Cymrea]

---

The Fortress of Khazan Dar

---

Khazan Dar, Kingdom of Markoth

It was the eve of the Feast of the Fallen, a high holiday for the chosen of Tyr. Before a roaring fire, Durga Skycaller, chief shaman of Khazan Dar, perched upon a stone seat and spoke in chanting tones to a group of orclings sitting before him.

“Millennia ago, during the Age of Creation, Maerios, God of the Earth, forged the mortal world of Acheron from the Void. The world attracted the attentions of other gods, and they too made their mark on the planet. Khasku, Goddess of the Sea, made the oceans, which allowed the Gods of Life and Nature used their combined force to bring flora and fauna to the desolate rock. They were followed by Celestius, God of Knowledge, who took it upon himself to alter some of those creatures, to create a race of intelligent beings. The other gods followed his example and used their own skills – in some cases knowledge stolen from Library of Celestius – to create their own races of sapient beings. This included Tyr, the God of War, and his chosen people were the orcs.

“At the very beginning of the Age of Dawn, Tyr created thirteen orcs. Into them he breathed his essences: honour and courage, ferocity and cunning, strength and endurance. These were the progenitors of the Thirteen Clans, and to each of them, Tyr gifted three females. From them, the orc race flourished.

“Tyr set his chosen upon the eastern shores of Wacia and thence the thirteen patriarchs wandered the land seeking defensible homes. An immediate claim was made by Guldar Stormsong, there upon the shores of the bay. Thaenos Bladefist challenged the claim and the first prayers to Tyr were sung. The others formed a circle and bore witness as for three days and nights, the orc lords battled. Much blood was shed, so much that the hollows of the littoral landscape filled with hot pools of it. Near the moonrise of the third night, Thaenos stumbled upon a stone and Guldar prepared to make the killing blow. But Tyr himself interceded, staying Guldar’s hand. He decreed unto the Thirteen that no orc could slay another and that the covenant would last for twelve generations in order to ensure that the orc race would prosper. To break the covenant would invite the wrath of Tyr.

“And thus the first orc fortress was established. Guldar named his hold in honour of the first battle and Blood Hollow survives to this very day, still ruled by the Stormsong Clan. Thaenos and his wives crossed the Strait of Spears to the east and, on the southern shores of Ashfall Island, established the fortress of Bladespire, where his descendant Kosh Bladefist is now Warlord.

“For nine years, the clan lords wandered, claiming their holds. To the northeast, Morgath Shadowmoon built Ravendell on the island that bears his clan name. In the Khazan Vale, Baelar Bloodrune carved his dar from the heart of a mountain. Kaldosh Frostwind established Torgul Dar on the snowy slopes of the volcanic Mount Cindar.

“Finally, the last two patriarchs came to the northwest, upon the basalt beaches of Burning Bay. One of them claimed the hill there and the other challenged the claim. The two clan lords fought with their bare hands as Tyr had forbidden killing, but it soon became clear that one was stronger than the other. When the weaker orc was cast to the ground he became enraged. Snatching a nearby shard of obsidian he slashed the throat of the other, killing him. As the last of the clan lord’s blood soaked into the coarse black sand, Tyr appeared and saw what had been done.

“In his fury, he smote the murderer with a terrible curse. No songs or legends have ever recounted the name of that cursed patriarch, but it is believed that he fled Markoth and became the father of the goblins – shriveled and spiteful, wasted and weak. Of the other, we know his name: Mordaen.

“Tyr bargained with Valantar for the return of Mordaen’s soul. Even after paying a heavy toll, Tyr was able to recover only half of the soul. To this very day, the Dark Scar clan – named for the mark that forever remained on Mordaen’s throat – rule over Duskhome and favour the dark night. Their pale hides and morbid tendencies derive from the scourged half of their souls. Though they are twilight-touched, they remain a loyal and venerable clan.

“The other clan lords made their claims and their fortunes through the centuries have waxed and waned like the moons of Acheron. The Blackhand, Ironhide, Shieldbreaker, Thunderhorn, Doomshaper, and Skycaller clans still rule, though their holdings are smaller.

“Now, after the twelve generations had passed, and the cursed clan lord’s name was forgotten, the clans fell to disagreement and contention. Wars were fought over lines on leathern maps, for the bounties of Wacia, and for the favour of Tyr. Females were stolen, orclings slaughtered, and the orcish race reeled upon the razor edge of extinction. The clan lords called for a halt to the fighting and met in a conclave upon a great open plateau on the ash plains. It was there that they agreed to unite under the rule of a king. But who would claim the crown?

“Unarmoured and with bare hands, they fought each other for the throne. None were killed, but one by one, the lesser contenders were defeated and knelt. At last Khaern Shieldbreaker emerged victorious and crowned our first king. Tyr was proud of the clan lords’ wisdom and he appeared to them there. He decreed that the king shall be of no clan and all clans equally. And when one king was dead, the next would win his crown in the same way as the first.

“Khaern named his brother Warlord of the Shieldbreaker clan and ruled as king for thirty-seven summers. He founded the capital there on the site of the conclave, building the fortress with the dark volcanic stone of the ash plains. It was named Markoth Dar, Fortress of the Unconquered in the old orcish tongue. The dar was expanded and by successive kings, broadened and heightened, fortified and strengthened, until it became the towering black heart of the orcish kingdom.

“The day that Khaern the First King declared his original fortress completed, he called for a celebration. He decreed it a feast day in honour of Tyr and in remembrance of all the fallen orc heroes, paragons of holy War.

“That, little ones, is the story of the orcish race and of The Feast of the Fallen. And unless my snout deceives me, the feast is about to be served. Let’s go eat!”

[The Sloth Imperium]

The only existing sketch of the Temple of Time. Taken from the book "The Homes of the Gods", Chapter 3: Perezhora. Found within Celestius' Library

The Temple of Time, Isla del Tiempo
Deep within the Isla del Tiempo, behind great forests and mountains tall whose very peaks were rumoured to pierce the heavens in which the Gods lived; atleast by the few mortals who occasionally visited the islands on voyages from between the nearby destinations was the Temple of Time. It was an enormous construct of stone, her spires and central dome too piercing the heavens like the mountains around her. This was the home of Perezhora and were he monitored the time of Acheron and beyond, making sure everything was to the exact second in correctness. He hadn't left this temple, his home, in eons. His work took up much of his time and he feared that if he were to abandon his post for any period of time that was too long the balance of time as everyone knew it could be disrupted. He could not even begin to fathom the chaos that would cause and he utterly despised chaos, for it upset his perfectly orderly balance of things within the Temple he and his automatons so carefully maintained.

These Automatons, his great keepers and defenders of the temple were built by a joint effort between Perezhora and Maerios. The God of the Earth had cast their bodies of the strongest metals and Perezhora worked on their innards with his clockwork machinery. These stalwart defenders had been a most pleasant thing, as Perezhora found great company and friendship with what he originally believed to be emotionless constructs. Whilst they were, for the most part, some displayed curiosity and inquisitiveness often asking the God questions on how time worked and why it was so important.

Perezhora looked with concerning eyes at the intense shelf of sandtimers within his great hall. Here, here is were all the important data was kept. A giant room with a dome for a roof it was. The walls were adorned with sand timers, each depicting the life left of every single living thing upon the planet. It was created as a side project alongside the God of Life and it provided great interest towards Perezhora. At the bequest of other Gods, for their noble champions and preferred subjects, did he sometimes add more sand out of friendship but this had only been done a few times for he did not wish to upset Death so vehemently. He then looked towards each of the three columns within the room and their clock-faces of gloom. One had a countdown for the next great war, another for a great natural disaster, another for an epidemic and another for He looked upwards, towards the dome and at the gigantic clock-face upon it. This was the most disturbing thing, the God presumed, to exist within Acheron. This clock-face drove mortals whom visited (If shown to be worthy enough to enter the sacred halls) insane for it stated by Perehora when both the minute and hour hand hit "12" the Universe itself would cease to exist. Various other clocks of lesser importance, but still important in their own ways, were also in the room. Typically one was the time of day and another was the countdown clock for the next time he would need to check on his automatons for maintenance.

The God sighed slightly, but that was when he felt it. It was odd, but he felt it. His mouth formed a small smile and he though to himself; "And what does Celestius have to do upon the mortal plane...?"
He clearly had to investigate further.

[Liecthenbourg]

The City-Fortress of Ferrum; The Shield of the Hegemony
A warm breeze blew throughout the city, powerful winds from the South West - from the city of Incendius and the Volcano of Dracognis. Marcus Lagarto held onto his spear, his helmet of iron protecting his brow from the intense desert sun. He looked out into the immense plains of sand from atop his position above the east gate, the gate that lead directly towards untamed lands of the desert. It was an uncivilized realm of Imps, Desert Dwelling Nomadic Humans and Xaxonites. Before long he reached onto his belt, grabbing a leather water flask and begging to wet his whistle with the clean, cool liquid. It was from one of the many nearby oases, such a concentration of these pools was one of the main reasons the Draconians had settled here in the first place. Before long, Lagarto had returned to his patrolling of the enormous walls, built to keep the threats of the desert out.

Above the city, built upon a rather large mound, was the Temple of Dracognis. Here, like in Incendius and indeed all cities of the Hegemony, was were the Order of Ignis was situated to govern the city. Whilst they had their own ways of managing things, different representatives of the High Priest (Head of the Order of Ignis' Buildings in their respective cities, but all fall under the High Priest) had different ways of doing things. For example, Priestess Lucertola of Ferrum, Representative of Tyranus, was a lot more open to the general public and would generally be seen outside. She was also red-scaled, a very odd occurrence for one with the gift. Still, she had the ability and power to perform her occupation and still did listen to Tyranus when he was serious. Lucertola was indeed aware of the risks her city had. The Xaxonites, though, tribal, were a threat. No one could trust the Desert Nomads of Xadenas and with good reason. To make sure her citizens had felt safe when she came into power, the first act she did was double the watch upon Ferrum's walls. Now, all she could do was hope. And hope she did.

The Palace of Flame, Incendius
Dracognis pushed forth the two great doors of his familial home in Incendius, a grand palace he built himself within a few days for his beloved before they eventually married. He was quite... overwhelmed that day. He was the God whom many of his peers never thought or saw as interested in mortals - let alone conceiving a child with one. The God of Fire proceeded to walk up one of the immense staircases of his home, his tail swaying from side to side idly. Before long, he pried open another large set of doors before allowing his immense wings to relax substantially. A toothy grinned followed, before he brought a hand to his reptilian lips and coughed slightly.

The other figure in the room, a blue scaled female Draconian, Savra, jumped in response. She turned, running a hand through her longer head horns. (Which pointed backwards, see pic in application for reference) She then rubbed her eyes, wiping of a few tears that tricked down her face and leapt at the God, tackling him to the floor and clinging to his shoulders. Dracognis could do nothing but rap his arms around her as he cradled her against him. It seemed she was not intending to break the silence, so he did it instead.

"I've missed you" he said rather bluntly, earning a short chuckle from his beloved.

"You always were a hopeless romantic, but, that's to be expected..." she replied, running a talon across cheeks.

"I'm aware..." his eyes rolled slightly, before he moved them both to the bed and placed her upon his lap. "Now, how've you been my dear Savra?"

[Caltarania]

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Ihasae

Leagues above the other cities in the Confederation sits Ihasae, atop the mountainous region of Northern Celesae. Ihasae is a city unlike any other within the Elven domain. Far north of Moviskis Veiaiis, the city has seen it's far share of economic downturn. The city was, for the early portion of it's life anyway, seen as a poor imitation of the capital city, and never received much in the way of economic funding from just about anyone, really. With the dawn of the Great Elven War all those centuries ago, though, all that changed. Ihasae joined the League of Knowledge, and quickly became one of the most famed cities in the war. It began the production of airships, and these quickly shifted the balance of the war. They allowed complete aerial supremacy for the League, allowing them to break the Great Siege of Theringol and to win decisively at the Battle of Hell's End. Since then, Ihasae had been known as 'the City in the Sky', and was famed for it's airship industry. It continues, to this day, to churn out airships for the Confederation. It is lead by the airship industry, not only economically, but also politically. The leader of Ihasae is known as the Captain-Commander, and she is the both supreme leader the Aerial Fleet and chief executive officer of the airship industries of Ihasae.

A rather pristine and extremely well-built airship, most likely constructed in Ihasae incidentally, slowly maneuvered itself into the sky dock; a giant spire climbing into the air with various platforms attached to it at various levels. From the ship emerged three figures; Oencia and her two accomplices, Twin Despot Mael of Rynaevha and High Mayor Traevin of Velasia. Immediately upon their exit, a rather ragged human ran towards Oencia and, after bowing, spoke. "My Champion, I deliver to you a message from Wacia. I was told by Dargesh Kahn to deliver it directly to you." Oencia nodded, thanked him, and them sent him on his way. She opened the messge and read the contents, Mael and Traevin eager to hear the news; and who this Dargesh fellow was. Oencia finished reading the letter and smirked, before storing the letter in her pocket. Mael asked first. "So, who is Kahn?" she asked in her semi-sultry tone. Oencia replied with full transparency. "He's our informant in Markoth, a Cave Goblin who saw the light of Celestius... after our coin hit his claws, anyway." Traevin spoke next. "So, that is why I was to issue those odd orders to my shipmen?" Oencia nodded. Traevin spoke again. "But why are we picking up refugees from Wacia? What purpose do they serve, and why are they refugees anyway?"

Oencia began walking forward, and the two other leaders followed her. She began to respond. "It's a part of fathers plan." she explained with confidence. "He predicted that the Draconians and Orcs would agree to partition Wacia." she said afterwards. Traevin looked shocked. "Partition Wacia!? But the Draconians have always been such great people, well, providers of great goods at least." Mael then interjected her point of view. "You'd never understand, Traevin. Not only are you not a soldier but you're merely a man. Bloodlust is so great in us warring females that we need to fight in order to survive!" Traevin scowled. "You don't really believe that bollocks, do you Mael? Men can be just as strong as women, Mael, our society just prevents men from doing anything that would allow us to prove that! Do you know how I became High Mayor? I had to work day and night, for twelve years. Day and night for twelve years; campaigning, bribing and fighting! For a woman, achieving what I have achieved is a tough goal, but still an achievable one. Do you know what my mother said when I told her I was running for High Mayor? She laughed and said I would be better off to stay at home and let my wife do the true bread bearing! You have no goddamn idea what we go through in this matriarchal society of yours, Mael, so don't you dare tell me I am unable to comprehend the concept of bloodlust!" Traevin was, visibly, incredibly angered by Mael's statement, and barely stopped himself from ranting. Oencia, though, had had enough. "Just shut it, the both of you! Our nation is on the verge of a war we might not be able to win, and you're arguing over politics! Get over it!" Mael and Traevin suddenly fell rather silent, albeit angrily.

The trio soon found themselves at the Skykeep; the home of the Captain-Commander. The large wooden doors were guarded by what appeared to be halberdiers, and the gates opened as soon as the three arrived. They entered the large palace, which was made of golden stone, and in front of them saw Captain-Commander Zhael Haren, dressed up with medals galore adorned upon her blue air admiral uniform. She made her way forward, her hands held together behind her back, with a desolate smile upon her face. Oencia and Zhael were soon face to face, and Zhael made sure to shake the hand of the Champion with the utmost of courtesy before speaking. "My Champion, it is my pleasure to finally have the honour of conversing with you." Zhael said in her rather unimpressed tone. Oencia was already tired with the conversation. "Let's just get to the point." she said, while removing her hand from Zhael's grasp. "I need your airships. Are you going to give them to us or not?" she said in a rather demanding tone. Zhael was shocked at Oencia's lack of manners. "I do beg your pardon, my dear Champion! It is a matter of tradition that we feast when the Champion enters our fair city!" she said in a shocked tone. Oencia gave a slight grunt before speaking. "I don't goddamn care! We're in a hurry, this is a matter of national emergency!" Zhael was shocked and slightly outraged, but remained calm. "Oh, your Grace, I was not informed that this was an urgent matter. Yes, the aerial fleet is avaialble... though I suspect you mean for me to direct it, correct? I will get Patrick to gather my belongings." Zhael said. Oencia shaked her head. "There is no time. We're already behind schedule, and we have to reach Laeraie as soon as goddamn possible!"