The End of an Era: An Age of Beginnings - [IC/OPEN]

[Ghondra]

THE END OF AN ERA - AN AGE OF BEGINNINGS
Chapter I - The Conclave

OOC Thread

Winhover, 10 km from Bismarck - Kingdom of Victoria
The Year 1062 After the Fall

Lord Edmond Ranger wasn't a man that was accustomed to the subtle art of diplomacy, and yet here he was, standing in front of Lords and Kings from across the Lands. The Conclave was pointless, he thought, he knew that there was no way Nine Kings were all going to agree on who would be Emperor, it was a pipe dream, not even the common threat of destruction at the hands of Reaver Scum and Tribal Filth was going to unify all
of them. But either he began the Conclave or his King would lop his head off. Edmond forced a smile, raised his hands and began to speak.

"My Lords, We are here to address what may be the most pressing issue of our time. As you all know, we have received reports of a fleet of large longships traversing the Bismarck Sea, heading southwards, undoubtedly to rape and loot our lands just as their ancestors did to the Empire long ago." Edmond saw the Auld Empire's delegation wincing, "And the increasing frequency of raids and attacks on settlements indicate an inevitable attack on our lands from the South. My lords we may be seeing the final end of our civilizations." Edmond tried to maintain eye contact in the room, it was difficult as he was standing in the middle of an indoor amphitheater.

"To address this, I think we all agree that as individual kingdoms we will all hang separately, unable to counter the onslaught. But if we can elect a King that stands above the rest, an Emperor even, we have a chance of surviving collectively, or at least hang together. So I declare this Conclave to begin. Will anyone who wishes to present themselves as candidates step forward?" Edmond finished his speech, as the last words left his mouth he glanced at the cousins, Empress Rheannon III of the Auld Empire and his own liege, King Arthur of Victoria.

[OOC: Edmond is free to be used by anyone, he is an NPC]

[G-Tech Corporation]

Forthcoming

Chamber of the Night Sky, Highcastle, Winhover
Onlookers at the Conclave

Down on the round table Fyrdlaird Waldemar Strumrark looked, deep gray beard braided and oiled as he stroked it in thought. As representative of one of the most powerful commercial entities in the Nine Kingdoms, he was seated at the forefront of the balustrade of the non-Royal, ahead of even most nobles. The steel coins of the Wyrd filled coffers from sea to sea, backed by the strength of the Sealed Mountain, instead of the fickle vagaries of the innumerable wars of the successors of Bismarck. He noted the somewhat insecure facial expression of the chosen representative of Victoria, and nodded appreciatively. Jarn and the Sworn had thought it unlikely that the Northmen would unite, even faced with another invasion of the Reaver-King, and it seemed the kingdoms felt likewise. Who set themselves forward would say much of the perceived power of the kingdoms, though, and the political maneuvering here was something the Grim did not want to neglect. A thousand deals would be struck in side rooms today, and many bands had no weregild to mark their passage. Loans of war were also particularly profitable, and so the Ironman was here.

Northern Marches of Kaal, Vale of the Mountains, The Wyrd
Fire in the Sky

In the bowl of the vast mortar the stoneseer poured he grains of flash fire in careful order, prepared previously for this measure exactly. Behind him two artillery men bore a blasting charge, wicked and sealed in a carefully soldered sphere of copper. The Marshall observed the ceremony with a weather eye, and from time to time the men glanced at the commandant, but apparently his ire was not aroused. Rather he seemed absorbed in peering out at the landscape through a small spyglass, as the halberdiers nearby shifted restlessly.

Brigands lurked in those woods, seeking for the unwary to prey upon. They had been driven from the roads and byways by the might of the Blooded, but into that dense vegetation the Marshall had no desire to send his fighters. Formations were of little value in such rough terrain, and for all their lack of training, the wildmen had a ferocity in combat that matched that of all but the most passionate sellswords. The sworn of Fror and Hrär were fanatical and would clear the woods if he asked it of them, but the oaths he bore made Garasov loathe to spill their blood without dire need. Here craft and Maerios could do better than martial fury alone.

The commander removed the polished glass from his bright blue eye.

"Bombardier, make your elevation one hundred and twenty cubits, at ninety eight degrees from north, towards that stand of igleas firs."

As they finished slotting the shot into the dragon-carved mouth of the weapon, the two men nodded, before stuffing their ears with lengths of gauze. With steps crunching on the freshly fallen snow, the Marshal wisely retreated as the men heated their sparkrod at a waiting brazier. The gray-bearded man spoke softly to his lieutenants, and then men dispersed at a trot to their soldiers.

With the roar of the end of the world the mortar spoke, a streak of fire riding towards the heavens. The Wyrdmen looked unconcernedly as the red hot sphere fell down into the trees, then sudden filled the air with shouts of surprise and oaths as a sharp blast broke the quiet evening stillness. The Marshal smiled grimly into his beard- it would do the men good to become accustomed to the powder of the fire that these new weapons would bring to bear on a foe, and the terror and surprise in their voices when the round landed many strides away gave him heart for the effect such weapons would have on even hardened enemies. Drumminh sword haft on shield the sections advanced, Garasov with his Inkcloaks, surveying the carnage the mortar had inflicted.

Resistance was light. His eyes and the calibration of the weapon had been accurate. Mangled bodies and wrecks that had once been men littered the main brigand camp, a crude collection of lean-tos and the light tents favored by such swift fighters. Shards of metal from the explosive sphere had left limbs strew here and there, and most of the blood that stained his weapon came from giving a merciful death to the critically wounded, not fighting the resolute. This band of vagabonds and looters, at least, was all but dispersed. But for as long as the Mountains were rich, desperate low landers would still come to test the resolve of the Wyrd.

Blackhorn Hold, Violetglas Peaks, Mountains Grim
With the Creaking of Rope and Sweat of Brow

A horn called, and Jarn watched with approval as the shining backs of the laborers strained with exertion, muscles taunt. Slowly the great wheel turned, each man pushing against his rod, and on coiled lengths of heartwood cable the immense basalt block rose in its harness. He stooped, appraising anew the design of the Nightwall extension that the Sworn had approved for the coming season. With rumor of war abroad in the southmarches, and word coming also from the utter north of brigands and raiders, repairs and indeed expansions of the vast fortifications that protected the hidden cities were not a matter to be seen as routine.

As the Dorward cast a keen eye on the plans, inspecting towers and fastnesses, the crane operator in his chamber adjusted several lengths of cable, calling via articulate horn signal to the haulers at points along the tower. Slowly, aided by the ocularry mirrormere he bore, the stoneseer placed the new block just so into the fastness of the rising wall. It hissed and crackled, secret formulations doing their work in the mortar placed to receive it- within a fortnight of cold and frosty sun the block would merge with its surround, making the wall that resulted as seamless as polished glass, but as resilient as dragonscale. Lowlander walls buckled and cracked under bombardment, but the Wyrdforged stone merely breathed and lived, bearing up under assault as a man's skin might shrug off the anger of an insect. Dorbeorn smiled as the crane-men gave off grateful groans. There was much work to be done, but good work.

[Cuprum]

Iron Bank of Summerhaven

Bismarck

What do you do in these long moments of silence? The answer is I wait. I uncoil myself, stretch out into deep evenings of solitude and wait.
One of my favourite pastimes is to study the old masters. No, I don’t mean Leonhardt Devincenzo or Donattio. I’m talking Peterson Keynes and Paul Tudor Jones. Khonnan and Roschild are superb. Really superb. A genius trader who doesn’t shy away from indulging his genius. But he doesn’t need not to. His success speaks for itself. A Twenty years stretch of strikes that would make a Hedge Knight quail.

I managed to get my hands on many books. It gave me a new perspective on things. I now see intrinsic value in everything. I see food as calories. I see paintings as auction value. I see night as the absence of light.

“Investors will frequently not know why security prices fluctuate.” How very true! Frequently doesn’t quite cover it. There are, of course, certain things that even the great man gets wrong.

“Investment success cannot be captured in a mathematical equation.” I wonder if he’s heard of Jim Simons? Or the Medallion Fund? Or Steve Cohen?

Just today I was strolling round one of the galleries glancing at the various pieces on show, distracted, rejected, ejected by the atropaic green dot—that is the green dot saying “sold.” As my own eye shifted warily from piece to piece, I was struck with one thing. How ludicrously expensive it all was. Something’s wrong when you’re paying £1,000 for a Sculpture. But it had all been bought by fellow hedge funders.

Waking out of the gallery on this cold and frosty afternoon, my main take away from the experience is that art continues to increase in price even as the rest of the market shuffles towards the abyss. Why? It is impossible for a canvas brushed with paint, a marble statue with no arms or a steel and metal monolith with upraised girders in the shape of tubes and a mesh world signifying banker’s excess, to have an intrinsic value of a hundred million of gold pieces. These are not tangible assets like those of a company, say, for example, The Iron Bank.

For hedge funders, the value of art it isn’t governed by tangible assets. But by jealousy and desire. Art is an object that provides social currency today. It knits together a select group of global nabobs and those who want to be seen sharing economic and cultural rank with them. They gain from it a thin veneer of respectability that they plaster all over their faces like stage make up.

This currency of art gives you access to the dominant economy. It’s a symbol of your membership of a global class of the world’s elite. In the cold nuclear freeze of economic crisis, it is far less important that it can be bought or sold but that you have it. People will follow you, regardless. For the man with the last Leonhardt is vinci. In the land of the blind, the trompe l’oeil is king.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

Chambers of the Conclave, Winhover, Kingdom of Victoria.
Prince Harmond vaer Erengard.

Prince Harmond vaer Erengard was not happy about being here in this grand hall, he had come a long way, crossed hills, valleys and streams bearing a simple message from his nephew the King of Valmange. The Valmen had no interest in seeing the rebirth of the Bismarck Empire, freedom was a sweet thing, a nectar. He had long discussions with King Hienrik and the good lords of the Royal Council before leaving Dunnharrow on the Braag and riding for Victoria. The King was quite against subjecting himself to a new Emperor, such power was made to be abused, the King would say, commanding the military forces of each realm was only the beginning, in the end they would break down the sovereignty of the kingdoms piece by piece, disregard the laws of the realms an impose their own, send foreign constables to arrest good Valmen. Nay, no realm should be ruled by a man who does not understand it or it's people, it's history, it's ancient customs and it's laws. Such rule would only result in the repression of said nation and people, the vast majority of the realm sided with His Majesty and the Independents.

Yet, there was a small faction led by Duke Rikkhard vaer Arttre that was not fully against the idea of a reforged Bismarck Empire and Valmange as a part of it. They argued that the protection offered by a reformed Empire would be greater than that of any alliance since it would be under feudal obligation, they argued that the resulting internal peace and stability would serve to greatly increase the volume of trade not just in Valmange but in all the realms of Brettonia. As of yet, not many listened to them, and after all, why would they? The Valmen had always made it on their own, they had done so for millennia. The Imperials came and conquered them, but still, the Valmen survived. The Keans had come in their Longships, and yet, Valmange was still there. House vaer Erengard, the Kingdom of Valmange and the Valman people survived everything. We are a bit like roaches, only less ugly. The Prince thought to himself and stifled a chuckle.

The old Prince looked around, there was the young King of Victoria, the man who called the Conclave, no doubt hoping said conclave would elect him Emperor. From what was said of this King Arthur Cunningham, he was young, impatient and sickeningly ambitious, this coupled with great amounts of power could bring not only his own realm but others too to ruin. Then he looked at the Aeld Empress, The Three only knew if she thought that she actually held any claim over the entire continent, the Aeld Empire was precisely what it's name suggested, it was a relic living in past, nothing more. He wondered which of the two would raise their voice first, demanding the fealty of the free nations of Brettonia.

Village of Coldwater, Crownlands, Kingdom of Valmange.
King Hienrik vaer Erengard.

The King sat atop his horse, watching the men working in the warm sun, they were making good progress, soon the levees along this section of the Thermidor would be completed. It had been a long project but it would soon be bearing fruit, regulating the Thermidor and the Braag would limit the damages done during flood season every year. And yet, the time for peaceful rule, riding around the realm to meet Lords or watch over various building projects was coming to an end. He needed to... do things with great speed. Most un-Valman. The Valmen were a people who enjoyed taking their time with things. But the world cares not in the slightest what it's people prefer, it does things irregardless. Report were coming of barbarian hordes, moving across the seas, pouring in from the South. Hienrik was a bit afraid, but he was not overly worried, he was confident in his abilities to hold the realm together and defend it, the men of Valmange had suffered before, invasions, occupations, reavers from the sea and barbarian incursions, and yet, here Valmange remained.

There was only one outcome of the following years, the world that his children, when they come into the world, will probably be different, perhaps even very different from the one he was born into. Speaking of which. He needed to get married, soon. He needed heirs. He had given it thought before but not taken the final step, he had used his unmarried status to hint at the possibility of marriages to the daughters of various great Valman Houses but not yet decided. The King was no man-maid, but the number of women he had spent the night with could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Recently, another letter had arrived in Licheberg, behind the graces and courtesies the King got to the gist of it, Duke vaer Ayrestone's youngest daughter Abigayle had come of age recently. It is time to make a decision. And, who knew if it was the loneliness in the spring sun or simply the voices of his advisors that spurred to make the decision he would soon have to make.

But, his marriage was not the only thing that needed attending, the defenses of the realm had to be improved and strengthened. If Valmange was to remain, it's walls would have to be strong and it's banners ready to be called to battle by their King. There was much to do, but then again, there was more than enough time for rest in the grave, diligence is a virtue in the sight of the Three. And with that thought the King and his retinue made their way back to Dunnharrow.

[Cuprum]

Iron Bank of Summerhaven

Bismarck

Fernando waited.

Joaquín was yet to appear from the depths of his manse, and the serfs accepted rested in the relative quiet of his opulent abode. With time to while away, and uncertain of whether any serf were listening on the dignitaries, Fernando and Sebastian waited in companionable silence.
These are a strange folk, Fernando thought. He had naively thought that talking to a few traders and learning a few snatched phrases of their language had prepared him for such a journey, but Joaquín's first visit to one of the North Cities had been eye-opening, to say the least.

Valmange was a feast for all of the senses, his ears assailed by a multitude of foreign cries from the masses that thronged in markets far larger than any southern bazaar, his nose tempted by new and exotic foods that called to him with their scents. As he walked, his flesh delighted in the soft warmth of a gentle climate, far more forgiving than the deserts of the south. But... most of all... Valmange was a frantic mosaic, a perpetually changing riot of colour. From clothing of the purest hues to hair dyed a series of jarring shades, Joaquín had felt as if he had been thrust into a painting made living.

For one whose last few days had consisted of self-pity in a dark hold, this was paradise. He had not seen much of the Sea - not the beasts that danced in the waves, not the sunlight that danced across the waves with all the joviality expected of his first true foray eastward, and not the storm clouds that threatened to cut their journey all too short. Still, he had grown less and less uncomfortable with each passing day, and the crew had hidden their smirks as the now-pale southern man was able to stand on deck without rushing to the nearest rail to void the contents of his stomach. Perhaps there was a little adventurer in him, after all, though to Fernando, landfall had still been sweeter than a fair maiden's kiss, and the bastard had practically leapt ashore in excitement.

[Das Germane imperie]

The Pontifexus Grand Cathedral, Linmarck, Auld Empire
Pope Gregarus IV

Pope Gregarus IV kneeled down in the Grand Cathedral's Hall, in front of three of many statues depicting the Mother, Father and Son.
The silent whispers of the Pope couldn't be heard by the Papal Knights some meters behind him, but that didn't stop them from making concerned looks to each other through their face-covering helmets. The concreted floor was cold, just like the rest of this immensely high building. You couldn't see from floor to roof if you were in the middle of the hall, which made a very powerful impression to the townsfolk who came to this church once a week. The windows in coloured glass did not let in much light on the days, and it reflected the light of the night lamps beautifully. The symmetric walls were held up by gigantic pillars, support balconies and several floors. The hundreds of wooden benches were lined up in a semicircle. And in the front, at the most holiest, was the pope.

The kneeling pope had his hands together, looking up on the three statues of the Trinity. The three figures had given him every asset he valued as good. He always found calm and wisdom from them, and spoke to them directy.

"Oh father, I come to you as a humble servant in search for guidance. These uncharted seas of chaos are flooding the land. Words of invading barbarians, whispers of war and the most terrible of plagues: Sin. Give me the patience, the wisdom and strength to guide the people loyal to your family through this deadly crisis. I pledge my entire self to you, Oh father. I wait in patience for help."

Gregarus breathed out, mumbling psalms in the ancient Trinity Speak, before returning to his prayer.

"Oh mother, give me a Fortitude my pure soul can harness in the fight against evil. You who know all, who have given life to all living must help the people pledging their life towards your family. Give us the strength, and we will give you our piety reborn.

Oh son, oh product of the holiest. Many sons and daughters will stand against horrible acts and desperate times. I beg you, protect them. The courage you will give them, the valor the honorable knights of Bretonnia possess. Oh thrive the Trinity."

He stood up, slowly, and left the hall flanked by the Papal Guards.

Chambers of the Conclave, Winhover, Kingdom of Victoria
Cardinal Ovarius Bleck

Ovarius, a young cardinal of 32 years had received the tremendously important mission to represent the Church of the Trinity in the conclave. Together with five Papal Knights in shining white armour, red plumes and helmets covering their entire heads, he sat on the designated seats just behind Empress Rheannon of the Auld Empire. His eyes passed through the room, and he stopped at Pope Lucas's representatives. What differed the both churches clothing was the red and black robes in the Church of the Trinity of Auld, when the other papacy's higher members could be recogniced in their white robes.

He listened to speech spoken by Lord Edmond Ranger, and made a concerned look due to the grave importance of it. His eyes went between King Arthur of Victoria and Empress Rhaennon, the likely candidates for an imperial unification mandate. He was only a few meters behind the Empress, and waited for her, or anyone elses response idly.

[Cuprum]

Dukedom of Summerhaven

With five loud tolls Joaquín Soria was awoken by the changing of the guards. He had never understood why this noise had to be so loud. Surely, the guards could send ravens or notes to one another. It worked well with Martina. The girl loved his letters. Nonetheless he needed to make the guards much quieter. For their blatant disregard of their Lord’s slumber it was fitting they would work a few more hours for the next month. He never understood why his parents never changed the shift of the guards to work with his sleep. His father greatness would light the midnight skies with flames all shades of the rainbow, he was a dragon he would rise late and sleep well after the sun went down.

After lying in his blankets for a decent period of time he was noticed his curtains rise and was approached by his chamberlain and brother Fernando.

“My Lord! It’s time to rise” he pulled back the Lord’s silk blankets to reveal a pale looking wench clutching at the more private areas of the Lord.

“Shoo” he muttered slapping her away. The girl left taking a skirt and blouse with her, giggling.

“Again? M’Lord this won’t end well” the chamberlain stated plainly.

“Fernando, I’m not paying you to advise me, I’m paying to clean this hell hole and manage my affairs.” Joaquín said as he looked for clothes.

Looking away, he handed the young lord his white doublet, it was trimmed with red velvet and small pins in the shape of crab sat near his
shoulders if the Lord wished to attach a cape or cloak.

“What about bastards, M’Lord?”

“Bastards?,” Joaquín mused “Any child of mine is a blessing, a little lord or lady in their own right, the Blood of the Old Races – little kings and queens. Like the great bastards of old!” Joaquín appeared to be getting more and more enthusiastic with each sentence.

“What are the plans for today, M’Lord?” Fernando cut him off, hoping to stop the influx of madness.

“Oh, you know, the usual” he replied adjusting his hair.

Since the old Lord had passed away Fernando had mourned. He mourned for the good Sorias, for the servants that were in their quarters. Mostly though, he mourned for the loss of their rule. They were a just and kind pair. Joaquín on the other hand? the future of the realm wasn’t looking promising.

Joaquín moved to the level below his bed, where a small living space lay. He sat at the polished table and snapped his fingers. He waited impatiently, tapping on the table. After what seemed to be hours for the young man, his meal finally arrived - pears and pomegranates with crusty bread and several pieces of honey smoked ham. It was a meal fit for a king, it was perfect for him then Myles thought.

Lord Soria tended to avoid the hall of Castle during the breaking of his fast. It was filled with servants, vassals and visitors - all of which were beneath him. None of them were fit to bear witness to his majesty, except Isabel. Sweet, beautiful Isabel. She was the Juliet to his Romeo, the Isolde to his Tristan, his everything. She knew it as well, unsure how to react she would treat the boy with sisterly love, a kiss on the cheek and holding his hand when he felt like the world would swallow him up. Nothing more ever came of it. Yet. Joaquín had thought. When the lordling heard word she had passed he refused to leave his solar for a month, he smashed the vases, punched the walls and tore at his sheets. Nothing and no one would console him. It was a very dark time in his life.

He contemplated ending it right there and then. He'd join his sweet love in the depths of the afterlife. They would be eternally one. But Isabel wouldn't want that. She'd want her lover to carve out his slice of the world and take it by storm. And by all the gods, he wouldn't let her down.

He started his morning the way he usually did: listening to the whines of his peasants, the drivel of his vassals or visitors and the prattling of his guards. He picked at the sandstone "throne" he had fashioned himself. Crabs, dragons and flowers were covered ornately into it. In Joaquín's humbled opinion it was better than the Imperial Throne, he would rule from this very seat when he reached his goal, nothing would change. Except someone else would listen to these pathetic people whine.

Some wanted to increase their farming land, others had disputes with a local trader, and others even dared to question his taxation system. The Lord very kindly offered to explain it to the local after his duties for the day, what the merchant didn't need to know however, was how this explanation was going to occur in his personal dungeons. Nobody questioned Joaquín Soria, nobody.

Then came one of the young lord's favourite parts of the day: The dinner. Held near midday the servants of Palatia Aestas prepared an ornate meal for their lord – roasted fox and fried crab legs. The dish itself was very unusual and particularly tasteless to others. His mother had whined about it as was in her nature, claiming “eating the local trash was wrong” or something along those lines. Nevertheless it was one of the lord’s favourites; his personal advisor had recommended it to him especially. Most of the servants and men seemed to be mystified or concerned with the Lord’s advisor. No one had ever seen him or even heard him, yet they heard the conversations between the two nearly every night, it was one of the greater mysteries of the Island.

Joaquín’ raised his goblet “A toast! My Dear People, A toast! To my dear brothers and for our darling Empress” he said as he smirked at his mother “May her health and beauty be eternal”

The people smiled and their glasses chinked as they toasted. All except his mother - she was fuming. Laughter and merry talk filled the hall as the midday meal was consumed. After nearly an hour, Joaquín to decided he had things to do. Leaving his half eaten meal he walked out of the castle and to the stables. There he ordered his black mare, Isabel to be saddled immediately and his crossbow bought to the stable door. Named in honour of his deceased lover it was one of the best horses to step foot on the island – perfect for him then. He was given his crossbow and off he went.

Digging his spurs into the mare, he galloped for a time entering the forest near the shoreline. It was a spectacular place. The trees seemed to cover the entire skyline and it was quiet, absolutely dominated by quietness. It had been that way ever since Joaquín could remember. His advisor had assured him it was a magical place, the gods were strong here.

Joaquín thoughts were interrupted though, several feet in front of him there lay a crab - big, juicy and the size of a small dog. It would be perfect for tomorrow’s dinner. Joaquín licked his lips greedily as he retrieved his crossbow from behind himself. He loaded it, silently praying the creature wouldn’t move. Thankfully it didn’t. He aimed, steadying himself. Ready… aim… he pulled the trigger. With a sickening crunch the beast crumpled to the forest floor. As he walked to collect his kill Joaquín smiled with glee, he knelt to observe the poor beast. He placed a hand on its shell, watching intensely as the light dissipated from the crab’s beady black eyes. Joaquín picked the crab up and roughly shoved it in his saddle bag. He spent the rest of the afternoon riding Isabel along the beach whistling cheerfully as the crab slapped against the horse’s side.

It was nearly dusk by the time Joaquín had returned home. He handed Isabel’s reigns to a nearby page and trudged to the castle, crab in hand. When he finally reached the castle hall he was greeted with the sight of his sisters. He dropped the crab and rushed forward.

“Juliana! My Beautiful Lady,” he knelt and kissed Juliana’s hand much to her disgust. “You look like a goddess.” He said in awe.

“Oh and Helena. How quaint. Juliana, my sweet, sweet sister, sup with me this evening.”

“Again Joaquín? What are you trying to do?” Juliana replied warily.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, I love you Juliana I just want to show that” Joaquín said, he refused to drop Juliana’s hand. He ignored Helena.

“Not now, I’ve had enough shenanigans for today” she turned, dropped his hand and linked arms with Helena and made their way to what he supposed was their chambers.

Joaquín went bright red and an expression of pure fury marked his features. It seemed almost childish to an observer. He couldn’t think straight.
He had one way to take out this anger: the dungeons.

It was time to visit Alicia again.

[Laurvier]

Outskirts of Winhover

A small camp was made just outside the town. Sir Alaric had come seeking employment and new recruits. Their contract overseas in North Kaea was over. The Yales of Gleaveacyre had bloodied themselves and gained a mountain of plunder. As per Alistair's advice, Alaric would deposit a fair amount with the Iron Bank. The rest would serve to requip, rearm and expand their ranks. Only 40 men were in the camp other than the two Valden brothers. Another dozen were in the city of Bismark seeking new recruits. As many as 3000 Yales were due to arrive within the fortnight by ship. Alaric wanted a new contract by the time they got here or he would have to resort to raiding a Lord's lands to keep them satisfied. The Conclave at Winhover seemed an excellent opportunity with all the high nobles gathered here.

Alaric was watching the men at play. Most played diced, tended to their weapons or kept watch over the horses which were decorated with the rotting heads of their enemies dangling from the saddles. The Demon of Gleaveacyre towered over the rest of his men. He was a monstrosity among them with a visage the unnerved the heartiest of warriors. A hideous scar ran down the length of Alaric's cheek and one of his eyes was pale. With them they had brought many captives. Captured men were used to drag hand carts full of supplies. Alaric had ordered their eyes put out with hot irons. They would be blind beasts of burden until they keeled over and died from exhaustion. Then there were the young women taken from villages in North Kaea. Some no older than 16. He felt it fitting that his men should be provided with comfort for the journey. A few of the Yales decided it would be amusing to strip one naked and flog her against a post. Her cries largely went unnoticed by the rest who went about their business as if nothing unusual was happening. For the Yales, it was not. Beside her another was dead, numerous goose feathered arrows sprouting from her body. The men took a vote and as the ugliest of the lot, was elected to be used as target practice by the archers.

"Fripper!" He yelled. Lucien Dram was the third in command of the Yales. Mostly responsible for discipline. They called him fripper for a fripper was a man who sold second hand clothes. Back when they road as bandits, Fripper pulled off the clothes of their dead victims to sell.

"Ay sir!" The man came running forward.

"Get rid of the wenches." Alaric commanded in a low booming voice.

"Sir?" He asked incredulously.

"They're a distraction and mouths to feed and the men have had their fun. Put em out of their misery. If the men want a warm hole to shove their pricks in they have plenty of plunder. They can find themselves a whore."

"Aye sir." Fripper answered then began to shout some orders.

The bound women were forcefully shoved over a nearby hill by a squad of Yales along with the one who was being flogged. A few moments later there were screams and then nothing. Those Yales came back with bloodied weapons.

"I think one was pregnant with yours Thomas. Does that count as two?" One of them joked as he wiped the blood of his menacing looking axe.

"How do you know it was me? The whole lot of us had a go at her. Wasn't any fun either. The bitch cried too much for my taste." Another pocked marked man answered with a longsword resting on his shoulder. Both were wearing the black surcoat of the Yales over a brigandine. Their kettle helms were dented and unpolished and they were ugly as sin. Like many Yales the two men-at-arms were murderers who had been saved a trip to the gallows so they could keep plying their trade.

"I was wondering when you'd get rid of that rabble brother." Alistair commented who was sitting on a barrel nearby. He was tending to his weapon, a superbly crafted hand and a half sword. In contrast to his frightening brother, Alistair was fairly handsome with pretty brown eyes to make the ladies swoon and a disarming smile. Alaric said nothing and simply grunted. Alistair took a few practice swings with his sword and went through some footwork motions. "I think I'll insult the toughest looking knight I see when I get into town. Been a while since I had good duel."

[Cymrea]

Linmarck - Capital of the Aeld Empire
AF 1062

The Blood Throne, seat of the Bismarck imperators and imperatrices for time immemorial, was an intimidating chair. Carved with the dragons of House Serra, the throne was crafted from bloodwood, the northern counterpart to the midnight-coloured duskwood that flourished in the south. A deep red to begin with, the ancient wood had been stained and oiled and polished for over a thousand years; such craftsmanship and care had resulted in a throne that was iron-hard but looked to be made from shining sanguine fluid. It loomed over the audience hall from a broad space at the top of thirteen wide marble steps.

To each side at the base of the steps were six of the twelve Knights of the Black, only half their number. The other half were in Victoria, protecting the Empress. Perched attentively in her place upon the Blood Throne was her younger brother, Cambrius II Owainn, current heir to the empire and named for the previous emperor, their father. Today, Owainn presided over the daily Audience of Commons.

"You, there. Come forth and state your name for His Majesty the Prince," commanded Ser Zedward Querica, acting commander of the Black Nights. His baritone carried clearly in the hall, echoing only slightly among the great columns that supported a soaring ceiling. Only the subtlest of hushed words were permitted during the audience.

A large man, bearded and well muscled, plainly attired in charcoal linen, stepped forward. In a rough bass voice, he spoke. "I am Delwyn Grimaldus, Your Majesty."

Prince Owainn nodded. "I know you; you own the smithy in the Imperial District."

Grimaldus smiled, honoured to be recognised by the prince. "Yes, Your Majesty. I do."

"What matter do you bring before the Throne, Master Grimaldus?"

The smith clenched his large fists unthinkingly. The cracking of his knuckles was loud in the quiet hall. "Your Majesty, I paid the Schola Progenium handsomely to ward and apprentice a foundling they claimed was from the Wyrd, in the northern vales. The Wyrdfolk are peerless in their metalcraft, and if the lad held any of their talent in his blood, it could prove a great boon to my smithy. If he did not, then that was part of the gamble I made. However, I have come to believe that the boy is not Wyrdfolk at all, and that I have been cheated by the Schola."

Prince Owainn absorbed this for a moment. "The Schola Progenium is an imperial institution and shelters the orphans of the realm. By their great work are many children given the opportunity to grow and learn and contribute to Aeld," he mused. Grimaldus nodded, acknowledging these statements without argument.

"What evidence do you have to support your claim, Master Grimaldus?"

The smith took a breath. "I've recently discovered a brand on the boy, on his left hip. The scar is in the shape of a tyr, Your Majesty. A Reaver mark, of a warrior clan. Such is commonly known."

"Did you bring the boy with you today?" asked Prince Owainn.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Grimaldus turned and gestured at one of the columns. From behind, a skinny boy of no more than ten scurried forth and stood by the smith's side. He took a gentle but firm hold of the lad, turning him so his left hip faced the throne. "With your permisson, Your Majesty?"

The prince leaned forward intently and nodded. Grimaldus lifted the boy's tunic and drew his linen leggings down just far enough to reveal the scar. It stood out pale against the tanned surrounding skin, like an arrow pointed skyward, or the end of a spear. The symbol for the pagan Reaver god of war and the sigil of a large clan known for raiding the shores to the north. The evidence was clear.

But something peaked out below the tail of the boy's lifted tunic. Dark lines etched on the skin.

"Master Grimaldus, I would like a closer look at the boy. Ser Tristifer, bring the lad up here."

The Black Knight took the boy by the hand and led him to the second step below the Crown Prince. Owainn leaned forward from his seat.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked. The lad stared back, seemingly uncomprehending. His golden hair was dirty but his blue eyes were clear and bright. After a moment, the boy spoke.

"Jjaan efisnae kogga."

Prince Owainn's eyebrows raised and he looked to Grimaldus. "You recognise the sigil but not the language?"

The smith looked abashed. "No, Your Majesty. I've never heard Reaverspeak before."

"Fair enough," Prince Owainn replied. To the boy he asked, "Vaasa ost vara nom?"

"Dagmar," the boy said.

Owainn said, "Ah," and spoke more to the boy. Dagmar turned and lifted his tunic off, revealing a tattoo that covered his entire back. At first it seemed completely incomprehensible, until Prince Owainn recognised the Atalantic shoreline of Victoria and Valmange. Studying it further, Prince Owainn came to be alarmed.

"This...this is an invasion map."

[Cymrea]

Winhover, Victoria
AF 1062

The silence following Lord Edmond's words was awkward, to say the least. And filled with a thick tension. All eyes flitted between the young King Arthur of Victoria, the host of this conclave and latest in a long line of usurpers, and herself. Rheannon III Victoria o Serra Regina, Empress of Aeld, paused another breath before speaking. Her voice was a strong contralto, her words lilted with the southern accent.

"Are there no words?" she asked in ringing tones. "There is plenty enough steel on your hips, is there none in your spines? Or perhaps you're men of intelligence - perfectly aware of the shameless grasping that drives each of your ludicrous potential claims to an empire your bloodlines betrayed long ago?

"This conclave is a farce. And while I love my cousin, I cannot countenance that any of you would claim the imperial throne. Arthur has the best claim of all of you, but he inherits only after me and any children I may bear. Thus, I am and shall remain the Empress, of Aeld or of a re-united Bismarck. None here have the legal or moral authority to countermand that."

Rheannon raised a pale and delicate finger, ringed in gold with a deep red stone.

"However, any of you who choose to return to the fold and swear true allegiance to the Empire shall receive absolution for the crimes of your Houses and clemency from the Throne. You will be permitted to retain your lands and titles, and to administer your realms as Dukes and Duchesses with legitimate authority. And as you rejoin the Empire, our influence shall grow and we shall reclaim Brettonia from those who would keep it shattered and vulnerable to the savage Reavers and to the barbarian outsiders of Gaella and Nestoria. Together we can secure our people and restore our glory.

"Refuse," Rheannon continued, "and my offer will fall to those beneath you, who would raise themselves higher." She smiled lightly. "You'll find that your ancestors were not the only ones capable of treachery and treason."

With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the conclave, surrounded by her Black Knights. Left behind were a pair of scribes, tasked with recording the remainder of the day's words.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Chamber of the Night Sky, Highcastle, Winhover
Onlookers at the Conclave

Mas the Empress turned to leave, Waldemar gave out an almost audible hiss, but he barely restrained himself. Next to him the Stälmann merely chuckled, his deep red hair brilliant even in the half-light of the chamber. An eyebrow quirked in Strumrark's face as the Fyrdlaird half-turned in his seat to contemplate the source of the younger man's mirth. Seeing his elder's curiosity, the representative from the Wyrd deigned to explained, his tones hushed in the Fell-speech of the high mountains.

"Gar, she has sack, she does. And look at their faces- white as whey dough some of them, the rest bright cherry. Kings for a thousand years will nay give up their thrones, even if the Northmen come. They took their liberty in the wake of just such an invasion- why should they think any different of this one? The Auld and Victoria will feel the hammer-blows, while the rest grow fat on war profiteering. I reckon that wager, clear as the bell."

The Fyrdlaird mulled over his comrade's words for a moment, before leaning back in his seat and allowing the faintest hint of a smile to ghost over his face. It was liable to be true enough; with the 'Empress' not even mooting for the approval of the other kings, most of the possibility of this Conclave succeeding had dissolved. Perhaps if she had put it to a vote of voice or hands she might have carried the day, but such a pompous display of arrogance would be unlikely to win hearts or minds, if he knew anything of men and the way they wore their cloaks of power. No matter. Warfare, instability, they were good for business. In times of desperation folk small or mighty turned to the swords at their sides, and perhaps in this coming storm the Fyrd would be able to stamp out the last vestiges of the so-called 'Iron Bank' of the Auld Empire.

As the smiths said, the hottest fires make the refine the purest gold.

Seat of Audience, Imperial Palace, Linmarck, Auld Empire
A Matter of Loyalty

As the man spoke with the liege, a figure turned in interest to watch the proceedings. Clad in the black and white hauberk of a man sworn to the Wyrd and the King under the Mountain, the deep-browed patrician glanced at the boy as the smith mentioned the waif's paternity and lineage, then muttered something to his companions and strode forward. Waiting politely for a break in the conversation- a lull the revelation of the invasion map revealed- the man took several steps towards the throne, and bent at the waist in the half-bow of respect proscribed to a sovereign not one's own. Even as the assembled nobles and notaries muttered about the meaning of the omen of a war to come, Fyrdwarden Briling spoke aloud, deep emerald eyes taking in the prince's gaze.

"Lord Prince, I admit my surprise at this state of affairs; it would, however, seem to have an easy solution. I had not known, nor do I believe any of my kin are aware, that the Schola deals with youths said to be of the blood of my blood. We of the Mountains seldom marry abroad, but the thought of a sister's son languishing in even your Majesty's esteemable orphanages saddens my heart. If your will allows it, I would propose that those thought to be of Wyrd lineage be allowed to be turned over from your Schola to the care of they Fyrd and her charges. We shall not be lax in our care for our own, nor remiss in our duties to the fatherless and destitute. The fact that such youths may be unscrupulously peddled like chattel goods for the profit of a man troubles me- I cast no blame at the feet of your councilors nor the good smith Grimaldus, for I know him to be an upright man and your rule to be enlightened- but even so, for the good of all the Fyrd and Ironmen would wish this to be a state of affairs avoided. Perhaps you could instruct your overseers of the venerable Schola Progenum in this matter? You would have the gratitude not only of myself and the precinct within your walls, but indeed all Grim men who make their homes within the boundaries of the Auld Empire."

Briling bowed again, a sign that he had concluded his request, and straightened, waiting to hear the prince's judgement on the matter.

[Argentumurbem]

Winhover, Victoria
Luke Prestor, King of Jaelund

Luke's laugh, and that of the twelve noblemen he had seated about him, followed after the retreating Empress as a wave gives way to the sand. He had expected, more.

"I think Her Highness is the highest of them all," one nobleman, broad of shoulder and narrow of mind hurled across the chamber to all those who would hear.

"Did you see the glass quiver beneath her bellow?" chortled another.

Upon his low throne, cushions, skins and feathers as to be the envy of any princess, King Luke Prestor grinned to his attendants. His family had arisen only on the back of their power, their courage and their skill. It was weak men who betrayed, and who felt its sting. The Bismarck Empire had crumbled, and those who clung to its memory were being dragged down by the wreckage of age.

"Royal dignitaries," he bellowed, silencing the laughter with a whip-crack. "Let us be plain. The Empire fell ten centuries ago. It was weak and power brought it low. You would bind your family's colours to its mast once more? You would hand over your sovereignty to a bloodline unable to keep itself as one. Some here have direct lineages to ancestors who ascended because of Bismarck's rape. Would you spit on the graves of your family by bending the knee to those they had triumphed over? Jaella is older than Bismarck, older than the Auld Empire. By the same right as that Empress outside professes to demand your vassalage I should demand your loyalty. By her wisdom I have more right, for Jaella recognises no gentle woman to the throne. We are rulers for a reason. Nominate and cast your votes for yourselves, so that we can end this conclave and return to our families." He paused, twirling around so as to encompass the entire chamber. "Why bend your knee to the Empress, who harbours funds the schism within our holy church? This act alone betrays her for a snake, wishing the domains of man to weaken themselves in favour of her tenuous claim to authority and divine right. I shall say no more on this matter, but promise Prestor blades to whomever must call upon them against the aggression of Empress Rheannon."

He took his seat once more, signalling for his servant to pass on a message to the retainers and soldiers he had brought as party of his royal entourage.

[Cuprum]

Dukedom of Summerhaven

“Must we visit the Capital? It’s giving me an ill feeling even from here, and even if it’s farther south it still feels warmer.” Fernando grumbled as he hugged her silk clothes tightly, a few more having been acquired since their departure from Summerhaven.

“Unfortunately we must deal with the Empress, their land is extensive and near to ours. It would not make sense to be aloof to them...” Joaquín’s eyes wandered to the massive keep of old, shaking his head as he tried to remind himself that he was here as a guest, an equal of sorts. He only hoped that the Empress hadn’t remembered their sparring at the council. “...And it never hurts to learn a bit more of them, especially should we come to conflict, the Gods forbid.”

More Hedge Knights had joined them when they had departed their holdings, the retinue making its way on horse to the Capital. It seemed like time passed all to quickly for the liking of either Fernando or Joaquín as they neared the fabled seat of the newly restored Imperial house.

Joaquín was curious to see what effects The Empress had wrought already and just how they would affect him. Fernando was more concerned that there’s be no spiced wine or warm halls in the castle to keep the chill from his bones.

“What was The Empress like? At the council I mean?” Fernando gave a sigh, “She is a quivering wretch and the quintessential Serra I am afraid. Not an ounce of honour in her and so much pride that even my father would have been impressed...” Which will make her all the more dangerous... What game is she playing, there must be a game. “... She’ll be an unsteady ally or a dangerous enemy, but I do not see her as the kind of woman to make friends... Even with someone as loveable as myself.”

“Her family has the royal blood, hasn't they” Fernando had been trying to learn more the Imperial history as of late, figuring he might know more of his overlord’s family and their traditions before anything was finalized.

Joaquín snorted, rolling his eyes as he shrugged his shoulders. “Aye... The Empress have become proud, lovely and obnoxious... Quite horrid to be with actually, almost worse than Helena.”

The conversation died down as they neared the keep, Fernando slowly and subtly guiding her horse closer to The Duke’s as they neared the large Iron doors. The Duke had sent ahead messengers to inform The Empress of his coming and to ask for his generous hospitality. They had not yet returned and he could not help but feel slightly worried at that fact.

It’s nothing of course, The Empress wouldn’t dare to act out against our proposals, she's in a difficult geo-political position. She would have to wait to find out though; indeed he hoped to learn much from this visit. The offer that the Iron Bank directory had give him still echoed in his mind. Perhaps after this visit he would revisit the issue, or put the idea to rest for good... He would have to wait to find out.

The watcher stood at his position upon the wall looking for anyone approaching. He spotted the Empress bannermen's riding up the track to the castle and gave word for the doors to open. Upon entry the Bannermen's were told to meet the Lord and his brother inside at the Great Hall. The great hall was dim and smoky, with rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. Long tables stood before a dais with a high table. The Great hall had a vaulted ceiling and marble rafters, there sitting in the centre of the high table was the Empress' brother Prince Owainn.

[Woodstovia]

The fires were seemingly everywhere. Per his orders his men had taken to lighting everything aflame, horses, men, caravans. The smell of blood and smoke hung in the air. The "battle" had been more like a massacre. The small tin mining guild (Alexander barely even remembered what it was called) had increased the number of guards protecting their caravans after deliveries had gone missing again and again but they could still only muster up a meagre force, primarily trained at fighting lightly armed lowlife bandits. Not a trained military force. He hadn't even lost a single man. Indeed there had been little fighting after the caravan saw the force it was up against, most of the guards had simply thrown down their weapons and surrendered or retreated. But he had surrounded the area and his men were told to ignore surrenders.

The cargo was large, mainly ore but also some heavy mining equipment. He always kept a portion of ore for himself. It's not like the Wyrd knew how much ore was in each caravan, he might as well make a little more profit. His other instruction was not to touch any skilled labourers but honestly who could tell those apart from the other men? It's not like the Wyrd would know if all those labourers disappeared either. Besides it was a mercy to kill them after they watched everyone around them die. Nobody had shown him that sort of mercy, the useful kind.

A few small chests of gold were also discovered, thankfully. Ambushing caravans was boring work, small ambushes with little in the way of actual fighting had little appeal to Alexander. But at least it paid well and gave newer recruits more knowledge on what a battle was truly like. After watching that massacre they'd harden up a little, the next time they had to swing a sword or watch someone die it would hurt them a little less, and the next time a little less and so on until eventually they'd butcher villages without a second thought. Alex smiled as his army rode back to Ashfallow, it was only a short ride away. He was more like a teacher than a warrior. He'd scoop up all these young boys, mostly orphans; train them and then show them the true nature of humans. They weren't knights in shining armour singing frilly songs as they all valiantly fought to the death in heroic last stands. Most men just shit themselves and cried before the sword came down.

The Order of the Dying Sun finally arrived in Ashfallow, the main body of the force was encamped just outside the city, much to the dismay of the locals. It didn't make sense to bring along 8,000 men just to attack a few caravans. He divided the ore between the various company smiths before escorting a much smaller portion to the Wyrd and explaining that that was all they had found.

He'd heard that a conclave was being called between all the lords of the realm and truthfully Alex was interested in the results. If the lords did decide on a new emperor or empress that'd mean less wars and less work, but the more likely option was that it would actually create more opportunities for his men. Gathering all the kings of the realm, each with their own brand of arrogance and squabble with the next king was not a good idea. Hopefully they'd start fighting again and he could sign a big fat contract for thousands of gold. One which involved actual fighting and not just massacres.

[Elysian Kentarchy]

Chambers of the Conclave, Winhover, Kingdom of Victoria
Lord Anselm vaer Olderen

I quietly take my seat in the Conclave next to Prince Harmond. Honestly though I had been here a couple days thanks to House Olderen's lands being at the border which reduced my traveling distance considerably. Plus with me using this cane it is getting to be an annoyance. In reality the cane is just for show and is simply for appearances, though it does contain a blade in it, though I am afraid to admit I am slowing down. Hence why the least I could do was be House vaer Olderen's eyes and ears here. As for the claimants I look them over the King of Victoria and the Empress of the Aeld. Overall if I had to give a choice I would support the Aeld as they have a slightly stronger claim and their maintaining of the ways of old is better. As far as I am concerned the Cunningham King is simply ambitious. Though maybe the fact their kingdom is so close to House Olderen's land makes me more likely to distrust them and their claims. As the Aeld Empress rises to speak I look at her with expectation. That expectation is sorely quashed with such a short performance and speech. "Perhaps it is best that King Hienrik is stating we are to be independent if that is all the Aeld will present to us." I mutter to Prince Harmond. "I am doubtful the Cunninghams will present a better offer. More than likely they will simply state a similar point of view while changing the wording. If all they have done is come to claim this ancestor and that ancestor did something and thus they should rule over everyone then I think it is safe to say this is a waste of time." When the King of Jaelund gives his remarks I can't help but nod along despite my distaste for filthy usurpers and liege-traitors like him and his father, a distaste I have maintained since their claim of their Kingdom's throne that I remember quite well.

Map Room, Olderen Hold, Duchy of vaer Olderen, Kingdom of Valmange
Duke Valerius vaer Olderen

"Let the meeting begin." I say to those assembled with me around a map, though this can hardly be called a large meeting, the only people in the room and around the map is myself, my sister, my Uncle Joseph but this is typical of us anyway. "By now the Conclave will have begun and thus it is our turn to make our move."

"Ah yes the circus for kings and queens to try to gather the old scraps of power and prestige from the old Empire." My sister Anastasia says distastefully. "Any concrete word from the King yet?"

"No but knowing how he is in all odds King Hienrik will have it declared that we are to be independent and have no part in this affair. Which most likely means only one thing: war will come to our Valmange sooner or later. The question is from where and what form will it take?"

"Why would war come?" My uncle asks.

"I acknowledge that outside of commerce you are not well versed in politics uncle but do pay more attention to the political field. If anything happens to my sister you are next in line after all."

"That wouldn't be a problem if you just took a wife." He says tersely which causes me to sigh over this issue being brought up again.

"I will take one when the time comes uncle. Right now I have a realm I must maintain at all costs and a potential war occurring on our very doorstep." I tell him tired of this continual back and forth argument.

"Right. We can talk later. So why would war occur?"

"Simple really. Declaring ourselves independent and refusing to go along with either side makes us a target for just about every opportunist and their mother."

"War would most likely come from the Cunninghams then. I am doubtful their King will take the refusal of a neighboring kingdom to follow along with him like good little sheep or slaves lightly." My sister says looking at the map. "Which unfortunately involves us very deeply since our lands include part of the border."

"Exactly." I tell her. "That is unfortunately the best case scenario. I would much rather not mention the worst case scenario."

"Why are you certain war will occur though? Isn't it quite possible that they will do nothing?" Uncle asks.

"Too wildly optimistic. Besides with the ignorant foreigners holding the stance that we are all uncivilized idiots would make attacking us all the more popular to their own idiotic commanders." I point at the map that includes our border with the Kingdom of Victoria. "The rest of the Kingdom is not our problem at the moment but the real problem for us is that we share a border with the Kingdom of Victoria which means that if war does happen soon enough House vaer Olderen must be in the vanguard and ready to fight since they will have to march through our lands first."

Uncle Joseph frowns at the tried and failed idea that we are savages and the clear threat to our own House and our ancient lands. "Should we consider sending orders for mobilization then?" He asks.

"No that would be considered provoking Victoria to take action against our Kingdom or at least against us in these times of high tensions. We should only do so upon orders from the King or if we think Victoria begins making moves towards the border."

"I see. So what preparations should we undertake?

"For now when Uncle Anselm returns I want him and you to run an assessment on all of our defenses, especially those at the border, and see what improvements can be done. While he gives his recommendations you calculate the expense and secure what money we need. It shouldn't be too hard."

"Of course but should we delay the inspection until Uncle Anselm returns?"

"Under normal circumstances I would do it myself with you but there is much we need to do to prepare ourselves, hence why I am going to be checking out the villages under our control. The Conclave will be nothing more then a political mess and, while I truly hope for peace, I fear nothing but war will result from it so we need to make sure every part of us is ready for it."

"Well what do you think of this Conclave your Grace?" Uncle Joseph asks me.

"I don't think my opinions matter in this affair. Following the king takes priority over such things." I say shortly. "That is tradition and thus must be abided by. I keep my hand and my views hidden because of their irrelevancy, I cannot break tradition and go against the King in something as important as the Kingdom's survival. Doing so will throw away all of my House's traditions and sacrifices."

"Of course your Grace."

"Anastasia, write up a letter to what peace time commanders we do have and tell them to increase patrols on the border and to keep their eyes open for Victorian movements. I will sign off on it after it has been written."

"Of course brother." She pauses. "Should we not inform the King of our actions?"

"Anastasia, write up another letter informing the King of our willingness to support independence. Also inform him in that letter that I have decided to step up patrols due to the dangers of these difficult times. I will read it over and sign it if it is acceptable. But as it stands right now only an idiot, or someone who insanely lusts for power. would take offense at patrols going on in our own territory. So if the Cunningham King reacts to this it will undermine him as a stable leader anyway. Besides if he does notice the stepped up patrols that simply shows he has been watching our border with interest which means that we can pass it off as him planning to attack and thus being able to safely mobilize. We defend the northern part of the Kingdom for a reason."

"Smart move and I will have it ready in an hour or two." My sister comments.

"It is simple strategy really. For now have my horse readied and I will head out. You know where to find me if any essential messages come up but you are in charge sis."

"Of course, I will not disappoint." With that my sister and Uncle Joseph bow and leave and I sigh.

"A age of changes... is that what this is? What this feels like? What will happen to our House and our Kingdom with such a change?" I close my eyes. "Our traditions we have been maintaining for so long... will they be enough to save us in this time of troubles?"

[Esselman]

Southeast of the Kingdom of Valgar
Near the border of Nestoria

Based around the ruins of an old monastery the Kaman Order's encampment was now clearly on the encroached land of the kingdom of Valgar, though the tribes not far from them would no doubt be open to the Order's expansion if in their minds they could easily take it as well. Lord Tullus sat in the monastery that clearly belonged to The Trinity at some point in the past, thinking of what the place represented before being interrupted by his sister. Lady Gellia's piercing blue eyes shot directly at him as she spoke,

"They are ready brother," she said as her hair was being pulled through the breezeway of where a grand door once was.

Tullus nodded walking out. There was a fair perimeter of fenced in land that the Order had reinforced to create a border around their settlement. Walking around the ruins of the building, the stone perfectly immovable by a mere touch, an all dirt circle marked the end of all trials. A Brother came to Tullus, bowing his head slightly as Tullus stood beside Gellia who looked on to the two initiates. The two were kneeling beside one another heads proudly displayed to the Lord and Lady ready to end their trial.

"You know the rules, and the penalties are clear," shouted Gellia to a crowd who waited in a patient silence
"Show us your best! Begin!" she screeched out looking over to Tullus for a quick moment, he merely looked on, his armor hiding any show of emotion or expression to anyone.

The two men began fighting, hand to hand naturally. Clawing at one another proving their ultimate worth, as the trial battle ensued one of them was sliced open at the arm. The yell of pure agony caused the Brothers watching to shout out, cheering for the battle. The victor was becoming clear, a final blow to the stomach of the already wounded combatant displayed a winner but they were to continue the battle.

"Enough! Cassius, we welcome you to the Kaman Order. You are our new Brother" she said, grabbing him by the arm as two other Brothers adorned him with a vestment dyed a deep red color, near black.

"As for you-" Gellia was interrupted and as were the cheers by the raised hand of Tullus. Tullus approached the downed man, crippled by defeat and burdened by pain. He was clearly bested, but was now clawing at air to breathe.

Tullus kneeled next to him, staring into his wincing eyes and whispered to him "Have you no honor? You have earned this much," he said standing

Tullus unsheathed his sword, slicing at the downed participant of the trials. Walking away he motioned for Lady Gellia to follow, they returned to the ruined monastery. Cassius looked on to the Lord, waiting for an acknowledgment, yet none came. A look of anger could be seen on the initiates Cassius' face as he was helped walk away by a Brother. Others from the circle gathered the remains of the body and burned it in a ritualistic manner it seemed, or maybe for the smell to dissipate before it rotted. Two Brothers carried the charred remains a safe distance away from the encampment.

"The land we have scouted. House ca Vespicz we should make contact, their food supply is vast yet their army is, untalented it seems. The likes of their generals I have never seen before. Allying with them would serve us best. What do you say of the tribes to the south east?" Tullus asked

"We enlist help to wipe them out, we won't spread our forces thin trying to take more land from these unknowns brother," she responded plainly.
"We have to welcome a new initiate, talk of plans tend to bore me," she said beginning to leave "Celebration would do you well oh Lord," she said

Lord Tullus looked on and sat in the throne carved from stone remnants made for him, breathing a sigh of relief as the light shined in from cracked rooftops while the breeze swept through the large doorway. The land the Kaman Order had taken was not enough for Lord Tullus, he needed expansion, to grip the reins of power would be honorable; it would happen. The Order was soon to mobilize a small force to make contact with either the Kingdom of Valgar or the Kingdom of Brythain, which they would join would soon be decided.

[Cymrea]

Draegar Palace, Linmarck
AF 1062

While Grimaldus and Dagmar were escorted to the keep for further investigation, Crown Prince Owainn listened to the Fyrdwarden's words. He found himself nodding. By the time the man's request was finished, he had decided. The choice was a logical one, and pragmatic, and therefore quite an easy one to make.

"Fyrdwarden, your request is granted. The Schola will be instructed to deliver all children of the Fellfolk to the fortress-precinct in the Imperial District. The Empire is more than happy to return orphaned children into the care of their people. It is only right."

[Nasaira]

MIDLAND ISLAND, REAVER KING GREGOR "THE GREAT DREAD"

Waves crashed against the shoreline causing the water mist and land upon Gregor's well muscled body that only generations of selective breeding could have produced. His body glistened under the line of the moon as it lite the land below unopposed by a single cloud in the night sky. Gregor stood close to the shoreline looking out to his fleet of lo ships as they sat anchored in the harbor, his great helm that had been fashioned to resemble a Rams skull sat an opposing figure out onto the land.

His body completely covered in chain mail with knee high tanned boots with fur sowed around the top of them for extra warmth, in one hand he carried a modest round wooden shield mad from the strongest of trees from back in his homeland of Kaea. In the other hand he held a letter that bore a seal from a noble family, a letter that Gregor held with a great passion not letting the letter out of his grasp for any reason.

The letter had arrived at his castle keep by messenger a month ago, sprinkled with perfume and sign with a single kiss that left an impression from the pink lipstick that the maiden had wore. This single letter as the whole reason as to why Gregor "The Great Dread" had called his banners and assembled his forces on the island of Midland.

Looking out onto the sea Gregor's deep thought was broken by the voice of Ollrod, a great warrior and close friend of Gregor's.

"My king your warriors are assembled and ready to sail."

Gregor remained facing the sea, he did not turn to face Ollrod.
"How many warriors and longships have assembled?" Gregor asked in a calm tone.

"My king over one hundred thousand warriors and two thousand longships"

Gregor brought the letter up to his nose to smell of what remained of the perfume that was sprinkled on it. The perfume was exotic to Gregor's senses, he had experienced such a scent back in his homeland before. The scent of the perfume sent rushes of joy and pleasure throughout his body. Letting out a slight sigh Gregor spoke once again to Ollrod.

"We sail for Jaelund, along the way we shall reave the coast of Victoria,"

Silence fell between the two companions as Gregor continued to stare at the letter in his hand.

"My king may I ask what we seek in Jaelund?"

"It's not what we seek it's what I have found," a long pause followed Gregor's statement. "My bethrohed"

No more words were spoke as the ships light their lights and the drums of war were beat, the reavers departed for the coast of Victoria.

[Cuprum]

To Ser Alexander Laethor, Commander of the Order of the Dying Sun.

We want to require your services for an important issue we are planning here at the Dukedom. We'll talk about your wages once your troops arrive, we demand your discretion about this message. This document will guarantee the profitability of the agreement.

Joaquín Soria. Duke of Summerhaven.

Summerhall has experienced substantial growth over the past century. Once a quiet city with a port, that was barely larger than a market town, under the First Dukes it has grown into a Great satellite city

The buildings of the town consist of mud brick, with the entry ways to the houses accessible through courtyards. In the oldest neighborhoods the houses are one storey with a number still holding the businesses of their owners; smiths, bakers, weavers, and a number of others mark their doors with a sign of their trade.

Two and three storey buildings and houses are rare in the old neighborhoods and serve as a mark of wealth, or as inns and brothels. In newer neighborhoods they house multiple families, a number former small folk who migrated to the city for work, coming from the Northlands or are owned by wealthy merchants and craftsmen, a number of whom arrived from the West.

The increased trade has led to an expansion of the harbor and a number of new construction projects from warehouses, to paving main thoroughfares, compounds for caravans, and markets. Most of the new construction has taken place on lands owned by the Members of the Iron Bank, or their supporters. Among the new construction, several large plots lie empty and undeveloped, home to squatters and used as a disposal ground.

The Patrician's Palaces lies less than half a days ride north of Summerhall, but they do keep a small household within the Satellite city. It is used primarily by The Duke as he tends to the administration of his father's lands, and his brother Fernando before and after they return from a trip.

[Woodstovia]

Alex received the message while he and his forces were still encamped. Apparently a bank needed help and Alex was sceptical at best. There were likely to be more clients appearing soon with how tense the conclave would be and how many enemies would be created. He would also be breaking a contract which, while boring; paid well and resulted in almost no losses. However there was a yearning feeling in him, one of the few feelings which broke up the usual numbness. One which told him he needed to do better, to fight more, to kill more, to earn more. Why be safe?

An hour later and his order was on the march again. He wrote a brief letter to the banker telling him he would soon be at Summerhaven and another to the Fyrd telling them that he was cancelling their contract because a more lucrative one had become available. Breaking a contract wouldn't exactly endear him but they would most likely do nothing. Thankfully Summerhaven was close to Ashfallow and the ride would be relatively short. He wondered what the work would be. The letter wouldn't have been so secretive if it was your simple run of the mill assignment to protect a caravan or something. He was also fairly sure that the bank had a small enough army so he could probably leverage some extra money out of the surely cowardly banker.

[Ghondra]

The Conclave at Winhover

Arthur watched as his cousin and her delegation leave the room, the great chamber of the conclave rang with the dying echoes of loud footsteps, before it descended into madness. Some expressed their displeasure at the Empress' departure clearly, the delegation of the Jaelund under the King himself, Luke Prestor, a man who seemed rather unpleasant to Arthur from the start, laughed and bellowed, hurling insults at the delegation as their footsteps fade, others simply whispered among themselves. Arthur frowned, he was rash, ambitious, but he wasn't stupid, this Conclave was going to Hell in a hand basket, he silently cursed his cousin as he leaned in to discuss the proceedings with his Steward, Sir Thomas Dillon.

"What do we do now Your Majesty?" The steward asked, he was a fat man with layers of fat under his chin and a beard that tried, and failed to cover it. "My cousin has derailed this Conclave on its first session, its unlikely that we can get past that today."

"Should I tell Ranger to dismiss the Conclave for the day?"

"It is for the best" Arthur sighed, he wanted to sulk, to punish Rheannon for her rashness that rivaled his own, to punish the Lords of the Realm for their stubborness and refusal to see reason, can't they see that the Invasion was a collective threat?

As Arthur was lost in thought the Lord Ranger stood in the center once again, clearly exasperated. "Lords and Ladies, I'm afraid that we must adjourn for the day, we will be in recess until the next morning, the second session of the conclave will be held before noon, at Nine.

As the lords and ladies filed out of the chambers Ranger had one thought, there was going to be a lot of backroom deals being made tonight.

[Relikai]

The Singing Sword Inn and Smithy, Summarhaven

The dawn was cold, as Edward lay next to Haruna, his wife. It was a long process since their engagement, but they have finally gotten married, with the blessings of the Daggerson Family, as well as Haruna's three sworn sisters. They did not stay for long, returning back to their respective homes, leaving the couple to enjoy their maiden years in peace. Living in a small farm, growing local crops and tending to several animals, was the plan, but after a year or so, Haruna realised, to her horror, that she could hardly lift her weapons, much less pull off the precision required for her attacks. Edward sympathised with her, as he himself felt rusty after a long while.

Selling the farm off to the local noble, the couple were accompanied by a dozen old friends, or enemies turned friends, who followed them to Brettonia by ship. Reaching the island, they managed to purchase and renovate a small guildhouse, turning it into a tavern-inn with a small smithy for Haruna to continue her work as a smith. Occasionally they would take up mercenary jobs by reputable clients, protecting caravans or rescuing hostages. It seemed like the past, the thrill of combat, the excitement of seeing each other in their most perfect form...

A flick on her forehead brought Haruna out of her thoughts as she snapped towards Edward, who was looking at her with a smile. Being busy does not mean that they had little private time to themselves, but the difference was, they were hardly interrupted by others. Haruna stared deep into her husband's eyes, as she recalled the close encounters, the time when he had to rescue her from torture and death. She still has occasional flashbacks, but the presence of Edward helped a lot.

"Hey boy..." Haruna whispered with a smile. She enjoyed teasing him for being younger than she was, although it doesnt matter much. A young couple was always going to be odd, Haruna being 23, Edward at 21.

A kiss met her lips as Edward closed in, appreciating his wife with what little time they had before needing to tend to the inn. Again, Haruna was back to her role as an innkeeper and a bouncer, beating up perverts and breaking up fights. Many a times a drunkard would assume that she was no threat, and attempt to grope her as she walked past, only to receive a punch or in extreme circumstances, a wooden blade to the head.

"It's time to get up!" Haruna said as she broke away, leaving Edward groaning. Washing up, the Kaean adjusted her hair and changed her clothes, feeling her husband's eyes on her back as she put on her outfit.

"Come on, I'll see you downstairs."

Stretching, Haruna stepped out of the building as she tended to the animals. It was a busy day, and yes, stares were being thrown her way every now and then. But she proved to be no troublemaker, nor did she let anyone down in the service standards of her inn.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Inn of the Cantering Cantabrian, Ashfallow, Radiant Peaks, Auld Empire
By Iron or Steel

In the private room of the Cantabrian, Myr Hardhelm watched the last banners of the mercenaries depart from the vestiges of the small city. He was amused by their fickle nature, but from the word of the ravens, the Fyrd was less patient. To break contract was a bold move on the part of sellswords, especially with an organization like the Ironmongers. Such men did not last long in a world where money and sword were used in equal part, and honor went as far as a man's word. Men who could not be honored to fulfill obligations could not be used, and tools that could not be used would be broken down for scrap. Myr turned away from the window as the last winter snowflakes swirled against the wooden shutters. Behind him in the well-appointed private room a fire burned merrily in the heart, and at the end of the long table the representatives from the Tinkers Guild waited.

"Master Sepespian, apologies. I have merely received news that bore pondering. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

The old white-bearded fat man grunted, wiping at the sweat on his brow with a somewhat grubby light gray handkerchief. He gestured at the other man in the room, a reedy youth clad in a scribes robes of the Administrum-trained within the Auld Empire. With a vague look of surprise, the youth nodded, and pulled from a scrolled leather satchel hanging at his side a length of parchment. Sepespian spoke, his voice harsh from too many years spent fond of fireweed.

"Myr Fyrdwarden. Your terms are accepted, as you sent to my employers this last midwinter. As of late the costs of doing business in the Radiants are too much for my owners to support, and with brigands lose in these hills, we wish you the pleasure of their embrace. The Three curse it, these were profitable mines, but we've lost on shipment in four for a season, and our buyers are wondering. So the Kulwains wash their hands of their affair. May you have much joy from it."

The tall Fellman crossed the room in three languid strides, surprise evident on a face carefully assembled into a mask to dissemble his knowledge of the state of affairs. "I had heard some rumor of bandits in this region, but I had no knowledge of such a disastrous reversal of your recent fortunes..." He scanned the document quickly, satin-gloved fingers running over weathered lambskin in a highly familiar manner that bespoke long hours of study with documents and accounts. He raised an eyebrow, and glanced over at the Master. "The Kulwains think they can get sixteen thousand casters out of us? I thought you had better sense, and Hurrain too. Why, that would perhaps suffice for business last summer, but frankly with your buyers deserting you and orders falling through, I can hardly justify paying such an amount."

Pain started in the man's face, and Myr knew his barb had found its home. For a moment emotions warred on the aged representative's visage, and then he almost palpably crumbled. With an oath to the Three barely concealed in his beard, Sepespian nodded. Slowly the scribe drew a second document from his satchel, for only eleven thousand casters. As the Fyrdwarden signed the documents in blood mixed with soot, as was the custom, a sigh escaped his lips. This had been a chancy proposition, moving in to the tin market of the Radiants, but it would all pay off. And with the mercenaries abandoning their contract, all but their retainer fee would be recovered from the transaction. A very profitable enterprise.

Furnace of Years, Windforged Peak, Mountains Grim
The Toll of Doom

Down the spillways the molten steel poured, the finest purity of nearly a thousand bushels of iron ore melded with the elements that only the starsingers knew. Jarn felt pride fill his chest as he watched the stream of liquid light spark and hiss in the casting channel, entering the apex of the barrel before it could even begin to cool. There twenty men worked about the banded stone mold, tossing buckets of water onto the heating granite at intervals precisely calculated by the Smith-Lord. Heat from the torrent of iron-blood baked the Wyrdprince's face and made his skin dry, but still he stared into the inferno, soaking in the experience. It was almost worshipful, spiritual, the act of creation. When Maerios had first forged man, he had made many copies, many essays in his craft. The Northmen, the Despoilers, even the Brettons, all were just practice for his true creation. But when his hammer had rung on the Asagal for the final time, the Wyrd pounded into existence upon the Worldforge, the Lord of the Earth put down his tools. There was no improving on perfection. And so a small portion of the majesty of his creation lived in the bones and hearts of the chosen, the Fated, to make the world anew as Maerios had bidden them. Here, now, as chill winter breezes cooled metal to a strength no man could match in the lowlands, part of that destiny would be fulfilled.

The Voidspeaker was being readied.

Vermillion Garden Lawns, Highcastle, Winhover, Victoria
A Night to Remember

As night's cloak slowly swaddled the grounds of the massive estate at Winhover, torches were lit in one of the private garden lawns. Here and there performers practiced, fire-eaters from far Jaravia, acrobats from the lithe pleasure barges of Alite the Magnificent, even a man with a dancing bear all the way up from Siaulia, with skin as dark as the charcoal of a chalk and eyes as white as alabaster engravings. Waldemar looked out from the low dais and took stock of the entertainment. The coin had been good, and all the best feasting paraphenalia money could buy had been brought. Long tables set in fine linens gleamed like gossamer under the full moon, laden heavy with choice meats of quail, fox, calf, lamb, and other delicacies; honey, roasted, braised, it was all enough to make a man's mouth water. He himself was decked out in a greatcoat of slate gray buttoned across the chest in the Stalwart fashion, with matching black leather boots his manservant had buffed until they veritably shone, a tasteful affair set off by small diamond studs that glittered in the fabric like stars after the device of the mountain under the smoking sky that was his personal sigil. To this affray the kings of Brettonia had been invited, along with some notables amongst the guilds and lesser nobility. Here deals would be struck, wine drunk, and merriment had. It was the least the Fyrd could do to smooth over the distinctly awkward Conclave earlier in the day, and Fyrdlaird Strumrark had no intention of being left out of the political skullduggery of an assembly of all the power upon the continent.

[Laurvier]

Winhover

The Valden brothers entered the Winhover with a retinue of 14 men. Some shut their doors and windows as they passed. Others stared in awe. There was no mistaking the dreaded Yale banner with human skulls hanging from it but if that did not scare them, the Yales had dangled heads of Kaens from their saddles making for a ghastly sight. Not just Kaen men either but women and children too. Their stunned eyes were still open from the shock of being massacred. One of the soldiers had made himself a necklace of ears. A few others had strange looking wakizashi's on their belts. All of these trophies taken from lands far away. Alistair found their stares slightly amusing. He preferred to be cheered though could see the attraction in being feared.

They arrived at the tavern and dismounted. A few of the Yales saw to the horses while the rest entered. "Ale and hot meal for us." Alistair ordered the bar wench. She was too timid to ask if they had the coin to pay. They did and would. It would not serve them well to take what they wanted here. These were not foreign lands.

"I heard there may be work with the Iron Bank in Summerhaven if we don't find anything here." Alistair remarked to Alaric.

"Too far. And then men are getting antsy. We can go to Summerhaven but we'll have to raid on the way there." Alaric said with a grunt.

The bar wench set down mugs ale. For food there was mutton, bread and cheese. Compared to what they usually ate in the field this was a step up. The life of a Yale was on the march and in the field. They drank the rain, slept in tents and learned to embrace the smell of death. Word would spread soon that the Demon of Gleaveacyre was in town. Any high lord who wanted to hire a band of bloodthirsty sellswords now had their opportunity.

[Ghondra]

Vermillion Garden Lawns, Highcastle, Winhover

Arthur awed at the opulence of the party that the Fyrd's delegate to the Conclave; Waldemar had organized. Attractions from across the world, delicacies available only to the Aristocracy, wine flowed like water and the garden rang with laughter and merriment. The lords and ladies of the Conclave had already dispersed across the Garden, Sir Dillon was flanked by two scandalously dressed women, the Duke Lowry and the Lord Ranger were enjoying what appeared to be having a great conversation with some of the lords from Valmange judging by their boisterous laughter. Of course not all of the interaction between the conclave was relaxed, hushed conversations prevailed, no doubt there would be many deals to be signed tonight, and that was why he was here.

Normally Arthur would welcome the worldly pleasures that the Church would frown upon but after the unpleasant proceedings of the first conclave Arthur wasn't looking for relaxation or casual conversation. Arthur ignored the stares of some of the guests, others eyed him suspiciously, some of the ladies that Waldemar 'invited' looked at him suggestively, along with some of the younger ladies. Arthur was joining the party to look for opportunities, he knew that the kings would not simply bow down to an Emperor after nearly a millennium of independence, to get the Emperorship Arthur needed support, and he needed it badly. He immediately discounted his cousin, Rheannon. Her actions earlier perfectly demonstrated something he had always suspected, that she wanted to be Emperor as much as Arthur does. The southern houses would sooner be sacked by the Nestorian Savages than to be subjugated by an Emperor again, especially one from the North so he also discounted their support.

That left the Jaelund and the Valmange, the Valmange was stubborn in their independence, even with the Reavers at the door but Jaelund... Jaelund was a wild card, it was a land of differences, both northerners and southerners co-existed there. They faced the double threat of Reavers from the North and the Tribes of the South, they could field a huge army due to their population but not even the Jami Titan could face two invading armies from both North and South. If Arthur could secure Jami support that would at least lend some legitimacy to his claim by securing a third of Brettonia's population under his banner.

He spotted the Jami Delegation led by King Luke himself, a man twice his age. He was laughing boisterously at something the Earl of Andraste said. Arthur put on a smile, approaching the King and raising his hand to offer a handshake, gesturing for the Earl to talk to someone else. "King Luke, so nice to meet you!"