The Legends of Eroris: Brotherhood [IC/Fantasy Medieval]

[Everhall]

-Soundtrack-



The Legends of Eroris: Brotherhood

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Lore | IC | OOC

- "Our forces were in dire straits... The enemy cavalry had just routed our right flank and everyone thought that it was the end. I was among Alaro's guard that day. He didn't care for his own safety; just for the safety of his soldiers. He disappeared into the enemy horde and for a moment I feared he had been cut down... But later I saw the Emperor, blood and gore encrusted on his valiant blade, fighting with the strength of a thousand men. At that moment I couldn't tell if he was an elf, or a god..."

Soldier of the Order of the Phoenix, written in 2284 of the 3rd Era

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30th of Hard Rain (4) 901 of the Fourth Era

Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

When he thought back to it, he couldn't help but relive it. The day that everything, all things went wrong. The fire, the screaming, the emotion... the tsunami would crash onto him, again and again, and again, reminding him relentlessly why he kept on despising, why he kept on hating one name: Julek. That name that represented everything that had gone wrong in his life, everything that would go wrong. His brother was just an embodiment of his mistakes - all his failings - rolled up into one, a single person. He had lost count of how many times had wanted him gone, forgotten forever. The brother that had taken everything from him. He dwelled on his feelings for a moment, let them grow and fester within him, but the soft voice of the woman next to him woke him from his thoughts.

"Ruven, wake up dear."

He opened his eyes to the ocean-blue sky above him and immediately jumped when he saw his wife, Asoka, staring down at him with a smile on her face, "Asoka!" he said incredulously, "How long have you been watching me!?"

"A couple minutes," Asoka laughed softly, "I've told you you sleep like a sexy, little baby."

"Asoka," Ruven whispered, "there are people watching." Indeed they were. In the Nymerian Gardens of Isnhrion, many people walked around and conversed freely as yellow bees buzzed around blooming flowers. In the middle of spring, the garden was a beautiful place with dignitaries from around the Empire coming to see its great oaks and cherry blossoms. The only thing that kept most others from approaching the patch of green Ruven and Asoka sat upon was the Order of the Phoenix, the Imperial Bodyguard, whose soldiers stood watch should anyone suspicious approach the Prince.

"Let them watch," Asoka waved them away as she took Ruven's face his her hands, "It's just you and me, right now." They leaned in to kiss, but Asoka stopped with a sudden jolt.

"Asoka?" Ruven asked with concern, "Is something wrong?"

"It's nothing," she put her hand on her stomach, "It's just the baby kicking."

"You listen here, child!" Ruven pointed towards her bump, "You better stop kicking my woman!"

"Ruven, stop!" she hit him lightly on the shoulder, "They're people watching!"

Ruven chuckled softly as he leaned in to kiss her, "It's like you said; It's just you and me right now."

Even now, years after he had met her, he was still madly in love with Asoka. Her flowing black hair and unrivaled beauty were enough to make any man or elf stand agape in her presence, but Ruven saw much more. The way she carried herself with a kind but determined grace, the way she smiled, the way she acted, the way she everything! just made her all the more precious to him. They were together, ready to face whatever the world threw at them, whether it be war or intrigue. He would keep his family safe, no matter what happened. Ruven and Asoka leaned in to kiss again, but the rapidly approaching footsteps of a messenger through the garden put an end to their last moment of peace, "Prince Ruven!" he cried, "Prince Ruven!"

The guards stopped him before he got too close, lowing their halberts to block his path. Ruven and his wife stood to approach the man before them, who heaved heavily having obviously traveled far to reach them. "What is the meaning of this?" Ruven asked calmly, "Has something happened?"

The messenger struggled to catch his breath, "Chancellor Lhoris has summoned the Wise Council to the city... Your father... we-" he stammered for a moment.

"Spit it out!"

The messenger looked up at Prince, face grave and said, "We have received a White Hawk, your grace. I'm sorry, but the Emperor is dead." the messenger continued on for a moment, saying words that washed over Ruven unheard, and unheeded. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders because the day he had dreaded for so long had come; his father had died, and soon, so would he.

Meanwhile

Marauder Fleet, The Isle of Alista, Valyaria

Æthelred was not ready to die. Almost thirty years of service in the Legion and this would be where he fell. Not in a melee with an Orc war band, nor in the middle of battle, but at the hands of some foreign marauders demanding a ransom. He was sure that they had sent for his family in Harmon days ago, for why else would they had kept him for? They most likely had the Emperor as well, hidden under a similar sack only able to smell and hear the activity of a gathering war band. Fucking typical... Æthelred thought. It was obvious at this point no one was going to pay for his ransom, that much was clear. He had been in there far too long for any reasonable bird to make a flight from Evermoor to Harmon. Perhaps this was what his family wanted, happy to be rid of him? No, certainly that wasn't it. His wife would never do something like that... although- his train of though was interrupted when he heard several figures inter where he was kept. Maintaining his composure underneath his sack, he tired to speak his way out of his situation, "I'll have you know that I am a Legate of the Imperial Legion! I demand you release me or face the wrath of the Empire!"

The shadows of the figures on his sack spoke to one another in their strange barbaric tone, incomprehensible to the Reachman, "Could you speak something that I can actually understand?! Hello?!" He prepared to speak again, before a large figure entered into his cell, towering over all the others.

"Reveal him," the being said in a old but powerful voice. Æthelred began to thank him, grateful to finally speak to someone that knew his language, but was shocked to see a gigantic black owl standing before him the full battle armor. "Um... I-"

The owl's eyes narrowed, "He's worthless to us. Kill him like the rest."

The figure next to him, a snake-creature possessing no legs, drew a long silver blade.

"No, wa-" his head was rolling on the floor before he could even finish. The owl, having seen enough, began to walk back towards his quarters with his retinue. "Lord Zei," one of his guards said in their native tongue, "That was our last captive. We still know too little."

The Owl stopped in his tracks to looked towards the besieged city, "And as long as you shoot down their Hawks, nether shall they. Kill anyone not of Ki's blood. We shall return this land to its rightful owners..."

[The Hierophancy]

Inn of the Black Dragon, Atlas - the Reach
The 1st of Second Seed, during the 901st year of the Fourth Era

"Old Azel's dead." Beorsic leaned back in his chair, propping his legs up against the battered pine table and taking a swig of cheap ale before resuming. "Bell's nearly deafen'd me, not to mention all those fuckin' wailing bastards in tha' streets all fuckin' night. Can't blame 'em for being upset though - Divine's know this countries gonna go to shit any day now."

"Again." Uhtred added glumly, keeping his voice low. "For such a 'Great' Emperor, Azel sure wasn't so good at comin' up with inheritance laws. Shoulda killed the weird one years ago if one was fated ta die anyway."

"Or given the throne to someone who could make some use of it." Hereward's tone was, as per usual, deep, subdued and tinged with anger. His friends - though they were closer to associates, or perhaps accomplices - nodded in agreement, Seward muttering a "hear, hear" under his breath. Even at Hereward's neglected, shadowy table in this equally neglected tavern it was best not to make one's more controversial opinions known. One never knew which greasy looking degenerate was in whose pocket, after all.

"Mayhaps this'll be what the Reach needs, eh? A good civil war's always been nice for separatists, rebels and other such traitors as ourselves, no?" Stuart's uppity, southern way of speaking was, Hereward found, as annoying as usual, though to be fair to the man if he and his companions were not united by history and ideology he was sure their own uniquely obnoxious qualities would have long ago caused him to keep his distance. They were, after all, an odd assortment, men united only in the fact that they loved the Reach and her people. Beorsic, an aging beserker from far, far into Norman country, was as staunch a monarchist as they came, and violent in his support of it to boot, and though he put up with the "churl's men" in the name of the Reach, he always seemed on edge and ready for a fight in the company of such raidcals.

Then again, Hereward thought, he never exactly seemed off-edge either. Even now as he leaned back, doing his best to look nonchalant, his eyes were slowly making their way through the room, his dagger-hand twitching by the sheath upon his belt.

Uhtred, on the other hand, was about as far from Beorsic's man-of-action attitude as one could get. More scholar than warrior, it was a wonder he'd joined the Order in the first place - apparently his father, some uppity furs merchant in the East, had insisted he be made in man in battle. Still, despite the lads well-to-do background and weak constitution, he was perhaps the most knowledgeable and zealous among the handful of rebels, and Hereward, though he'd never admit it to anybody, liked him plenty.

The only other member of their merry band was Wert, who chose this moment to butt into the conversation himself in that sleazy, razor sharp, city-folk drawl of his.

"Civil war'll jus' fuck us over, just like the las' one, n' the las' one, n' 'am sure tha one befo' that." Wert was a sneaky bastard, rail thin and raised in the tightly packed slums of Atlas. Among Hereward's acquaintances he was the most pessimistic, though he was also a churl's man through and through.

Hereward grunted in what could have been agreement, hunching further over his tankard and staring at well worn table's many dents and grooves.

"'Tis not the only thing that's plaguing this kingdom." Hereward scratches his beard, eyes still locked on the furniture before him. "They say the marauders down in the Ashlands are more numerous than first expected. In fact, they don't sound like outlaws at all. What sort of pirate band lays siege to an entire island? And why all the reports of strange beastmen?"

Uhtred nodded eagerly. "Aye, whatever's goin' on in Alista ain't no pirate raid, that's for sure." Making vague motions on the tables surface with his index finger, Uhtred chattered on in a rapid fire whisper. "You know, the people I know in the Mason's Guild, well, they're speakin' of a full scale invasion of the Empire. Say that the Legionmen are losing too. A succession crisis and a foreign invasion at the same time..." Uhtred looks up from the table at his allies, face plastered with a wide grin. "Well, you couldn't ask for better conditions for a general revolt, now could ya'? Maybe it's time to, you know, start with the uh... plan." Beorsic snorted at the mention of the plan.

"I'm all for doin' stupid things, but the so-called plans somethin' else. Wouldn't it be easier to just start trainin' the churls now, whilst we got the chance?" Hereward shook his head slowly.

"Can't. Won't have enough time to get 'em in fightin' condition, not enough people to train the numbers we'd need anyway. The Empire and 'er bootlickers are stupid, but they aren't so stupid as to not notice an army training under their noses. At least, not if they think it's a rebel army." Beorsic sighed, though he'd argued the point enough times to know winning the dispute was out of the question.

"So," he said in a tone of obviously feigned resignation. "We're really becomin' legionmen, aren't we?" Hereward responded with a curt nod. "Bloody mad..."

"We'll meet up again at the recruitment center in, say, 4 days time. We'll see about applying the plan from there." Hereward rose from his seat, brushing the remains of his meal (thoroughly unsatisfactory, as with most food served in the Black Dragon) from his cloak before raising his tankard, an action the rest of the table matched. "For People and Country." The phrase was repeated in varying degrees of passion by Hereward's compatriots before they chased down the dregs of their beverages in unison.

[Brusia]

Grandmaster Anirion Alden
Lenora
Order of the Dragon Headquarters

It had been a few weeks now since Anirion had returned to Lenora after the nine year long crusade in the deserts of Aramachia, but he was still having a little difficulty readjusting to the cool, humid climate of his home and was bundled up in several layers despite the moderate temperature. He couldn't help but grin a little, thinking back on how many times he had longed to feel the cool breeze and spring rain of his homeland on his face during the years spent in that gods-forsaken land, only to finally return home and find himself missing the warmth of the desert sun. Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he looked down from the balcony he was leaning against at the handful of new recruits training in the open drill square in the center of the Order's Headquarters.

News of the devastating losses suffered by the Order made recruitment a little harder than it had been when they first launched their crusade, and so far only a half-dozen men had taken the risk to sign up. Most were young and either craved adventure or were desperate for a new life, but they were willing to work and train hard so Anirion was happy to give them a chance. He'd trained each man personally in the basics of combat, and was currently overseeing sparring practice amongst the recruits when a messenger approached him, stating: "Pardon me Grandmaster, but the Arch-Primate requests to meet with you forthwith about a matter of some urgency."

"Very well" Anirion replied, before turning back towards the square and announcing: "Alright everyone, that's enough sparring for now. Head to the library and continue your studies until I get back; don't forget that a sharp mind is as important as a sharp blade in battle." As the recruits returned their training weapons to the appropriate racks, Anirion left with the messenger back to the Arch-Primate's office. Upon arriving, Anirion politely bowed his head as the Arch-Primate informed him: "I have just received news: it seems the Emperor has finally passed on to Sokva's realm. I don't imagine your schedule has allowed you much time to catch up on the political happenings in Eroris while you were in Aramachia, but suffice it to say Azelian was not much of a friend to this office. My authority was greatly reduced under his reign, and the military forces that should've been defending the faith were reassigned to corrupt leaders so vile, Aorr would turn his head from them in shame."

The Arch-Primate stood up from his desk and motioned for Anirion to follow him as he walked through the corridors of the Templum and continued: "Azelian's death does give us the opportunity to change things for the better however. If his sons can be convinced to see the importance of restoring to my office my former authority and military forces, it would go a long way towards improving the security and well-being of the faithful. To that end, I want you to go to Isnhrion as my representative and offer my personal condolences to both Princes on the death of their father. While you're there, I'd like you to learn what you can about each Prince and their devotion to the gods, and find out which of the two would more inclined to support my office and aid the faithful."

Though Anirion loathed politics and would've preferred most any other assignment, he was not about to refuse a task given him by none other than the man who served as the gods' voice in the world and so simply replied: "It will be done, your holiness."

"Very good" the Arch-Primate replied. "While you're there, I recommend you visit the Temple of the One as well; it seems only fitting that the Champion of Kuruth should make a pilgrimage to his shrine, and you may find some willing recruits for the Order of the Dragon among the faithful there."

"I shall endeavor to do so, your holiness" Anirion solemnly stated.

"I am glad to hear it" the Arch-Primate said with a smile "The Temple is a beautiful sight to behold, but I would recommend avoiding the leadership if possible; we aren't exactly on the best of terms either." Anirion nodded and as the conversation was over, knelt down at which point the Arch-Primate placed his hand on his head and stated: "Go now with my blessing, and carry out the will of the gods."

The devout Grandmaster rose and prepared to do so immediately, first returning to the Order's Headquarters to give orders for the recruits to carry out while he was gone, then heading to his modest quarters to don his armor and collect some necessities for the journey ahead. Once he had everything he needed for the trip, Anirion mounted his horse and set off to the capital to carry out his orders...

[Ithalian Empire]

The Duchy of High Rock
The City of High Rock
Heremond Carcaster

Heremond stood by his fathers bed side. Once this man was larger than life to a younger Heremond, strong with raven black hair and keen blue eyes that spoke of intelligence and compassion and an all consuming drive to succeed in all he did. This was once the body of a man who ruled with both strength when needed and kindness at all times. Here lay Hwaetmund Carcaster, 30th of the Carcaster Dukes of High Rock.

And he was suddenly near death. His strength that had once been the awe of a young Heremond was fading, a skeletal figure where there was once knotted muscle of sinew. Where there once the eyes of a man filled with life and love there was only pain. His once black hair turned prematurely grey. He was once the greatest man that Heremond had known, and now the mere sight of him mad Hermond feel sick and grieved.

"You look like your looking at a dead man Heremond." Hwaetmunds voice was a horse whisper, violent coughing fits had damages the mans voice beyond recognition.

" You shouln't talk Father, the physician say-"

"Damned what he physician says boy. I know I am going to die, I am ready, but I think that you are not. Heh, I wasn't ready when my father died. But you dont have a choice son, you will sit on the seat that I once sat on, the my father before me say on his before that. Thirty Cracasters have ruled since the start of the Ashen dynasty, you will be the 31st." Hwaetmund began another coughing fit before he continued "You are my son Heremond, you will rule well, with justice and strength and with the blessing of the divines. No go, be with you wife, and do not be so damned sad. When we meet in the next life I don't want you to be looking like a kicked dog!"

"Get some rest father." Heremond said as he left the bedroom chamber. He wandered the great stone fortress that sat atop the massive stone promontory that gave the Duchy its name and its strategic value. These where the walls of his childhood, each one bearing a memory, the first time he kissed a girl, the fist fight with some obtuse cook boy. As he wandered the stone halls, he felt a familiar presence by his side, Eadwine, his wife had strode up to his side.

There marriage may have been political, but in truth Heremond always had a fancy for the Pithythe girl, and there marriage had indeed blossomed into actual love. "He isn't any better is he?"

"No, if anything he has grown weaker than he was yesterday. Eadwine, I fear. For the first time in my life I am afraid." He embraced his wife, bearing his head in the crook of her neck. She smelled of wild flowers and fresh mountain dew. She returned the embrace, somehow with more passion than him.

"Do not be afraid Heremond. The Divines watch and guide us. Trust them." She whispered in his ear.

He looked at her, sky blue eyes and soft white skin unblemished. He leaned in and kissed her, just as the sounds of running feet came down the hall.

Baldric

Baldric like the solitude of the highest tower in the fortress. From here one could see for leagues and leagues. On a clear summer night one could just make out the Gold River far the the west, a hazy blue line on the horizon. To the west the towering Mountains of the Moon rose higher than the Rock, seemingly piercing the sky itself. Here he was free, free from his obligations as a son of a high lord, free from being measured against his older brother. He truly did love Heremond, even after the duel two years ago that Heremond had "won" of his behalf.

He knew that that dark elf marshal sniggered about it behind his back.

But up here, in the thin air, his head could be clear of such things. The sun seemed brighter, the stars clearer. The tower also housed the aviary the held the birds that kept High Rock in relative quick communication with the other cities of the reach and the Capital itself. He had taken a liking to the old bird master, who had tought him a thing of two about his art. Not that Baldric wanted to spend the rest of his life up in the tower, as much as he loved the place. Beyond the horizons, farther away than what he could see from this tower there was adventure, glory and fame to be won, and he wanted a part of it.

His own thought where interrupted by the bird master, "Young lord, a white hawk. Only black new rides on those wings."

Baldric went over to the man, he was a Reachman like Baldric, old of course and loosing his sight as milky eyes and arthritic twisted hands struggled to untie the message attached to the birds right leg. Baldric stepped in and helped to old man. "Read it my lord, my eyes aren't what they used to be."

Baldric did so, the news was black indeed. The Emperor Azelian was dead and a summons had been given to House Carcaster to the capital ate Ishrion itself. Father was to sick for that, Baldric already new that Heremond would go in stead of there father. But first Baldric had to find him.

Baldric ran through the fortress, eventual finding his brother and sister-in-law, mid kiss in the middle of the hall.

"Umm, sorry, uh a..." Baldric stammered, his face turning red having found his brother in the middle of an act that must have been leading to the bed chamber.

"Spit it out Baldric, dont have all day." said Heremond

"A white hawk has arrived, the Emperor is dead and House Carcaster is summoned to the capital."

Heremond looked and Eadwine than back to Baldric, "Go get Everlid and the rest of the court together, I will tell father and see what he wants done."

Baldric nodded and went off on his task.

Everlid

The flame between her hands swirled and danced, it was strange for the heat wouldn't hurt her, but it would most certainly hurt someone else. She focused on the flame, tring to keep it still. But Divines damned the thing, it was nearly impossible! Alano stood by watching, no doubt waiting for her to make a mistake so he could correct her. She had learned much from the battlmage, but she wished for more knowledge, things that the high elf wouldn't or couldn't teach her. She knew that this task was a lesson in concentration, to foucus her mind and clear out any emotions and ignore anything other than the ebb and flow of the magic. To channel it as focus it with precision and care.

So far she was doing well, the flame was in between her hands and was roughly staying there, she had been doing this far longer than she had ever done. Everlid was quite pleased with her self, Alano was not one to give praise to many, but Everlid was according to him the mage with the most potential he had ever seen. This practice also allowed her to not think about Father. It was two weeks ago when she had that strange feeling of coming danger, she felt it most about her father. A few days latter he fell down while riding and had only gotten sicker since. She no longer had the ominous premonition about him but she new that he was going to pass soon.

She continued to focus her magic, the flame growing ever more tame and in her control. That was when it happened, the world seemed to fall away, blackness enveloped her, she though, or rather felt, that Alano was running towards her. She saw in the blackness fire and rivers of blood. She fleet that the entire world was ringed with horrid evil drawing ever closer. She felt a hand on the back of her head, she opened her eyes and saw Alano staring at her.

"What happened Everlid?"

She tried to speak, but noting could come out, only small sobs. Alano lifted her up, "It was a vision again, wasn't it?" Alano had been the only one she had spoken to about the recurring feeling of dread, but this wasn't that, she had seen things, horrid things that she couldn't describe. She could only node to reply to Alano.

"I think we are done for today anyway. Go get some rest, we will continue this same time tomorrow."

Alano turned to oped the door just as Baldric came in. "Badlric, what bring you here?"

"Master Alano, the Emperor is dead, my brother wishes for you and Everlid to meet him in Fathers chamber immediately. Do you know where Mettius is by chance?"

"Should be out in the yard as usual."

"Thank you Master."

Baldric

Baldric made his way to the yard. The Fortress at the top of the rock had several court yards. Some where vineyards and orchards, others where gardens with fountains and wild flower in bloom. This was the yard, a dusty place that smelled of vomit and horse shit. Here was where Mettius put the soldiers of High Rock through living hell in the name of forming them into Legion quality troops.

"Mettius, I must have a word with you. Its urgent." There was no need for the men in the yard to hear that the Emperor was dead.

[Haedros 92712]

The Mountains of Norravägg
Near Wandering Keep
Conrad Richter “The Wandering Crow”

Conrad looked out across the rocky snow covered terrain. Just barely out of full view stood a massive stone castle. A banner waved from one of the barely visible parapets, bearing the symbol of the Wanderschwert, a pair of crossed swords in front of a a giant oak. The oak. The symbol of Conrad’s father, Adalhart Richter. The mercenary kingdoms banner changed every kings life time. Conrad stares blankly over the snowy expanse, his hair being blown back by the wind to reveal his ears, long, and ending in a pointed tip. Conrad wore a pair of gold earrings. “Hey boss, get your head out of the clouds! I don’t know about you, but I’m cold as hell out here!” Conrad turned to face the voice. It came from the dark skinned Aduran, Kellen Charnfa. The archer stared back at him. His long white hair hung to the small of his back, which rippled with muscle. His singular eye was a light gold color. His eye held a sense of carefree nonchalance. A cocky smirk spread across the Adurans face. Conrad then turned his gaze upon his other companion. Delmira wore bulky armor that obscured her physical build, and made her taller by at least 2 inches. Her hair, at the moment tied into a pony tail, was light blonde, a similar shade to Conrads. Her eyes, which were a light green, were full of life, perfectly suiting her larger than life personality. Delmira noticed his gaze and returned it, flashing a broad smile. Conrad cleared his throat and spoke. “You’re right Kellen, let’s go.” Conrad mounted his horse, a white and and black mare with a shaggy mane. His companions climbed onto their mounts, and they set out to finish their journey home. Its been years since we left. I remember the day of our departure. 9 years ago...

Conrad stood in a cold and open courtyard, next to a horse wearing a tanned leather saddle. On its saddle were several packed bags, as well as a sheathed sword. Conrad mounted the beast, and spurred it forward. “Hey boss, where the hell you think you’re going?” Came a voice from behind him. Kellen stood there, along with Delmira, both of them holding onto the reins of their own horses. “You aren’t going to stop me. Don’t try. That’s an order.” Kellen smirked. “Listen bud, who said we were going to stop you? We’re comin with. And by the way I may call you my quote on quote boss, but I don’t take orders from you. Whether you like it or not, we’re going.” Delmira affirmed this statement with a nod of her head. Conrad frowned. He was perplexed as to why they even want to come in the first place. “Fine then. Just don’t get in my way.” Then the group left, and by morning, they were gone without a trace.

The group reached the gates of the city. “Who goes there?” Came the call of a guard. Conrad said nothing. He unsheathed his blade, allowing the familiar weapon speak for him. “Conrad? Guys, Conrad Richter has returned! Open the gates!” And with that, a raucous creaking of wood came from the wall as the gate opened. The company entered the city.

Wandering Keep City
Kellen Charnfa “The Midnight Hunter”

Kellen wandered the snowy streets. His long scarf billowed in the wind, his hair blown back away from his ears. He shivered. This weather... he remembered it well. He grinned as he passed a crowd of salesmen, who clamored for his attention. Kellan had become a celebrity here. Conrad’s exploits in the empire had made it so. The Mercenary Kingdom. A place for all the vagabonds who couldn’t stand a life of stationary monotony. A place he rather enjoyed calling home. He found a bench and sat. And then a rather fine looking woman just happened to drop something, and bend down to grab it. Kellens grin widened. This should be fun... He stops and walked over to the woman. “Excuse me miss, do you need any help with that?”

Wandering Keep Central Hold
Delmira Vogel “The Steel Clad Valkyrie”

Delmira followed alongside Conrad. Kellen had wandered off somewhere, probably to sleep with some random street wench. The two armor clad individuals walked through the halls with cold conviction. Adelhard has been laying in bed, injured when they arrived at the hold, nearly comatose. And the man who sat in his throne was a usurper, undermining the democracy. The two entered the throne room. “Wolfhardt, I’d known you to be scum of the lowest sort but you have exceeded my expectations this time.” In the throne sat a short, groveling man, with a head shaped a bit like an egg. His skin was greying, as was his hair. “Ah, Conrad. ‘Tis indeed nice to see you return to us. Allow me to-” Conrad interrupted the man. “Shut it you sack of scheisse. You have committed crimes against the kingdom and will be treated as any criminal should.” Wolfhardt chuckled. “And who will enforce this treatment, Conrad?” It was just then that Delmira noticed that the guards did not wear kingdom guard standard. They wore Norraväg province soldier uniforms. Delmira drew her sword. “You dirty coward, you sold our kingdom out to the imperials!” Conrad drew his blade as well. The guards raised their weapons. There were four pikemen. The guards lunged. Before they could get even the slightest attack in, however, they stopped dead in their tracks. They dropped dead to their knees, arrows sticking out of their throats. “The moment I heard our knew ruler was a sell out and a coward, I just had to go see if it was true.” Came Kellens voice from behind Delmira. “Now, Wolfhardt, you’re going to wish that it wasn’t.” The three mercenaries advanced.

Two hours later
The throne room
Conrad

This will be war. Not only did we just kill multiple imperial soldiers, we just dethroned someone who could be considered an elected official of the empire, thus undermining the imperial government. It’s only a matter of time before the word spreads. Conrad stood up, and faced a group of advisers. “I called you here today to ask you all a question. What is our next course of action? We have openly provoked the whole continent, and we have nowhere to run. We have two options, as far as I can see. We either surrender ourselves to the mercy of the empire when they come knocking at our door, or, we stand and fight like cornered badgers. It is my personal belief, that we should fight.” This caused a clamor among the advisors. “It’s too dangerous, we’ll all be killed!” One called out. “But what’s the alternative? Imperial slavery?” Shouted back another. “Listen up!” The room went silent. Conrad stepped forward, sword drawn. “We are mercenaries. Warriors for hire, with a way of life chosen because of the tantalizing prospect of freedom! We must fight for that freedom. We are warriors by nature, with the training to best most any warrior. We are stalwart of heart, free of mind, and strong of arm. We must stand! If not, we betray everything we believe in! I say my friends, that if we do not stand and fight, we are no better than the imperial scum that is Wolfhardt. I say, that we secede from the empire, and become a true kingdom, independent of imperial law. We shall fight for our secession, for our freedom! Whose with me?” He planted his sword in the ground. The advisors all shouted in agreement. “Good. Then when the imperial scum arrive, they will be met with a choice. Give us freedom, or be met with a sea of blades.”

Late at night
The Kings Chambers
Conrad

Conrad stood in the room that now belonged to him. His father would never again be able to leave the bed he now lay in. He remembered the room well. Frequently he had been beaten in here. He pushed that through aside as he heard a knock at his door. “Come in.” Delmira walked in, wearing a white nightgown. Her hair hung down to her waist, and she was barefoot. “Ah, Delmira, what is it?” Delmira shuffled her feet uncomfortably. “I was wondering if... I could stay in here tonight? It’s lonely in my room, after so many years of us three all staying in the same inn room.” Conrad’s face grew slightly warm. The kings chambers had one bed, though it was certainly large enough for two. “Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Delmira smiled in her bright, cheerful way, and said “Thanks Con!” Conrad blushed now. Con was a pet name assigned to him by Delmira. She had called him that long ago, when they were only children, and for whatever reason Delmira had trouble pronouncing his name. The two laid down on the bed. Conrad extinguished the lamp that lit the room. Conrad tossed and turned. He couldn’t sleep. What have I begun? I may have doomed my people today. Gods help me... “Conrad?” Conrad was pulled from his thoughts by Delmiras voice. He turned to face Delmira, who lay not an inch from him. “What is it Delmi?” Delmi was Delmiras pet name, as Conrad came up with one to get back at Delmira. “Everything will be alright. We will pull through.” This gave Conrad momentary pause. “I hope you’re right.” Conrad then rested his head on Delmiras should, and fell into a troubled sleep.

[Tayner]

The Duchy of High Rock
The City of High Rock
Mettius Clement

The Marshall had been in the Duchy's capital to inspect the training of some soldiers, currently looking over a batch of guards in training. While he much preferred to be out east at the feet of the Mountains of the Moon with the Stone Watch, or even westward hunting brigands with a company of guards, he was in High Rock. He was never one for politics, and this place seemed to be the local nexus of it. However, his job was just as political as it was military, and he swore to uphold his duty to House Carcaster.

The local commander was doing well to train his troops, yelling commands and encouragements as the troops sparred, exercised, and practiced their aim with bows. Suitable for the guard stationed in the capital of the county, if only the smaller towns had such fine regiments.

The younger Noble, Baldric, had hurried to him. Mettius didn't care for young nobility much more than he did politics, especially the children of Nobles. They always thought that they were entitled, but he did have a respect for the boy's father, Hwætmund, and he paid such respect to the man's children in turn. It was sad to see one of the few good Noblemen in such poor health. He did well to hide his displeasure of the interruption, being pulled into one of the many courts of the High Rock, obscured from prying eyes.

"Yes sire?" Mettius asked in a near monotone voice.

"Mettius, a white hawk has landed," he started, causing Mettius to straighten his back, now towering over the noble, his height even more exaggerated by his armor. "It's the Emperor. Heremond is summoning the court." He finished.

"Yes sire, I will join the court right away." He said. He wasn't fond at all of the court. There was the High Elf battle mage, someone who didn't always see eye to eye with Mettius. Then a Knight from the Order of the Rock would represent his Order, and a handful of thanes and the heirs of House Carcaster, as the Duke likely wouldn't attend. A rather unappealing and incompetent crowd to deal with the problems that faced the citizens of a High Rock. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, and departed to meet with the council.

The weight of his armor felt heavier under the news, and he saw signs he hadn't seen since he was a young Elf, a lowly foot soldier in the Legion.

The signs of conflict were scribbled on the wall.

[Everhall]

Wise Council Chambers, The Ember Tower, Isnhrion

Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

"Son," his father had said to him, "There will come a time soon that you'll have to do something I should have done a long time ago. Though I fear you are too weak to do it." He had protested, begged him to choose someone else to do what he demanded, but his father simply turned to him, grey eyes stone-cold and said, "Run then, run away like you did the last time someone needed you. What was I thinking? Julek is far better than what you could ever be."

These grave words haunted Ruven as he sat unmoving in the Wise Council Chambers. He hadn't been in there for long, but it was obvious by the confused glances of few members of the council that were present in Isnhrion that the news had not become widespread yet. Or... was it a mistake? Had he simply been told the wrong news? Ruven held onto this lie he told himself, searching from among the councilors the one person who he knew would tell him that it was all just one massive dream. And he did find him, Chancellor Lhoris, entering with his daughter and apprentice, Alesane and his own guard of the Order of the Phoenix, leaving the assembled members of the council to hush as he came to stand in the Emperor's box. He was quite tall for an elf, reaching 6' 6" in a long, slim frame. Though most elves didn't have wrinkles, the mark of just how long most lived, Lhoris was one of the few that did, spreading out like small webbings on an otherwise smooth golden skin. That, combined with his shortly trimmed beard & long grey hair gave the Chancellor and wise and experienced look.

He ran his hand along the soft fabric of the Emperor's chair mumbling softly as he did so. He then turned to the council and said, "The Emperor is dead."

These four simple words, detailing something he already knew, seemed to hang in the air for Ruven, remaining there before slapping him violently in the face. The council had a similar reaction, standing in muted shock for a moment before assaulting Lhoris in a flurry of questions and demands.

"Silence," Lhoris said over the clamor, "SILENCE!" The room fell silent, "I know that many of you have questions, but we are currently an Empire without an Emperor."

"All hail Emperor Ruven!" one young legionnaire guarding the room called out. All in the room turned to face him. "What?" he demanded looking back and forth between the watching faces, "If the Emperor is dead, that means his eldest child succeeds him to the throne. Ruven is that child, I do not see what's going on."

The legionnaire's commander leaned in to excuse his subordinate's behavior, but Lhoris waved him off, "If only it were that simple..." he shook his head, "if only it were that simple. Normally, yes, when the Emperor died the crown would pass to his eldest child. But now... now there is always an opportunity for any member of the Ashen Dynasty to challenge the heir for the throne."

"I still see no problem," the legionnaire argued, "Surely no one would challenge Ruven for the throne. He is our rightful prince!"

The council exchanged nervous glances, a deafening silence stretching over the room until an amused laugh echoed throughout the council chambers,

"That is where you're wrong."

Ruven turned to face where the laugh had come from, and immediately dreaded who he saw. Hate and anger swelled within him as his brother gave a short bow before the council and said, "Prince Julek, at your service..."

[Zanera]

Alyndel the Gilded
Lorn, Village Southwest of Isnhrion
30th of Hard Rain, 901 (4) of the Fourth Era

---

Alyndel dallied on the road. He liked to take his time, even during contracts. There are patient people, but Alyndel cannot be described as patient. He is generally lazy. He did everything slowly and what he did he did it because he had to. He came into Lorn, a small farming town. He had passed pastures of long green grass and cow patties, and been passed by a lot of travelers. When the pastures ended was where the town began. A chapel, one small administrative building, a couple of general stores, an inn, and some houses. The streets were not planned at all, but the main street was wide for cattle herds and wagons. Alyndel steered his horse around every pile of feces even if he ventured into the way of others. Smelly towns of streets ridden with crap was something he thought he was above, but there was rarely a contract to kill a beast or bandit in the cities, not that the cities didn't have their own piles of crap, but they were a mark cleaner.

It is not a grand thing to feed your horse, but Alyndel's was a powerful one that needed a lot of organized feeding. It was almost a chore for Alyndel to exercise, but the women always liked to watch. Not in this town, however. There was a lot to do and he took a long time to do it. Washing, eating, armor maintenance and money management. By the time he was done he settled into the inn with his fine clothes and a couple of drinks, and he began flirting with a local woman, a pale Mayaar with clothes above the average peasant and blonde hair, and had been doing so for some time, but she was endlessly hard to pursue. To cut the embarrassment short:

"Certainly a woman with tastes like yours, as such a pure Mayaar woman, would like some poetry to enchant the air about us. It would deeply please me to recite a verse I know for thee."

"Go ahead, my gilded knight, and recite thine poetry. If it does not enchant I, it will enchant thee."

"This is one sure to enchant thee, m'lady. Each time I phrase it I cannot help but to put all the more passion, may my voice not falter this time!" Alyndel rose from his seat and took a pose, his left side put forward, with his right hand on the middle of his chest while his left stroked his chin for lack of better to do with it. Eventually he began speaking the poetry while making sure his body motions were fluid and relevant, as if he was in a play at the capital. "I have dubbed this, The Murmuration of Calinon:

The great sun withers o'er the hills
And aye, the light leaks from the windowsills
But the starlings spread their breast
And fly high before the night

The beat of two hundred-thousand wings
And the hundred-thousand voices of a bird that sings
Give way to the formations of the eve'ning
An assortment that only the flight knows to make

The stride of a lion give way to the gallop of a horse
Of a striking swordsmen with no remorse
The flight of the hawk
And the strut of the wolf

The small creatures than retire
To the branches 'bove the swampy mire
A hundred thousand hearts to rest in the night
Before the two hundred thousand wings again take flight"

Alyndel sat down while the woman smiled and clapped. "That was a show to amaze kings and to take the breath away from queens." Alyndel sat down and continued to flirt. "Tell me thine name, m'lady, though I already know it to be quite suitable to thee: beautiful."

"I'm taken by thee, my noble knight, but should you know my name?"

"Should I, m'lady?"

"You have flirted with me before, you are even on the same stool, except I was on the other side of you."

"I um...I think you are mistaken. I have never passed through this town before, and I would have remembered a beauty such as yours."

"I remember it vividly, Alyndel, and I am sure a lot of other women remember you as vividly as I do. When you came into town you could barely sit on your horse from drunkenness. Then you swaggered in here and knocked over three mugs before you could even sit at the bar, then you took me outside to show me a trick, but you passed out halfway through and you planted thy face into a patty. You made quite the fuss the next day, especially with your hangover. I'm afraid every woman in town and the surrounding countryside has decided to sleep with a cow before they'd sleep with a drunk fool like you."

With that she got up and said," I surely waste my breath, but my name is Assiria, a common-enough name. Some advice for next you do this, remember the name and watch for patties when you do your next trick." She stormed out and Alyndel had a few heavier drinks, slumping over each mug like a low dog that's always kicked, before he retired for the night.

1st of Second Seed, 901 (5) of the Fourth Era

Alyndel had undoubtedly needed some more coppers in his pocket, so he took a job from the local sheriff about a successful footpad. He had his room and a spot at the horse stalls kept for him and he road out into the wilderness on the western side of the road. Controlled forest growth instantly gave way to wild forest after a muddy ditch coated in leaves. There were ferns and shrubs and low-hanging branches, larks singing in the trees and deer roaming the forest, and the odd wolverine. Fallen trees and a still breeze almost made Alyndel want to just go for a hike, but he knew there was an armed elf in here, and he dreaded a knife through any chink in his armor because he was unaware.

He started to dread for his very life and started to think every movement was the footpad, and he had to get off his horse to catch his breath properly. That was when he heard some metal thing fall, followed curtly by a "dammit". Alyndel shrunk down and waited for a time, looking all around him before finally mustering his courage. He stalked forward and found the footpad at a campfire, his back to Alyndel as he picked up a plate, and Alyndel decided this was the time to strike. He drew his blade and stabbed the elf through the ribs in his side. He did not want people to find that he had struck him in the back, and in the back only. Instead he would paint a tale around the strike into the footpad's side.

And that is what he did when he went back to the sheriff, presenting the footpad's unique and infamous weapon to him. They exited the administrative building together, the sheriff no doubt wanting to get rid of Alyndel as much as he wanted the footpad gone. A rider rode hard past them on a patchy horse of white and black, and rode straight for the chapel. They both started after the rider along with several other people and they all arrived at the front of the chapel. The doors lay open, and the rider's horse lay dead and wet in front of them. It was too bright outside to see inside, and so the sheriff told everyone to remain outside while he went to see what was occurring. There were many whispers and open conjecture, but Alyndel heeded none of it. It could be anything in a world such as this. The sheriff stepped outside with his wide-brimmed thatched hat wringing in his hands whilst tears flowed from his eyes, and Alyndel looked from the sheriff to the top of the chapel's tower. The bell rung, and Alyndel counted. It was the number, and after the bell paused it rang the number again. A priestess came up to the balcony on the tower and announced: "The Emperor has fallen. Emperor Azelian is dead. Lament, and long live the Emperor."

Many broke out into sobs, holding friends and loved ones, or falling to their knees in the dirt. Others just looked down and kicked rocks, and some ran to tell other people. One person said," Hi-ho! I've pumpkins to tend," before walking off.

The sky was gray over the field of battle, unusual since the favorable weather for battle was a clear sky. The center was held by spearmen from the Red Gauntlet along with totally loyal forces battling for Ivran's place on the throne. Alyndel was a swordsman, he looked upon himself, seeing that he carried a shield and a longsword, and was outfitted with chestplate, legguards, a helmet, forearm guards, and chainmail. He knew the formation: spearmen in the middle, swords- and halberdsmen at the flanks, archers behind and cav backing up the flanks. Alyndel was on the right flank, a line away from the spearmen. He looked ahead at the Reacheon in front of him. His name was Vek. He hated beans so he would give them to Alyndel. He was the second line. There was an order and they advanced, keeping exact pace with the spearmen. The grass was trampled, and the enemy came. The thunder of hooves was ignored, discipline dictated that he did not get distracted by battlefield norms. Both friendly and enemy archers fired upon the centers of the other. Curses were uttered to his left, as well as a gurgle that faded away as Alyndel advanced. There was a whistling and his helmet was struck with great force.

Alyndel stumbled around and headed back to the administrative building for his horse, walking without conscious. He swallowed, his throat dry. He needed some heavy liquor befo-

The bolt skidded off the side of his helmet and plinked off someone else's armor. It was lucky, but it jerked Alyndel's head and gave him a stinging pain where it had struck. He cursed himself, but marched all the same. The lines met, and the front line held for a time. It began to rain and blood washed onto the ground, now muddy brown intermixed with laces of green. The front lines exchanged casualties and Vek had to advance, and so did the rest of the line behind him. Alyndel was closer to the fighting now. A spatter of blood whipped horizontally across the front of his helm, blood drops on his cheeks. That was Arzo'nak's blood, an orc warrior who's head dropped upon the ground before his knees. He faced away from the orc. Derrath always warned Arzo'nak to wear chainmail, but he always prattled on about his people and their martial glory. There was yelling from the center. Looking for a moment, he saw that the center was starting to bulge inwards as the enemy got their push. Half of the bulge was Red Gauntlet spearmen. They were all beginning to hold again. He wanted to see which comrades had fallen over there, but would not be able to see the intimacy of such a thing as helmeted faces past all the men. The enemy archers were still concentrating on the center. It would not hold long. The bobbing heads of the friendly cavalry stampeded behind the enemy lines towards where the arrows were being loosed from, but they would not reach their target whe-

Alyndel threw himself out of the way of an oncoming wagon flying precariously around a corner. "Watch it you dumb bastard! Yah! Yah!" Turn this corner, and he'd be on main street, where his horse was.

"Next time we go hunting, we'll have to show how vicious a cornered wolf can be to Rened," laughed the Reacheon noble, speaking to another fellow of wealth over a table stocked with dinner. "Anywho, you hear about the prince's wedding? His brother got into a tussle with him. That little bastard and his running away, he ran again after that one. I can't get it straight what they were arguing about, but it was probably about that weird bastard being odd. Bound to be the War of the Black Phoenix all over again with those two."

Alyndel listened passively, until the war was brought up. He took a drought of his drink and asked for more. "Someone's enjoying themselves, eh?" the noble's friend jested at Alyndel, then turned back to the noble. "I think they'd fight each other in the Provin'. They seem to hate each other. Dueling each other? Surely a dream to them! Who'd win I couldn't say. Too much conjecture!"

"I suppose your right about the Provin', but conjecture makes conversation!" the nobleman announced, before putting both elbows on the table to hunker down for aforesaid conjecture. "I say..."

A boy came up to Alyndel and asked if it was really true that the priestess said the emperor was dead. Alyndel stared at the boy and nodded slowly, once, then continued.

Alyndel was fighting on the front lines now, half of the center mass was gone and the enemy still pressed. A counter-charge from the enemy cavalry stripped away half of the army's cavalry support. Alyndel was slipping in bloody mud, maintaining his balance as best he could, digging his foot into the ground instead of expecting mud not to slide, as Darrath had taught him. He parried and put his shield up. The enemy was repeatedly slamming their sword against his shield, so Alyndel leaned forward suddenly and bashed him, knocking him back into his comrade's arms. He leaned further and stabbed him right under his helm through his throat when his head fell back, breaking the chainmail. His comrade dumped him and swung at Alyndel, and Alyndel brought up his shield and expected some more useless sword-hammering, but the warrior leaned forward and angled his wrist up behind Alyndel's shield to strike up his chin. Alyndel brought his shield back to his chest and heard the soldier's wrist break, dropping their sword and striking Alyndel in the face with the edge of his shield. A few strikes later and the bugger was finished. Then Alyndel braced again, turning just in time to see a cavalry charge from the flank. He turned around to brace for it before explosions rocked the battlefield.

He went up to the saddlebag and rummaged through it. His breath was quick and shallow, making him light-headed. His tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth from dryness. It was the wrong saddlebag.

He was being dragged by Laminius. When Alyndel was conscious again Laminius stood him up and ushered for him to run. Everyone was on the retreat. Many Red Gauntlet luckily. Bits and pieces of viscera and metal and leather began falling upon them, and the rain fell red as they started to run. The ringing in his ears lessened, but it did not go away as he tried to rush uphill through mud. "We need to get out of here. Jakarta was on the hill with the other sorcerers and archers, he didn't like what he saw, and he saved us. He's not with us anymore, bless his soul. May Sokva carry his soul off herself, actually. That damn Aduran, had bigger balls than me. C'mon, Alyndel, we're going to our regrouping point at the grove in the weald." Laminius grabbed his hand, his comrade's armor stained in blood rain, congealing in his chainmail. Alyndel began breathing quick and shallow, running away from the Dreadland the battlefield had become. He ran and kept running, his vision blurring until

Alyndel had drunk his liquor container dry. His throat was no longer dry, his breathing was steady, and his mind came back to the present. He waited for a gap in traffic and took his horse to the inn, quietly and drunkenly walking across the road. He hitched his horse and walked inside and up to the bar. He had a drink. He would go to the capital. He'd mourn for the damn emperor his comrades died for, for whom he had fou-no, Alyndel wished he could have fought for an emperor like Azelian. He actually needed money from the Order. Yes, that was it. He really did need money. He took a long drink, gasping afterward. "I needs some money...always godsdamned money."

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

30th of Hard Rain, 901 of the Fourth Era
Isnhrion

"Oh Lady Amata, I do insist - we absolutely must meet each other more often. It's far too uncommon to run into people around these parts that have an interest in... herbs, while still remaining civilized! Truly, you are one of the most delightful encounters I've had in this court. If only I had known earlier..." Llavesa mused, straightening her dress as she sniffed the air, the scent of perfume rather than smoke once again filling the air. "Trust me," the Dark Elf continued, ensuring her new friend, "you've not a clue how wonderful it is to finally meet someone who isn't hungry for more and more power like all of those other Councillors!" The young Lady Amata seemed to be flattered by her words, at least - as expected, considering the Reachwoman was simply the second daughter of a very, very rich mercantile family indeed, whom had, for a lack of better words, bought one of their family members into the Wise Council. The woman really wasn't hungry for power, there - or anything else, for that matter, except for entertainment. That, at least, was something Llavesa could provide.

With a smile, she looked behind her at the blonde whom was rather busy covering herself with as much perfume as possible. "Speaking of which, have you seen any... shady types around, recently? You spend far more time at court than I do, really..." She asked, and perhaps suggested, carefully. Types such as the lady in question, perpetually bored, could at times be exceptionally well at reading people, in the complete absence of anything else to do, and made for good sources of information at times, she had found. "Well, there was this one Lupan that looked... strange," the lady began, Llavesa humming in response. "Aren't they always, though?" Pursing her lips, the Reachwoman thought on that for a moment. "He was giving some of the Nords some... weird looks I think." Again, the Dark Elf nodded. "Think he's planning on doing anything?" She asked. "...I don't know. Maybe? He did look threatening, but don't they all? Why?"

Llavesa shrugged at this. "You know me, Amata! Just a curious little gossip. I do love to be able to say that I always thought he'd get up to something nefarious, when something like this happens..." A half-truth, of course - it was more about preventing such things from happening in the first place, but then that wasn't exactly something she could say, considering her current company wasn't even vaguely aware of her allegiance. A knock came on the door, although nobody called out. "...I believe that's your cue to attend the Wise Council, my lady?" Nodding, the Reachwoman got up from her chair, neatening her hair just a little bit one final time before turning around. "Join me, will you?"

The Dark Elf bowed her head at that, following along they left the room. "Gladly, my lady, gladly." Arms intertwined, the two paced for the chambers of the Wise Council, evidently arriving early, most of it still empty. Slowly, however, more and more would arrive, together with their guards. The Prince Ruven had been there already as Llavesa's good friend sat down in her designated chair, the Valyaar simply remaining standing by her side, hands folded in front of herself.

The Emperor, then, was dead. The news came as a surprise. And it certainly... complicated things. There was something to be said for both of the princes, after all. There was also a lot to be said against either. Things... intensified as one of the Legion guards praised his new Emperor - Ruven - on the spot. Seeing her friend move to rise from her chair, to follow the man's lead, she quickly put a hand on Amata's shoulder, pressing her back down into her seat, and for good reason, as silence washed over the council chambers. It was interrupted by a laugh, the other prince making his appearance. Here to press his claim to the throne, evidently. Llavesa's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she peered around, measuring the Council's response.

Well then.

[Everhall]

Wise Council Chambers, the Ember Tower, Isnhrion

Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

"More like at our throats if you ask me." Ruven growled. The sudden enterance of his brother into the council room had begun a tense silence in the room only ending once Ruven said these words.

"You wound me, brother," Julek replied appearing to have taken some sort of offense if he even knew what that feeling was, "I've simply come to learn what all the commotion has been about; to learn why the council was so readily convened without inviting me."

Ruven glared with trembling anger as soon as the words left his brother's mouth. Prince Julek was of a height with him, bearing the same platinum hair & pointed ears of their ancestors and the graceful agility of all High Elves. It was often said that he and Julek looked almost indistinguishable from each other, the only difference being in the respect of their eyes, green with a hint of gold on Ruven and red with a hint of grey on Julek. A gift from their different mothers.

"Our father is dead, Julek!" Ruven bellowed as he stood from his seat to face his brother on the far side of the council chamber.

"Oh, I know," Julek smirked as he began to move further into the room, "And good riddance. I was wondering when the old man would croak."

"Why you-" Ruven began.

"Julek, Ruven!" Lhoris scolded them, "By the mercy of the divines can you end this bloody feud! The Emperor is dead and we are an Empire without an Emperor! Julek," he began to walk out of the Emperor's box towards the Prince, "you don't have to press your claim. There are more important things than who gets to sit in that gods forsaken chair."

"I'm afraid I must," Julek remarked, "Just what made Azelian the Great so great? Sure, he won the War of the Black Phoenix, but what did he do for this nation? His empire? Corruption is rampant everywhere, the every peasant from Saega to Tarnak would like nothing less than our heads on spikes. My brother here is just more the same leadership that led us to fight the war in the first place. You must admit, Lhoris, the empire is in dire shape."

Ruven's anger intensified with every single word that came from his brother's mouth, manifesting in his clenched fist that began to grow red with flames. Lhoris quickly noticed his development and turned and cautioned, "Ruven, you can't perform magic now. It's too dangerous!"

Julek, however, taunted him, saying, "You would like to hit me with a fireball now wouldn't you? Go ahead, do it. I won't move. Give it your best shot, you've been training with Lhoris after all. Come on do it. Do it like last time. Last time with mom."

This sent Ruven over the edge. He lunged at Julek, fully intending to hit him right then and there with everything that he had within him, but Lhoris quickly came between them and grabbed a hold of Ruven's flaming fist, "ENOUGH!" He barked, "You know what will happen if you give into your emotions Ruven! Let it go!" His fist remained clenched. "LET IT GO!"

Ruven realized his mistake, and quickly let his spell fade back into nothingness. He looked down for a moment, contemplating his own actions within his head, before turning his gaze back to Julek. They glared at each other for a moment, red eyes staring into green, both trying to find some weakness, some substance that would harm to other. Ruven was the first to speak, "Brother," he began, "since you are of my blood and have the right, I am forced to accept your challenge. You can stay in the city until the coronation; my coronation. Once that is done, I'll run you out of the land faster than a dragon does a farmer. Do I make myself clear?"

Julek only took up his signature smirk and replied, "Of course. Though, when the coronation comes, it shall be you and your family who are running."

[Haedros 92712]

Early Morning
The King Chambers
Delmira

Demliras eyes opened. Her hair hung down over her eyes, and she swept it back with her hand. She was in Conrad’s bed. She remembered that much. Conrad was still fast asleep, and Delmira didn’t wake him. Instead, her eyes worked up and down, taking in the details of his sleeping form. His face was angled and narrow, with pronounced cheek bones. His eyes were slanted and angular, almost feline. His skin was pale as the snow. A sheet of his long, angelic blonde hair covered his forehead. His exposed torso was muscular, and yet still lean. Delmira swept back his hair from his forehead, planted a kiss upon his face, and left. She opened the door, silent as a cat, and closed, vanishing back to her room.

Sometime
Somewhere
Conrad

Conrad stood in the snow. On the ground lay his sword. He reached up and touched his face. He removes his hand to find blood traced across his fingers. He raised his head and looked forward. He was horrified by what stood before him. The corpses of hundreds, thousands even. Banners of both sides stood burning, the smoke rising from the flames. Corpses were in piles, alight with flame. One man stood amongst the snow, now stained red. He wore a simple black tunic and trousers, over which he wore a fur coat. The man smiled. “Horrible, isn’t it?” The man spoke in an otherworldly voice, as if it could be heard even if Conrad were deaf. He spoke to the kind and ears. “Who are you?” The man laughed. “You should already know that my friend. I represent that which is inevitable for all men, the power that mortals fear. You cannot escape me, for I am always with you, by your side, forever guiding your actions... Be careful Conrad. Something approaches, a storm the likes of which the empire has not seen for many generations... be prepared...” And just like that, the dream burned away in a torrent of flames...

Early Morning
The Kings Chambers
Conrad

Conrad woke with a start. He lay in a pool of his own sweat. He looked around, and found himself in the kings chambers. It sent a spike of cold fear and memories through Conrad. He began to panic again. He then called to mind recent events, and calmed down. Delmira was gone. She must have woken up before me and left... Pulling back the covers of the bed, Conrad rose, and got himself dressed. A silken grey embroidered tunic, woolen trousers and thick leather boots. He pulled on fur lined gloves over his hands, and over his tunic pulled on a coat of wolf pelts. Finally, he pulled around his neck a black scarf, with the sigil of the crow sewn into the fabric. He tied his hair in the back, ensuring his hair still covered his ears. And then he exited the room, intending to wander the city for a time. Just before he closed the door, he grabbed his sword from a chair beside the door and clipped it to his belt.

Later that day
Wandering Hold City
Conrad

The cold wind bit Conrad’s face as he walked the streets of a place he once again called home. Merchants on the street called, the women gossiped, guards chattered heartily about previous jobs, previous homes, previous lives. Laughter a joy pervaded the streets. Joyous people called out to Conrad, whom they called a hero. A liberator. And all because I might have doomed us all...

[Ormata]

Volker Hietala
Breaker’s Guard
Isnhrion

The riders rode.

Behind them lay the expanse of the empire, a wide and vast expanse which was as varied as those who lived in it. The snowy peaks lay behind them, long since climbed and conquered ages ago and now presenting just an issue to the Nords who knew them, who broke them, the snowy peaks of Norravägg and the others of his people. The great plains of the Reach lay behind them, ride and trodden on, roads already twisting between the peaks that once spoke of danger. More importantly,Flintholt lay behind them, lay far, far behind them and far, far away.

They rode on an important matter. The Emperor was dying, an old elf who had brought a world to heel, who Volker’s fathers and father’s father’s had fought for, one who had gifted them the choice to gain land anywhere in his empire, the one who had been gracious when they asked only for a small island in the North and the peace to do as they wished in those lands. Volker remembered the man well, when he first visited the empire’s capital; the man had a visage and demeanor that simply stuck in the mind, one that held command and presence in the voice. He had been Emperor for a good, long time, and now he was dying. It was only to be expected. The Breaker’s Guard rode to the capital, for soon there would be a great, great funeral, and soon there would be just the same in the coronation. Someone would become ruler of the lands, someone will demand of Volker the same as their father demanded of him, someone will want an oath of loyalty. Volker had a certain small bit of respect for the current ruler, the man who took a chaotic land and made it his. A certain small respect. The man could have done far, far more than he had for the overall lives of all, could have halted nobility making grave errors in general life with new laws, could have done a lot. Yet he hadn’t. That was just a little bit of a decractor towards the man.

The Breaker’s Guard rode for the capital, a dust cloud rising into the air behind them, chainmail and cloaks dancing in the wind. Above them flew a banner upon a pike, a great banner hung plainly there with a red outlined hand. Before them rode one figure, one who would stand out amongst so many in a crowd. A virtual giant rode there, blond hair playing behind him, a massive steed underneath him that might as well have been a giant as well. They rode, the Ember Tower first appearing above the horizon, then the rest of the city. Jeweled in white marble there it lay, there it lay like a piece of embellishment upon the world’s face, and there it lay for the empire to look to for news, for information. The group paused, one gauntlet hand upraised by Volker.

“There it is. Glades of Pyne, never has it looked so…” Began Volker, leaning-over on his horse, one hand resting on the saddle.

“Depressing,” made comment of one of his, a woman whose red hair draped over shoulders, whose grey-green chain and baldric marked her as a good deal different than the vast majority of Volker’s following. Pointed ears marked her as well, the slightness of her figure an easy marker as one of the High Elves, a woman who had fought through the war. She leaned on her saddle just the same, eyes staring at the city. This was Vibenia Gavra, one of his advisors and something just a bit more than that. In many things she was the only one to be trusted. In many things she was the only one who could perform them.

“Still sore over that whole business?”

“Sore isn’t the right word I would use, lord.”

“Mhm. The two who are next in succession, Julek and Ruven. Tell me of them.” Volker stared at the city, wind picking-up just a bit more and lifting the banner up into the sky.

“The former is uncaring, unfeeling. The former is fiery and passionate. The former holds a good sway over the Sight, the latter has no control of it. They compete to a good deal.” The tone in Vibenia’s voice said that she cared little for either of the two, said that she had a great amount of distaste for them. She didn’t even speak their names.

A deep sigh came from Volker, the man lowing and shaking his head at it all. Children. They were children. The first would ruin the kingdom, looking at numbers forevermore and never looking into the people, looking into the costs. He’d see the Breaker’s Guard as numbers on a page, would have no concern for noble honor, for the way things were to be done. The latter would burn the kingdom down with his feelings, with his emotions. Restraint was a valued commodity without price, that was for sure. Volker didn’t like either of the prospects, that was for sure.

“Come on, then.”

And they began to ride again.

[Wulf Da Guy]

Syn Forysta
Inn Between Ancalen and Southfall

Syn knew who he was looking for and where the man was supposed to be. But boy did he not expect the Reachman to be in such a shit establishment. Stepping into the building only solidified what he'd thought of the place, and some stared upon the half-Elf. The Reach was always like that. Especially when there was only one of his kind amongst them.

'Interesting..' he mumbled to himself as he looked around. Quickly noticing the man he'd come for, however instead of making his way towards him. Syn simply ordered a drink and found a somewhat comfortable place to sit. Close enough to the man so they could start a conversation.

If he was anything like they told him he was, then it wouldn't be long before the pair started talking. Until then Syn thought it'd be fun to flirt. Of course as a way to irritate a few of the Reachmen. It wasn't every day a Mayaar came and flirted with their women if any in recent times even bothered to visit such a shit place.

The bar wench was quite the beautiful girl, somewhat below Syns average standards but she'd do. Syn wondered if the girl disliked Mayaar, or if she was willing to flirt back, he was still considered handsome to most Reach women. He assumed it was due to his mixed blood that made him beautiful for both groups.

Even if she didn't reply back to his comments, he was certain some of the Reachmen would. Either way, it was going to be an interesting night.

[Ithalian Empire]

The Duchy of High Rock
The City of High Rock
Mettius Clement

The Duchy of High Rock
The City of High Rock
The Great Hall

The great hall, as the name suggested, was the largest and most opulent of the rooms in the fortress. Here was where feasts and celebrations where had. Heremond and Eadwine where married here, the birth of every Cacaster was celebrated in this long wood paneled room. This was also a pace that held it fair share of mourning as every Carcaster that died was placed here before they where interned in the catacombs dug inside the Rock itself. But today it would fulfill another purpose, a meeting of the court of Hwaetmund Carcaster.

However, this meeting had not been called by the Duke, but by his son, Heremond. For some this was sign as to the true state of the health of Hwaetmund, that either he was dead, or close enough to do it that his heir was assuming the position of lordship. Mettius and Baldric where the last to entire the Hall. To there surprise, and everyone else, the Duke was at his seat at the head of the hall. He was a frail looking man, nearly skeletal in appearance with his spidery blue veins looking as if they were ready to break out from under his thin skin. A few weeks ago he was in perfect health, now he was a man close to death. Yet there he sat, his last court, and the subject was of the utmost importance.

"My lords and ladies," Many had to struggle to hear what he said, his voice a horse whisper, "A white hawk has arrived from the capital. Out Emperor, Azelian the Great, rests now in the arms of the Divines. I have been summoned to go to the capital to pay my respects most like, but as you can see, I fear that the road will kill me. In my stead I send my sons, Heremond and Baldric. With them I send Ser Mettius the Solider, Ser Thurstan of Warrick, Ser Aylwin the Bold and Ser Baerwald Pithythe of Mason Crest. You will leave on the marrow and go with full haste to Isnhrion. Divines bless you."

With this, Hwaetmund was helped back to his room leaving the rest of the court to take in what had been told, and for those who had been called to go to prepare themselves.

Heremond

Heremond was in his bed chamber. Bits of armor and other gear being placed into rucksacks and bags. He wanted to get the the capital as soon as he could, so he was only taking that which was necessary. This really meant his armor, weapons and enough rations to get through the passes. Of course he would also have enough coin for whatever costs would arise in the city itself. Along with that he would take a set of more presentable cloths for when he had audience with the higher lords of the Empire.

"How long will you be away?" In the five years of there marriage neither Eadwine nor Heremond had been away from eachother for very long.

"I don't know, as long as it takes for whatever highbrow ceremonies are held for the Emperor. Than I assume we will get to see who the next emperor will be." Heremond sighed "I hate to leave you for so long."

"Than give me something to remember you by." Eadwine said, smiling playfully at her husband.

Baldric and Everlid

"Baldric" said Everlid, nearly having to jog to keep up with her older brother, "I wish you would listen to me."

"Father ordered me to go to Inshiron with Heremond, so I will go, don't really see why your so upset."

"I am not upset. I am worried about you, worried for Heremond. I feel as if there is something evil coming."

"Good, evil means adventure." Baldric said, a gleam in his eye telling Everlid that her brother wasn't quiet joking. "Besisdes, it not like we can ignore a summons to the capital of the known world. Everlid, this is this our chance to rub elbows with the people who hold the real power. This is my chance Everlid, my chance to get my name written down in the histories. A dead emperor with two sons who hate each other? Sounds like a good mix for a few tales yet to be told."

"And if you die? Baldric, damn it why cant you just take this one thing seriously?"

"I'll be careful Everlid, Divines strike me down, I wont go and do anything to get myself killed." Baldric truned down the hall to his own room, no doubt to get ready for his long journey, leaving Everlid alone with her omens of doom.

[Everhall]

Imperial Apartments, The Ember Tower, Isnhrion
A Week Later
Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

With the arrival of his brother, Ruven's sleep quickly began to grow restless and turbulent. He would toss and turn to the whims of nightmares that reminded him of everything, all that he had lost, and all that he could lose. It became so hard, so difficult to sleep for the Prince, that he would often stay up, watching the ant-like inhabitants of Isnhrion go by from his apartments, ignorant of the trouble that brewed within the palace. It was during one of these sleepless nights, the day before the whole Wise Council would be convened, that Asoka came to him in the night.

"Ruven, dear," Asoka said walking to come beside her husband, "You look, ghastly, like you haven't slept in days." Ruven continued to look forward, unlistening, "It's Julek isn't it?" She continued, "The Proving? Your father. Ruven you don't have to do this alone-"

"Asoka, please," he turned to face her with tears coming from his eyes, "don't. I don't want you to get caught up in our feud." He put his hand on her stomach, "I don't want our daughter to get involved in our feud. Please, go to Yherion until the Proving has pasted."

"And leave you here?" Asoka protested, "No, that's not something I'll do. Not when you need me the most."

"Asoka, I can't lose you! I don't want you to end up like everyone else in my life who I love. Dead... So please... Leave."

An unbearable silence stretched on for a moment for Ruven. He waited for his wife to say yes, to give him the assurance that nothing would happen to her. That Julek would do nothing to her. But, when she finally spoke, this was not the case, "Do you remember our wedding vows, Ruven? It seems so long ago, but do you remember? 'Though hardship and prosperity we shall always be together, through thick and thin we shall always be there for each other.' I'm not going to break that vow, Ruven. I'm not."

They leaned in for a kiss, before Asoka returned to their bed, leaving Ruven to contemplate in the dead of the night.

The Next Day

On the day that the funeral of the Emperor arrived, many people flooded into the city of Isnhrion. A steady stream of nobles, peasants, and even foreign dignitaries poured through the city's gates to witness the service of the Emperor Azelian. Of course, without the body of the Emperor, many of the traditions employed during such a ceremony were either skipped or ignored. A long black casket was carried in place of the Emperor's real body, and it was entombed within the Temple of the Divines, like all the other past Emperors, before Chancellor Lhoris gave a short speech about the importance of unity and brotherhood in the troubled times that the Empire now faced. Throughout the whole ceremony, Ruven couldn't help but be distracted by one glaring detail about it all: Julek had not attended. He was absent, unheard of for imperial princes, and he heard quite a few murmurs about the significance of his absence. No matter, Ruven thought, the less he's here the better.

For though, ostensively most nobles had attended just to witness the funeral of the Emperor, he knew the real reason that they were there: to size up him and his brother. To see which one that they would throw their support behind should war erupt. He could see it in their faces, in their speeches about the great deeds of his father, and in the way they always seemed to glance to him, as if waiting for his response. This would only become all the more apparent when, once the funeral was done, the procession returned to the Ember Tower to convene the Wise Council. Unlike before, when only a few members of the institution had convened to announce the Emperor's death to the realm, the whole chamber was filled to the brim with orcs, high elves, dark elves, nords, reachmen, adurans and all the other important dignitaries of the Empire that held a seat in the council. In the middle of it all stood Lhoris in the Emperor's box, waiting for the clamor that engulfed the room once they entered to end. For a long time he waiting, Ruven observed, as many of the councilors argued among themselves about petty disputes a continent away or trade rights to a certain good. Finally, however, once the clamor had reached its peak, Lhoris stood before the council and yelled, "SILENCE!" bringing a hushed quiet to the once rowdy council.

"Councilors," he began, "I believe I will not be the first to inform you that our Empire is in a dire strait. Through the years of Azelian, though great, corruption has seeped into our land and institutions to the point which any petty noble can find his way to a general in the Legion if he simply has enough coin. I hope, that in the month that we are convened, we can begin to put an end to this rampant corruption and bring prosperity and peace to the Empire once again." he paused for a moment, "For now, however, we have more pressing matters. With Prince Julek challenging Prince Ruven for the throne of the Empire through the rules of the Proving, we are currently an Empire without an Emperor. Until that the Proving in a week's time I shall handle the reigns of government as Potentate until a new Emperor is crowned effective immediately." Lhoris turned to face the Emperor's chair, "So in that time," he asserted as he sat down, "Bring all your matters to me. This meeting is now called into session."

---

The Dead Man's Drink, Between Ancalen and Southfall

Avarice

Avarice didn't want to stay in the shit-hole of an inn for long, he never stayed in one place. He we returning from picking up a contract down in Solitude from some fat merchant wanting the Ark of Pyrene, and he was going to do anything to get it into his own hands including... talking to an old friend.

"So, Rodrick," the bartender began in a gravely voice, "What brings you back down to the Grove? Running from another one of your 'conquests'"

Avarice laughed as the gulped down a swig of his ale, "You're close, but it's not a woman." Putting down his mug, he reached to his side and untied the knot that kept his sword attracted to his waist, "Here, take a look."

The bartender's eyes widened as he unsheathed and quickly resheathed the blade, "Are you mad?" he teethed, "This is a Silversteel sword! Where in Dread did you get this?"

"Doesn't matter," Avarice asserted tying the blade back on his waist, "Except that it's made a certain nobleman in Herrath pretty pissed that he's missing his prized sword. He wasn't using it anyway, what harm could it be? I've been doing things like this for as long as I can remember!"

"You are just one greedy bastard."

"Eh, what can you do? Money, women, power? There's just nothing better in the world!" Avarice's face hardened, "So, what can you tell me about the Ark of Pyrene?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Rodrick. You must be outta your nutter."

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" Avarice slammed his fists on the bar to the stares of the men around the bar, "The Ark of Pyrene, giver of immortality, chest of the Light-Born, lost for centuries, what do you have on it?" He stood there for a moment glaring into the eyes of the bartender, before two men he immediately recognized entered into the tavern.

"Oh, shit."

---

Fort Karstaag, The Grey Mountains of Norravägg, Near the Wandering Keep

General Flavius Silva of the Imperial Legion

By what trick of the divines had Flavius been assigned to the north? Thirty years of loyally serving the Emperor and this was what he got? Left to freeze in a post in the middle of the coldest province in the Empire? Disgraiceful. He was sure that General Fux was laughing his ass off in Tarnak, in a warm, comfortable post that took to fortitude whatsoever. Typical. He had been promoted and assigned to Fort Karstaag as a reward for defeating a nordic bandit king that had gotten too big for his breeches in the cold wilderness of the North. The Emperor himself had even written to him praising his exemplary service to the Imperial Legion, but THIS was what he got? Fort Karstaag was decent enough if you discounted the terrible cold. He had four-thousand men at his disposal with which to guard the northern pass to Tarnak... and to do nothing else. The position of a fort commander was a comfortable job to be sure, but when you are stuck, year after year, in the same spot only dealing with minor bandit raids, you are bound to get bored. The General could only wish that something would happen.

As Flavius sat in his office, deep in thought on the matter of his post, a young auxiliary entered into his command room, "General," he panted, "We.. we-"

"We what, Soldier? Spit it out. I have no time for mundane concerns."

"We've gotten some arrivals from the Forgotten Keep. They say that one of the soldiers killed King Wolfhardt!"

"What?!" Flavius stood from his chair, "How could this happen, we give him a hundred men!"

"They were overwhelmed by the mercenaries. The only twelve that survived have fled here. Apparently the man who slew him now rules as King of the Wanderschwert and openly denies the authority of the Empire!"

The General began to mumble quietly to himself, formulating a plan before saying, "Order the Legion to form up in the courtyard, and send a message to this new 'King of the Wandering Blades' demanding his surrender. We're going on a campaign."

Apparently things do happen around here...

Later; The Wandering Keep

A horseman flying the Imperial Standard, a orange phoenix on a red and white background looses an arrow baring the message from the General over the walls. He then turns and begins to ride off back to the south.

[Haedros 92712]

The Throne Room
Conrad

“Milord! It’s urgent! An imperial soldier shot this over the wall!” The man ran up and held out the arrow. Conrad removed the note and tossed the arrow aside. “Kellen!” The archer looked up from his seat in the corner of the room. “Prepare any and all mercenaries willing to act as messengers! Have them bring calls of arms to any and all who wish to assist us throughout the empire. Give them directions to a rendezvous point where they shall be brought here from. Delmira, come with me, the time has come for me to speak with my people.” Conrad rose, Delmira by his side, and they both walked out of the throne room.

The City Square
Delmira

A crowd of people stood before them. Conrad and Delmira each wore their armor. Delmiras hair was tied back in a bun, and Conrad’s was pinned up in a pony tail. The crowd went silent as Conrad raised a hand. “People of the Wandering Blades! I stand before you as a king, a brother, a fellow soldier, and a friend. The day has come where we shall have to join and fight for one cause, not just as mercenaries, but as a true kingdom. We share a common goal now. Freedom! The Empire seeks to take this freedom from us. I will not allow them to! We shall either live free, or die free! That is why I call you here. I call you here to request those willing to side with me, to fight for the freedom we deserve. The empire had the audacity today, to request our surrender and subservience. Surrender or war. However, I refuse to surrender our kingdom and our lives to the cowardly imperials who not only attempted to take away our freedom to choose who led us, not only placed soldiers here to manage us, but didn’t even have the courage to come here and stand among us in order to have us surrender in person. This being said, I will not force any of you to fight. Those who wish to leave, there has been a convoy of supplies loaded for you. You shall escape through the mountains to the west, outside of the Northern Territory. What you do after that is for you to decide. However, those who wish to stay, prepare for battle. War shall come soon, and there is not much time. All who wish to leave, begin packing now. Once the fighting starts, there will be no escape. Take your children, your possessions. Take everything you might need. For if we fail in battle, there will be no chance to come back.” Here Conrad ended his speech, walking away from the platform. Stunned citizens headed home, to either grab armor, or pack their bags. Delmira stares up into Conrad’s face. There was a troubled look in his eyes. “What troubles you Con?” Conrad’s eyes cleared momentarily, and he looked down into Demiras face. “It’s nothing, I’m just tired is all.” Delmira frowned in concern. This was a lie and both of them knew it. Delmira thought of her feelings for Conrad. She had to tel him. There would likely be no other chance. “Conrad... I-” Before she could continue, Conrad interrupted her with a kiss. The kiss was over as quick as it began, and Conrad was gone before Delmira could say anything more. What... what just happened?

[Theyra]

Isnhrion
Ember Tower
Aiwin Arrianus

"Finally a chance to get a word out about something that actually needs to be addressed", Aiwin thought as he sat patiently in his seat with the rest of the Valyar dignitaries. A silent anger rose in him when the other nobles spoke of triviality matters and argued with each other. A island is under siege from marauders and the princes are going to fight to see who is emperor. And they only care about who gets the right to sell cash crop and who knows what is going to happen if one of the princes loses the Proving. Aiwin knows well enough that the two hate each other and if one of them is like Lyklor..... Aiwin felt the memory of that day rush up in his mind before he mentally hammered it back into its hole. Things can get bad but, that is a ultimately a concern for a future date. Currently, his home is under siege and cut off from the rest of the Empire. Help needs to arrive to Evermoor and end those fiends before something happens to his family.

Aiwin composed himself and cooled off his anger before addressing the Wise Council. "I have a matter that needs to be resolved Potentate Lhoris. "I am Aiwin Arrianus of House Arrianus and of the Exalty of Evermoor. "As you all know, the same group marauders that killed the emperor are currently laying siege to my home and blocking all access to the island of Alista. I request that a force is sent to Evemoor to break the siege and to sent these fiends to bottom of the ocean. It would be a poor example of bringing back prosperity and peace to the Empire if these marauders are given the time to pillage Evermoor and the rest of Alista".

[Tayner]

Mettius Clement
The City of High Rock
The Great Hall

Apparently Mettius was the last summoned to the court, and by Heremond, not Hwætmund. However, the lord managed to bring himself before the court in this state, and made up his mind about the situation. Even in his darkest hour (and possibly his last), he managed to lead his lordship. This is why Mettius came to respect the man, even now in his current state. The court was dismissed, and Mettius had no personal belongings to take, besides a satchel containing military intelligence at High Rock's disposal.

He would find his way to Hwætmund's room, and knock on the door. A coarse "enter" barley reached Mettius' ears before he opened the door. "Mettius!" Hwætmund greeted.

"M'lord." Mettius said as he bowed his head. "I have prepared for tomorrow's journey. I've come to wish you farewell." He said.

"Sit." Hwætmund urged, motioning to a chair on his bedside. Mettius obliged. "I know not what will come of this turn of events, or what it entails for this lordship, but I do know one thing; my son Heremond is ready to lead. However, I also know I've left him one of the best military leaders this side of the Atlas River to help him, as you helped me, and my father before. High Rock is indebted to you." He said.

"Thank you m'lord, but it is only my duty." Mettius responded.

"And your humility..." He said, before wheezing out a chuckle. "Do me one favor old friend,"

"Yes m'lord?"

"Keep my son out of a needless war. High Rock doesn't need to fight and bleed over which prince gets the throne. Heremond doesn't need to fight and bleed. It may be inevitable, but..."

"You have my word, m'lord. I'll keep High Rock safe." Mettius affirmed.

"Thank you Mettius, farewell." And with that Mettius stood, bowed, and exited the room.

He only hoped he could keep his word.

[Everhall]

Wise Council Chambers, the Ember Tower, Isnhrion

Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

Ruven only listened unsettled as Lhoris spoke of the Proving and the state of the Empire as he searched still for Julek among the council. His band of mercenary guards was there, standing over where the Prince would be seating, but still no Julek. Where is he? These thoughts troubled Ruven for a long period, up until a young Dark Elf noble came to the center of the council to speak.

I have a matter that needs to be resolved Potentate Lhoris. I am Aiwin Arrianus of House Arrianus and of the Exalty of Evermoor. As you all know, the same group of marauders that killed the emperor are currently laying siege to my home and blocking all access to the island of Alista. I request that a force is sent to Evemoor to break the siege and to sent these fiends to bottom of the ocean. It would be a poor example of bringing back prosperity and peace to the Empire if these marauders are given the time to pillage Evermoor and the rest of Alista.

"Your right," Lhoris agreed looking towards Aiwin, "It would be a poor example of bringing prosperity and peace to our Empire if we allowed the people who slew our Emperor to go unpunished. That being said, you shall be happy to know that I've already ordered the Reacheon and Imperial fleet to set out for Alista from Atlas with a legion and local levies. Once they rendezvous with the Valyarian navy off the coast of Ashfall, they'll destroy the marauder fleet and scour the island of their filth. They shall pay for what they did to our Emperor. I wish I could do more, but in these troubled times, we need every able-bodied man, elf, and beast to work together to maintain the Empire."

---

Imperial Camp, Grey Mountains of Norravägg near Wandering Keep

General Flavius Silva of the Imperial Legion

Ever since he had received the message of Wolfhardt's demise, Flavius had been giddy with the prospect of getting out of his frontier fort. Taking the bulk of his legion, he had set out towards the keep with a haste, recruiting local levies from the villages as they went towards the city. Finally, however, his army came to the point that it could encamp itself close to the city, and begin to build a besieging wall around the settlement. As these preparations began, and as roaring fires were lit in the cold of the north, General Silva, armored in his imperial mail, rode to the gates of the city with his retinue and hailed the guard on duty,

"Hail citizen!" he called into the cold of the endless night, "We have come to parle over the surrender of this fortress. Where is your commander?"

[Haedros 92712]

Wise Council Chambers, the Ember Tower, Isnhrion

Prince Ruven of the Ashen Empire

Ruven only listened unsettled as Lhoris spoke of the Proving and the state of the Empire as he searched still for Julek among the council. His band of mercenary guards were there, standing over where the Prince would be seating, but still no Julek. Where is he? These thoughts troubled Ruven for a long period, up until a young Dark Elf noble came to the center of the council to speak.

I have a matter that needs to be resolved Potentate Lhoris. I am Aiwin Arrianus of House Arrianus and of the Exalty of Evermoor. As you all know, the same group of marauders that killed the emperor are currently laying siege to my home and blocking all access to the island of Alista. I request that a force is sent to Evemoor to break the siege and to sent these fiends to bottom of the ocean. It would be a poor example of bringing back prosperity and peace to the Empire if these marauders are given the time to pillage Evermoor and the rest of Alista.

"Your right," Lhoris agreed looking towards Aiwin, "It would be poor example of bringing prosperity and peace to our Empire if we allowed the people who slew our Emperor to go unpunished. That being said, you shall be happy to know that I've already ordered the Reacheon and Imperial fleet to set out for Alista from Atlas with a legion and local levies. Once they rendezvous with the Valyarian navy off the coast of Ashfall, they'll destroy the marauder fleet and scourer the island of their filth. They shall pay for what they did to our Emperor. I wish I could do more, but in these troubled times, we need every able bodied man, elf, and beast to work together to maintain the Empire."

---

Imperial Camp, Grey Mountains of Norravägg near Wandering Keep

General Flavius Silva of the Imperial Legion

Ever since he had received the message of Wolfhardt's demise, Flavius had been giddy with the prospect of getting out of his frontier fort. Taking the bulk of his legion, he had set out towards the keep with a haste, recruiting local levies from the villages as they went towards the city. Finally, however, his army came to the point that it could encamp itself close to city, and begin to build a besieging wall around the settlement. As these preparations began, and as roaring fires were lit in the cold of the north, General Silva, armored in his imperial mail, rode to the gates of the city with his retinue and hailed the guard on duty,

"Hail citizen!" he called into the cold of the endless night, "We have come to parle over the surrender of this fortress. Where is your commander?"

The guard looked towards the general. His face stayed blank. And hen from his lips tore a silence splitting shout. Then a voice came from behind him.

Outside the Holds gates
Conrad

“I am right here. There will be no surrender of this fortress, however. Inside these walls are hundreds of men and women, ready to die for liberty. You underhanded cowards attempted to steal the kingdom out from under the people. You tried to take away our right to our own leadership. And now, I have come to realize the true cowardice of the empire. I refuse to let my people live under such a rule. I... no... we... shall fight to the bitter end.” Conrad then drew his sword and chanted a spell. Three banners on the wall lit ablaze, revealing a crowd of archers atop the gates. They knocked their arrows and pointed downward on the army before them. “I give you a choice, general. Give us the freedom we request, and no blood shall have to be spilt on the snow tonight. Or, we go to battle, and we fight till no man is left standing.”

Inside the Hold
Delmira

Conrad’s gambit was a risky one. Fear tore a pit in her stomach. She had been ordered to stay back. Conrad has told her to remain in the castle. She didn’t want to stay. She wanted to be by Conrad’s side. She remembered his exact words precisely. Please Delmira, stay back until the odds of the fight dwindle to none. Then, and only then, should you bring forth the last vanguard from the keep. I have a plan. It might fail, which is why I need you on standby. Not only that, but if anything were to happen to you... He has been called away before he could finish what he was saying.

[Zanera]

Alyndel the Gilded
Day Before the Emperor's Funeral

---

Skipping breakfast and lunch didn't feel good, but after grovelling at the financier's feet he had finally received the opportunity to get the money he needed. It was errand after errand, taking messages and papers and cheques to locales all over the city and a few outside it. Most were to former knights of high social and financial standing, some were to old merchants, one was a person that decidedly retired to a small farm. Alyndel had to make sure it was the right person, but it surely was. It was a little after dinnertime when he was finally finished and received his lump of coins. It would keep him afloat for two or three weeks as long as he did a few odd contracts. Enough to feed his horse, oil his weapons and armor, and to feed himself at the minimum. After the memories that were being brought back expecting the funeral of the emperor, he would need some more mead or liquor.

After some pickpocket encounters in the Reach, Alyndel wanted to walk with the lightest amount of coin he could. He could hardly afford expensive alcohols when the rest of his standard finances needed so much money, so he was often going to the shadier parts of town for cheap drinks. The only clothes he had were the expensive kind, so pickpockets would focus in on him instantly. There was a place with mead that wasn't watered down as much as others', however the streets were barely a mark above filthy. He trudged through it, though, because he was starting to encounter what had happened in Lorn again...

It was twenty years into the war. The sky was blue with white puffy clouds with flat, dark underbellies. The sun shined in it's glowing yellow dispersing it across the sky. Looking down the field of battle was flat. Even fighting ground. Not the best way to fight, it was preferable to set yourself with an advantage. But the enemy force was smaller in numbers anyway. Most everyone was a veteran from other battles, but twenty years was enough time for a newborn baby to grow up into someone wielding a formidable weapon on a battlefield, and so it was that the Red Gauntlet's veterans had to bring their greens up to par with warriors that had the experience of twenty years of battle. Many had died or broke down and left the company, Darath contractually releasing them since he himself was having his own troubles. He was always snappy nowadays. There had been many losses, but he had to keep the company going, so he recruited whatever young man was able to fight. Some were too weak since many farms were razed or raided to feed most people properly. Alyndel was keeping an eye on Jerold, a Reacheon seventeen-year-old seemingly born predisposed to wielding a sword. Once Darath found out about the boy, he headed straight for the boy's home with his prospects for employment. Jerold had the jitters, it was common among greens and even veterans that had had many close encounters with death. The best the company could do was to console each other. "Don't worry lad," Alyndel told him. "You're far from the front. You have some respectable fighters in front of you. Watch them and learn a few things, and you'll come out of this limbs intact and ready to start your own family, eh? Some fields to tend never hurt old warriors." The boy looked at Alyndel and nodded, before looking forward again and staring off into space.

Alyndel sat at the bar and ordered his first drink.

The Day of the Emperor's Funeral Procession

There wasn't as much clamor as Alyndel usually woke up to. He didn't mind, he had woke up sober and needed another drink anyhow. He rubbed his eyes and sat up before he fell back to sleep. Swaying, he could tell the sleep was not out of his eyes yet. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and dressed himself, slowly buttoning his shirt. He opened the door, closing it behind him gently and began walking downstairs.

They advanced like they did many times before, facing the same foe they did many times before. They fought for Azelian, Darath like many other mercenary leaders had to put in a sort of IOU contract to the bastard since there was barely finances backing the war at this point. It was running on unripe potatoes and hard tack. So, basically, they fought for Azelian because at this point they had to. The line advanced and contact was met. The fighting would last a long time. Everyone was weary of every movement the opponent made, watching for their intentions. Half the fighting would be feinting strikes and thrusts to fake out the enemy. Jerold begin panting, likely hot and growing anxious. "Look, boy, see how Ingrid deals with a Nord and their rounded bossed shield," another Mayaar, named Leuen, pointed out to the boy, leaning in and pointing about. "She has to make sure that she doesn't lose her sword to his axe, but his shield will be his own weakness. The Nord's first mistake will be his last. They like to use shields with one handle, and no straps. It can flail around when hit. Make sure your opponent isn't poised to strike, whack his shield with yours and lock it against his ax-handling arm, and go straight in with your sword with no mercy. He can hit her with his axe since her shield is smaller, but he's a deader man. Yep, the Nord's going to meet his ancestors now. It's interesting to watch Ingrid, but there are others that you can watch," finished Leuen, leaning back over to his position and advancing a spot soon afterward. A comrade for an enemy.

A couple of drinks steadied his memories. It was weird how his dreams were always about other things entirely, full of a lack of logic and drowning in complicated feelings. Now that his mind was clear, he snapped to thinking about Azelian, and the 25-year war that seated him on his throne. It was a bloody affair the entire way through. Any sun and hope there was when the war started was drowned out by blood in the 10th year. Any aches and pains you had had to be worked out constantly, but you also didn't want to move because you were never sure about your next meal. All the hardship to bring back peace..."You know, I sorta knew the emperor," he said to the bar lady.

"Did you?" she looked at him, drying out a mug with a cloth.

Alyndel looked at the array of bottles lying in their diamond shelves. He slowly sipped his drink, and smiled," I um, I guess we all feel like we knew the emperor. Such a big important person."

"Aye, I know some about 'em, since I operate in the capital. Heard stuff all the time. If you wanted accurate stuff about the emperor, you came to the taverns and pubs right here in Isnhrion. Don't know if he was exactly a big personality, though I guess when you imagine an emperor you imagine an individual larger than life."

"Yes, yes that must be it. Off to the crowds to watch the procession," stated Alyndel, putting a copper on the counter and getting up.

"I'll be closing early to go to the procession. If you're forgetting something, remember it now."

"I have everything," said Alyndel, sword dangling at his side on his belt, walking out through alleys and sidestreets, going straight to one of the main roads to the city that led toward the burial ground of emperors. He stared forward the entire way, his subconscious no doubt suppressing a swell of memories. It was a problem getting distracted in order to help keep them repressed, since the mood was dreary. The emperor was dead, in a faraway land, and gods knew where his body was. Twenty-five years of war wasn't enough for him, tearing up his own empire to take a seat. He had to invade a land barely familiar to anyone. It would give him no glory, not even that which was quickly fleeting. Alyndel arrived in the crowds and waited for twenty minutes before the procession would start. It might be another five to ten before he saw the procession as it advanced solemnly down the road. He listened to nearby conversations but they always ended once the feeling in the air got especially depressive. He could finally hear the procession, though, as people started to look down as it passed. Alyndel stared upon the casket. He felt like it was owed to him for all the blood of comrades and self that bled for him years and years ago. Darath got into the Order of Ryenar, but Alyndel...

Fighting was exhausting, and lasted for a long time when veteran went up against veteran. Alyndel was fighting side-by-side with the boy. He and the surrounding mercs had started asking him questions, giving advice, and talking about good ways of disarming. When the time finally came for the boy to fight, he wasn't found wanting. He had killed two soldiers before Alyndel even killed one, actually. He told the boy not to get cocky. What was taught to you when you trained with the Red Gauntlet was that patience wasn't just waiting silently, and action wasn't just jabbing your sword repeatedly. You waited until the right action was ready to be taken, and you struck with no hesitance. That was luckily advice the boy heeded. Alyndel had to raise his shield up to protect his face as the edge of the Nord's shield went for his face, the Nord then thrusting his sword to hit Alyndel's abdomen under his chestplate. Alyndel could not directly parry, instead having to cut down forward, slashing the Nord in the arm as the tip of their sword sank a couple of inches deep into his lower right side. They both withdrew from the engagement, but Alyndel thrusted a few times so that the Nord had to use his sword arm. After the fourth strike put a lot of strain onto the Nord's arm, their hand shaking, the sword fell out of their grasp and so Alyndel hit the right side of their shield, leaving the Nord wide up for a couple of deadly thrusts until someone else went to take their place. Alyndel thrust his shield arm into the right side of the new Nord's shield, parrying their sword and getting in really close in order to stab his sword up into the fleshy part of his chin. Alyndel promptly withdrew back into line before an enemy at the flanks got the best of him. Alyndel glimpsed to his right, where the boy was. Jerold's opponent had used the edge of his shield and smashed it into the top edge of Jerold's shield, hitting it so hard that it twisted vertically and the Nord's shield continued until it hit the boy right in the face, followed by a sword jab up into the boy's abdomen a foot deep from below the chestplate. Alyndel protected himself with his shield as he hacked at the chainmail on that Nord's throat until it broke, and stabbed him where it would kill before they could parry anything.

...he did not feel compensated in his soul. He had to drink as the casket passed by, watching the prince and the others go by in between all the mourning crowd. Something came out of his mouth that he didn't intend to say," I'll never drink to thy lordship again."

Blinking in drunken surprise, Alyndel turned around and filed back through the crow into the alleys and sidestreets he had came through. He got confused at one corner though, and a beggar approached him. "You look like a fine elf of wealth and virtue. Can you spare a coin?"

"I'm not interested, sorry."

"Please. Just a copper for half a loaf. I haven't eaten today."

"I am not carrying any coins, I'm just trying to find my way," replied Alyndel. His mind started to get more and more muddled and confused with the drunkenness until he couldn't remember what street he was on at all.

"Surely you have some on that pouch on your belt?" the beggar asked, his hand nearing Alyndel's belt where the pouch was. Alyndel didn't like that, swatting the beggar's hand aside and looking up at the beggar. He saw a flash before his eyes: a tapestry depicting the late Emperor Azelian. The beggar got closer and Alyndel pushed him down, the beggar toppling a barrel on his way down. Staring at the beggar, Alyndel's thoughts now lay still, and his mind a seething ocean of confusion.

[The Hierophancy]

Fort Elisven, Atlas - the Reach
9th of Second Seed

Hereward had never exactly had much issue with marching long distance - work escorting caravans in the western foot hills had always involved a whole lot of walking, after all. His opinion on the matter, however, had begun to change since becoming a legionman. Miles marching with full gear and his stuffy, ill fitting legionnaire's uniform during the hottest hours of a particularly uncomfortable South Reacheon Spring was starting to erode at Hereward's patience, and what the legion referred to loosely as "food" did little to help his temperament. Judging by his compatriots frequent whinging, they felt much the same.

"Hon..." Uhtred's breathing was ragged, his speech stilted and strained as he attempted to keep pace with Hereward on the path of dry, beaten soil which the Legion marched along. "..estly... if I'd kn..." he sucked in another labored breath, shifting the heavy pack slung across his back. "..own exactly what... legion work was like... not sure... love of country... win out..."

"Don't make light of such things." Hereward glanced over Uhtred, focusing his gaze of innate disapproval upon the thin, lanky boy. The lad gave a terse nod, glancing downwards at his feet and lapsing into an awkward silence. Hereward founds his reprimands were, by and large, quite effective, especially when paired with a finely tuned glower - although Uhtred was usually an exception of sorts. The struggle he endured just breathing, much less speaking, probably had to do with the quick capitulation.

Uhtred would run the next 15 or so miles silently - save for the beleaguered panting, of course. Surprisingly enough he kept pace the entire route - just last week he'd collapsed three quarters of the way through. Hereward wasn't fond of doling out compliments, especially not to the Legion, but their training regimen worked - no doubt the product of centuries of tradition and refinement. Even one such as he had to admit that the Legion was a formidable, even honorable institution - at least in the past. Unfortunately, today those deep traditions and long history were wasted on a class of entirely unsatisfactory officers - case in point, Centurion Khactta. Calling the man "commander" of the XVII Atlas Training Century was, in Hereward's opinion, a severe overstatement.

Khactta, although not a Mayaar, served as a prime example of just about everything wrong with the Empire. Incompetent, lazy, and cruel, Provlm Khactta had been assigned his cushy position as a result, it is said, of some well to do uncle gifting the Atlas Garrison's General Wake a particularly fine silk tapestry in the Pandoran style. Corruption of that sort was, by and large, the primary method of advancement through the ranks of the Legion, though according to a few of more experienced troops stationed in Atlas the situation was less dire on the field and among the Legions proper than among the sought-after guard and garrison posts.

Supper, which occurred right after marching drills, was as per usual a dreary, tense affair. Despite the "best" efforts of Khactta and his slightly more competent Option - Nisey Khactta, a distant cousin of the Centurion - the training century hadn't exactly proved a beacon of Legion and Imperial pan-continental unity. In fact, within the first few days the entire unit had fractured into a selection of cliques, divided mainly by race. The mass of Reacheons - mainly city folk seeking employment in search of a meal - was at odds with the scattering of Mayaar, a broody, stuck up bunch of thegn's sons too poor to be railroaded into officers positions but not irrelevant enough to be excused the manly duty that was service in the Legion. They, in turn, were at odds with the equally sullen Valyar, isolated from their fellows by both race and faith, suspected and despised by many of Atlas's common folk. The trio of orcs were even worse off - the main point of common ground among the other races present was mistrust of the "savages".

Today, unfortunately, things were even worse. The free meal so many joined the Legion came in around 3 varieties around here - today they were served the worse of them, a mostly unidentifiable paste Wert suspected was some variant of Cyperen Street Stew, a mixture of boiled barley-flour, random weeds plucked out from between cobblestones and what Wert described as "well boiled Pork... probably." The worse, Hereward predicted whilst half listening to Beorsic and Uhtred argue over the theological implications of a burial performed "corpse absenta", was yet to come. As Khactta - a tall man but thin man - rose from his seat at the officer's table, placed so strategically a good few 8 feet above the cramped dining hall (once a storeroom) of the XVII, Hereward's uneasy feeling proved justified. As Option Nisey clanged gladius against the thick oak officer's table to gather the fractured attention of his century, Provlm cleared his throat with a clearly manufactured air of melodrama.

"Great job with the, eh... marching, men. Real good marchers, you lot. Haven't had such good marchers in ten years I'd say." The silence hanging over the dining hall had clearly shifted in quality - what had been an exasperated and begrudging cession to Khattca's authority had become the silence which befalls a man being sentenced to death. Khattca had never said anything remotely positive about his men in the week-and-some he'd been their leader.

"In fact," the man continued, his voice possessing a booming and surprisingly authoritative quality his physique and personality seemed to contradict. "you lot are doing so well, I bet you don't even need any more marching drills, eh?" The silence was deafening - it took months, at the very least, to be deemed a man competent enough at marching to do the Legion honor. Something was certainly wrong.

"And, well, that's very... good, because we've got orders. From Isnhrion itself, good regent Lhoris." A darkness briefly passed over Provlm's tanned face, a spasm of sorts. "Good, good Lhoris Varian. Well, anyway, the short of it is that in two day's we're being deployed. Valyaar country, fighting pirates or something. Tomorrow we start arms training and the day after we're practicing boarding actions on the ships that'll be taking you and a few of the other training centuries over." Beorsic, his expression similar to that which had momentarily flashed over the Centurions face, leaned in and whispered to Hereward.

"Half the fuckin' century can barely march in a straight fuckin' line without trippin' over themselves - hell, most of 'em ain't barely seen a real weapon 'till they got 'ere, much less held one. And fightin' on boats? Any combat'll be a slaughter, no two ways about it, 'specially if Uhtred's right bout this being a fuckin' invasion. You gotta talk to Khattca, 'ward." Hereward shook his head slowly.

"Won't change nothing. Orders from the capital." Khattca, who had been gabbing about the operation's command structure and the schedule leading up to it, once more cleared his throat in that loud, fake fashion of his.

"The V Garrison century will be accompanying us during the operation as well, and uh, that's about all. Be up an hour before dawn, weapons training starts in the courtyard." Sitting back down, the Centurion promptly sat back down, digging into what looked to be roast mutton. The air of silence and hushed, desperate whispers continued for a few moments longer before suddenly erupting into a clamor of shouted discussion and arguments among the common troops - Option Nisey had his face in his hands. Uhtred looked up uneasily from his "Stew", face a few shades paler than before Khattca's little speech.

"The fifth is undermanned, barely a century. They're professionals but..." the boy fiddled with his wooden spoon absentmindedly. "It'll be a massacre either way. We're doomed." Wert nodded excitedly.

"We should scram while we got tha chance. Rather live on tha run t'an die at sea." he shuddered at the thought. Hereward shook his head.

"Can't. Most of the men here may not be real soldiers but we are." "Warriors." Beorsic interrupted. "We're warriors. Not soldiers." Hereward gave him a glower.

"Warriors then. Either way we can help. Prevent Reacheon deaths. Maybe earn a commendation or two, eh?" Beorsic nodded in agreement, but Wert gave a forced, venomous laugh. Hereward had never heard one of the eastern laughing-dogs, but he imagined they sounded a lot like Wert when he was being sarcastic.

"Khat commend us? Maybe after he donates that fancy set o' porcelain to an orphanage. Or does an 'andstand while praisin' the Phoenix god n' pullin' bacon outta 'is ears."

"There will be other officers there." Uhtred was looking a little more colored now. "Maybe even General Wake, or someone from a real Legion. This could be an opportunity."

Wert shrugged. "If we live, sure." He resumed eating the gruel before him. Beorsic rolled his eyes and assumed his "laid back" position, silently observing the table shared out of necessity by the Valyar and Orc recruits. Hereward sighed and took a bite of his meal, a choice he immediately regretted. Still, skipping meals a few days before a battle wasn't exactly wise.

"We'll live." and sure enough, saying it out loud convinced Hereward of it's truth.

[Ormata]

Volker Hietala
Breaker’s Guard
Isnhrion

"You look like a fine elf of wealth and virtue. Can you spare a coin?"

"I'm not interested, sorry."

"Please. Just a copper for half a loaf. I haven't eaten today."

"I am not carrying any coins, I'm just trying to find my way," replied Alyndel. His mind started to get more and more muddled and confused with the drunkenness until he couldn't remember what street he was on at all.

"Surely you have some on that pouch on your belt?" the beggar asked, his hand nearing Alyndel's belt where the pouch was. Alyndel didn't like that, swatting the beggar's hand aside and looking up at the beggar. He saw a flash before his eyes: a tapestry depicting the late Emperor Azelian. The beggar got closer and Alyndel pushed him down, the beggar toppling a barrel on his way down. Staring at the beggar, Alyndel's thoughts now lay still, and his mind a seething ocean of confusion.

“A poor day when a man of the sword can’t find enough coin in his purse to spare a few for a beggar,” came a comment from the street. It was a rather tall voice, one that came from a mounted man. Volker himself looked down, down from his horse and down onto the man. The giant dismounted his steed, handing the reins off to one of his riders and walking the few steps over to the two people. Volker paused, just for a second to half turn and look over his shoulder to one of his own, talking to the man in just enough of a loud tone for the man to hear over the din of the city.

“Find us lodging, Eckbert. No whorehouses, just cheap lodging and stable.” The rider nodded, leading his own horse away and down the street, down into nothing. Turning back to the two people, Volker drew-out a light coin purse, in reality his change that numbered just ten coppers, and tossed it to the beggar.

The beggar caught it and began shaking as he opened it to find enough coins to help him last a week. "Bless you sir, your gods bless you for every copper you've given me!" the beggar thanked, turning to look at the Mayaar before sliding out of there, straight to the marketplace.

"I've hardly any to buy even a drink. I practically just had to beg myself just yesterday. My sword only gets me so much. Who are you, even?" asked Alyndel, clearly irritated and even a bit threatened. It wasn't enough to rile him, but he wanted to say a few drunken words.

"You sword gets you a good bit more than the carrion here. You could always use it. Lord Hietala is my name, cur," came the reply. Volker had little time and little patience for those who had a good deal more than those around them at yet still whined, still found themselves lacking, still had to beg in one way or another. The man had a sword and therefore could be a sellsword. The man had a sword and could be gone, gone to the highways and robbing folk there. Granted that sort of thing was looked down on, yet so long as it wasn't his who were robbed, his who were murdered...Volker had the ability to look away. The elf behind him, still mounted, sighed and shook her head at this sort of encounter. The drunk was clearly not worth the weight of words, he was so damnably useless and so damnably not her thing do deal with, nor Volker's. The Lord wanted to make a point, though, so she said nothing on it for that moment.

"I've used my sword from the western Reach to eastern Eldrion. Guess where it gets me, oaf. It gets me from one place, to the same place," Alyndel said, pointing downward as if on a map on a table. "I can strut my stuff all I bloody well want, but I strut in the, the same place for the same damn people! Wealthy nobodies! That's who!"

"Oaf? Oaf? Bladed night, you don't have ears, do you, swine. Go to your pig stye before I kick you there," came the measured response, the response that came with just a bit of fury. Volker was giving the man some little bit of rope, and at both wanted the man to run-off and get the hell out of the road and wanted to gut him. Pride demanded that the second option occur, though it'd be satisfied with a good beating. Common sense spoke for the other path. One hand drifted to his sword at his side.

"You call me a cur but I can't call you an oaf? Now you've half a mind to kill me, don't ye?! Well, Nord, I've battled dozens of your kind in more ways than one," said Alyndel, grabbing his own hilt," so if we have to do this, then I'll do it, dammit!"

"M'lord, while I do love to see Mayaar blood spilled, I'd rather enjoy it if history did not repeat itself," Vibenia called to him, looking-about and pursing her lips. "I doubt the man truly needs to die today. Cold water, yes...and a bath. Not sure if he needs death."

"Not giving him that," Volker replied, drawing his sword. "Might have battled dozens of my kind, but...you haven't battled me. There's a difference between the Breaker's Guard and the common Nord, Mayaar. I haven't all day."

Alyndel drew his sword. He tried to think but all he could feel was instinct he couldn't consciously recall. He probably had fits of confusion on his face. Alyndel was growing partially terrified to fight the Nord, but he was mad, and the Nord was being ruder than should be allowed. "Well you'll have to give it to me short, then. What makes you special?"

"You'll learn. Verschieben," came the brief reply, and the Nord moved. He moved faster than what would ever be considered possible, moved and closed the gap between the two of theme in the span of a quarter, if that, of a second. With his unhindered fist, he drove it into the man's face; it was a cheap shot, but with the space of time, the fact that he quite literally sprinted the distance, using that speed to power his fist, and the fact that his fist was both enclosed in a gauntlet and spiked ensured that it was a breaking blow. Volker attempted to back it up with another punch, into the man's stomach.

The Nord was there, and then he was coming towards Alyndel. The fist hit his face. He stumbled back, the pain did not even have time to register before the Nord wanted another blow. There was no choice but to thrust at the Nord to make him hold back. Alyndel held his face, feeling warm sticky blood ooze between his fingers. When the pain came he was pissed. "Still the oaf you were half a minute ago, Nord. Punching out your opponent with your gauntlet."

There was a few good things one could do with a gauntlet hand. One of them was to catch a blade. As it was thrust at him, propelled by long-held customs, long-held capacities that might, just might exist, Volker grabbed it, catching the piece of steel and giving it a good, good tug towards him. His other hand brought the sword against his foe, the flat of the blade pointed at the enemy, just enough to give a hell of a bruise in the morning.

"A bastard of a trick," said Alyndel, receiving the broad side of the sword. He lunged in with his fist, every intention to hit the Nord in the face. They were too tall, though. His fist struck Hietala's chestplate. A lord that assaulted him like this, he'd have to remember his name. After the Nord's quickness, he instantly put his arms up afterward, getting angrier with every hit, and when his sword was taken from him, now he had stolen property to take back. He spread his legs out, almost falling over from anything to drunkenness to a concussion. "Put up thy gauntlets, then! I can take another one!"

Volker dropped the man's sword, kicking it aside and away before sheathing his own. A frown was forming on the man's face, a dissatisfied frown as though things hadn't gone the way he had wanted, as though the fight hadn't been to his liking, as though things were too easy. He stood, then, taking just a few steps back before outstretching his arms as though inviting a hit against him, as though daring that the drunkard do something.

Alyndel's fist began pounding after punching a chestplate with everything he had. He rubbed his knuckles and went back to his defensive gesture, Watching the Nord closely as they put away all of their weapons, even stretching his arms out. No sword, no fists, he didn't take him seriously anymore. A bigger insult to a warrior than any word, and it struck him to a core he hadn't felt in a long time. Still, his thoughts were shallow, ”I am Alyndel the Gilded, named by my enemies when they see my armor, and with mistakes...," Alyndel's bruises were throbbing madly. "You're...you are nothing to me!" he yelled, running up to the Nord, leaping onto his boot to thrust himself and his raised fist up into the Nord's chin. It met, but he came back down and couldn't find balance, falling backwards onto the cobblestone.

The punch connected with the man's chin, enough to make a bit of a rattle yet not so much as to be a great hit. The man had needed to jump up, had needed to get more height, and that robbed him of a bit of strength he might have used. Volker's head jerked upwards, just a bit, though the man didn't move. He didn't stagger back, not with his weight, not with the angle of the punch. He just stood there. Rubbing his chin with one hand, the Nord kneeled-down to the other man's level, one hand thrusting out to grab him by the nape of his shirt and the other delivering a great, great blow to the man's head. He'd been pummeling his breastplate for far too long, gave Volker's arms far too much power, and made mistakes he didn't know were mistakes. These were to be paid, in Volker's mind.

The riders behind him laughed a bit, just a bit, and watched to enjoy the show.

Alyndel looked up at the man, looking as tall as a building, his head jerked up, then coming back down. He just rubbed his chin. The Nord then kneeled down to Alyndel's level, bending down and grasping his shirt with his huge hands, big irregardless of gauntlets, and struck him. His very brain rattled, and he was blind for a few seconds. His vision was in and out, actually. The Nord was waiting. His companions were waiting. So he spit in Hietala's face.

"Der Mann hat Bälle," commented one of the riders, a little smile on his dirty face, eyes glimmering at the fight and leaning-in. His thick accent was nearly impervious towards most forms of translation, and a few of the others laughed with the comment. "Schade, er wird sie verlieren!" exclaimed another, bringing a roar of laughter towards the riders from the north, raucous and without much pity at all for the man. It was just a cruel joke in their eyes. The elf, she who wore finer chainmail and had a sturdier, older look about her, frowned at the whole engagement. Volker's reaction was far more direct. With one hand still grasping the nape of the man's shirt, he brought the head up, up and into a descending forehead of the massive Nord, up and down and up and down, headbutting the man over and over with a vicious fury that was just underneath the surface. There were lessons to be taught, even if the lessons would be learned in the morning.

The Nord leaned back. He struck with his forehead. Once, twice, then there was only blackness.

Getting up, Volker left the man and wiped the blood away from his forehead. Restraint didn't really exist, not at that specific moment, not for that specific instance, not for those insults and not for that man, and as such his forehead held a gash across it from the force of his own blows. Mounting his horse, the riders from Flintholt rode away, away to find their comrade and away to find their lodging.

[The Hierophancy]

The Plaza of Heroes, Atlas - The Reach
12th of Second Seed, Early Morning

Hereward had frequented the Plaza of Heroes many times during his career as an agent of the Order - after all, the Castle Bastion, an imposing, utilitarian structure of unadorned grey stone - squatted in that inexplicably predatory fashion along the busy plaza's northern edge. However, he'd never seen the long, roughly rectangular forum crowded with 9 full centuries worth of Legionmen arrayed in formation, nonetheless been standing straight-backed among those troops, waiting in the hot sun for the pre-operation address by a certain Admiral Naften.

As per usual, the Plaza of Heroes filled Hereward with a mixture of awe and rage - awe at the great monuments within and anger at the decaying remnants of those the Empire had either destroyed or allowed to fall into disrepair. The most impressive structure within the great paved Plaza was without a doubt the grand Arcades which lined the eastern and western edges. Built of pink-veined marble, they had both once contained idols depicting the great god Ryenar in shining bronze and a more warlike, reddish marble imported all the way from far Pandora. Now, however, one had been converted into the outer wall of the Castle Spyrd, whilst the other had been allowed to decay, it's columns and arches slowly being worn down to nothing and it's statues smashed or distorted. It is said that the visages of Ryenar that once lined the Plaza had been closer to the bloody Asuhn in nature than the Ryenar of today, resplendent in trophies carved and genuine and in many cases carrying Elven heads created in the likeness of past oppressors of the Reach slain by the Reacheons over their long history of conflict with the Mayaar. Whilst some claimed that Argilac himself had carved the statues and sworn that his own wrath would befall whomever removed them from the Plaza, Uhtred believed it more likely they'd been Attican in origin, perhaps put up only after the death of the Martyr Emperor, Remus. No matter their age, however, they were yet another facet of Reachman history defaced and destroyed by their occupiers, and that alone was enough to light within Hereward the low but burning hot fires of anger.

Beorsic, finally with an excuse to look as rigid and uptight and he usually was, nudged Hereward with a few stiff movements of his shoulder that reminded him of a clockmaker's automaton he'd once seen on Marmanstán. "Oi, 'Ward." He nudged again, head and eyes locked forwards towards the towering podium once employed by ancient Kings of Atlas. "Think it's 'bout to start." He quickly jerked his head towards where a cluster of sharply dressed officers, gleaming with medals, bits of armor and in a few cases elaborate articles of jewelry were shuffling slowly up the ramp leading onto the broad marble speaking area. At their head was a Valyar - dark, tall and well muscled, the red and black uniform of an Admiral suited him well. The same could not be said of the man next to him - General Wake - a stout but shrewd looking man upon whom the tall, plumed silversteel helm of a General looked quite absurd. In contrast to Wake and his unimpressively plebian appearance, Naften looked how a young Hereward had once imagined all nobles should - sharp, handsome features, but a face well worn by experience and age, sporting a large scar and a few strands of grey in his long, otherwise coal-black hair. As the admiral took up a position behind the stone-and-oak podium, observing his charges with a weary but clearly interested gaze, Hereward felt himself tensing up. Naften looked a competent enough man, but then again so did Khactta when a superior officer came about for review. If he proved to be of old Wake or, Gods forbid, Provlm's caliber Hereward was half inclined to start a mutiny the moment they took to the sea. Then, in a loud, commanding voice tinged with the well worn but solid aura which seemed to surround Naften, the Admiral began to speak.

"Today, we set forth on a mission to eradicate a force of degenerates - rapists, marauders, and general filth who prey on the weak and vulnerable to fatten their purses and satisfy sick urges to do harm on their fellow man. Today we clean up the filth which lurks at the edge of our Empire, and in this we shall without doubt succeed. No godless army such as that we face has ever, nor will ever be victorious against the fine men of the Legion." Naften, expression stoic and stern, scanned his force once more. "Many of you are fresh recruits, new to our great Legion and untested. Many have, until recently, never held a weapon, or boarded a ship. But do not fear. I've watched you men, and you have what the enemy lacks - you have spirit, discipline, you are united by brotherhood, a cause and the Empire. I have watched you fight, and drill, and train, and trust me when I say each of you is without a doubt worth ten of the criminals we sail forth to stop, and each of you already a model Legionnaire," That was, to be sure, untrue - during their brief training as marines a significant portion of the recruits - many city-churl who'd never set foot on a ship and peasants to whom the ocean itself was a foreign concept - had spent much of their time throwing up over the sides of the craft or stumbling about like drunken men, barely able to walk, much less fight. Still, the words seemed reassuring to the men of the XVII, with Hereward noticing his fellow soldiers standing a little taller and gaining some color in their faces.

"...and men whom I'm proud to have under my command." The old Valyar gave a wide, genuine smile. "And to the more experienced men among you of the V Century - make sure to keep your new comrades from getting into too much trouble on the battlefield. Wouldn't want to get carried away and miss supper, eh?" The "joke", although not particularly funny, was met with a wave of nervous laughter from the assembled men. "We set off now to Alista, first to rendezvous with the forces of the good Ealdormen and Reeves of the Golden Coast and then to eradicate the criminal scourge. Make sure you do your legion and Empire proud, men - oh, and kill more of the bastards than the levymen. Wouldn't want to look bad in front of your competition." Naften stepped down from the podium to silence, but it was a slightly less desperate, worried silence than had hung over the Plaza before his little speech. Even Beorsic looked a little more relaxed.

Still, Hereward was worried. The Admiral seemed a decent enough man, but he spoke of the sort of pirates and smugglers you might find drifting about in a skiff waiting for an unguarded raft or barge rather than the armada of warships those merchants and sailors who'd made it back from the isle had whispered of in the taverns and shipyards of Atlas. Was the Admiral lying to bring his troops some much needed confidence, or was he too deprived of vital information regarding the fleet he was about to enter battle with? The man's appearance off the podium, weary and worried, suggested the latter, and going into battle blind was something Hereward had never been fond of. As if to further batter wary nerves, Centurion Khactta chose that moment to clamber atop a box and address his century, starting with the melodramatic clearing of his throat which he was so fond of.

"Well, you heard the man - er, Admiral." Provlm gestured stiffly south, towards the just-visible docks - on close inspection, he seemed quite pale himself. The officer of a training century had likely never expected to be sailing directly into battle. "We'll be boarding the..." Provlm looked down at his Option expectantly. Nisey, sighing, craned his head upwards and whispered something in his cousin's ear. "... Alaro's Compassion, on the fourth dock right of the Atlas. Be awake by the second hour for the rendezvous." Both Centurion and Century stood silent for a moment before Khactta, after a second's confusion, shouted out a ragged "Move out!", at which Option Nisey began maneuvering the formation into position behind the XV Training Century and onwards towards the docks.

Eastern Sea of Lunara, north of the Fiery Strait
12th of Second Seed, Afternoon

"Odd." The man, speaking in a rough voice that sounded like rocks being smashed together, scratched the bit of forehead uncovered by his shining steel helm, frowning out to the east. "Usually never see these kinda' storms over the Straits, 'specially not durin' Second Seed." The storm in question loomed over the distant, not yet visible isle of Alista, it's clouds ash-black and occasionally flashing with lightening which seemed to Hereward's eyes off, though he couldn't place why. The old soldier next to him was one of the 200 experienced marines Admiral Naften had distributed among the weaker elements of his force in an effort to give them some backbone - unfortunately Alaro's Compassion, a large, three decked ship designed for troop transport under sail power, had been spared only 2, both of whom were squatting by Hereward on the top deck, near the battle-mages odd balcony which hung off the craft's side. The other marine, equally grizzled, nodded brusquely.

"Aye, never seen a storm that angry out 'ere at'll, nevermind this time o' year. Ta fight in this weather with a bunch o' infantry still pissin' grass -" the man glanced over at Hereward, who was applying a fresh layer of oil to the great iron head of his warhammer. "ah, you 'scluded of course." He shook his head briefly as if to clear it. "Anyway, ya know I'll folla tha Admiral anywhere, but this seems mighty foolish, 'specially if what Algar said bout 'ems true." The other legionman shook his finger and made a guttural sound Hereward could only assume was meant to convey disapproval.

"Ain't the Admiral who came up wid this 'op, 'twas old Lhoris up in the capital. Prolly to keep all the lads he wants fightin' for 'im when civil war breaks out on tha mainland."

"You say that as'f civil war's sure to break out. Whatta'bout the provin'?" The first marine wagged his finger at his comrade again.

"If you think tha provin' is gonna end is anythin' other than civil war, you've got a screw or two missin' up top, old friend. Trust me, by end o' the month, Naften'll be choosing a Prince and we'll be off ta proper war."

Thinking once more of civil war, Hereward glanced over to the levy ships filing into formation a few hundred meters away. Such forces - and their lords - were essential during times when the Empire was split asunder and while the Legion was fractured and confused. These men, however, didn't look like much. Whilst some of the warships - those carrying full contingents of steel clad knights and their retinue - were quite impressive specimens, the majority looked to be re-purposed merchant and fishing vessels, packed with pale and anxious peasants bearing simple spears and wearing cheaply dyed uniforms of cloth. Only a few wore gambesons, and whilst most had oft ill fitting helms of steel or iron strapped to their heads, a few - mainly archers - lacked even that, wearing leather or felt caps instead. On the whole they made even the training centuries seem almost professional by comparison, and although some of Hereward's century were poking fun at the levy and declaring the challenge set forth by the Admiral far too easy, Hereward wasn't fond of weak allies, and judging by the pallid expressions of the majority of his comrades they had similar opinions on the matter. Although, that could also be the seasickness - choppy waters, no doubt due to that damnable storm, had set the entire fleet a-rocking, and the fragile stomachs of the forces aboard had been emptying themselves over the side the entire way to Atlas.

Slinging his warhammer over his back and making a few last halfhearted adjustments to the poor fitting armor he'd been offered by the Legion, Hereward scanned the ship for his compatriots. By now, it was becoming clear the battle would be a major defeat, even if Naften were as brilliant as his men had assured their allies he was, and although Hereward was entirely willing to give it his all in beating the marauder menace, the priority was swiftly shifting from victory to survival. After offering a quick, unspoken prayer to Ryenar, he stood up and, sighing, made his way to the section of ship where they'd be offloading from - a long, rotating bridge mounted near it's prow, joining an uneasy mass of soldiers who milled about the Corvus. Soon, there would be battle - Hereward could only hope he lived to see what happened afterwards.

[Everhall]

Imperial Camp, Grey Mountains of Norravägg near Wandering Keep

General Flavius Silva of the Imperial Legion

As soon as the small army of archers revealed themselves from atop the walls of the Wandering Keep, the General gave a signal to his army behind him to perform another show of force in kind. Then, he watched in satisfaction, as several braziers were lit all throughout the small blizzard that surrounded the area, revealing several six trebuchets, and the besieging wall that had been erected to surround the entire settlement.

"I admire the courage, lad," Flavius admitted, "But you severely underestimate the power of the Empire. So I will give you a choice: to ether let your people live and your mercenary band to continue on, or to all die, forgotten and unremembered. Surrender yourself, and any others involved in the murder of King Wolfhardt, and I shall allow everyone else here to live on in peace; but refuse, and continue to fight on, you shall all be named traitors and enemies to the realm in the name of the Potentate, and perish. The choice is yours to make, but do so quickly, it'll take but hours to break through your walls."

And with that, the General began to ride away at a gallop back towards his camp with his guards, his soldiers guarded him with their long shields the whole journey back as they expected enemy arrow fire at any minute. As soon as he arrived back at his camp, he gave the command, and stones and fireballs were launched at the walls of the Wandering Keep.

Eastern Sea of Lunara, North of the Fiery Strait

Admiral Valerius Naften of the Imperial Navy

Lightning flashed across the night sky and thunder boomed in the distance as Admiral Naften entered the private quarters of General Wake, much more lavish than any room ought to be. He had come to discuss the progress of the fleet, as was his duty since the General was his superior, but froze when he entered to see the General in relations with a whore.

"Put er' there, love, put er' there!" the General commanded still oblivious to the Admiral's entrance until Naften cleared his throat in slight discomfort, "Oh, it's you." He sent the whore away with a slap on the arse and turned to face Naften, "What is it that you want? Shouldn't you grey skins be praying to your foreign god about now?"

"General," Naften sighed ignoring his superior's comment, "I have a bad feeling about this mission."

"So do I!" Wake laughed red-faced holding an empty bottle of ale, "I haven't had a good drink in days and have to settle for this shite!"

"Are you drunk?" Naften asked incredulously as he stole the bottle from the General's hand, "By the Phoenix how far our military has fallen. Appointing fat sacks like you to positions that you have no business being in."

"Watch your tongue, boy!" Wake began to stand his overweight body up but fell back with the harsh rocking of the ship, "I have... the Emperor's sworn support!"

"I'm several decades older than you, Wake. I'm not going to waste anymore time on this conversation." Naften turned around in disgust and began to walk back above deck away from the putrid stench of the General's room. For as long as he could remember, Wake had been one of the worst Imperial Generals that he had ever seen. Fat, corrupt, and morally unashamed, it was those kinds of men, in his eyes, that made the Empire grow lazy in its peacetime, leaving it open for any righteous upstart to come in and upturn things. Let's just hope that Lhoris can fix this mess, Naften thought as he came to the helmsman of his flagship, a Nord named Valmar, caught staring off darkly into the storm clouds before them.

"Anything unusual to report?" Naften asked the Nord.

"Nothin'," began Valmar, "except those clouds in front of us. Never seen anything like them in this time of the year. Sure it storms, but... not like that... Can I tell you something, Admiral?"

"What?"

"This... doesn't seem like a regular group of marauders does it?"

"No... not at all," Naften stroked his chin, "To surround an entire island with a fleet... numbering at least in the hundreds is not something marauders would do. Laying siege to a city is not something marauders would do. Raid, sure, but not siege..."

"Do we have any info about how many men they have?" Valmar asked.

"No. At least not yet. Except the initial White Hawk we haven't received anything from Evermoor or Drogon. Which can only mean two things: one, that both cities have already fallen, or two, there's something else at work here."

"What makes you say that?"

"I mean, what reason would random marauders have to shoot down down hawk after hawk, deny ransom for our soldiers, and surround an entire island with a fleet we don't even know the size of?"

"Maybe... to lead us into a-"

That was when it happened. Several booms of thunder, echoing like explosions, emanated from the storm clouds around them, coinciding with several blooms of red and orange that lit up the night sky. The air remained silent for a second, the once steady chatter of the crewmen on board replaced with a deafening silence before, just out of the corner of his eye, a fireball, flying almost too fast to see crashed into a group of ships on the far side of the fleet, then another, and another, and another flew into the Imperial fleet, lighting up the night sky with its fire. Naften rushed the the bow to the ship towards the rapidly approaching enemy fleet before them, blowing war horns that echoed throughout the night. Only one word came to mind in that moment,

"Trap..."

An explosion rocked the length of the ship.