The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

by **Pentapolitan Kyrene** » Sat Jan 12, 2019 11:47 am

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos

The Palinate of Gergan, The Month of Dawn

Mithras, consummate soldier he was, knew well that the mercantile bantering of the Palinate's agora was not his place. He could certainly shout loud enough, could command attention, but only to command, not to persuade. For that, he had subordinates. In particular, he had a young man, the luxuriant thirdborn of a fabulously wealthy household; Leotykides Omorfos, Leotykides the Beautiful. He had received the name as an insult for how greatly he seemed to care of his own appearance, but he had since relished it. To be sure, it was not an innacurate epithet. Unlike the scarred veterans Mithras and Arsakes, along with all the others, he was unblemished, his skin powdered with white chalk, his eyes painted, his golden hair grown long and curled in ringlets, extravagant even among the long-haired soldiers. It was to him, and men like him, that the duty of selling fell, and he took pleasure in it.

He was like an actor, spinning and turning in the market crowds, his fine linen sweeping the smell of his perfume through the rushing air, his voice powerful, and smooth. He prided himself on his salesmanship, how he could sell a slave without teeth as easily as one fanged. It was no great challenge this time, the people of Brexonburn were sturdy, farming folk, and they made good product. Most were sold in bulk, Leotykides assuring the purchaser that they were greatly experienced at working in teams to draw the plough or seed the field, but many were sold as house slaves in ones and twos. The finest, or those he could make look to be them, were sold to the city, to serve in public, while the worst were sold to work in the mines.

It took only a few days, before Leotykides was set to his next task; glorifying the exploits of the legion. Another task that well suited him. He would spend night after night in the inns and taverns of Gergan, telling great tales of hill tribes defeated crossing the mountains, or of the genius of Mithras, of the untapped wealth to be had in the lands of Saladonia; where a man could make his fortune as easy as stepping into a village with a sword drawn and the people would leap to his chains with their outstretched hands full of loot. Mithras needed new recruits, and fortunately, Leotykides and the others like him made for excellent recruiters, especially once rumours of their exploits spread, and when Leotykides bragged and boasted of the money won for the sale of the slaves. With any luck, Mithras would soon see another hundred men, perhaps hung-over ones, signed on to his legion, to form the second Cohort. In the mean-time, Leotykides would drink, dance, laugh and make merry. The comforts of Gergan were myriad, for one willing to find them.

by **Nuxipal** » Sun Jan 13, 2019 3:44 pm

The Battle of Sarfuth
Co-written between G-Tech and Nuxipal via TG

The two armies were arrayed across from one another. The leaders of each side meet briefly, but it seems that whatever had been said did not change the coming battle. The Undead raised spears and shields and held firm. The Serrin seem fine with that outcome of their negotiations, and deploy to the fore of the city. Bowmen begin firing on the undead and Gladium, while a crier stands forward to call for the men and women of Sarfuth to rise against the usurpers. The peasants in the city shuffle uneasily where they can see men and women of the Chosen.

Neferata sees the Serrin withdrawing and orders a charge to pin them. Unable to do anything about it, Khafra orders his wings to charge as well to close the gap. They were losing shields and a few undead, but he was certain they could at least catch the Serrin or force them to retreat and try again some time later. As the undead advance at speed the Serrin seem content to retire before their foes in good order- obviously their commander is in no rush to begin the engagement, either waiting for something, or wanting to weaken his foe. And weaken them he does. In the steady withdrawal several rune shields fail; though the arrows do little damage to undead, even unshielded, some corpses begin to fall.

Within the city, the streets are quite quiet. The resting place of Nekerfara is undisturbed as the mages of the Chosen gather, uneasy Gladium clutching weapons guarding the resting place. Iset is gathering the leadership of the Chosen aside from the few in battle with the Serrin to prepare a ritual in case of their army being defeated in the field. She couldn't be sure that the Gladium would hold firm either and prepared for the worst.

When the undead are provoked into a charge away from the city, the Serrin cease their withdrawal, and stand their ground. The two lines clash, and the plot of the Serrin commander is revealed; outnumbering his foe substantially, he has elongated his lines, and his wings push in the Chosen flanks, and begin grinding into the formation on either side.

The undead, though hard to kill, are of only diffident skill in battle, and the Serrin, knowing of the beasts from their long contact with Saladonia, are more immune to the terror of the creatures than might be expected. Though their faces are set in fear as they fight, they do not break before the reanimated creatures.

And to this is added a strange sight- some dozens of the citizens of Sarfuth, armed with only axes, hunting bows, and pitchforks, piling into the back of the formation of undead. The casualties the deathless warriors inflict on the Serrin are severe, but outnumbered and nearly surrounded they are beginning to fall.

Seeing the imminent defeat of their masters the Gladium flee north abandoning the Chosen. Iset sees the writing on the wall as the gladium desert them and the battle seems to be lost, her husband along with it. She takes off her crown and puts it on Siya Tjenu declaring her as Heir of clan Tjenu before turning her attention to the rites at hand. The knifes begin their work, sacrificing the Chosen to revive the fallen ruler of Aslani.

Meanwhile, in the field, Khafra sees the writing on the wall and orders his undead into a defensive position to better defend his flanks, but leaves Neferata to her own devices, effectively cutting himself off from the other half of the army. For her part, Neferata doesn't seem to care, her forces plunge forward cutting their way towards the Serrin leader intending to kill him in the battle.

As the Gladium flee, Chosen after Chosen goes under the knife. As the last of the Chosen falls, life drained of potency, their numbers are perhaps fewer than might be expected; some have fled quietly north with the Gladium, unable at the last gasp to give their own lives for that which they have sworn to uphold.

Elsewhere, on the battlefield, mages begin to fall as the Serrin assault draws close. With much of the strength pulled in place to protect the flanks, the drive into the Serrin host is abortive, though it cuts deep into the front lines of the foe. Where mages perish the undead under their command fight feebly, minds fragmented and the puppet-strings cut. Anon the undead are completely surrounded as the flanks buckle further, and their numbers dwindle rapidly.

However, in the sepulchre of Neferkara, a body stirs. Not one of the dozens that lie cold and dead, blood still pooling around sacrificial wounds. But an old man, his eyes opening for the first time in generations. Neferkara stirs - he is not immortal and all-powerful like he had hoped, for they were too few to restore him to his own strength. But the former terror of the Aslani Kingdom walks the earth once more, his mind fragmented, but his life restored to him.

Khafra sees Neferata fall from his position along with the mages she had with her. His own mages died off earlier. He held his position as long as possible. However, eventually even he falls. A spear to the side and an arrow in the neck, Khafra falls and with him he notices a strong presence coming from the village. His last emotions are fear. Fear for his children which are still in the village. Before he loses consciousnesses, without his magic sustaining the last of the undead they simply crumble into piles of dust around him. Serrin won the battle and the Chosen in Sarfuth were no more.

In the village, the young children of Khafra were in hiding as they watched the visage of their great grand father consume the souls of a couple of the villagers who came into the sanctum to kill the chosen. After doing so, the Liche escapes from their vision. After a few minutes as an eerie silence falls over the village. The children emerge from their hiding spot and start to make their escape. The sanctum was coated in blood and bodies, many of which seemed to be drained of all life, blue liquid manus draining from the few who used the rune only to be drained by the risen Liche.

They left the village as the Serrin troops were moving in to establish their control in the area and went north. They soon found a couple mages who were friendly to their father and escorted them towards Salli to live there. Afterall, they were children who had their entire lives ahead of them. In the end however, the Chosen of Neferkara were dead, and Neferkara himself was nowhere to be found in the village.

by **Nuxipal** » Sun Jan 13, 2019 5:23 pm

Kingdom of Nekhen

Third Year of the Rule of High King Tafari

The sun rises over the Kingdom of Nekhen. It hadn't been very long since the Midnight Horde's tribute and already the city had gone through a period of unrest. High King Tjenu had finally consolidated the nation and put them to work. It would take some time to recover the nation's former glory, but for now everyone would need to contribute. As such, he has asked his soldiers to help construct a new set of farmland, farmland which he promised would provide them with enough food to potentially expand the military in the future. He also needed his people to begin grasping a better hold over the resources they had at hand, the river could provide a great source of food and needed to be tamed.

At the same time, he did not wish to lose sight of the arcane and asked for them to look into harnessing the power of the land around them. He heard stories that in far off lands there were structures which could focus magical power and he wished for his people to harness these as well. In the area of foreign diplomacy, he hasn't done much thought beyond his own borders just yet. The Midnight Horde likely didn't destroy the Honori and thus he would need to contact them eventually and find out how best to continue the relationship which the previous Dynasty had established with them.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Sun Jan 13, 2019 5:58 pm

Ita
Beginning of the eleventh year of the Chiefdom of Chief Agung, former adviser to the late Chieftess Bacani

It was time.

Chief Agung himself, with hammer and chisel in both hands, began ceremoniously hacking away at the old simple stone wall of Ita. It was a century old, and it no longer stood as the grand symbol of the greatness of tradition and of remembering and honoring the past. Instead, it stood for decadence, it stood for regression, it stood as a symbol of the inability of the city to innovate. Now, save for the wall near the breach, it was going to come crumbling down, and in its place will stand a new wall, a stronger one that can hopefully better defend the city in the future. This was the beginning of Chief Agung's moves towards the future. It was time for the city to welcome modernity, and it was going to do so using their own hard labor - and Chief Agung himself was going to show that he and his generation would not shy away from this brave new world. It would be part of it.

Chief Agung wasn't just ceremoniously hacking away at the old wall. He was going to be part of it. Every step of the way, he would supervise and participate in hauling stone from here to there. Some bits of the old stone which can still be salvaged will be used. The old will meet the new, and will walk hand in hand together into the unknown. Ita must embrace the fact that many of its traditions are what led to its downfall. Only then can it maybe begin to think about healing. Only then can this new wall truly protect then.

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Sun Jan 13, 2019 6:02 pm

The Imperial Republic of Saladonia
Sarfuth

When the Saladonians arrived they expected a battle, not a massacre. Having been lead by Calix Lazos with Senator Hanson and the Lord-Imperator supervising the mission; they had arrived from the north capturing runaway Chosen and Gladium.

Other then few cowardly Gladium and Chosen were the lytlings of Khafra. Knowing their safety brought relief to Hanson, who was good friends with their father. They spoke and warned of a terrifying monster within the village. To young to understand why their parents chose to summon it.

The Lord-Imperator ordered some men to guard them, and ensure their safety. Providing them blankets and water. Malix explained that being lytlings, they dont deserve a death due to their parents or organizations actions. He however held a different tune for those who ran.

Upon entering the city they saw a bath of blood. A unholy ritual was orchestrated in the settlement. A few Saladonians grew ill just by looking at it. Some Thing killed the townsfolk, and the Chosen were orchestrating some ritual. Malix ordered the men to aid the buriels and clean this place up. Aiding the Serrins anyway they could.

Senator Rylander was one of the first to discover Khafra's corpse. He did not cry or waver, but held his freinds hand. Saying his final goodbyes before beginning to bury him.

Lord-Imperator Malix eventually had to leave tending to diplomacy with the king. Asking what to do with the captured Chosen and Gladium. Ensuring he doesn't upset his historical friend, the Serrin Kingdom. From this day forward, many will remember the Sarfuth Massacre.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sun Jan 13, 2019 6:30 pm

The Price of War

With Fastaqui's defiance announced to the Midnight Horde, the Herald retires frowning. As he re-enters the host the soldiers beat spears on shields and began chanting loudly, whipping themselves into a frenzy. Anon, out from the ranks of the crowd, men and women in long robes emerge. They lead a line of dirty bedraggled prisoners, civilians obviously controlled by some foul sorcery. The eyes of the victims are blank whites, visible even from the top of the grand wall, and they stand very still as one after another their throats are slit by the Horde mages.

A foul feeling fills the air, and then in a moment, like a thunderbolt, it passes like a physical thing between the line of mages and corpses and the mighty wall of Fastaqui. Lightning lashes the sky, fire falling from the heavens. Where it strikes the defenders of the wall they perish screaming in flames, and under their feet the earth recoils at the fell magick of the invaders.

But the wall stands firm. Some parts of the parapet crumble down, shaken loose by the sorcery, taking soldiers of Fastaqui with them into death. But the vast part of the immense fitted blocks are preserved from the onslaught, though worse for wear. This appears to cause some consternation in the ranks of the Horde, but their confusion does not last long. With the defenders disrupted, and their hearts shaken by the sight of their comrades consumed by fire mere feet away, the soldiers of the Bloodright surge forward.

The moment the defenders had been waiting for. Javelins and stones rain down from the high wall onto the foe as he approaches, crushing skulls and sending men spiraling down into death even as they move against the masonry of the defense. But most of those who fall are blank eyed, or in a wild battle frenzy - not the black-skinned marauders of the Host, but slave-soldiers driven forward by fear of their captors, desperately trying to earn their survival through obeying the commands of their masters.

And with them come the ladders. Ladders which spring up like a thicket, cut high to be able to reach even the top of the fitted wall. Many are cast back down only moments after they are raised, but others are set and held firm by the weight of many hands as soldiers bearing the sigils of the Midnight Horde and the Lord of the Earth swarm up them hand over hand. Against such defenseless targets the javelins and stones of the Fastaqui defenders work a dreadful toll, but the invaders are many, many times in number that of the paltry hundred which hold the wall. Soon the attackers gain the summit of the wall, and fighting rages along the top of the parapet, though the base of the wall is already littered with the dead and dying in their hundreds.

It is time, and the position of the hammerblow is now known. By shouted command and roar of kettledrum, all those who hold Fastaqui dear rush forth to partake in red battle. The force holding the gate from one side, and the force lingering at the Military Square from the other. That parapet must be held at all costs, come hell or high water.

Stiffened by reinforcements from the rest of the city, the defenders of the walls redouble their efforts, coating the stone with the bodies of slain slave-soldiers. But, with the apex of the wall contested, the commander of the Horde unleashed his true assault - the warriors of the Bloodright. They come across the fields singing harsh battle-hymns, skin as black as night, bodies scarred with red symbols. Those few men who manage to loose arrows and javelins against them find the projectiles repelled by shields which glint a lurid blue in the smoke-air, and soon the soldiers are climbing the ladders.

Where they enter the fray, few can stand against them. Men already tired, bodies brought low with wounds from the initial onslaught, fall like wheat before the thresher. Weapons of glinting bronze cut through wicker and wood like a knife through fat, and though the men and women of Fastaqui might have been their equals in open combat, worn down by the slave-legions they are easy prey. In the matter of an hour even the reinforcements are driven back down from the wall, and the black-skinned warriors of the Midnight Horde press them ever further into the city under the weight of both numbers and fresh troops...

The Crones rang it out, by drum and voice. A solemn call for every son who has ever loved his mother, and for every mother who has ever loved her children, to take up arms and stand firm in defense of home and hearth.

The foe has come now, here - into their very city's street - and he must be driven back. He must. So let every citizen stand firm and fire-eyed, slice them full of holes and drink their fill of glory. There is nothing now, if not this. No end nobler. No act more proper. And for those that cannot heed this call? Let them instead fire the forges, that they might give their valuables to the fire. Let them slit their children's throats.

Let them look to the sky, curse the gods, call down the cold and the dark and be damned. Let it be said that the Many Mothers fell fighting.

As the few remaining warriors of the Ashen Oath fall back stubbornly into the city, their eyes are desperate, their faces pale. Loud and harsh are the war-chants of their foes in pursuit, black-hearted barbarians come to pillage and despoil. Even as the soldiers of the Many Mothers looked on, the gate was opened from within, and reinforcements poured into the city.

But then a curious thing happened. The Crones has issued a call for volunteers in the last defense. And from one clan-house came warriors, barely bearded youths, craftsmen holding tools, ancients wielding weathered axes and leathers of dubious provenance. Mothers with children yet to weaned, and fey-headed women not yet married. They fought with no particular skill, but with fire in their bellies.

Let it be said that the Many Mothers died fighting.

First it was dozens, barely enough to staunch the tide. They died where they stood, killed with almost contemptuous ease by the Bloodright warriors. Bodies hacked down with bloodstained bronze in a few strokes. But they did not stop coming, and they fought for their homes. For their children and men and wives. And the first black-skinned warrior fell; eye pierced through by a rusty carving knife.

In the streets they fought, and the marketplace, choking the thoroughfares with their bodies and grim determination. It was as waves battering against rock- but the foe, caught unawares mid-triumph, was not so durable as stone. Men who had given themselves over to looting and the joy of arson fell surprised by mobs of howling townsfolk. Though they slew as they fell, they fell nonetheless, and victory turned to ash in that dark desperate struggle.

By nightfall the Horde has unceremoniously fled back outside the walls of Fastaqui, whatever intelligence which commanded the host determining the cost in lives to be too great to subdue the populace. The Many Mothers had paid the butcher’s bill for her victory, but in the end, the Midnight Horde departed her lands in dishonor. The first failures of the Lord of the Earth.

by **Olthenia** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 7:43 am

Fᴀsᴛᴀǫᴜɪ

Queen of the Skazahad Delta
________________________________________
The Fifth Matriarchate of Salika the Gilded
The Thirtieth Day of the Arc of Worms, Year 357 of the Common Era

'Hᴇʀᴇ ʟɪᴇ ᴛʜᴇ Dᴀʀᴋ Oɴᴇs'.

The words were carved into the tall, brown slab of rock. Fallen from the ramparts when the Horde came, some said - now repurposed as grave marker. Beneath it, in a great pit just a slingshot away from the Skazahad's banks, those who had come in arms before the Queen of the River were buried, body on body, in the cold, rough ground.

There were so many dead.

The Queen's own were instead laid out by the riverbanks, their pyres lit as the sun touched the water. It took three whole nights to burn them all. Children. Greybeards. Women and men. Fools and corpses. Some pyres left entire clan-huts dark and empty - both amongst newcomers and proud Fastaqui quaysides. Some had scarcely known the rule of the many Mothers for a full cycle. Others had ancestors whose names were ancient among the tiers of the Council Hall. They burned now, together. Fallen for Fastaqui.

There were so many dead.

Even amongst the wisest crones there lay loss and mourning. The city of the Many Mothers was, literally, one great family - and the loss of so many touched even their esteemed ranks. Yet their nighttime councils knew a new purpose now - one not focused on stone or word, flesh or matter. The Midnight Horde had brought much suffering to the Fastaqui. It had called thunder from cloudless skies, stolen life and love from uncounted hundreds, and taught the Many Mothers a new truth: that magic was real. Now, as the Midnight Horde disappeared beyond the horizon, the Marsh-City's wisest bent to this singular task: studying that which their foe had left behind. His daubed symbols. His bloodied weapons. His smoke-black corpses.

There were so many dead.

by **Ralnis** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 8:19 am

In the Capital of the Zhou Imperium,
The Orleans Folk

Veve of Ogoun, Loa of politics, iron, war, hunting, and power. The Father of Knowledge and Understanding

In the capital of the Imperium. Among busy streets and a every-growing neighborhood of huts that dot the land of Zhou. Among the concentrated mass of people going about their business laid a small neighborhood around the alleyways of the market. Tents and noises could be heard, those barring markings of strange symbols that barred no power, but reverence in those who wrote it. These dark-skinned foreigners were those of the Orleans Folk. A strange nomadic people, some of the last of their kind to follow the ways of their tribe.

They sit and tell their stories, drink weird drinks and party all throughout the night. To the people of the Imperium, they were foreign hedonists that were against the ways of their beliefs. Many wonder why that they were allowed in the first place but that's where the truth is misguided and shielded from the people.

The Imperium knew of the Orleans Folk. The hidden daggers for hire, the hidden eyes in a world of magic. It was who they were truly, why they accept all negative and ignorant sayings of what they are. How could a peasant know what a spy knows. They know the hidden secrets of the world and they know the leadership on how much they understand the need of spies in the dark. Their web of shadows is where they hide the truth of themselves, a truth that wasn't really true centuries ago.

However, the Orleans Folk knew what they were. The last bastion of a dying culture, the ones who must connect to the Loa again. They tried everything for centuries to reconnect with their gods but they knew that only faith and figuring things out. To their Madame, the Witch Doctor who held their culture and laws, it was the only thing she could do. Making deals with the Imperium and this Alliance of theirs is the best hope she had gotten for her people in a long time.

She mostly was focusing about her people, now an organization of spies and her daughter was next in line to be Madame. The leadership of the Imperium's latest deal was that they were about to invade the crafting city of Fergdal. Fergdal did bring in much wealth and was known for their magical music. It reminded the Folk of the legends of their parties with the Loa that they had magical songs and blessings but it didn't matter in this case.

The Orleans Folk were tasked with infiltrating and getting the gates opened for them when they invade. In exchange, the Imperium would set up a shrine in honor of one of the Loa. The Madame chose that they would erect a shrine to the Loa Ogoun. He was the Father of Knowledge and Understanding, patron to smiths and the Overseer of Metal. The Madame believed that a shrine erected to him would allow him to hear his servants again and bring his blessing of Industry to the Alliance.

They sent their spies to Fergdal, hoping of doing something to make it easier to make sure the invasion better.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 3:41 pm

Field of Crimson, Kharbarinth, Stalheim Hierarchy
Eighth of Windheight, Year 357 of the Common Era

The armorer wound the leather band around Ygreigos' arm one more time, then fastened the buckles. It was almost too tight, the metal digging into skin nearly to draw blood, but the venerable warrior merely nodded. It was best that way. When cotton and leather and burnished iron were part of one uniform whole, a second barrier between man and his elements, they moved with a fighter like water surrounded the swimmer. Much better than clanking to and fro like some lunatic out of the north, barely protected for how badly fitted their armor was. But, at the end of the day, the Lightspear couldn't blame them; they barely had the wit to make metal obey their hammers, let alone the craft to shape it to each man and each soldier so that warrior and protection were one cohesive organism.

That was the point of this new stuff, the glittering metal out of the north, or so the Forgebound had said. It was... singing metal. Yes, that was a good word for it, if you had to put a word to it. Ygreigos felt the light touch of that song even as his last gauntlet was slid into place by his shieldbearer, a harmony between man and wrought product of the bones of the earth. In the sunset the burnished white-gold plate of the Bloodsilver plate lived up to its name, shimmering bonded scale-mail taking on the hue of a battlefield stained with rough combat. It was more alive than iron, that was for certain, though the Warmaster would not spurn the faithful servant of the Stalheimadrin even in his thoughts. There were some applications for which dun strength was wisest, others for which something more vibrant stood in better stead.

It was imperceptible, really, unless you knew what you were looking for. Most men barely even noticed the difference, until they took one rap too many in the practice yard. Ygreigos nodded to his second, and trotted over to the sparring floor, feeling even through the layers of padding and protection the slow familiar hearth-fire warm build against his chest. Steps were heavier when the armor was first donned, though on any merchant's scales it was lighter than the iron bandings of the lorica that most of the men of the Guard wore. Another quirk of that which was changed, what the mages called the bonding.

The new soldiers would be just getting used to the metal, the raw recruits out of the Lamplighter's Quay unused to anything heavier than cloth or leather to impede their movements. They were lucky, really. Bloodsilver was a gentler mistress than the old scale mail of burnished iron that needed oiling every night in order to keep rust at bay, and really felt like a feather too compared to the armor of decades past. Those old ceremonial suits in the Hall of Swords were pretty to look at, ornate and bejeweled, relics of storied battles, but the Lightspear sovereign wouldn't trade them. Too bulky.

Slowly the heat waned, and the captain nodded to himself, taking up a shortspear as he gestured for the first trainee to approach. Nothing quite like whipping some recruits into what passed for battle-readiness to get out the kinks. As the young man stepped forward, legs low in a good fighting stance, the leader of the Sixth nodded contentedly. Not completely useless. They would do.

by **Elerian** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 4:56 pm

Delisle and Sons

Placeholder

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 5:20 pm

Year 359 of the Common Era - Turn 18

Rumors of War

Little is heard of the Midnight Horde after its departure from the lands of the Many Mothers - little, that is, until it arrives anew in the lands of the Honori People. It seems little diminished in strength, if indeed it is diminished at all, but the mighty chief that commands its ranks takes of the men of that land for his own host, and conveys via his messengers to the leader of the Honori a new demand.

War has cost the lives of many who swore to serve the Lord of the Earth. More will be required, warriors and fighters of renown, to bring to heel those who would defy the natural order of the cosmos. From the Honori, faithful vassals, the Chief of Chiefs will raise a levy of fighters to join the serried ranks of the Bloodright - he has heard of the arcane might of the wise women of the city, and asks for some of the mages to be included in this levy.

The Chyrsi Aspida: Little of import occurs in the camp of the Chyrsi, content to train for wars to come. Rumors of conflict east of Xcotl come to their ears, but that is far afield from their encampment. The teachers from Cadmus continue to work on the principles of governance with the brightest of the Legion. Goverance [2/5] Moreover, and more interestingly, the warriors of the Chyrsi are advancing in their training. Now, when measured against the warriors of the world, they can account themselves a true trained Militia.

The Shambling Legion: With a small bribe and the promise of homes in the new land of Shoval, several peasants are lured away from their homes in Fergdal. Though the men of Fergdal are loathe to entrust their commoners to the Legion, they do not oppose their passage... a tragedy for the peasantry. Many miles outside of the city, the peasants are set upon by their new masters and slain, their last gasps woven into a spell of necromantic power thrown into the ruins of Shoval. Near the Church of the Dead 200 new undead puppets stir, and await their master Ulm's commands.
-Wealth, +200 Fresh Undead
(Fergdal: -100 Peasants)

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos: The Brexonburn slaves fetch a pretty price on the market, higher even than Mithras had expected. A veritable fortune for a sellsword company, driven up by some out-country buyer. With gold and emeralds in his palm, the old warrior and his compatriots are both generous in the taverns, and the many purchases of creature comforts they make speak even louder than their many boasts. With only the judicious application of some hiring fees here and there, nearly two hundred men of ill fortune but high spirits are clamoring to be allowed into the Legion.
+Wealth IV, -Wealth II, +200 Peasants

The Orleans Folk: Into Fergdal the folk of the Loa steal, some in the guise of peasants fleeing disturbances in the east, some in the garb of merchants from Lordaeron and the west, others in the fur cloaks of Northmen and Wastelanders. The infiltration is successful, and the Decadents stand ready to strike.

Delisle and Sons: From Serrith they come, happy to try their hands at a life of adventure. Little do they know, of course, that this life is actually one spent in the deepening mine of lustrous tin. A lucrative business, to be sure, but one not exactly like what they had wished for.
+Wealth III, +100 Explorers

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 6:04 pm

The Honori response.

"Hail to the Chief of Chiefs! Thy will be done, we offer thee retinue for thy armies!
(Will add fancy stuff soon.)

200 Peasants and 100 Scholars are given to the Sons of Bloodright. Wealth IV from stockpiles is given to the horde.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 6:26 pm

The Great Zhou Imperium
Turn 18

Zhou Capital, Town Square

Hundreds of citizens of the Zhou Imperium and Xcotl alike lined the streets leading to the Zhou town square, all but a small area around the center of the square packed with excited onlookers. The stalls that lined the main road, normally filled with goods from the other Alliance territories and freshly baked winter wheat goods (of which the Zhou had an abundance), were all empty in preparation for the event that the crowd was awaiting.

Suddenly, a roar echoed through the streets, a hundred shouts from Zhou soldiers piercing through the loud chatter of the crowds. Dressed in polished iron armor, the soldiers shouted once again, silencing the crowd in mere moments. Their task complete, they performed an about-face and kneeled to the stage upon which their Lord-Emperor and his entourage stood.

“We are gathered here today not only to witness the marriage of two happy couples, but also to cement the bond that our two peoples have formed over the past centuries. This moment is one that our ancestors looked forward to, along with many other moments that our cities will share in the future.”
A well-dressed Zhou scholar shouted from the primitive stage constructed at the center of the square, the royal families of both the Zhou and Xcotl gathered upon it. A counterpart from Xcotl stood opposite him on the stage, the Zhou scholar gesturing to him upon the completion of his introduction.
The Xcotl Mage walked onto the platform and bowed to both royal families. “This is history in the making for centuries. Our two people have been joined in alliance and friendship, now we gather today to witness love in the making.We have two families joined as one.Two nations joined as one.”
The Mage turned to the ruler of Xcotl.“Great Archmage do you give your daughters Tali and Xoco to be married to the Crown Princes of Zhou?”
“I do” Archmage Itzcoatl stated.With that the two Princesses walked to be joined with their lovers.
Attention then returned to the Zhou scholar.
“My Lady Empress, do you give permission to your sons to wed the royal daughters of Xcotl?”
The Lady Empress Zhou Yifan, sat atop her ornate throne, nodded her head in assent.
“I do.”
The Crown Princes, Zhou Wang, eighth of his name, and Zhou Cong, fourth of his name, strode forward to meet their fiancees in the center of the stage.
“My Lady Crown Princess Zhou Yifan, Third of Her Name and Heiress to the Throne, will now execute the marriage rites.”

“Both couples shall follow the ancestral rites as one, for they are the binding that holds our nations together always and forever.
“Now then: In gratitude to those who came before, bow now Westward in the direction of the setting sun, the symbol of years past.
“In hope for the future that your partnership may bring, bow now Eastward to the rising sun, the symbol of new beginnings.
“And finally, in recognition of the force that governs all our being, bow now Northward and look up to the sky, and the heavens that lie hidden beyond. You may kiss the bride.”

And so the two couples embraced, and departed the stage to consummate their marriages, amidst a dedicated guard escort and deafening applause. The two leaders likewise departed to more private chambers, to discuss more serious matters.

Excess food is made available to Xcotl in exchange for 3 wealth.
Engaging in a Diplomatic Union through marriage with the Xcotl City-state, deepening diplomatic relations and increasing social cohesion.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 6:52 pm

Xcotl

The Magocracy of Xcotl and the Zhou Imperium are joined in diplomatic marriage, increasing diplomatic ties, and social cohesion.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 7:28 pm

The Walls of Mara

As the peasants given up for the levy of the Bloodright march out from the city, to the shouts of black-faced drillmasters, men and women in gray robes take charge of the Priestesses that have been sent to join with the horde. With them too come wains of treasure, glittering opals, wrought gold, tools, weapons, the wealth of a city. The face of the warlord that watches the procession itself is impassive, but from his figure radiates what might be described as pleasant surprise, to those who were astute in their perceptions of such matters.

"We take our leave, mistress, and thank you for your hospitality."

The leader of one of the hundreds of soldiers that had sheltered in the city of the Honori bowed low as he and his men marched out of the city in long double columns, almost respectfully to the High Priestess where she stood, watching the people of her kindred given over to the warlike appetites of the Lord of the Earth with unshed tears. It almost seemed that he was sad to leave, though that was perhaps the soft thinking of a man accustomed to fine living off of the fat of the labor of others.

Almost as swiftly as they had come, the horde departed northwards, taking with them many sons and daughters of Mara.

by **Olthenia** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 8:38 pm

Fᴀsᴛᴀǫᴜɪ

Queen of the Skazahad Delta
________________________________________
The Sixth Matriarchate of Salika the Gilded
The Twenty-Third Day of the Arc of Reeds, Year 359 of the Common Era

For now, sleep. Anon, content.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 8:43 pm

Ita
Beginning of the first year of the Chiefdom of Chief Agta,
son of the former Chief Agung, who was a former adviser to the late Chieftess Bacani

Agta was named chief by the elders on the very last day of the construction of the new wall surrounding the city. As a symbolic act, his father, Chief Agung, placed the last piece of shaped stone with Agta's help, symbolizing the past helping to usher in the future. And right afterwards, Agung announced his resignation. He himself performed the blessing for his son's ascension into the rank of Chief, which was also accompanied by a massive feast. Agta, who is younger than the late Chieftess Bacani was at the time of her ascension, is expected by the many elders to reign for far longer, thus ushering in stability in his long tenure as chief of the Ita. After this, the former Chief Agung simply packed up all his belongings in the central hall, headed out into the pastures and claimed an empty home for himself. Chief Agung, it seems, is going to be content with living out the rest of his days as a goat herder.

Chief Agta got to work immediately. He seemed to fit the role perfectly, as in his first meeting with his advisers he laid out exactly what he wants the city to focus on for the next two years. "Our defenses are good. They are now strong, but they need to be even stronger. We can no longer rely on volunteers and militias to take up the watch every night. No, we need proper soldiers. Men and women armed with bow, sling, and javelin who are ready to defend the city at a moment's notice, without hesitation." And with those words, the advisers immediately set out to recruiting able-bodied men and women, those who have shown prowess during Ita's many hunts.

For half of the advisers that were left with Chief Agta, he had but one wish: "Build us a monument." He brought them outside of the meeting hall and talked to them as they walked towards the Breach. "Build us a monument to the past of Ita. Etch our histories into its rocks." They arrived at the Breach, and he looked upon it solemnly and said. "This will be our monument. Preserve it in stone, and turn it into a shrine to the gods. Let us honor them at the same time as we honor our past. Make sure no Ita who passes by this breach as they enter or leave the city ever forget what happened here, and may they never forget that we shall one day exact our retribution for this crime against our people."

by **Nuxipal** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 8:45 pm

Kingdom of Nekhen

Fifth Year of the Rule of High King Tafari

Progress was being made, wealth flowed into the streets. The lands surrounding the capital were mostly barren, but they yielded great wealth. Wealth which Tafari found frustratingly out of his reach as he was lacking in labor to accumulate. There had to be some way to bring prosperity to his people without drawing the attention of the Midnight Horde. Rumors from the north spoke of them returning to the region once more. He thought about the Honori, a noble people wealthy in many ways. They lived on the opposite side of the Serapis Desert, but recent bonds between the two people would need to be mended sometime in the near future. He set aside wealth to be sent with the explorers north as their mission will take them across the Serapis to Mara where their allies would help them and bring the food crop of Wheat to the fertile rivers that Khasut.

Within that river system, a new farm was to be completed using the new irrigation methods that were worked upon recently. The hope was that with labor from all walks of life, the new farm would be completed and benefit everyone sooner. Twice over if the explorers could successfully bring the food crops of the Honori to their region. He wanted to make sure his people could be fed with as little effort as possible. He had been very keen on making sure his soldiers knew this as well. He made a promise to them that once this farm was completed they would be given some priority in the way of copper weapons or armor. While the city did not have a great deal of copper they had enough to equip their soldiers with one set of either of these.

As the year pressed on, Tafari watched as much of the wealth brought in in previous years was leaving the city in various ways. He knew that the city needed labor more than anything else. He started to invite populations from the smaller holdings into Khasut. While he did not doubt that the lands these people were leaving would suffer some, it would bring about a little more needed labor to the capital. There was the promise that wealth would be gained in the capital in the coming years and some of it distributed to the smaller villages.

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Mon Jan 14, 2019 9:34 pm

The Honori People

Another year passed by the desert vale, and the Honori people must pay their dues to their overlords. The prosperity brought about in recent times to their cooperation in contrast to certain destruction, had brought certain disadvantages forward. Mothers wept in the streets as their sons left for war, a hundred of the lower priestesshood left for new masters, and the city felt noticeably lonelier. Nobody expected these three hundred of their brethren to ever return. Their puppet queen ruled without much dissent, for even though their occupants decreased in number, they were just as repressive of a force.

The puppet queen's demands for children and wealth would be supplamented with another: for labor, as a new building project would be underway to appease their masters- a temple. A temple, not to honor their gods alone, but both the gods of their masters, and the gods of their ancestors. Controvercial, to say the least- but not heretical. Her followers argued it as a worship of an incarnation of Silar the warrior god- allowing their cultures and faiths to come together as one, and integrating the minorities into their culture, to bring stability to their city.

And so, they submitted to the labors, however grumbling.

The Division of Labor

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 7:49 am

The Imperial Republic of Salli

Malix Varly, Clan Leader of Clan Varly, and Lord-Imperator of Salli. The Saeling praise his name, declaring him the “folk father,” for upholding the values of the Saladonians. With the backing of the people, and their love for him, he pushes Saladonia to a new direction, different from the one the other Lord-Imperators had done in the past, but nevertheless true to Saeling nature.

The Folk Father was preparing for war, or rather militarizing the state. Being the warrior he was, and a good one at that; he couldn’t very well ignore the path to war. Sure, he didn’t declare war on Gergan, rather negotiated with them, but that would’ve been a setback. Instead he parlayed with them and was able to simplify the matter. But today his policies bear fruit.

In the deep underground tunnels outside of Salli, the sound of metal clashing against the earth and rock could be heard. Critters of the depths crawl and climb in the darkness, away from the distasteful light of the torches. Men sweat as they swing their tools, towards the ore they so desired. The light of day was absent within these depths.

A well built man, one who was acclimate to warfare, stepped into the mine with guards on each flank, and advisors tailing him from behind. This man had fine robes of a noble, but designed in a way that he could fight in them, cutting away the unnecessary components for more mobility. One could call it a military uniform of sorts, but Saladonia has yet to tailor such a thing. Other features include a short beard and hair only carrying the strains of Saladonian brown. He was a man in his late 30s, approaching the end of his life, but still has plenty to use.

This man was Malix Varly, observing the conditions of the newly created mine, as men hard at work mine for hematite. A part of him wanted to help out his fellow citizens, but he chose not to as he had his own duties to attend to later.

“So the mines seems in working order, good good, we are making progress,” said Lord-Imperator Malix as he spoke to his advisors, “this is a necessary stepping stone for this city, and a necessity to protect this country. The citizens should be proud of such a achievement.”

“Indeed sir, the citizens should be excited for this recent development,” agreed one of the advisors.

“This ore though, we had expected to find copper, yet we find this other ore instead,” said Malix, “What is it exactly?”

“We call that ore Ferrenium, it is a ore we have yet to decipher its true capabilities, but it is known to us for being stronger than that of copper,” said another advisor.

“Ferrenium, hmmm, we’ll I expect results, so make them. We’ll see what this Ferrenium can do in time,” stated Malix as he begins walking once more. His sandals sinking into the dirt.

by **Toaslandia** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 12:19 pm

Apostolos heard of the tales of war near Xcotl, and sent a messenger bearing a message, offering the Aspida's services.

by **Pentapolitan Kyrene** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 1:15 pm

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos
The Palinate of Gergan, The Month of Rain

The vale of Gergan saw a harsh, cold year. The winter was bitter, the spring and summer half-drowned in mud and driving rain, and the autumn consumed in great gales of wind, zephyrs howling down from the alpine mountains to blast at the Palinate's palisade, and to rattle the chilled bones of the three hundred men camped outside of it. The legionaires had watched the two hundred new recruits, the second and third cohorts, march into the camp with some mirth. From their smiling faces and soft, urban boots, it was quickly determined they had no idea what it was they'd signed themselves into; but it was much too late now. Mithras had them, and he would not let a single man go. The more veteran soldiers watched and laughed as he put the new recruits through their paces, having them march at a run around the walls of Gergan in armour over and over again, until they could (and on occasion did) manage it half asleep for the slightest infraction, or merely resorting to his much-trusted cane.

That was the way of it for weeks. Running, marching, hauling and forming ranks over and over, in driving rain, until it was second nature, and until the call of the horn could have each in a primitive formation in mere moments. Only once he knew they were fit enough to hold up their armour and smart enough to fall in line quickly did Mithras begin to truly train them. They were divided into ten lokhagon of twenty, each under their own lokhagos, their own captain. Each of the Lokhagoi, once they'd taken up their commands, were set to a task; render their men suitable to march across the entirety of the Vale of Gergan before marching immediately in parade on their return to Gergan. The next months were consumed in the task, with the recruits learning not just the physical tricks of marching, or of traipsing through the hills and forests of the mountains, but the logistics of their new duties, of carrying their tents and their rations, of fording streams on wooden shields and caring for their weapons and armour. Each lokhagon would elect for themselves a quartermaster, to manage their collective supplies, and soon enough the Quartermasters would become the seconds to their Lokhagoi, representing the voices of the new soldiers while knowing well how to keep their peers in line.

By the month of planting, the ten new lokhagonoi were muddied, if not blooded, and variously ready for the trek across the vale. Mithras then exercised a talent of his not thus far made use of; as a rhetorician. He had been among the young nobility of Gergan, for a time, and in that time he had learned well how to craft a speech, a skill he'd only refined in the army. He took to a simple platform on an open plain, and spoke, putting his booming voice to a more merciful use, to exalt the men for their work thus far, and to exhort them to prove themselves and their units, within which they had lived and fraternised for months. Only at the conclusion of his speech did the one eyed strategos smile down at his men, and, with a rough laugh, told them that the first lokhagon to parade past him with proof from the veterans on either side of the vale of their success would receive doubled rations for three months, and half the share of loot of the last lokhagon to manage it. The first two to manage the feat would, further, be named as First Lokhagon of their unit, with one of their number carrying their unit's banner, a great honour.

With that remark made, the old general gestured to a subordinate, and the horn to commence rang out. For a moment, little happened, before the first shouting voice rang out, and the first lokhagon set off at a march north, followed quickly enough by all but two of the others, who themselves marched southwards, their commanders knowing the northern march to be the easier, and relying on the exhaustion of the north-marchers. It was a hot contest, and for hours the veterans left in the camp made wagers on which of the lokhagonoi would win, and march under Mithras' eye first. When they returned, Mithras was not the only one waiting for them. Two other men, prominent veterans and captains in the first cohort, waited. These were to be the Taxiarchoi, commanders of each of the two cohorts. The third lokhagon returned first, exhausted but with clean armour, and marched in parade, being claimed by the elder of the two taxiarchoi, Lycaretos Simademenos (The Scarred), while the next two, the fifth and the tenth, went to the younger Olyron Megas (The Great, in reference to his frame), and so on and so forth, until all ten lokhagonoi had been claimed, and the new cohorts formed. The cohort that came last, the second, was to be relegated to be the fifth lokhagon of the third cohort, a position of dishonour, and to receive no name or banner other than a black rag.

Beyond the black lokhagon, though, the others would each receive their own banner of simple cloth or design, with the best going to the victorious third (Now first of the second cohort); the design of a red flame on a black field. For three days, the camp enjoyed their victory with revelry, drinking and feasting, while the black lokhagon was put to work cleaning and re-ordering the tents and digging latrine pits as a mark of their failure, to spur them to greater heights in future. While the men laughed, triumphant, and the veterans told stories to the recruits, now that they were finally allowed to eat and live alongside one another, Mithras smiled to himself. They did not know that come the dawn, they would be forming up once again, to repeat the process of drilling, marching and formation, but this time in their cohorts, not their lokhagoi. Even the veterans would be joining them, to see how well they could co-ordinate as a an army.

By the end of the year, mock battles three hundred strong were fought every week, and by the end of the next, it was hoped, the men would truly be companions. With any luck, Mithras would have beaten their plowshares into swords.

by **Kelmet** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 1:25 pm

The Kingdom of Lordaeron

Year Thirtysix of the Reign of King Varian Menethil

Turn 18

Such a beautiful ceremony between the royals Prince Anthony took note. As a member of the Alliance and a royal family themselves Lordaeron and house Menethil were invited to send representatives to such a glorious event. Perhaps in the future royals of his own house would be wedded to others in the Alliance?

With the Integration of the Order of the Bright flame the population of Brewnwall and the Arcana base of the Kingdom had increased. Tho still much was needed to be done another milestone had been crossed for the people of Lordaeron.

"The Light is the source of Life for all of us, The purity of the human spirit that cannot be overcome in this life or the next. The power of this light is in all of us if we only have the willpower and faith to do it. I know some of you are uneasy about the Church's new place in our homeland but do not worry countrymen. The House of Menethil has always been the Lights champion ever since we as a people were a small tribe settling our new home from the frozen north. Faith in the light and faith in our king is what will see us threw even the darkest of days. The Lights positive energies, residing in every living being in every heart and soul is everywhere, binding all sentient beings together as one. It is with this strength and the strength of our common will that will see our nation threw." - Exert from the Archbishops weekly service.

The City of Stormwind -1400 Citizens
200 Scholars - Researching Shipmaking (Coping from the hierarchy) (0/5 Points)
200 Artisans- Upgrading Huts to Houses (O/7 Huts replaced)
300 Freemen- Finishing Docks District (5/6 points)
100 Citizen Soldiers- Working the Mine (Extracting Iron ore)
600 Peasants- Food Production
Trade with Members of the Alliance.

*Unique Building Bonus- Free Attempt at Arcana Research (Preferably, Improving my Healing Light Arcana) -

The Village of Brewnwall- 700 Citizens
200 Peasants - Food Production
100 Peasants - Operating lumber mill
100 Peasants - Working the Quarry
100 Explorers- Diplomatic engagement with Wastelanders
100 Citizen Soldiers- Food Production
100 Citizen Soldiers- Moving to Stormwind
*The Lordaeronian trade network can be extended to the Wastlelanders if wished for. (Iron in exchange for Wealth?)
Governance
Bureaucratic: Gain extra Wealth from every Citizen.
Forward-Thinking: Gain one Civic every fifty years. (Turn 28 I should gain another civic)
Militaristic: The might of your Soldiers is substantially increased
Arcana
Sunburst
Healing Light
Sun touched Weapons

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 2:43 pm

Flatlands of the Great River Delta, Stalheim Hierarchy
17th of Scion's Danse, Year 359 of the Common Era

The men of the local artisan's guild bent low to their work under the watchful eyes of their overseers, skilled hands wielding hefty tools to shape wood and stone to the needs of the new structure rising on the banks of the Great River. In the sluggish waters of the branching mouths of the River a waterwheel already spun, axle unconnected to anything approximating work. But soon, perhaps, in the coming months, the muscles of murky water and sinews of current would be harnessed to drive the great looms the patricians in distant Kharbarinth had commissioned for the good of the humble fisherfolk who sheltered in the fertile delta.

It was a welcome development in the eyes of most of the fishers and amber-harvesters that lived in the shantytowns and shacks of Rivermouth. Only during the peak of the winter storm-season was amber washing up in quantities enough for men to dredge it from the surf with roughly spun nets, and the silvery fish that salt-folk could retrieve from the teeming waters of the river filled bellies well enough, but sold for but little in the markets of a capital sated on every type of beef and fruit and bread under the far sun.

Cotton though, the white crop which was now growing in carefully tended stands away from the water's edge, it would change all of that. Valuable even in raw bales poled back up the river on immense barges, to be sold in the City of Bells, the giant looms that were now being imported at cost would turn that profit into a mountain of gold and silver. Finely woven cloth was sought after from across the known world - even the distant Wastelander tribes would trade amber and iron and cunning crafts for cloths smooth to the touch compared to hides, and more civilized folk could scarcely do without it.

Riches and prosperity were coming to the much-neglected Riverland. Soon, soon.

by **Ralnis** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 2:55 pm

Orleans Folk

(I got nothin' as of right now)

The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

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