The Vaisharralyndaelë (IC)

[Imperialisium]

OOC

The Vaisharralyndaelë

There was a time in which there was nothing but darkness and an abyss of waters, wherein resided most luminous beings which were produced of a two-fold principle. Seraphs appeared with six wings, Drakes of girth with two, and creatures of stone two faces. They had one body but two essences, one of light and life, the other of darkness and death. They were likewise, in their several organs, of the two genders male and female. Lo! other figures were to be seen with the legs and horns of goats. Some had horses' feet; others had the limbs of a horse behind but, in front, were fashioned like men resembling hippocentaurs. Bulls, likewise, bred there with the heads of Man; and dogs, with fourfold bodies, and the tails of fishes. Also, horses, with the heads of dogs: men, too, and other animals, with the heads and bodies of horses and the tails of fishes. In short, there were creatures with the limbs of every species of animals. Add to these fishes, reptiles, serpents, with other wonderful animals, which assumed each other's shape and countenance. When the world was young and alas the coming of Man cometh ere the world remade!

The world is changing, the old ways of the Dawn and Mythic glimmer faintly in the long memories of fair Elvenkings, renewed and fading in the minds of fleeting Man, heralded onto stone by Dwarven smiths and sunk into the Earths via your father's tomb. The Hyborian Age is here, the Age of a world formed of the Gods and blessed by all the Goddesses, alas we have yet to return the bargain. The Hyborian Age, for what shall come after the Dawn and the mist shrouded Mythic? The Fog of Time grows ever nearer and even as these words reach beyond mine mind's eye Ard'Tella churns with what is to come to pass -- and what may come again.


"Agiaus! Hurry up!"

The boy snapped his head up to see the face of his compatriots leering down at him. Hector the strongest and most wise of the youth scampered ahead towards their destination, while Pallex and Kastor the butcher's twin sons meandered a longer yet less inclined root. The vast mountain range of The Spine stretched before and above them. North to South. Dividing the lands long established by Man with those of the far Western realms. Of near legendary realms that the children had heard when they were young. Of fair lands of immortal kings and the loveliest maidens tending unwilting flowers amid evergreen boughs.

"Do you think we'll see Elves!" said Agiaus as he wrapped his dull brown wool cloak about his slender form. Moving with bare foot like the rest up to their destination. A small, rectangular, cut away in the mountains. Unable to be seen from the lowlands below or the outer farmsteads. Looking back he saw far beyond and in his mind he believed with faint glimmers he thought the shores of the vast inland sea of the Aegiad could be seen.

"Elves! Ha! Foolish telling from your old man again?" Pallex shot back with a faux cruel grin of idle teasing, his twin Kastor leering sheepishly before coming to a stop as a gust swept them. Tossing their cloaks about their shoulders. Causing each of the boys to grip them tightly and shiver. Kastor spoke up at last, "Agiaus, how did you find this place again? It is dark and I cannot see into the gloom."

"Saw it when I was helping herd some of Old Callamandus' goats last morn', said it was a haunted place and not to go near."

"A haunted place," responded Kastor with a glare at Agiaus, "Should 'ave said that before we spent the afternoon clambering up these slopes. Ma' will be giving me a whipping when I get home if she were to find out."

"Then she won't find out," responded Pallex with a reassuring smile before stepping forward.

Hector however did not speak and just stared into the darkness. "Stare into the heart of darkness and it may just stare back into your own..." A mantra from some poem of old about great wars between the Sea-Kings and Man against darkness itself in an age past. "You really believe such fables?" responded Agiaus with a bit more inquisitiveness than surruptous condescension. Hector merely held out an arm to stop Kastor, "What?"

Hector did not alter his gaze, "We should not be here. This place is dead, and the wraiths of the deceased watch the way."

"Come off it, Hector, the legends are legends for a reason." Pushing past Hector's arm Kastor moved into the gloom. Hector's eyes finally leaving the entrance of the cleft in the mountain that led into the cave of clearly carved hands. Hewing into the bosom of the mountains above. Pallex was the second and Agiaus the third, leaving for but a moment Hector there by himself, and doubt was fervently upon him. He turned to look away and towards the light bathed woods and fields of his homeland.

"Hector! Come don't be a coward! It is only a little dark, son of a warrior you are, ha!" Kastor's voice echoed from the abyss. Hector looked at his dirty bare feet and gulped before pulling his cloak closer to his youthful form. Plunging into the darkness with quick steps as if out of fear of being left behind.

The cave itself was curiously hewn with a rather straight rectangular shaft, possessing only a gentle slope and rather smooth walls worn from rain, the mud of the entrance giving way to cold stone. The skin of their bare feet dulling by the minute as they moved further. Rounding the corner to a small circular chamber with a damaged plinth. There the boys froze in unison. A skeleton was sprawled on the floor, clothes long tattered and fallen away, with its mouth held ajar as if in eternal scream.

Hector tugged at Agiaus and Pallex's cloaks, "We musn't be here. I can smell the stench of death about this tomb."

Pallex pulled his shoulder away and moved over to the skeleton while Kastor wandered several feet around the circular chamber. Pausing by small part of the wall and kneeling down, "Look, come look! There is another room!"

The boys slowly moved over with Agiaus and Hector coming last and with less surety in their steps. A small hole and it was clear there were once a passage now long blocked by stone smoothed together. Hector made to speak again, "We sh--," his caution dashed by Agiaus, "You always are like this Hector. What fear should we have of a tomb? Are the dead not departed? Has Valdr that blond oaf from the North cooked your mind with his hearth tales of his homeland? A homeland none in town have been too?"

Moving forward Kastor smiled and crept into the hole and grimaced for it was tight and each of the boys struggled to worm their way through. Followed by Pallex and Agiaus. Hector only coming last and without enthusiasm. Moving into the chamber they saw a dim light from a crack in the ceiling of a dome? A dome the chamber was for it is hewn from the very mountain's heart. The boys moved forward and came upon the spot of the lights resting place. A rectangular inset inscribed with old runes in a script none of the boys recognized save one.

"What is this? A serpent devouring itself?" mused the twins to themselves. Agiaus finally smiled as the thought of treasure reached him, "What if there are riches!"

Riches! Agiaus and the twins shouted to themselves. Voices echoing throughout the dome and up to the dim light's entrance. Whispers in the air for the mountain's response was immediate. A gust flew through with ill tidings that chilled Hectors bones. Only now his eyes understood what lay before him, the runes in the serpent glyph now standing out to him. Northmen runes that Valdr had shown him. Symbols of curse and awakened sleep stood out to him. Spine tingling and cold sweat at the nape of his brow forming tense rivulets.

The boys clambered over the rectangular inset and feeling around it began to pry at a chipped corner. Slowly, but surely, they hefted the rectangular stone up and away for it to crash with a thunderous clap onto the cold stone of the mountain floor. Hector recoiled at the ghastly sight of the corpse, sunken flesh still clinging to its bones, with blackened eyelids stretched over bulging orbs. In its grip a sword as tall as Agiaus was gripped amid gnarled fingers. Its black cloak tattered and helm bearing glyphs of bears dusty. The chainmail about his form rusted and caked in gray dirt. Gold rings and coins surrounded the figure and in this the boys eagerly began to pluck. Kastor donning rings and a gold necklace studded with onyx before reaching down and gleefully prying the sword free. Letting out a grunt at its weight in his boyish hands.

The boys could scarcely notice that the eyes of the deceased warrior were now open. Fierce ice-colored eyes shining up above. Hector screamed and the boys froze to look at him. The boys moving to their friend, backs to the tomb, Kastor brandished the sword with a snarl, "What is it! You scarred a-ack." A flaxen hand gripped Kastor's head by the hair and twisted violently. The bones of the boy's neck snapping and twisting as the wright rotated the dying boy's neck like a swivel before letting the fresh corpse fall in a wet thump. Piss and feces from the late youth from relaxed, dead, innards flopping to the floor and freshly joined by said owner's face. The sword clattered towards Hector.

Pallex and Agiaus screamed with the former falling away backwards. The latter clambering to be beside Hector. The wright advanced and with surprisingly quick movements slammed a foot onto Pallex's chest. The boy screamed and flailed as the wright came down on the boy's neck. Death. Maw of the wright clattering up and down in some cackling mockery of a laugh. Hector stepped back and Agiaus looked at his friend for a moment then sneered, shoving Hector forward to fall onto the ground, racing towards the hole to escape back into the other room. Scrambling down to squeeze through with much less grace.

The wright advanced and Hector rolled away with a yell as the Wright made to stamp upon him and having missed moved onward towards the legs of Agiaus as the boy fought to fit through the hole once more for panic had overtaken his movements and his cloak was catching on the lips of the ruddy rim of his escape route. Hector looked onward as the wright continued towards Agiaus before a gleam caught his eye, the sword that had fallen from slain Kastor, the Wright's blade, called out to be held and with a cry Hector raced forward and gripped the hilt. Immediately, the Wright twisted towards Hector and the youth swung wildly. The blade sparking on the dusty gray mail which caused the Wright to stammer backwards.

Hector yelled and attacked with desperation, swinging wildly, arms burning with the weight of the weapon. The Wright side stepped and in a feral backhand struck Hector from his feet to fall into the very grave it had risen. The Wright turned once more to the squirming form of Agiaus and Hector's companion began to violently yell blood curdling wails. Hector gripped the hilt of the sword, looked upon it, looked at the foreign runes running down its length. He felt them, not the blood rushing in his veins or the bursting pumps of a boy's heart, but in his mind. The voice of his father and grandfather long dead.

HECTOR

He clasped the thunderbolt at his neck and muttered a silent prayer to the Gods as she rose, blade held before him, grip firm.

HECTOR

The boy opened his mouth and out came not a scream or a wail, but a cry of war and battle borne from the throat of a man and with this ferocity he leapt from the shallow crypt. Blade now held close he made to assail the Wright who now twisted with one then two sickly wet lurches. Reeling around the bottom half of Agaius in its grip like a mace of gore it swung. Hector ducked and the warmth of his friend's vitality striking his skin did naught for his will for the spirit of his forefathers was with him now.

HECTOR

The man came up and terror of violent in his eyes as he swung a heavy blow. Catching the Wright in the ribs as mail sparked and dissected ribs splintered. The Wright swung back, and Hector took its blow with the edge of the blade and even as it rocked him backwards a half measure of a stride it no longer flung him back for, he was Hector son of Priamos of the Aenaid! And with this a righteous fury took hold as he sensed the weakness of his enemy. Moving forth he gave a nimble strike which spun the left arm of the creature away then a low lunging sweep. Destroying the Wrights knees with a bone crunching hate. The wright crumbled to the floor and yet with the will of something not of this world it started to right itself, but Hector would not allow it and with a final bellow of victory he swung down with all his might. The blade catching the light above in a phantasm of white flame as it struck the exposed nape of the Wright's neck, parting skull from vertebrae, and with-it Hector kneeled in exhaustion to scoop forth the helm in his hands like a warrior-prince of old collecting a trophy of battle.

HECTOR

---

Ermeris, Beriador the 'Land of Sweet Berry'
Year of 3949 of the Hyborian Age

The Princess Valara Tinuvaeliriel of House Valadyn looked out at the expanse of the Great Lake Aytherie or Purity in the language of the Valtmari. For its waters were crystal clear even on the darkest of nights. Even the disturbances of fishermen could not muddle its waters from onlookers. While the fair towers of Ermeris and mansions of her people rose on a low hill beside the crystal mirror surface. Outer buildings and districts coming to nestle among elegant wharfs of milk-white stone. Pillars flowing like trees and adorned in silver-gold caught the light of the Heart above, the Sun which was center to all, like the fire in a smith's kiln. In her hand was a scroll detailing ancient sagas of Man which was dusty and ill-used but not tarnished by virtue of the care in all things her people were wont to conduct themselves. The high white walls of the city formed a snowy barrier between the fairness inside and the sculpted orchards and vineyards beyond. For Beriador was fair of landscape and home to the assortment of flavorful wine that would fetch a hefty price in foreign lands. Where elven ships could dock in trade and friendship of course. Which was a rare thing these days in this Age of the world.

Footsteps came up behind the fair elf-maiden. Her fiery hair was smooth like silk and the milk-white flesh it wreathed complimented the aura of her image. Taking more after her mother than her father in matters of mane and eye. For her eyes were of mixed green and blue. "My Lady, are you ready? You are due to depart for Ilyaris by high noon?"

"Yes, Finulon, I am. Though I wish to set my eyes upon Aytherie still a little longer." She turned to give a slight smile to the fair-haired Elf before her. The Elf nodded and stepped away gracefully leaving the Princess to her own mental devices a little while longer. The trip to Ilyaris would be long and while she enjoyed the knowledge and beauty of that hidden vale. Most of all the Loremasters which resided there in such a safe haven. But the travel could be arduous as it took them East beyond country beyond the keeping of the Valtmari and over The Spine to the lands of Man and Dwarf.

[Ceystile]

Deepmarch
Falcon’s Nest
Hyborian Age 3949

The looming stone manor that had been the ancestral seat of House Falco for as long as the incumbent lords and ladies could trace back sat near the sea like a blue and gleaming pearl in the mouth of a green oyster. The blue-grey granite that made up the house as well as its signature tower was of a strange in-between hue that made the building look deep blue in certain lights and nearly white in some others, but for all intents in purposes didn’t look too out of place.
In fact, except for the falcon motifs that were subtly carved around the building it didn’t seem any different from any other dwelling of a lord or man of means…that is of course, except the tower. A tall tower stretched in the center of the courtyard, seeming to nearly touch the rapidly darkening clouds that surrounded it…the signs of an encroaching storm. Thunderstorms were common in such climes, but most tended to avoid the weather. Except of course, the figure standing on the very tall (and very conductable) tower’s roof.

Victor Falco
Falcon’s Nest, Central Tower.
The eldest son of Lord Benedict Falco was perched on top of their tower of magic like some great, brightly-feathered bird as the purple and green silk of his robes flapped around him, clutching the spire in one tattooed brown hand and a glass flask in the other. His eyes, blacker than ink were staring up at the sky and the rumbling thunder. “Should be any moment now.” The thunder crackled as if in applause, and the bright flash he’d been praying for sparked in the sky. Concentrating as his father had taught him, Victor tried to envision an elegant arc of lighting falling into the bottle, him sealing it up like the brightest firefly and carrying that little piece of heaven around with him. A near deafening crack of thunder, Victor could feel his skin prickle and his hair standing on end. Just a little closer…”

“Lord Falco! Sir Swan come to call!”
“Gah!” He cried out and barely managed to grab the spire with his semi-free hand. The lightning struck moments later, vibrating the tower and nearly scorching the dripping wet wizard that had attempted to contain it a second ago.

“Vic!” A familiar and deeper voice shouted, poking a dark head out of the tower window. “Are you alright, are you hurt?!”
“Tal? Give me a moment!” Shoving the flask in one of his many pockets and climbing just above the open window, he deftly grabbed the edge of the roof and lowered himself into his father’s study, where the huge mosaic falcon decorated the floor, although partially hidden by piles of tomes, scrolls and the odd magical item. But instead of dropping to the floor, he dropped into the arms of a young man with dripping hair styled into the long thick dreadlocks that many Deepmen favored, though the rest of him was dry or had been. He was, taller and more solidly built than Victor’s slighter frame, wearing a breastplate of blue and gold armor over a cream gambeson. His large, umber colored hands were wrapped around Victor’s waist, who now resembled an unhappy cat rather than a wizard adept. “Tal, do you quite mind putting me down?!”
“But you’re so cute this way!” Talfryn Swan, the captain of the Royal Guard was beaming as if he was heedless of the death glare being thrown his way.
“Down. Now.” When Victor got his wish, he looked up and the two men smiled at each other. “Vic, I thought I’d missed you!”

“You saw me just hours ago, you lummox.” Victor huffed affectionately. “And I was outside, you didn’t notice? I’ll be back, I’m soaked through.”
. . .

When he returned in a new dry set of robes, Victor seated himself next to Talfryn, his oldest and dearest friend. The boys practically knew each other from the cradle and though their paths had diverged a bit as young men, they spent most of their free time in one another’s company. Tal frowned playfully and shoved the Wizard’s shoulder.
“What I “noticed” is that I came to see the love of my life and he wasn’t here.”
“I was here. I was just trying to see if I could harness lighting.”
“And?” Tal raised an eyebrow as Victor plucked at the ends of his own hair, nearly singed. “I would’ve gotten it if I hadn’t nearly slipped!”
“Gotten killed, you mean.”
Victor snorted and rolled his eyes, a wry smile creeping over his lips. “You’re one to talk, you’re the one actually going head to head with people every day! And look at you, you’re bruised…wait a moment.” He bustled over to one of the many cabinets and took out a flask, making his way back to the couch with it and daubing some over the dark smudge under the knight’s eye. “You look like you got into at least three fist fights. I would ask you what the news was, old friend but I don’t need to. It’s written all over your face, and probably your body as well if I’m guessing right.”

“They were sword fights, first of all. You were there until you weren’t.” Talfryn laughed and the Lord Falco to be let out a most undignified sound as his companion decided to use his lap as a pillow. “Talfryn, there are many other places you can lay your head.”
“I’m comfortable here. And we both know if you really wanted to, you could move me. But why would you want to, I’m adorable.” he beamed. Victor huffed out a laugh and carded his hand through Tal’s hair. “Yes you are, too damn adorable for your own good.”

“You should’ve stayed for the duration Vic, you would’ve loved it.”
“You would’ve hated it. The only reason I left was to prevent myself from strangling the fuck out of that little shit who was marking you up like this.”
“If you’re so worried about my bruises, you should see that other poor bastard. And I won! Want to see the trophy?!” Tal made to get up to grab his pack but let out a soft groan as he tried to rise, which led to Victor immediately pulling him back. “You stay here, I’ll get the pack.” The ring on his hand glowed as he manipulated the air currents to push the bag closed to their feet. “There. Look how easy that was, I love magic.”
“I love you.”
“Poseidon’s balls, you can’t just be…say shit like that!” Victor sputtered before squeezing Tal’s hand. “I love you too.”

“But getting you flustered is the fun part!”
“Dad’s going to be here for my lesson shortly.”
“Well until then, we have all the time in the world.”

[Sao Nova Europa]

Year of 3949

Vaibha Hangli

Elder Priest

Nestor was one of the few humans who had managed to gain entry to the reclusive Grand Dominion of Shenha. In his late twenties, he was a conman, swindler, occasional merchant (usually of stolen goods), and adventurer. A year ago, he persuaded one of the few Ventari merchants who had ventured into the human realms to take him alongside him on his journey back to the Dominion. His status as an outsider and a master of lying got him hired by a Ventari Prince: Sharad Hainli, a cousin of the reigning Overlord Esthan Hainli.

Part of his job was meeting people whom Sharad could not meet openly. That was his task now as well. Nestor made his way into the pagoda temple dedicated to the Heavenly God. The temple was a week's journey away from the capital and surrounded by lush vegetation. Its reclusiveness made it an ideal spot for secret meetings. Nestor stepped inside the temple and saw the Ventari he was supposed to meet: Elder Priest Vaibha Hangli. Vaibha was in his fifties - this was middle-aged by human standards, but for Ventari standards Vaibha's age was the equivalent of a hundred-year-old human. Vaibha was widely considered one of the wisest priests in the Dominion and, crucially, it was believed he had the gift of premonition.

Nestor fell on his knees, bowed deeply, and showed the priest the jade amulet handed to him by Prince Sharad.

"You may rise," the priest ordered with a motion of his hand. "I wonder what His Excellency Prince Sharad of the Glorious House of Hainli expects from an elderly priest?"

"His Excellency wants you to... to... to tell Him if the Overlord still has the favor of the Heavenly God, blessed may be His name."

The avian creature took an expression that Nestor recognized as a smile. "You do know, human, that such an inquiry is tantamount to treason and punishable by execution, right?"

"I'm merely relaying the wishes of His Excellency the Prince!"

The priest nodded. "Tell your Master that I've seen visions of death. A scion of the Glorious House of Hainli shall perish."

"But which one?" Nestor asked. "The Prince or the Overlord?"

"That is up to your Master to determine."

[Antimersia]

Bronze Blaze Temporary Camp
Eastern side of the spine
Just west of the Aegiad Sea and the Elysian Republic.
Late evening
3949 HA

The sounds of camp are never quiet. Hammers striking as smiths and quartermasters repair tools and weapons. Loud roaring fires as food is cooked over fires. Metal clashing as men train and hone their stills. The thunks of steel against wood as logs are split and shaped for use. Even as the light of the day begins to fade and the darkness of the night encroaches, the sounds only dim rather than go silent. People gather around the fire, eat and speak to each other of their day. Sharing stories and discussing what new adventures might await them as the company moves on to their next contract. Traveling east towards the Elysian Republic, and for the first time in many years, planning on expanding their reach.

Orirmor Ingotammer, Lord Commander of the Bronze Blaze, fiddles with a locket in his hands. The locket, made with stolen dwarven alloy, contains the pictures of a woman and a young girl. Both of them are human in race. The locket was recovered by the company when they fought a group of bandits just after crossing the spine. Finding the metal of his people, that he can return and hopefully see it used to further his fellow dwarves, fills him with a small sense of accomplishment. Yet, looking at these pictures he can’t help but think of the story behind it. How the husband and father was likely carrying this when the bandits descended upon him and took his life. He thought about the family that will never see their father again. The girl that will grow up not even knowing if he father is alive or dead. He can’t help but feel sympathy, thinking of the worry and helplessness when his own parents never returned to their home within the spine. He breaks the glass inside and removes the pictures from inside. He resolves to himself that he might return them one day, should he ever meet the women they are of. Her tosses the locket into a crate beside him, on top of a pile of weapons, armors, and curios made of the same Dwarven special alloy. All items he will return to his people on his next visit home.

“Mewling over the haul again, Lord Commander?” a gruff and jolly voice bellows from the entrance of Orirmor’s tent. The Lord Commander looks over to see one of his generals, Borli, entering to speak with him. Borli carries two flagons of ale, taking care to keep them away from his currently unkempt beard as the hairs reach down to his groin. He chuckles heartily at his own playfully mocking comment, walking in to hand his Lord Commander his cup.

“Not the haul this time, Borli. Just a locket. There were pictures inside, of a wife and daughter.” Orirmor answers, taking the flagon and putting it to his lips. The ale was not pleasant. Tasting of almost rancid hops. He stifles it down, caring more about getting something to drink than he cares for the flavor.

“Aw poor lasses. Aye cannae imagine the feeling. There’s a reason aye never ‘ad kiddies of me own.” Borli said, looking solemnly into his flagon.

“Yeah, we all know. It’s because you repel the ladies.” Orirmor jabbed.

“There can be more than the one reason cannit?” Borli snapped back, the pair both breaking out into a boisterous uproar of laughter. Laughter that forms a symphony with the sounds outside. The camp revels in the evening, eating and drinking as the starry night sky sparkles above them. Eventually falling to sleep as the new day approaches.

The following morning

As the light of the sun crests the horizon, the sounds of the camp come alive again. But rather than working, cooking, and reveling, the sounds are of packing and shouting orders. It is time for the Bronze Blaze to move on from this temporary camp and to proceed closer to their destination. Ordering the movements of nearly five thousand people is no simple task. Getting them all packed up and ready to go is difficult enough. And then establishing a marching order only increases this struggle. Not to mention the more than a few of the lightweights that are struck with hangovers from the last nights drink. Though most struck with this morning illness are the humans of the company, of which there are not many.

By noon, thankfully, the company has formed a caravan and begun moving along the path through the forests. At the head of the line is Orirmor, with Borli beside him. The other three generals of the Bronze Blaze; Magnon, Ordomarti, and Gelni, follow in the rear. They keep watch of the back of the caravan and make sure everyone stays in line alone the path. Towards the very center of the caravan, placed in the least suspecting carriage, are the crates of Dwarven alloy that have been recovered on this most recent pilgrimage. With carriages of soldiers interspersed between carriages carrying salted meat and cooking supplies as well as carriages carrying tents and shelter. Donkeys being used to pull most of the carriages, allowing the stronger horses to carry the armored men that are prepared to fight should any foolish bandits attempt to raid the caravan.

They travel for as long as the light will give them, sleeping in their carriages this night instead of setting up camp fully again. Repeating this for another four nights as they travel towards the western border of The Elysian Republic. Their destination, Gathela, a border city in the north west of the republic. With the aim of new contracts, and new Dwarven alloy to liberate.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Year of 3949

Sharad Hainli

Prince and Minister of Treasury

Prince Sharad Hainli was a Ventari of ambition, but one who also knew how to hide that ambition. When his cousin Esthan launched a palace coup, Sharad was one of the few Princes to escape the massacre that followed. He managed this because, unlike most of his cousins, brothers, and other relatives, he outwardly projected the appearance of someone uninterested in Court affairs and who lacked important connections. As such, the new Overlord did not see him as a potential rival to be eliminated.

In the Grand Dominion of Shenha, one's place in society is determined by their caste. According to tradition, only those belonging to the Hainli Caste - the caste of the ruling dynasty - could be appointed to the top offices of the state. Sharad was a Hainli and one who posed no seeming menace to Esthan, so he was an obvious choice for the Ministry of the Treasury when Minister Bikhar Hainli died. As Minister, Sharad had greater resources at his disposal: but he knew that he would be monitored far more closely by the Overlord's spies.

Sharad was careful, using his new office to slowly but steadily build a network of supporters but at the same time being careful not to overstep his boundaries and give the Overlord a reason to suspect him. A competent man, Sharad gained a reputation as a capable administrator who could coordinate effectively the various bureaus under his Ministry. This allowed him to gain more supporters in the Court. Sharad knew that the time of reckoning was nearing.

knock

"You may come inside," the Prince said, sitting on an oak chair and reading over some papers in his golden office.

The man who entered inside was Nestor, the human conman that Sharad had taken in as a servant. As an outsider - without any connections in the Dominion - he was totally dependent upon Sharad: and this made him the right man for jobs that Sharad could not entrust to his fellow Ventari.

"Your Excellency," Nestor bowed. "I've spoken with the Elder Priest."

"What did he tell you?" Sharad got up from his chair.

"That he's seen visions of death. A scion of the House of Hainli shall perish."

Sharad nodded. "Both me and the Overlord are scions of the House of Hainli. This divination is useless."

"Not exactly," Nestor grinned. "Vague as it may be, it can be used to persuade reluctant Ventari to your cause."

"It can be a tool for propaganda. It will cause some in the Court to begin to doubt the Overlord's claims of being the Favorite of the Heavenly God. But we cannot rely on prophecies alone. We also need the support of the Palatine Guard, and I have the perfect plan to achieve this..."

[Imperialisium]

Land of the Ashen Mounds
3949 of the Hyborian Age

To the South East of the Grand Hainli Dominion and West of the southern ranges of The Spine, before the terminus of that great mountain range at the coast, but north of the mouth of the river in in the tongue of the Valtmari is Sulumúron or Southron's Voice, Sultharos among the Sea Elves in their peculiar dialect which translates to Loudwater; while the men of the Crescent Isles have named it Grom'kaya'voda which is identical in meaning to the Sea Elves own name for it. For the water is a rushing tide with a strong flowing current. Possessing high tributaries surging forth their innumerable weight in water down into the main body of the river itself. The land around it however was one of dense foliage and green jungles interspersed by murky hills shrouded in fog and mists. Giving the impression of Ashen Mounds of gray-blackness. The foothills to the West of The Spine fraught with the barrows of creature hostile to outsiders not of their kind.

It was here, in this region of the world, things stirred as the Worlds moved about the Heart of Vy and the worlds of Aetheria and Aesenir drew further away while the dark world of Nyalfelsheim approached. For in the jungles and dense foliage country of this land their emerged Tribes of feral Orcs brandishing weapons and armor of bone and hide. Hundreds at first then thousands as they gradually coalesced into a gathering confederation in a slow migration North. Following some strange omen in their own tongue they called Udishi, a debased form of the original Orc language gifted to them by the Nameless One's chief servants. Udishi! Udishi! Udishi! They would chant with the banging of hide drums constructed from a peculiar skin that could only be Human. Explaining the sudden lack of Human tribes in their path by subsequent visitors to the Lands of the Ashen Mounds. Udishi, the word for Omen, and like a force of nature they would come crashing into a civilized society laid before them.

But that was not all for in their company was a host of might Arachs, eight legged monstrosities as large as a wolf which smaller goblins often chose to ride as a steed, and among these many legged cavalries were great Wargs gnashing saber like fangs. Driven by equally ferocious and wild riders, Orcs that had dared to tame wargs as mounts, and astride them was clans of Jungle Trolls. Their Green and brown mottled skin giving them surprising advantage in the dense foliage of this Southern land.

It would be over the course of a week that the reports would reach the Hainli capital of the approaching Orc tribes coming up from the South. Moving mostly at night out of dislike for the Sun the Orcs moved with a loose cohesion like that of a herd. Crashing into the South-Eastern borders of the Dominion as they continued on their march north to some unknown destination. The Orcs cared not for territory and were primarily focused on pillaging anything of value that lay in their path. As if their blunder into the Hainli lands was coincidental and not purposeful, yet, across much of the lands from Hainli to the Dwarf Holds of the Aulean Peaks Shamans and Seers alike would become overcome by nighttime visions of terror and evil, of ill omen, and the coming of a black star signaling upon them a time in this Age of strife and greater conflict.

As for the Hainli, what would first to appear as hundreds of Orcs in the vanguard tribes would give way too many thousands in what some grand confederation of several dozen tribes was obviously. Their appearance like one large chaotic army for the Orcs made no distinction in their warriorship for male or female. All could enact the great spiritual release of bringing death to their tribe's foes. Many thousands, and by initial counts would range to some twenty-five thousand with over a hundred trolls and a thousand mounts.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Year of 3949

Esthan Hainli

Overlord of the Grand Dominion of Shenha

The Overlord was seated on his golden throne and listening to an official telling before the court about the invasion of the Orcish tribes. The Overlord could tell from the muffled whispers that many courtiers were getting increasingly worried. Getting up from his throne, the Overlord spoke calmly. "This is not the first time we've had to face barbarian invaders. We've defeated them in the past, and we can do so now. The Heavenly God favors us. We will prevail!" The courtiers responded with thunderous applause.

That evening, the Overlord met with the Minister of War Yang Hainli, his uncle. "Your Majesty," the Minister bowed deeply before his Overlord.

"Let's skip the formalities," Esthan replied. "We need to focus on defeating this invasion."

"Of course. Our Dominion has always relied on cunning over brute strength. That's how we shall defeat the enemy. We will withdraw our troops from the border and offer them the lure of unprotected villages they can pillage. We shall not intervene initially, allowing them to loot as they wish. Gradually, they will be lured deeper into our lands. That is when we will strike. The Orcish tribes move like a herd, with loose cohesion. They lack discipline. We will not engage them directly. Rather, we shall lay ambushes and take out parts of their army one by one, gradually weakening them. Instead of one decisive battle, we shall defeat them in detail. The lack of effective communications and command structure means each portion of their army that is ambushed will be unable to ask for help from the rest of the tribe. It will be a long endeavor but one in which we will succeed."

The Overlord nodded. "I agree with your plan. An open, pitched battle is too risky. Deception is the tool we shall use to destroy the enemy. I also want a full mobilization. We need every Ventari available." Aside from a standing army of 15,000 troops, the Dominion maintained 40,000 part-time peasant-troops. With the Overlord's order, those troops would be mobilized, bringing the full force of the Dominion to 55,000 Ventari. The time of peace was over. War had begun.

[Union Princes]

Year of 3949
Thafrerlum Urbolin felt his age matching the mountain that his kingdom was carved under. Gone were the days of jet black hair and volcanic temper of his youth as the decades of warfare and governance drew deep crevices onto his face. Though his armies are few and his enemies are legion, the High King remains steadfast in all his duties. To subdue and resolve the terrors and rivals that his late brother could not. The report from his spymaster did little to ease the burden of his rule.

“Orcs migrating north?”

“Migration?” Beorn Hulim huffed, “If only it was as harmless as it sounds but no, your highness, thousands upon thousands of orcs, goblins, and other cruel creatures are riding north as we speak; pillaging and razing everything in their path. My agents have reported that these foul Greenskins have already occupied dwarf ruins in the far south of the continent, desecrating our lost history and culture with dung and wretched markings.”

The spymaster looked ready to demolish a fissure spewing out sulfur and hot air, a sight with which Thafrerlum could not disagree. Many times the younger races settled in areas once a fortress or town built by dwarf hands and many times have they not been paid the respect that it deserves. Centuries of dwarven handiwork erased by the arrogance of man and elf.

Only recently, the High King had considered instigating several border conflicts against neighboring human nation-states foolish enough to claim ownership of abandoned dwarf mines in the Spine north of the Three Peaks. But unlike these savages from the south, the humans could at least be negotiated with. It a pity that he, the High King of the Spine, could not always speak from a position of power to end such petty disputes.

“Thank you for your diligence, Lord Hulim,” Thafrerlum dismissed his advisor, “Send for the wordsmiths! I summon the Council of Eldars! I intend to cast these barbarians from whence they came!”

---

Within the halls of the mountain king, the greatest and most prestigious of Aulean society that could attend this unexpected meeting sat in their stone seats facing each other across a grand table. Straight as a ruler and as round as the sun, this table had the guildmasters, the richest nobility, and the administrators of the realm. At the center of it all, was the High King.

“My gratitude at coming at such short notice for this is no mere skirmish. Our legacy is under attack by orcs from the south! They will soon to know the immense wealth and riches of our ancestral halls and will not stop until they plunder it for themselves. If we are to become the heirs of the dwarven empire of old, we cannot allow such desecration of our beloved monuments.

To the guildmaster of the Rangers, I want your best scouts to find and track the movements of this orc horde. I need to know their numbers and which paths they will take. We must intercept them wherever we can!”

“Chancellor Jodmaic, alert the merchants and our trade partners to strengthen their security and consider finding alternate paths for their goods. No doubt that raiding parties would seek to disrupt our trade routes to starve our halls of food and beer!”

“Warmaster Gamli, we shall muster four armies of 2,000 warriors each to ensure that our rear and our flanks are secured when I leave to lead my own contingent. Cooperate with the Guildmaster of the Engineers for ballistae and catapults to supplement our legions.”

“We will not make the mistakes of our ancestors! If these orcs dare to approach our gates, we will cast them down with our steel hammers and axes. I swear this vow!”

[Ceystile]

Kriemhild Crowbeak
Deepmarch
“Alright, this should have you right as rain in no time. Add a spoonful to your morning wine every day for two weeks and it’ll clear up that ghastly business in your right leg.” A short figure dressed in black from head to toe stood next to a stocky, bearded man in the dining hall of his home As the physician adjusted their brown leather beaked mask with one gloved hand while stoppering the vial with another, the man leered at them with a crooked, gap-toothed grin. A grunt escaped him as he adjusted his bandaged leg on a small stool, drinking deeply of the wine that had been infused with his medicinal draught.

“Thanks Doc, that shrew’s bite was more potent than I thought. Poseiron’s waters drown ‘er, useless bitch. She can’t cook or clean worth a damn anyway, but fer now I’ll suppose she’ll do.”
“If I may inquire, why did she stab you, sir?” The doctor leaned back on their heels as their patient let out a cough.
“Was puttin’ er in ‘er place, didn’t like it so she stopped choppin’ the pheasant and tried to chop me instead. But I showed ‘er, I did! Anyways, you pretty under that mask? Maybe I can trade the shrew in for a more…helpful model.” Uproarious laughter left him, which was soon cut off by another round of more intense coughs.”
“Doc…Doctor?” He gasped, his speech now more coughs and breaths than words. “This shit kinda burns, wha…what…?” The gasps came quicker, he clawed at his throat like he was a thirsty man attempting drink from a well and finding it dry. He flung himself to his feet, stumbling to try to strike the doctor but was subdued by a well placed foot into the meat of his tender wound, causing him to flop forward with a heavy thud. With a great, final desperate hack that sprayed bright red blood onto the wooden floorboards, the man moved no more.
“Gross, what a mess.” The beak-masked physician examined their shoes for any specks of red, and then knelt down to press two gloves fingers to their patient’s neck, feeling nothing. “Requiescat in pace.” they said, making a sign and offering a silent prayer to Sharra before turning toward the entrance that led to the rest of the house. “You can come out now.”

A dark skinned woman with her long braided hair tied into a neat bun stepped forward as silently as a shadow; the dim light illuminating a purple bruise around her left eye and a smattering of ugly blue across her mouth. “Is it done?” she asked, blankly staring down at the corpse of what was once her husband.
“Indeed.” The doctor stopped scribbling on the paper they pulled from their cloak and handed it to the woman. “A report saying he had a lung infection.”
“Thank you.” The widow clasped her savior’s hand. “You have no idea how much this means to me…l’ll go fetch your pay.” She disappeared into another room and came back with a moderately sized leather purse, the doctor counted out the silver coins inside, stamped with Poseiron’s face on one side and the king’s on the reverse. “You gave me too much, I offered you a discount.”

“Nonsense, you deserve it for freeing me of that brute. Take it, I insist.”
“Thank you.” With a tip of their hat, the doctor walked out of the front door of the modest house and onto the wet streets. At least the rain had seemed to let up by now. When they were far enough away from the crowds and turned down a nondescript alley, the doctor unfastened their beak mask to reveal a woman with amber brown skin, a strand of red hair escaping from her hood. “Hey Bear, it’s Crow. The target’s been eliminated.”
“Excellent.” A second figure came out of the shadows to join her. A man, huge, brown-skinned and muscular with short black hair, his white shirt slightly open at the neck to expose some of his chest. If you looked closely enough, you could make out the wing outline of some butterfly or butterfly like creature. “Spider says to return to headquarters by whatever means you see fit.”
“Sure, just got to make a visit to an old friend first.”

"Visit them later Hildy, Spider’s gonna want that report. And apparently she’s got another client for you.” He laced his shirt back up to the neck and disappeared again, while the red-haired woman looked toward southern part of town, toward the sea and the mansions of the nobles before creeping back into the shadows where her companion had emerged from.

[Imperialisium]

Year of 3949 of the Hyborian Age

Udishi! An accursed word uttered by many tribes and clans of the Orcish hordes which plague the lands of Ard'Tella. Udishi! Udishi! A chant in utterance to the coming of boons from their Dark Masters which lie in chains beyond the Girdles of the World. A term for omen signalling a time of Orcdom and conquest...-On the Nature of Orcs and Other Perfidious Creatures by Aerilon of Ilyaris, circa 2730 of the Hyborian Age.

The Grand Dominion of Hainli

True to expectation by Ventari scouts the Orcs surged onto their lands with all the force of a tidal wave. Crops burned, livestock slaughtered to be consumed or led away by the tribes, with Ventari unable to escape chained as thralls or themselves slaughtered. Unlucky farmers and townsfolk who tried to resist soon found themselves on the campfire spits of the roving horde. Northward they went, largely by night, and that was the cause of much collateral loss for the Orcs could move swiftly. Swifter than most any race with their nightly marches often crossing several leagues and, in their wake, Ventari scouts would find a devastated landscape, what wanton destruction could bring and why could only be guesswork for the wise among the avian folk.

Of what reason and hatred could have driven such a wrath to be unleashed upon a peaceable land? None could be for certain, for even among the learned of the Hainli would fare no better than their neighbors, of the Men of the West in the colonies of the people from the Crescent Isle, or to the East in the Spine among desperate dwarf holds, or perhaps among the homesteads of lesser Men to be found in between?

Thus, the first battle of this newfound conflict of avian and greenskin came under the lilac boughs of Hainli hill country. When mobilizing Ventari traveling to their mustering point were set upon by Orcish riders on their fearsome Wolven wargs. The oversized, sabre toothed, gnashing beasts with no fondness of even their own riders ranging far ahead of the horde struck. Blackened arrows whistled from under fair boughs as the soldiers of the Ventari let out yells and curses. "Ambush! Orc Riders! Ambush, ambush," they cried in their tongue, though the Orc Riders delighted in nothing more than the fearsome surprise they caused, and so the ambush became a wild clash of Hainli foot and greenskin rider. Melee, wanton and whirling without attempt at cohesion under the boughs as red decorated the green grass among freshly settled blossoms of flowers. For a dozen of the Ventari laid slain in the first minutes between arrow and following wicked curved sabers of the Orc riders. A sergeant bravely tried to steel his warriors, but he too was hewn and dragged to a grisly end by the Warg and its Rider.

But the Hainli would not be alone and somewhere among their ranks a horn blew and, in the distance, another answered, for over the hills coming from the North, the growing army of the Dominion's vanguard came with all the righteous fury their limbs could muster, and they smote upon the Orc Riders astonished by the speed of the Hainli counterassault that all glee left them. Breaking from combat the riders made flight back towards the South and to the safety of the horde. Leaving behind eight of their own fallen along with their steeds punctured by many Ventari arrows.

The War of the Hainli and Southron Orcs had begun...

Green Tidings

The Orcs of the Southern jungles were not the only ones on the move. From the Spine among abandoned and plundered Dwarven holds of long-lost kingdoms of that hearty race. Horrible horns blew and blackened banners of tortured hide rose to the harshly greet the morning breeze. Their rim not fair stitched by hanging limply in long strands as if torn away from what poor creature had lost its hide to the likes of its creator. The Orcs of the Spine were active and came forth either above ground or traveled by ancient Dwarven routes northward, as if driven by some dark hand to destination unknown, and with such stamina that many homesteads of Man were destroyed before warning could be raised. But even one dispatch was enough and in the wake of the migration of so many tens of thousands word would reach various surrounding lands of the scale of this event.

Orcs led by their grisly overlords, kings, and decrepit shaman-priests were moving North in their multitudes. Thousands, tens of thousands, along routes seen and subterranean. Indeed, the latter would cause a dizzying fright to the Dwarven holds of the Middle Spine as through these passages often long abandoned or forgotten the Orcs erupted forth. Kair Vorgen, a relatively young Dwarfhold to the West of the Elysian Republic, found itself assaulted without warning. Orcs and their diminutive brethren, Goblins, a gnarled and especially squat breed of Orc, assailed Kair Vorgen from below. Overrunning deep halls and mineshafts. Forcing the Dwarf King Harrem Blackbeard to seal off the lower parts of the Hold; while Dwarven messengers were sent North to their brethren in the Auelean and to the East to the trading partners of the Elysian Republic. Begging for aid and warning of what was occurring along the Spine and lands immediately West.

A Maiden Heads East

The white towers and spires of Ermeris soaring above the crystal mirror of Lake Aytherie grew smaller but no less brilliant as a white mare trotting along an old worn road to the East continued on. Princess Valara Tinuvaeliriel sat upon the mare without need of saddle or stirrup, poised yet relaxed, she was no need for harness or knicker. The mare understood her wishes as well as any Elf and its steps well-paced yet well-chosen allowed for a surprisingly graceful travelling. Allowing her to sit with both legs on one side and admire the fairness of the land. Of the vineyards and rolling green hills that were fair Elf-country. The air was warm, and a soft breeze came in from the South to gently nudge her golden hair which bore a tint of flame. Fair eyes shining out from noble thin lids over porcelain cheekbones that were high as the walls of Ermeris. She was beautiful even among the standards of the Elves and bore the features of the Valtmar well.

Glancing back and forth at her companions, an Elf company forty strong, half of whom were mounted warriors clad in polished red armor and rangers of dull green cloaks who owed allegiance to her father. The High King of the Valtmar whom dwelt to the South in Valtmeris. The rest were a variety of handmaidens and footmen to accompany her and administer such needs a Princess would require.

"How far are we to go?" she said to no one in particular.

One of the Elf rangers, whom she knew the name of Raeglin, spoke up candidly, "Today or till we reach Ilyaris, My Lady? Of the former we can expect to make eight leagues and of the latter, if the weather is good, some four hundred."

"So far," she mused.

Raeglin glanced back, "Farthest you've ever been?"

"I have never been East of the Niemaril," citing the short tributary that run from the Mountains east of Ermeris south to join a larger water way which flowed North towards the frigid seas. Earning a small eyebrow raise from the ranger, "It will be a peaceful journey for the most part, though we will be leaving Elf-Country once we pass the Seithwen. From then on it is a wilder country of Man and beast till we reach the Hidden Vale of Ilyaris."

The Princess tilted her head at his words. She had never been so far from home.

[Antimersia]

On the road, west of the Elysian Republic

Orirmor and the Bronze Blaze continue their travels east. They are coming close to the fork in the path. Where they will choose to right north towards the city of Gathela on the border of the Elysian Republic. The southern route would take one to the city of Mahas. Another western city of the Elysian Republic. Both sitting on opposite ends of the Aegiad Sea, marking the beginning of Elysian territory. As they get ever closer to the fork in the road, a commotion can be heard near the back of the Bronze Blaze’s caravan. The sounds of hurried gallops by a horse grow louder and closer. Orirmor looks back, halting the march briefly to investigate just what is happening. A rider in a cloak is choked up on his horse, making the beast gallop in a frenzied pace alongside the caravan.

“Halt your horse!” Orirmor roars, moving his own horse in the path of the coming rider. Her sees the worried face of a young dwarf appear under the cloak. The rider pulls back on the reins and halts his horse as safely and quickly as he can. “What is the meaning of this. Are you being chased? What reason do you have to run through so carelessly near my caravan?” The Lord Commander asks demandingly.

“Apologies sir.” The dwarf rider replies, his voice revealing his youth. “But, I must keep riding. I have an urgent message from King Harrem Blackbeard himself! Orcs have assaulted Kair Vorgen! I am to let the Elysians know of this. I apologize for any distress!” The messenger snaps the reins of the horse, bringing it back to the road ahead of the caravan and taking the path south towards Mahas. Orirmor leads his own horse up towards the road and back to the head of the caravan.

“Alright, no time to waste. Let’s get moving once more. We have another day of marching before we make camp again and I intend to be much closer to Gathela by then. Lets move!” Orirmor yells out in commands as he begins to lead the march of the caravan once more. Borli kicks up to match his Lord Commander’s pace and ride beside him.

“Do ye think its true?” Borli asks quietly. “Bloody orcs in Kair Vorgen? I dunnae ‘ow that could be.”

“If King Harrem truly sent out that messenger, then we have no reason to doubt the truth of it. I have never known a soul who would suggest that the King is deceptive.” Orirmor replied, sounding concerned. “We might want to pass on this message ourselves when we arrive in Gathela. If the orcs have grown so bold as to assault the spine, then there is no telling who they might be bold enough to face next.”

“Ye don’ think we ought to turn back? Our people’re getting’ attacked.” Borli asks.

“We shouldn’t inject ourselves into every conflict. The Dwarven armies are plenty formidable. Besides, we would be walking into a warzone. We would be at every disadvantage.”

“I dunnae care if dey are ‘formidable’. Orcs fight in numbers. They won’ head intah fight without the numbers to win. We got a duty to our people.”

“And those numbers would consume us just as well, if they consume the Dwarven armies. If we truly wish to help our people, then we would be better served joining the legions of the Elysian Republic and marching in. Meeting them on our terms. Anything less is reckless.”

“Aye, but since when ‘ave we every cared s’much about bein’ reckless?”

“Since we started to get old Borli. Do not let your concern cloud you. We will reach Gathela, and inform the people there of the rising Orc threat. And if the Elysians raise their legions, we will offer our services to them as well.”

“Fer a price I hope.”

“Of course for a price. We may have a desire to help our people. But we have bellies to feed and alloy to recover. Can’t miss a good chance at gold when it fall into our laps.” The pair laugh together. Riding along the well traveled dirt road. Orirmor had some concerns that he was keeping to himself. If the Orcs attacked Kair Vorgen, did the take any of the weapons or alloy for themselves? Was all the work he had been doing about to be undone in one fell swoop? Were a bunch of halfwit Orcs truly about to destroy his life’s work? Or would they not even care about the alloy to begin with? And further the safety of his company became suddenly more tenuous. Orcs this far north is an ill omen. It makes the roads even more dangerous. He will have to keep his eyes peeled. Even more than usual.

[Segmentia]

Month of Pralar, Year CDXVII of the Republic (Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age)

The marble slabbed roads of Novium had had a fine layer of fresh snow in the early hours of the chilling morning, and the wind's bite was harsher than usual, but that hadn’t deterred tens of thousands of citizens from lining the wide roads and avenues of the capital city of the Elysian Republic. Vendors had opened early, slaves and eager citizens alike had cleared the snow as best could be done, with petals of winter flowers replacing the snow as priests and priestesses lead their disciples in blessing the roads with the petals. The sun's rays had flooded the great parade way, and with the sun at their back the Legios came, announced by horn and march chant, the elation of the crowds almost drowning out the measured march of thousands upon thousands of Legionnaires.

First came the Standards, and the people threw themselves onto their knees in veneration. The bearers marched side by side, a symbol of combined honor. The ram of the II Legio, the closed fist of the X Legio, the simple emboldened numeration of the XI, and the snarling wolf of the XIX, with golden falcons topping the standards, gleaming in the sun's rays.

Next came the tattered and worn banners of the defeated foe, held at the waist and allowed to drag on the streets. When they reached the steps of the Senatorus they would be thrown to the ground before the viewing stand of Imperator Senatorus Tertius Sergius Cucuphas and other senior members of the Senatorus.

Following them were the four Legio Legatus Primus’ of the honored legions, two riding on white stallions and two on black. Potitus Quinctilius Aquilius of the II, Servius Licinius Victorinus of the X, Titus Maximius Auxientius of the XI, and Lucius Caninius Comitinus of the XIX.

“Think the old bastard is going to present the feathers?” Servinus asked, voice only heard by his fellows.

“To an Orc?” Lucius said with contempt. Had they not been trodding along a blessed road he probably would have spit upon the ground.

“To a defeated enemy, Lucius.” Potitus said laughingly, slapping Lucius on the back.

“I’m sure he will. It is tradition, after all, and our dear Imperator Senatorus would never waiver from tradition and ceremony.” Titus said dryly, his fellows laughing. Tertius Sergius Cucuphas was well known for bending and breaking tradition, ceremony, and ritual to his favor on a whim, but when one was as ambitious as the Imperator, one had to do what one must.

“Why so dry, Titus? Or should we address you as Senatorus Delegatus Legio now?” Potitus said, turning to favor a crowd of eager women with his charming smile as they rode by, pointedly ignoring Titus’ annoyed glare.

“Only once it is properly bestowed upon me, friend. And even then, only in public.” Titus said. A century and a half ago such honors were bestowed at celebrations such as this, promotion and favor announced before all assembled. It had been a good way to build grudges and flame tensions and resentment. The tradition had been stopped after the Matter of Honor, where several Legio Legatus Primus had come to sword blows and deaths over slighted honor and resentment. Now titles and honors were announced several days beforehand, allowing any heated tempers to cool, and conciliatory gestures to be made.

“As if any of us are going to visit you in the new territories, while you’re busy taming those orcs and making them useful citizens of the Republic.” Servinus grinned. Titus groaned at the thought. Thanks to the attack on the last orc stronghold during the winter being his idea, the Imperator Senatorus had seen fit to appoint Titus as a Senatorus Delegatus Legio, one of five members of the most senior Legio officers in the Republic, with four Senatorus Delegatus Legio answering to one Senatorus Delegatus Legio Primus. It was an honor to be sure, but one that came with a lot of headaches and politics.

On top of that, he had been appointed Praetor Legio of the newly conquered lands, which he would be tasked with bringing into the Republic, setting up administration, building infrastructure, and more importantly bringing the conquered orcs into line with the ideals of the Republic. An easy task it was not.

The four men quieted down as they approached the viewing stand of the Imperator Senatorus. As one they brought their closed fists to their hearts as they passed. They would then separate and move behind their respective Legio standards, as their legionnaires filed into the parade square, the cohorts arranged in terms of seniority, so that the first cohor of all four legios would march before the second cohor of all the legios, and such all the way down to the tenth cohor. The cohorts would fall into formation behind their Legio Legatus Primus.

Following the last of the tenth cohor were the prisoners, bound in chains and escorted by veteran heavy infantry of the famed I Legio. The orcs were large, taller and broader than the average Elysian by a noticeable amount. Bodies heavy with muscle and scars, their natural brutal strength and savagery on display for the sheltered citizens of Novium, to see what their legionaries had defeated and defended them from.

The orcs were the chieftain and his lieutenants, those that had been captured and not killed anyway, and some of the largest and strongest of their breed, brought to both be on display and to take in the splendor of the Republic. What chance had such savages stood against the mighty Elysian Republic? They marched with their chins up, taking in their surroundings, but they were not outwardly awed like so many other defeated enemies had been.

As the orcs entered the parade square they were herded off to a corner as the square was closed. The teeming crowds pushed to get closer, but the resolute line of Legio I held them back. Still, the massive square was filled with nearly twenty thousand legionaries, and thousands more citizens. A trio of horns rumbled deeply, and the four Legio commanders dismounted their stallions and strode forward, their standard bearers falling into step behind them. They walked over the discarded orc banners to stand before the viewing stand of the Imperator. He was a tall man, strong but not as strong as when he had been in the Legio, his body showing its age and the effects of a now semi-decadent life. Graying hair made him distinguished, and his eyes still held the fire of ambition and authority that Titus had always seen in them.

The speech was thankfully short, but meaningful. Honors and titles were bestowed upon all the commanders and their legios, some legionaries personally honored thanks to their feats of arms. And lastly came the orcs. With two of the honored legio commanders on either side of him, the Imperator called for the orcs to be brought before him. A host of additional guards also came forward. None doubted the skill, strength, and speed of those before them, even in chains. The orcs were marched over their own banners, and Titus noticed that they didn’t even delay. An Elysian, legionnaire or citizen alike would rather cut off their own feet before they trampled a standard.

The orcs were presented to the Imperator, and he walked up and down the line of prisoners once, before coming to a halt before their chieftain. He gestured to his guards, who hesitated but started removing the shackles of the orcs.

“As I ordered my legions to defeat you, now have I ordered you freed.” Imperator Senatorus Tertius Sergius Cucuphas said, the voice of a Legio Legatus Primus having not left him. He held out a hand and another guard handed him a necklace made of fine silk and falcon feathers. The Imperator held it up before the chieftain. “A worthy foe for yesterday, a slave today, a citizen of the republic tomorrow, should one wish it!” He proclaimed. The orcs themselves had been instructed on how they were to act.

If they wished to accept this offer of freedom, and a welcome to the Elysian Republic, they would bow forward and have the necklace placed on their necks. If they wished to die an honorable death, they would remain upright and defiant.

Titus’ face was passive as he watched the orc chieftain, clearly in thought. Titus noticed his hand was on the grip of his gladius, but then so was everyone else's. They all knew that just one of these orcs could kill the Imperator in a few quick seconds, snap his neck, cut his throat, bash his skull in. All were tense, except for the Imperator himself.

Finally the orc chieftain bowed. There was a cheer from the citizens that filled the square. The Imperator grinned and placed the necklace on the chieftains neck, then pulled out a small ceremonial dagger and made a small cut on his hand, then the orcs hand. Once a small pool of blood had formed, the Imperator clasped his hand with the orcs, turning the orc around to face the legions. He raised their hands up into the air, which looked rather amusing since the orcs arm was raised maybe halfway up.

“Civicae, Legio, Republic!” The Imperator Senatorus shouted. The parade square was filled with the raised voices of nearly twenty thousand voices as the assembled Legios took up the phrase, Titus and his fellow commanders.

“Civicae, Legio, Republic!”


Month of Hamor, 12th Day, Year CDXVII of the Republic (Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age)

The newest province of the Elysian Republic had been named Vetium, its primary population was bastard brutes of the Orc kin, two Legions of the Republic, and a few thousand civilians, mostly human, who had assembled fresh towns around the Legio forts and camps. Urgan watched as a group of humans, a mix of indentured slaves, engineers, and a few legionaries were digging, with some laying rocks. Roads, he thought idly to himself.

There was a powerful smack to his left calf as a voice erupted in his ear, or at least close to it.

“EYES FRONT, ORC!” Centurion Carbo screamed at him. Urgan stopped his urge to turn and look down at the human, instead fixing his eyes forward. He had wanted to see how these humans had defeated his kin in battle, and to do that he had decided to join their ‘Legio’. It had been a month now, and he was beginning to see the truths he had wished too. While any orc in his ‘centuria’ was more than a match for any human physically, he was seeing that the discipline of the Elysian Legio was a formidable tool. He was Urgan, an orc of eighteen winters, favored son of his mother, largest and strongest of his siblings, but in the legio he was simply another legionnaire, one small piece of a whole. Before if he had died his clan would have been weakened by the loss of one of its champions, in the legio his death would be marked, and he would be replaced. Perhaps by someone weaker, certainly, but he was not a vital part. It was an odd thing, but also oddly comforting. His death would not bring dishonor if the Legio went on to victory without him.

“Yes, centurion!” Urgan replied, standing further upright. His calf throbbed once or twice as Centurion Carbo marched on. Urgan felt pride swell in his chest from not even having bent his knee, Centurion Carbo was a brutal taskmaster, and he had seen such hits send humans to the knee.

He watched, carefully, as Centurion Carbo marched up and down the lines of orcs, nodding. “You bastards are going to be a real murderous lot whenever we get into the thick of it.” He said with approval. Urgan was happy that he had bothered to learn the Elysian language in his youth, his family had been the traders for the clan, exposing them to the trade languages. While he couldn’t speak it fluently, he understood it fairly well. All the orcs here did, to some extent, as a requirement to their service. It was still rough going, and orcs more knowledgeable in Elysia were in each Centuria to act as basic translators, if possible. Otherwise the officers had a translator following them.

The centurion would put them through six more hours of brutal drills, ending with a two hour quick march out of the settlement into the wilderness, where they would work on securing a camp in the Elysian manner. Ordered rows of tents, sentries posted, rudimentary defenses put in place. It was all so organized, Urgan thought as he was busy cooking the night's meal for his tent-group, and he was eager to see how it would perform in proper combat, as he had been absent in the last great battle.

Month of Hamor, Year CDXVII of the Republic (Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age)

As the dwarven caravan approached the walled major city of Mahas they would start to see more signs of civilization. Mills for lumber from the vast forests, occasionally passing through wide open areas where farms had sprouted up. They would eventually pass onto proper roads, and be subject to greater observation from passing Republic horse patrols. Soon they would be sharing the road with Legio Centuria’s, as the companies of Legionaries were called to muster properly from their various encampments.

The dwarven messenger had reached the city, and the Praetor Civicae of Mahas had issued the muster directly after sending his own messengers to the other major cities and settlements of the Republic. No doubt several Legions would be gathered and sent to aid their allies in the mountains. The five thousand strong mercenary company was halted well before the walls of the city by a Centuria blocking the road. They were given the options of pitching camp outside of the more built up settlement that in turn surrounded the walls, or to move on.

[Union Princes]

Kingdom of the Three Peaks

Although Aulean had all the time needed to bolster its defenses against the coming horde, the same could not be said about the strongholds beyond the Spine. Much to the worry and scorn of the Aulean prince, messengers from King Harrem Blackbeard carried cries for aid. Aid that cannot be denied against such a foe that sought only ruin and despair upon the dwarven people. But the numbers are far greater than initially expected though the news was ultimately unsurprising to the Longbeards. In their ancient minds, nothing new was to be expected from these races. Savage brutes require numbers to overwhelm their foes. Regardless, the eight thousand dwarven warriors, including eight hundred mounted lancers, that were initially raised now had an immediate destination thanks to the maps charted by the merchants and rangers.

Warmaster Gamli shall oversee two more dwarf armies be raised to form a defensive line to the southwest and southeast in the mountain range of the Spine. Without question, the presence of High King Thafrerlum is needed at Kair Vorgen to ensure that the Imperial Authority has been renewed in force. His wife, the High Queen Gleba Kirbar, shall serve in his absence as administrative regent until this crisis has been dealt with. A tough woman carved of solid marble and stone, the High King gave her one kiss goodbye before his departure to the South. Deep in his heart lay doubts that his current numbers, impressive as they are, may not be enough to stop the Greentide from finally undoing the legacy of his people.

Doubts that he quickly banished as he saw the banners of Aulean flying high in the breeze. His soldiers are most armored, his rangers swiftest, his riders fiercest, and his war engines more powerful than the rest of his kin. What have the orcs crafted that can undo dwarven-steel? For even the few magesmiths among his legions, the orcs cannot compete on skill alone. Looking off into the distance, Thafrerlum could only hope against hope that his kin in Kair Vorgen has stocked his keep properly prior to the siege. If not, the High King swore another vow to avenge the dead if he arrived at a tomb instead of a hold.

[Sao Nova Europa]

Year of 3949

Chung Hainli

General of the Grand Dominion of Shenha

General Chung Hainli and his army of 1,000 Ventari were retreating, after losing almost 100 warriors to the Orcs. Orc riders were chasing behind them. The columns of retreating Ventari headed into a valley surrounded by forests, and then stopped their retreat. They formed wide phalanxes of Ventari holding lances and swords, preparing for the Orc onslaught. The Orcs charged with the fury of a hurricane. Individually, the Orcs were far stronger than even the strongest of Ventari; but the Ventari were disciplined and working together as a team. They held their line and stopped the advance of the Orcs.

It was then that the horns blew. Hundreds of Ventari emerged from the surrounding forests and charged at the Orcs from all sides. The hunters had become prey. The Ventari were cutting down the Orcs without mercy. The orders were clear; no prisoners were to be taken. Every 'barbarian' was to be slain. Blood soaked the ground as the Ventari massacred their opponents. Screams and the sound of steel clashing echoed across the valley in an awful cacophony.

By the end of the day, almost the entirety of that Orc tribe had been exterminated. The Ventari celebrated their victory with wine, food, and a good night's sleep. That was the Dominion-Orc War: a series of ambushes and guerilla actions. The Ventari were smart enough to know that physically they could not match the Orcs, so they were using every trick in the book to gain an advantage. General Chung Hainli was especially proficient in laying ambushes and had emerged as a war hero.

In the past weeks, he had lured Orcs into an abandoned village which he put on fire with flaming arrows; had thrice led Orcs to ambush by using fake retreats; had led a night raid into an Orc camp; had assassinated top-ranking Orc leaders. His success was such that he had been awarded a jade sword by the Royal Court, an exquisite gift granted only to the favorites of the Overlord. Yet the war was far from over. There still were many battles to be fought.

[Imperialisium]

Year of 3949
The Green Omen
Orc-Ventari War

The Green Omen, as some in various lands with astronomers watching the Heaven's for signs and portents were come to call this sudden migration tied to a roving star, was not abated by the stalwart resistance of the Ventari of the Grand Dominion of Hainli, rather like the course of a river accelerated to the timescale of a mortal man, the herd of tribes shifted. Flowing through the easterly lands of the Ventari as they moved Northward. Thousands upon thousands, still tens of thousands, but for now the core lands of the bird-men were safe. As the Orc tribes skirted the eastern shires and hamlets of the Dominion. But the portents, and the roving star as it drew closer, would be one of concern. What force had driven the Orcs to such a venture? To such sudden and rampant aggression as to surge forth from their jungle and mountain lairs to strike out like a thunderstorm over hill and dale. None could be for certain, until nearly a month since the stars sighting, astromancers and those sensible to arcane movements of the world felt a shift and a churn. A gut-wrenching sickness that felled dozens of mages, wizards, and sorcerers across Ard'Tella. The star broke across the sky in the eleventh hour to strike lands just east of the Spine near the northern break in the vast mountain chain directly south of the Aulean, north-west of the Elysians, and north by north-east of the Hainli.

Thunder and dust smoke the surface of the surrounding landscape with all the force of a hundred hurricanes. Trees for leagues around were leveled, uprooted and tossed aside like rotted twigs, and the clouds circled as if punctured with a terrible wound. The dark star, Udishi, as it was called by the Orcs in their harsh tongues, had arrived and with its force it left a circular scar. A pockmark like those that disfigure the cheeks of those that survived contraction of the bloody pox.

The Orcish migration and movements merely hastened as tribes all along the Spine and adjacent lands surged forth toward the smote crater.

Kair Vorgen

Tinging and sparks, the rise and fall of bronze pickaxes repeated like the passage of the world around the Great Sun, endless and without pause. Trundling wheelbarrows and hoisting buckets filled with ore giving a constant spewing flow of mineral wealth to the inhabitants above them. For the mines of Kair Vorgen were deep and extended more than a quarter league beneath the surface of the earth. Rising and falling like the sun and the moon in the sky.

"Ahh! Ya swing well for a manling!" came a gruff voice from the dimness of the mine shaft. The short and stoutness of the emerging figure, the soft glow of candlelight orbs crafted by Dwarven glass smiths giving some visibility in the gloom, stood before the figure who in a show of exhaustion turned to lean on his pickaxe.

"Well enough for keep."

"Aye, well enough indeed. Come, the day is over, we collect pay and make for the ale founts!" The short and stout figure turned rather nimbly and moved away. Leaving the figure to lay down the pickaxe and move forth. Following the stout figure out into a more well-lit area were others gathered. All were short and stout compared to the lone man that was with them. Easily standing head, shoulders, and upper chest above the tallest of the Dwarven workers.

"Sixpence I 'ear on the grog tonight. Ole' Sneirfrsun looking to get rid of some aging casks. Eh, manling, how yer' constitution for our drink?"

"Fine last time I drank."

"Bah!" a pat on the back as the minors began rotating a hand crank that started to raise the square lift up one, two, three intersections of mine shafts before they got off onto a wide space. Other workers were milling about and heading down a central thoroughfare carved through the rock. Until they came upon some gates with guards bearing short spears who parted to let the hundred odd miners past. A cloud of lights before them as they came upon one of the districts of Kair Vorgen. Mansions and smitheries of the Dwarves rising and extending through the vast vaulted, carved, ceilings of their hold. Balconies adorned with cave plants and glowing flowers gave a pleasant atmosphere. As the cool air kept at perfect temperature in this subterranean landscape. A waterfall cascaded into the distance down into the depths of the many dark lakes of the Hold. Were the Dwarves could collect and steam water for drink and cooking.

* * *

A ferocious belch, laughter abounds, as Dwarves thronging squat tables slammed empty stone mugs down onto the granite table. The lone man among them took a steady draught to a rowdy approval of the dwarves. Even as his face betrayed the dislike for the sharp, heavy, and earthy drought that almost had the texture of wet soil in his mouth which burned by the strong liqueur within the drink. Slamming down the mug he let out another belch much to the amusement of the Dwarves.

"Aye, Man--."

Tome

One of the Dwarves at another table spoke what all thought, "Was that a watch bell?"

Brrrrrrrr

A heavy horn blast echoed through the expanses of the dwarven hold. A bellowing warning, a call to arms, and immediately the Dwarves were stirred. Many rushed out of their places of entertainment with heavy footfalls. Racing to homes or places of refuge. Shouts and screams from dwarven women and children in the smooth flagstone streets. The clinking of metal shod boots and jingling of mail and plated bronze as Dwarven soldiers in the livery of Kair Vorgen's King raced towards Southern archways. To the Southern Galleries and Deeps. The call and murmurs of the people around them was all that were needed. Orcs had breached the Southern Deep gates from the Karacadoi Depths which were an unsettled passage into a series of caverns reaching into the other side of the Spine. Hundreds if not thousands of them.

"What is going on," said the Man as a Dwarven officer strode by shouting orders. The Dwarf turned to the man, "I would make for the Upper galleries near the North Gate and depart, Manling, the Green Ones have come for our riches!" The Dwarves bronze battle mask etched in a snarling face caught the globe light menacingly.

The Man turned and made in the direction the officer indicated without seemingly a second thought Only stopping to go into a small room with a man-sized bed and there he rummaged underneath a pair of loose stones to heft out a small sack with a helm strung on the side. A long sword in a black scabbard which he belted on swiftly before making his exit. Weaving through the Dwarven streets and up staircases, legs burning with the ache of the days toil, until he reached the top and looked out. There, far below, well past where he had been reveling, he could see a struggling whirlwind of Dwarven warriors and larger, Orc, shadowy shapes. The Orcs had breached into the South-central district. Throngs of Dwarven civilians moved like a tidal wave upwards and out.

"Hurry up!"

Came a voice behind and the man turned and saw the great Bronze gates to the Middle galleries beginning to close. The man broke into a run and barely passed the threshold as the gates shut. "There are still women and children," voiced the man in accented South Dwarvish. The Dwarf guard blinked and adjusted his bronze armor, "We are closing the main gates. The gates below will remain open as long as possible. The filth has taken the thirty-sixth hall and overrun the mines from here to the Twenty-Second Great Stair." Effectively they had breached a sixth of the Hold, primarily the lower reaches, rampaging and pillaging.

"The North Gate?"

"Shut. Orcs have come up the Elysian road, many slaughtered by their ilk on the byway, the Hold is barred. No one can get out. No one can get in."

* * *

Time was different underground and the Man moved from one hall to the next. The Dwarves could withstand siege for years with their reserves of food stock and water sources. And so, the Man had taken shelter among the civilians asking for news and if the Dwarves had cleared the Elysian Road. But to no avail. The Orcs kept trying to assail the gates and interior battlements while the Dwarven armies had withdrawn to wait the Orcs out.

Until on the fifteenth day as the Man reckoned, as he moved in the Nineteenth Hall adjacent the interior Western District Gate a deep boom echoed and shook the very foundation of the hold. Something outside the hold had happened by reverberated through rock and dirt. The man stumbled for a moment with the aftershock. The clash of steel suddenly erupted as the Man looked in horror as parts of the gate had been bent and grounded from its great bronze hinges. And through the gaps leapt a growing torrent of snarling figures. Women and children ran past the man and the Orcs were upon them. The man swarmed by the passing civilians was knocked to the ground and would surely have been trampled had not his luck of landing near a plinth.

The man rose a roar from above caught his attention as he drew his blade quickly to catch a stone axe head in a shower of sparks. The man rolled and kicked before rising with a feral swing that struck the Orc in the neck. Opening up arteries and releasing greenish ichor onto the stone floor. The Orc clutching his throat stumbling to die a few steps later. But more would come and the man pulling his helm loose fitted it onto his head. In his mind the name spoken in the voice of his dead father and ancestors rang. Hector.

[Ceystile]

Victor Falco/Hildy Crowbeak
Year of 3949

"Vic! Open the door!" Hildy was pounding on the ornately carved oak door that led to the entrance of Victor's bedroom, where he'd been shut away ever since he'd fallen ill. There was faint sobbing on the other side and standing beside Hildy was Tal, who was very busily pacing back and forth with enough force to burn a hole in the floor if he wished. "The nurse says you're not contagious, so open the freaking door already! We're worried about you, Tal's worried about you!"
Speaking of Tal, the young knight abruptly let out a scream and threw himself in the nearest chair. "I can't take this anymore, Hilds! I haven't been able to see him for a week, and Mrs. Falco said it was bad!"

"I'm sure he just doesn't want to get you sick, Tal." The assassin went over to her friend and put her hands on his shoulders, giving them a squeeze.
"He can't, it only affects wizards...at least that's what I heard. And his brother..." Bertram had been very aversely affected by the mysterious illness that'd suddenly swept through the magic population, he wasn't dead but judging by Vic's tear-stained letter to them, he was so near it that he may as well have been. "Poor Mrs. Falco, she says it's not looking good."

Speaking of the sorceress, the door swung open and both Tal and Hildy darted up as if burned. Beatrice Falco stood in the doorway, her brown skin highlighting the redness of her eyes. Normally they found her a strong, comforting presence but now it seemed that even a breath would knock her over. “Lady Falco, are you alright?! How’s Vic?”

“The healers say he’ll make a full recovery but…” A quiver of her lips cut off her words and Tal walked over to her, taking her hands. “He’s strong, Mrs. F. He’s too damn stubborn to die.” Even though there was uncertainty in his own words, they had to be strong for the man they all loved. Beatrice nodded, smiling at him. “Thank you, Talfryn.” She turned toward the door.
“Victor, honey. Your friends want to see you.”
“No, I don’t want them to see me like this!” Victor’s voice was raspy, sounding unlike him at all. Tal and Hildy looked at each other and went into the room anyway, seeing the young wizard had his bed curtains drawn. “Vic, love…” Tal cracked the curtains open only to be met with a shout.
“Don’t! Don’t look at me, I’m hideous!” he shrieked as if burned. “The doctors say…they say it’ll leave scars.”

“That’s it?!” Hildy snapped. “Boy, that’s nothing a little makeup can’t fix! Would you rather be dead or have a few scars?!”
Tal sat down in an empty chair next to the bed, sighing. “Vic, we miss you, okay? Besides, I’d love you even if you looked like a troll.”

“Is Bertie…?”
“We’re not sure.”

[Antimersia]

Bronze Blase encampment
The outskirts of the city of Mahas
Elysian Republic

The city of Mahas is not yet as built as many of the more developed lands of the Elysian Republic. Though its roads are already well paved and in time the city will be built up to a much higher standard of grandeur than it currently sits at. And that building will likely go much quicker with the orc population within these lands. A population that is not plentiful, but is prevalent enough to be impossible to miss. A fact that many of the Bronze Blaze finds odd and off putting. Orirmor especially, in light of the recent attacks, is having trouble feeling secure living so close to so many of them.

Even worse, the Bronze Blaze was denied harbor within the city limits. Normally, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable thing to demand. When a band of five thousand well armed and well trained mercenaries arrive at your door step, you want to keep them at an arms length away. Close enough to hire should the need arise, but close enough to keep away if their services are bought by an adversary. But, seeing orcs come and go from Mahas with seemingly little issue, perturbs Orirmor over what he perceives as a bastardized double standard. One that he vents to Borli about in his tent.

“Dunnae get yet knickers in a twist. If the boys in red wannae live wit the orcs we oughtta let ‘em.” Borli says, trying to calm the pacing Orirmor.

“They would have received word by now, would they not? That messenger would have had to have beaten us here by several days. They know of the attacks on the Kair. And yet they allow the enemy within their walls. I thought the Elysians were much less welcoming than this. Especially after the many times they’ve denied us access to their lands.” Orirmor replies, unrest teeming off every word.

“Aye, they would know by now. But that dunnae mean a damned thing. Sahma dem orcs was wearing armah. They’s in the Legion.”

“I saw that as well. Does it not concern you? Does it not make you question whether the Elysians can be trusted at a time when the Orc warbands grow so bold?”

“Trust? Elysians? Who’s fuckin’ trustin’ anyone right now? We’s Mercs, Orirmor. They dunnae trust us, we dunnae trust them. Ways that is it.”

“I suppose you’re right. But we came here in hopes of contract work. We need to at least be able to trust that they will pay us when all is said and done.”

“Well they ain’t payin’ orcs as much as human soldiers. Can count on that. We dunnae know if they’s gonna sign us on. Less worryan, more plannin’.”

“Exactly,” Orirmor nods in agreement, before picking up his helm and sliding it onto his head. The metal helm obscuring most of his face. And most of what remains visible is beard. “Time to go speak with the Praetor Civicae. We should get this all sorted out.” Orirmor turns to leave. Heading, unarmed, to the city of Mahas, ready to ask the first member of the Legion that he sees to take him to the Praetor Civicae of Mahas, with the intention of hashing out a contract and finding out just what is going on with this orc presence.

[Zedeshia]

Waters of the River Mâdhan, Near Sadhanur
Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age

A bitter wind swept across the surface of the dark waters as ashen reeds along the banks, powdered with light snow, sighed and shifted in its wake. It was a cold night, just before the East's late winter gave way to spring, the type that would freeze any man to the bone if he came unprepared. Above the reach of mortal men, the heavens, a shining sea of stars upon a midnight canvas, were partially obscured by drifting gray clouds and swirling mist. Below, everything was cast in deep shadows, the frigid air pitch black and the river like flowing ink.

That was until the shape of a modest fishing boat emerged, passing along the current, a single lantern, fiery orange in color, illuminating the path ahead. Compared to all around it, it was like one of the shining gems of days long past, brilliant as a beacon and glimmering with great light that reflected across the cold water and ice. Slowly, ever so slowly, the vessel glided forward, until its passengers could, at last, come into sight. Clutching the lantern with desperate care, a boy, scarcely in his first years of youth, leaned over the prow, pressing against the side of the bow to keep his balance. Despite the coarse woolen cloak on his back, he shivered deeply, arms just barely able to keep straight under the weight of the light. The poor soul had been standing in miserable vigil for over an hour, and so young could not handle the harsh weather. Carefully glancing at the edge of his vision, he observed the man at his side, who with steady strokes pushed the ship along with a pair of old oaken oars. It was his grandfather, wizened and thin by many long years, with grayed hair tied long behind his back and ashen-pale of face like all Men of Dâzharhûn. Were it any other man, his many moons would have surely meant being inescapably frail and helpless, but, unlike most, he was filled with strength and vigor, hands calloused and well worn by many a day out on lake and sea, and even in the ice and gale needed no coat or cover to endure the cold.

There were no words between the two as the craft carried on, only the soft clank of the lantern swaying side to side and the sound of the oars passing through the river, until at last the old fisherman sighed and turned to his kin.

"That is enough for now, boy. I am familiar enough with these ways to continue the rest without you checking over the front."

At his words, the boy hurriedly nodded before tying the lantern to a clasp upon the boat's side with a worn chain and quickly finding what comfort he could huddled away from the worst of the gusts. Soon his curious gaze turned towards the other end of the vessel, drawn to another pair whose faces could just barely be made out in the lantern's warm light. Donning thick cloaks of their own and with heavy hoods pulled over their brows, it was two men, scarlet marks of the Cult of the Dragon painted across their faces in fine detail. One was young, in his hands a drum of tanned sheepskin, which he played at a slow rhythm, wordlessly humming the tune of an age-old hymn beneath his breath, echoing across the open night air. The other was much older, almost the age of the fisherman himself, if not even more so. Bundled in cloth, he grasped something out of sight while letting out a whispered prayer of his own. The boy knew not if it was in truth or but a trick of the dim light, but for a brief moment, he thought he saw the bright flash of gold from beneath its folds. Leaning into his grandfather's ears, the child quietly spoke.

"Who are they?"

Shifting in his seat, the fisherman's eyes focused upon the two, parsing his lips. Little good ever came when speaking carelessly of the holy men of Dâzhâvad. At last, he gave an answer in a rumbling voice, words keenly chosen.

"A priest and his acolyte, child. This is not the first time I have ferried their likes to the sacred city before while on pilgrimage. Now hush. You must learn when and where not to press such matters, for... your own sake."

Many questions lingered in the youth's mind, but taking heed of his grandfather's advice, he pulled away, again silent. The boat continued onwards along the shores, twisting across sudden turns and rocky passes with an ease that could only be learned through many seasons of experience, the clerics' song and prayer lasting on without even one moment of pause the entire span. By time the moons, thin crescents glowing through the snowy clouds, had begun their gradual descent towards the horizon, the high walls of Sadhuran loomed in the distance. Seeming taller than a thousand men standing shoulder-on-shoulder, its ebony towers even in the late night could be seen, seeming as if taloned claws reaching out from the earth and into the air. Gazing upon the city's distant silhouette, the old ferryman turned and began to speak, when from above there was a sudden light.

At once there were no words or song or prayer, nor even pound of drum or stroke of oar. Instead, in total silence, the passengers gazed into the sky. All of the clouds and cover from before had vanished, cleared within an instant, and eyes grew wide as a great star, known to the most learned of the priests as Udûrûn, plummeted down from the heavens into someplace afar, shaking the earth asunder with great tremors as is it passed. In its path, a wide trail of dark red and violet appeared, as if the night sky had been torn into two and bled onto the world below. The hearts of the priests beat wildly in their chests as they felt the very matter of the world twist and reshape violently, and from the mouth of the eldest, along with an unheeded trail of sickly blood, only two words faintly escaped.

"Dâzhâvad's Might..."

---

Dragonblood Hallows, Mount Reduzhur

As the night gave way to day above, sun rising past the horizon as the last marks of the star's violent descent at last faded, darkness still lingered in places no living man of Dâzharhûn ever had laid sight upon. All but one, that is. Passing through thick stone and ancient gates of iron, shuttered forevermore closed countless centuries ago, came a man, dressed from head to toe in robes of gold and scarlet even more rich in color than the dawn over Sadhuran. Moving step by step, but without any moment of pause or hesitation, he followed the long winding paths and passed old walls inscribed with runes of power. He trod over strange growths of plants and vines that sprouted from beneath piles of pale gold and discarded tools, whose dwarven craft had once glimmered with sparkling luster, yet had in time grown dull and rusted. Deeper and deeper he made his way through the ruins within the heart of Mount Reduzhur, yet already so far beneath the earth, he marched onwards still. As the way grew narrow and the streets of fine brick faded, he approached the deep roots of the mountain, shadows growing long and all light but a torch held at his side soon growing dark. With each new step, a thick tension simmered through the air, and a faint sound of fell voices grew ever louder, whispering into his ear.

Yet even deeper he delved, until at last coming upon a set of great doors, not of dwarven make, as before, but that of Man, and on its sides in elaborate gold and silver, rubies and sapphires, were scenes of long-forgotten days inscribed with great care. At last coming to a stop, the man bowed his head in reverence, before pushing the doors aside and entering what laid beyond. At once the light of his torch died, snuffed out by shifting shadows so dark they ate away at the fire as if ravenous beasts upon their prey. But the man had no further need for it, falling to his knees and bowing so low that the mask upon his head pressed hard against the cold stones below. The voices seemed to swirl all around him with a great roar, blending together into a single chaotic cacophony of shouts and wild cries in an unknowable tongue. Then, they slowly dimmed to whispers once more, and rising, the great Steward of the Dazhârhunids gazed at the sight in front of him. In the deep shadows, the shape of a dragon's skull, more than twenty times his size, sat just barely in sight, flesh rotting and reforming, patches of white bone revealed before disappearing from sight. Lying on the floor just before its maw, a great engraving lay, and drawing a dagger of pure gold from his side, Alâkhad slashed along the inside of his palm, and watched as his blood, black in color, fell upon its shape as he recited a prayer in the harsh language of his people.

"Adârâm khaldare, sâdhûra rhenâm a haldâzhâdûrhas, Dâzhâvad"

His voice took on a strange quality, as guttural and twisted as the whispers all around him as he spoke on.

"Great One, just this night the sky was torn asunder by the falling of a star from the heavens, and many among the ranks of your loyal priesthood fell ill, while others have waxed in strength of your blessings as never seen before. What is your will?"

A power, dark and terrible, shone through the eyes of the great skull and passed through every crevasse of the chambers, as if gazing upon the Patriarch, body and soul. Then, at last, the Great Dragon spoke to his Oracle, and a voice deeper and far more ancient than even the vast seas and great mountains resounding from the recesses of his mind.

"Black tidings fast now soon approach,
As dusk of the Age quickly sets.
Dark waves across the world shall crash,
And the evening stars’ light slowly die.
Blood unending shall soon out spill,
And high undying kin from West fall,
And all mortal men to meet their doom.
When the season is full, upon the ides,
March, march west, then westward more still,
To your kindred’s old halls in lands cold,
Between high mounts and churning sea;
Then hence thereon if fate so wills.
Bring ruin to any man, dwarf, or elf,
Who dare then oppose my dark purpose,
And lay waste to their lands to ash,
Until brought back to these grim hallows,
Is a jewel of Sharra, in death undying.
For great gift and pact reforged,
Thereafter shall be given by me."

As the words of the prophecy entered the Oracle's mind, dark shadows leaped from along the walls and surged across his cloak, binding themselves to his ceremonial sword, dagger, and an amulet of Dâzhâvad always held close to his heart. Without needing to question, the Steward could sense that they were blessings of great magic from his god, meant to be used only when the time is right. Then, all was suddenly still again.

"It will be done, Great One."

Once more Alâkhad bowed deeply, before rising to his feet and facing the chamber's doors to leave just as quickly as he came. Beneath his mask, a twisted smile soon grew at the thought of days to come. Yet he was not alone in this, for lurking deep beneath the Mountain, out of sight, the Great Dragon waited, ever patient, its dark designs for power anew not to be denied.

[Imperialisium]

Kair Vorgen

Thrice! Hector swung the black blade which had claimed his childhood friends with the knowledge of years. Thrice, the body of an Orc warrior thudded to the flagstones of the Dwarven hold. Thrice, again, he let out a roar of triumph and yet thrice more the Orc's kept coming. His arms ached with each stroke of the blade, and with the grunt of effort in parrying the next assault. Hector was not alone in his sudden impressment in the defense of this particular Hall of the Dwarven realm. Dwarven warriors and watchmen, mainly sentries nearby, had come to aid his endeavor and as such the black blade was joined by the bronze axes, spears, and scimitars of the Dwarves. The light of torches giving their blades a fiery hue as they plied a crimson trade. The stone slickening with the blood of Orc and Goblin. But it was many against few. Where one Orc fell another took its place. Where one Orc retreated in wounding another stepped to take its place. The initial wild melee centred on the impromptu defense by Hector of the Dwarven civilians, now long since fled, becoming an increasingly conventional stand-off of one group versus the other. Advancing a few paces, lunging to strike, before retreating to the collective safety of adjacent companions.

"Kakaratulu Krim-Pa-Thul!" The cry echoed from the Orc rear which had now been widened as the greenskinned invaders had widened the entrance. Thud and dust fluttered into the air. Thud and something larger than any Dwarf, Man, or Orc erupted into the room. A Southron troll of the Jungles, its mottle green-brown skin contrasting with the mute colors of the Hall's stone, and with a bellowing roar which shook the ear drums of the defenders the troll advanced, and in its grip of which brought many a hesitation for the erstwhile defenders was held a ghastly stone axe. The Troll was upon them in a few steps, and its advance came unabated save for a brave Dwarf which stepped forth and hurled his bronze spear like a darting javelin, and his aim was true. Impaling itself into the trolls breast the creature shrieked. But its hide was thick and its musculature impressive. If it were any lesser creature like an Orc that Dwarf's heroic throw would have skewered the enemy in place. Now, with an angry yank the Troll ripped it free and tossed it back. The Dwarves raising their shields in time for the returning missile to glance off in a shower of sparks. The troll swung its weapon and carnage ensued. Where its axe went bronze armor rent and caved under the extreme weight behind the blow. Where it landed Dwarves died. The Orcs surged forth with glee as the Dwarven defenders wavered and Hector, tired but steadfast, could only raise his blade high above his head and yell in the tongue of Dwarfkind, audible as it were even over the dint of battle.

"Lo! Sons of Stone! Warriors of Kair Vorgen, my brothers! Why do you flee? From this fell beast! Surely, the Sons of Smiths and Slayers of yore have vanquished many a greater fiend!" And with that he charged the Trolls flank. The Beast turning, sensing the threat as it were, and as it did so it swiped with its axe. Hector ducking only within a hairs breadth of death before rising and with a great swing he delivered a great slicing blow behind the Troll's knee. Heard arching high in painful wail as it sank to one knee. Hector raised his blade for a counterstroke but was bucked asunder. Thrown to the ground by a sudden tackle of an Orc eager for blood. Raising its own bone mace above to smash Hector's face the man swung one handed and crippled the creature's left wrist. Kicking it off Hector just barely saw out of the corner of his eye death rapidly approaching. Throwing himself to the side the Trolls axe plunged downward where he had been but moments before. Sparks flying up from the ground as stone met stone and gristle. For the Trolls incidental savior was not to have the gesture returned, legs now amputated.

Hector rolled to stand, breath gasping from his chest as the beast advanced upon him. But there was still time to flee, to run and abandon his conscripted defense for it was not his city or people, perhaps it would have been wiser and infinitely safer to make for the doorway held for now by the diminishing sentries as the green tide came ever further like the coming of an evening tide. The memories of his short life coming before him now and the specters of long dead friends waiting for him by the door, to do what they would have done, but there behind before him and behind the Troll now coming before Hector in its full height. The ghost of his father and the late Northman smith of his old village, long from here in quaint mountain slopes to the North were surely no Orc had seemingly trod and the warmth of hearth could be his yet again, but no they would not urge him to flee rather it was looks of encouragement. Confidence and belief in the courage that had driven Hector to unsheathe his sword in the defense of those who could not defend themselves in a sudden hour of need, and with that Hector gave a great answering roar to the Troll and rose to meet it head on, the beast picking up its own pace to meet the challenge and swinging its axe as it did. A great wide stroke and a shower of sparks sprung as Hector parried with all his might. Glancing the blow off the blade and catching the troll's fingers and hands, opening great rivulets of red which spattered onto the stonework, but he did not stop there for Hector continued his quick advance and stapped forth upwards with all his might. The black blade sinking into the right eye of the Troll. Blade coming free as the beast jerked back, dropping its own weapon, but alas for the creature Hector was upon it still and with two great swings the creature's stomach was hewn with matching gashes of red which hemorrhaged onto the stonework now greased with its gore. Hector did not relent and mounted the creature with his booted feet on the beast's chest he drove the point of his sword into its neck. Erupting sprays of ichor as the creature entered a deathly rattle of a last breadth. Hector would have released a cry of triumph, but the creeping fingers of exhaustion was upon him, and his chest burned with the effort of sustaining life. He collapsed from the top of the beast. The weight of his mail feeling like bricks placed upon his shoulders and so he sank down to lie the slain creature as the din of battle continued around him...

The sound of booted steps drifted along the gallery as a figure in the livery of a Captain of the Kair Vorgen Hold Guard paused to look upon the dozens of corpses in the Hall. Moving down the staircase to the lower portion of the hall near where a breach had been made by the sudden seismic disturbance the booted feet paused. Stopping as their owner glanced at the form of a dead Troll and beside it the shallow breathing of a man. "Who is that?" asked the Dwarf Captain.

"A Manling, we do not know where he heralds or why he is here, when my company arrived to reinforce the surviving sentries here and drive back the breachers he was already there," the answering voice came down from the steps to stand by the Captain.

"A Manling...," mused the Captain as he stepped forward to look at the black longsword embedded in the throat of the troll, "Tell me, Watch-Captain, how many Manling do you know that carry Elf-Steel."

"None, my Prince." Prince, indeed, the Captain was no mere officer of the soldiery of Kair Vorgen. He was indeed Prince Errikam, eldest son of the King.

"None indeed, Watch-Captain."

"What are we to do with him?"

"If the accounts are true, and he was first to draw blade here in defense of our people, then only what is deserved."

A whistle sounded and several bronze shod boots marched forth to haul the man onto a makeshift gurney of shields. Rising with a grunt to carry the Manling warrior forth from the hall. Leaving Prince Errikam to glance at the blade and with a frown he reached up and with one foot planted on the trolls throat he wrenched it free and looked at the blade with the keen eye of one accustomed to the masterwork of smithing. Holding the blade gently in his grip he glanced at the flowing inscription barely visible in the blackened steel of the sword. Of its fine wrought hilt and pommel wrapped in white leather. The Prince left the Hall looking at the blade with curious abandon while Dwarf workers under a full company guard began to move forward to seal the breach and strip the dead for either burial or burning.

Soulythei

The Hainli, Dwarves, and Elysians were not the only ones to witness the peculiar precursor events to the striking of the star upon Ard'Tella. More than they and the Deepmen realized the sudden celestial gravity of its arrival. For in the tall white stone tower of Soulythei's resident mages a madness took over many. Some survived amid feverish dreams, some survived wounded, others crippled by gouging out their own eyes as visions of horror and darkness conquered their minds, and for those who had the wit for a speedy end to the violent self-infliction threw themselves from tall balconies to an untimely demise. The migration of the Orcs and Goblins North spurring a sudden desire to know more and end this threat before it could potentially turn South upon the black stone walls of the city. Thus, the men of Soulythei marched North with great haste. Their tall forms and wide gaits covering the leagues swiftly than any other race of Man could. For they were not of regular Mannish stock. They were Valôrëdain, Allies of the Elves, Elf-Friend, and through their connection and ancient long forgotten blessings visited upon them by higher powers the Valôrëdain had been gifted life and heartiness beyond the scope of other mortal Men. As such the sortie from Soulythei, some eight thousand spears strong, moved North rapidly and were gaining on the Orcs by the time the Hainli-Orc war had erupted.

The men of Soulythei coming upon the devastation only a week and a half after the events took place and it was here as they came upon the sights of recent battle the men of Soulythei stopped. They had known from old maps and tomes that this was the realm of an intelligent bird people. The Ventari, and that they should be careful. Thus, the men of Soulythei marched with banners high but swords sheathed and spears at rest. Their cavalry and knights for their polished armor caught the sun in gleaming colors of fiery bronze and silver. Indeed, the Valôrëdain were one of the few taught the smithing practices of the Elves and could forge the Elf-Steel for their warriors and mounts. Identified by the polished silver or mirror appearance of their arms and armors. Their pieces adorned by images, often gilded, of ocean or skyborne creatures. Important for a maritime people native to a land said by men of the Continent to be blessed.

As such when they finally came upon the Ventari host the men sent from Soulythei did not fan out into battle formations by remained in column as a trio of their number stepped forth. For even with the relatively close proximity of the Ventari and the Valôrëdain's city-colonies there was little to no contact between the two. Often it was indirect via merchants of men native to the continent or the odd dwarven caravan that brought tidings from the Hainli courts to the cities of Soulythei, Soilreithon, Adunaim, Vashnya, and Felargyr.

* * *

Far away, amid a smoldering crater, a hand reached to the sky and felt the warmth of a sun upon newfound flesh...

[Ceystile]

Victor Falco/Kriemhild Crowbeak
Falcon's Nest
Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you. Hildy, Victor and Tal were gathered around in Vic's sitting room, sharing the tea that the servants had brought. The walls faintly shimmered silver with the wards that Vic had put up at Hildy's request, she had insisted that it was a "private matter" after all. "My...boss has a client, see? A client that wants something taken care of."
"We're not assassins Hilds, I hope you know that." Tal drawled, while Victor was leaning against his shoulder reading a spellbook.
"Not asking you to help me kill anybody, the client requested a poison and they're willing to pay through the nose for the chance. It's quite a fat payday so I'll split the cash with you, if you big handsome fellows would protect me on my journey to the Spine."

"Why the Spine?" Vic asked, saying some of the first words he'd spoken since recovering from the mage-sickness. "That's dwarf land, what could you possibly want there?"
The type of poison the client wants is distilled from a specific type of flower, and it only grows in the regions of the Spine. Plus I think getting out will be a good chance to get you out of your funk, Lord Falco."
"I'm not in a funk." he hissed sharply.

"Vic, she's right. You've been in a funk since you fell ill." Tal reprimanded. "And maybe if we do some exploring, we can figure out what caused the sickness to begin with. Plus, nothing cures sadness like adventure." he nudged the wizard's side, bringing a brief smile to Victor's face.
"Fresh sea air will do you good." Hildy added. "And maybe we can find something that'll help your face, not that it needs much helping in my opinion."


Nine Days Later
The Dark Lady
Toward Mainland Ard'Tella
"Nothing but water for miles...I think I've almost forgotten what land looks like." Victor quipped as he peered over the ship's bow before turning his attention back to a small mirror, rustling around inside his rucksack for a small jar...it contained a cream that was the same deep brown color as his skin. "Nice batch Hildy, I appreciate it."
"No problem." The Mothwing flipped her hand airily. "I swear Vic, I'm a woman and I wear less makeup than you."
"Well yeah, you don't have pockmarks to cover up." Victor didn't look up, smearing the contents across his cheeks and nose. Hildy inclined her head toward him like some flame-colored bird.

"If it makes you feel better, I thought my freckles made me look like the ugliest person alive as a kid. People used to say I had dirt on my face...even stole some of my mother's medicines to try to get rid of them."
"I'm surprised you didn't poison yourself." The corners of the wizard's mouth twitched up into a small smile. Hildy let out a loud chuckle. "Oh I almost did, several times in fact. Mum came home one day and found me on the floor, blue and foaming at the mouth."
"Oh my gods."
"Yeah, that was fucking terrifying...near death experiences always are though. I learned that day that other people's shittiness wasn't worth nearly dying for and said fuck 'em, now I love my freckles."


Tal was sitting a little ways across from them, flipping through a map. "Hey guys, when do you think we'll reach the Spine? Feel like we've been on the water forever!" he pouted a bit, glancing between his friends. Victor chuckled and winked at him. "My love, most Deepmen have their sea legs before they're born. Whatever happened to yours?"
"I must've not gotten mine in my "Deepmarch Baby Starter Package."
Vic turned toward the wind, face pursed in thought. "I don't think we have long to go now, the Captain says we made good ground."

[Antimersia]

The deep Forests outside of the City of Mahas
on the border of the Elysian Republic

For a band of mercenaries like the Bronze Blaze, having a steady supply of food for the thousands of mouths that need to be fed is essential. Even with the traders and artisans that travel with the company, food is not plentiful. And taking every opportunity to hunt is paramount. Whenever the company makes camp, as they have outside of the Elysian Republic, the blaze send out no fewer than five hunting parties to get as much meat as they can kill and carry. One such party, made up of three dwarves and one man of the Crescent Isles, has picked up the trail of a boar and is headed deep into the forest to follow it.

The head of this hunting party, Duramdus Merrybreaker, kneels down as he inspects a hoof print in the mud. The print is filling with water as the rain picks up. Lightening filling the sky. Duramdus, wearing leather armor instead of his usual dwarven mail, pulls a hood over his head to keep him relatively dry. He turns towards the other men of the party; the other dwarves, Rustarlig and Tufroic, as well as the human, Aristeas.

“The boar passed through here. It was running. Should be wearing itself out by now.” Duramdus explains to the men as he pulls a bow off of his shoulder and holds it ready. But, before he can utter another word, a sudden crack echos between the trees. A sound that the men know all too well as the sound of a bone being snapped.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell. What dya suppose did that?” Tufroic asks, speaking softly.

“It could be anything. Might have been a branch that broke after being struck by lightening.” Aristeas replies, also speaking softly. Almost whispering, as he knows the danger of making too much noise. Even with the rain almost drowning it all out.

“You know good an well that weren’t no branch. We all heard that same sound hundreds of times. Either someone beat us to that boar, or the boar beat someone else down trying to get away.” Rustarlig argues.

“Aye, I agree.” Duramdus injects, “Weapons at the ready. And move quietly. Whatever made that sound isn’t far.”

Duramdus nocks and arrow, Rustarlig draws his broadsword, Tufroic pulls out an ax, and Aristeas pulls out his bow as well. The pair move slowly and quietly towards the source of the snapping sound. As they approach, small sounds of fidgeting and visceral mauling grow in volume. Lightening illuminates the dark sky, showing the source of the sounds. The boar was taken by hunters other than themselves. A band of goblins had beaten them to their prey. It was hard to count in the evening rain, but Duramdus noted at least fifteen of the nasty creatures. Their greyish green skin splatter with blood and gore as they tore the boar’s body to shreds. They don’t even appear to be eating the porcine beast. Just tearing it apart and reveling in the kill. Sharpening its bones into spear tips. One goblin pulls out the back teeth from its mouth and begins to chew on them like confectionery treats. Duramdus draws his bow back, and slowly breaths in. He exhales, taking aim, and sets loose the arrow on empty lungs. The arrow zips through the air, almost silently. The most faint whistle cuts through the white noise of the rain before stopping as the shot lands. The sharpened arrowhead piercing the eye of a goblin, burrowing into its skull and knocking it onto its back. Ending the life of the creature almost instantly. The sight of one of their brethren dying sends the goblins into a frenzy. They screech and yell, trying to sound loud and intimidating as they look for the source of the arrow. Grabbing their weapons, most of them made of bone, and charging in the direction of the hunting party. Duramdus lets loose another arrow, landing square in the throat of a charging goblin. It coughs and sputters as blood fills its throat and lungs. Suffocating it before blood loss could take its life first.

Duramdus let’s loose another arrow, slicing the arm of a third goblin before dropping his bow and unsheathing a dagger. The small horde descends upon the hunting party. The sounds of Dwarven metal clashing against bone harmonizes with the thunder. The music of battle plays on as goblin after goblin is felled. Rustarlig swings his broadsword, bringing it down on the shoulder of a goblin and cleaving it in twain. But before he can lift the heavy sword up again three more of the devilish beasts jump atop him and begin shoving shanks made of wood and chitin into his neck and any other slightly exposed area between his armor. Aristeas swings his bow, smacking the goblins off of Rustarlig. Drawing three arrows in quick succession and dispatching the attackers. Rustarlig drops to his knees, the cuts and gashes to plentiful and too deep. Aristeas tries to get him to stand and fight. But the light leaves Rustarlig’s eyes as his lest breath leaves him. Tufroic begins to get surrounded. But with a single spin of his body with his ax out stretched he manages to repel the advance of the encircling goblins as behead two in the process. Aristeas fires arrows at the others as Duramdus comes up from behinds and slits the neck of yet another. The three remaining mercenaries regroup and place their backs against a tree as they stare down another ten goblins advancing on them.

“They just keep coming!” Aristeas yells over the rain.

“And we’ll keep fightin’ lad!” Tufroic roars out, keeping his ax ready.

Lighting strikes nearby. Hitting a tree and causing it to fall. The log ignites from the lightening, making a flaming log slam into the ground between the hunters and the goblins. Landing on top of one of the beasts and crushing it in the pricess. The flame as well as the falling tree frightens the remaining goblins. They jump back, scurrying away in retreat. Giving the hunting party just enough space and time to collect the body of Rustarlig and retreat. Duramdus throws his ally’s corpse over his shoulder, and the three begin to jog back toward the way of camp. They will have much to report when they return. The goblins are getting closer. Their brother in arms has been slain. And yet the thing all three are most focused on is that they are relieved to be escaping with their lives.

[Segmentia]

City of Mahas, Month of Hamor, Year CDXVII of the Republic (Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age)


It took nearly all day for the Dwarven mercenary captain to be seen by the Praetor Civicae of Mahas, every potential inquiry by the Dwarf being met by a simple ‘The Praetor is busy.’ by the vigilant, if bored, guards at the doors of the Admistorum, and indeed runners and Legio officers and other city officials could be seen entering and leaving all day. Finally, as the sun began to set and the shadows grew long, and the smell of roasting meats filled the air, the Dwarf was ushered in. He was escorted through the stone and marble structure until coming to a richly decorated room. Furs and hides were arranged on the floor, and thick leather bound tombs lined shelves on the walls. Behind a desk sat a bookish looking man, though not frail or weak looking, who was busy writing something down.

“They tell me you wish to offer your services, master dwarf, to the Legio, for the current business against the orcs to the west.” Praetor Civicae Mettius Claudius Iuba spoke without looking up from his work..

Settlement of Orcus, province on Vetium, Month of Hamor

The new settlement had been coming along rather well. The orcs, while still somewhat and understandably angered and resentful at their loss and being conquered, did seem to adapt to the moderately harsh rule of the Legion, and the structure of the Civicae. The orcs weren’t stupid or backwards, not that Titus had ever thought that, they were simply more blunt and literal. And so many wanted to join the Legion, Titus could have formed an entire new Legio out of them, but they had to be tested first, to be instilled with the ideals of the Republic. And of course tested in battle, which they soon would be.

The reports had come in quickly, a messenger from Mahas and messenger from Kair Vorgen arriving within twenty-four hours of each other. Mahas was assembling its Legio, the V Legio, and had sent word to the wider Republic. It had taken a night of discussion and thought with his officers and advisers, but Titus had decided to muster one of his two available Legio. He did not think the orcs would rise in rebellion, but there was always the chance of it, so soon after their defeat and subjugation. His faithful XI Legio would march to war once again, this time with two cohorts of orcs.

There had been a few objections to the idea of course. Bringing orcs along to fight orcs? Surely they would turn side the moment they could! Their training wasn’t complete, they barely understood the damned language, how could they be expected to obey commands they could barely understand?

It had been Centurion Carbo Sulla who had silenced the objections, the grizzled veteran simply stating that the orcs wouldn’t turn, and that they were trained enough, and more importantly, they were eager for it. They wanted to fight, they wanted to kill. And given the nature of general orc society, they would hold no love for the orcs they would be fighting anymore then they had the Legio in years past. And so it had been settled. The orders to muster had been given, and within a week the XI Legio had been fully recalled into a single force, with the XII Legio that also occupied Vetium picking up the slack, and also being made partially ready to march just in case it was needed.

It was a warm morning when Titus mounted his stallion. He had sent word of his intentions to Mahas, that his Legion would march along the river towards Kair Vorgen, knowing that the legion from Mahas and others would be using the river for more rapid transport. He would be doing the same, had there been enough boats to use at any point along the river in the direction of Kair Vorgen, but there simply wasn’t any to his knowledge, and to march his Legio east just to hopefully find enough boats for the task? A waste of time and effort, as every boat in the region was probably going to be mustered for Mahas and Gila.

Without much pomp, the five thousand strong XI Legio, reinforced with two cohorts of Orc Legionarries, began marching to war, and the Republic would soon follow.

[Imperialisium]

Kair Vorgen

Hector awoke on a soft bed, surprising, given the Dwarven penchant for admiring the most slab like bedding imaginable, and rolled onto his side with a dull groan. He felt his chest and noticed that he had been washed just by the texture of his skin. As had his hair and though his muscles ached down to his bones he felt surprisingly rejuvenated. A presence beside him and his eyes sprung open to reveal a squat Dwarven maid jolt upright. Babbling something in Dwarvish that Hector did not quite catch despite his conversational ability with the tongue.

"You need rest, Manling, the Manling is awake!"

The words came to his mind now more fully as he took in her, and the squat broad-shouldered nature of the Dwarven woman moving to the doors, and the rest of the room. It was ornate with inlaid gold leaf in a band around the room depicting Dwarven inscriptions of health and well-being. His panoply was mounted on a surprisingly appropriately sized mount. Shined and polished even.

The dwarven maid opened the door to the room and vanished for but a moment, returning with a pair of Dwarven warriors gird in their battle-masks. The lead one removed the gnarled mask with a flipping up of a brass hook. Exposing his face and bushy facial hair.

"I am Captain of the Kair Vorgen Palace Guard, Gotren Hammerbreaker of House Gvangul. You fought well in the defense of our kind, something our King and Prince have taken note, hence the accommodations afford to you."

Hector looked about and saw the freshly laid food and drink of a considerable portion on an ornate stone desk of polished granite.

"Captain, Lord, no disrespect but where am I?"

"You are in the South-Wing of the Palace. Guest of our King at the hospitality of his Son, our Prince."

Hector looked down at himself and the bruises that were still healing. "You are not dead," continued the captain, "However, I am more curious as to how you come across such a mysterious blade, but no matter right now. The City is besieged and the barbarous ilk run rampant through several levels yet. Alas, good news comes for word via carrier-bird has reached our mountain eyrie. Our Manling friends to the East are on the march, and more so a band of our kind are closer and apparently on the way. I suspect you may be able to leave our city, should that be your plan where we found you, sooner rather than later."

Hector swung his legs slowly out of the bed to rest them on the warm floor. Heated by brass pipes beneath the stone floor. A master work of the Dwarven stonesmiths no doubt. "I may still be of use in the defense?"

The Captain let out a bellowing laugh, "Of course, you killed a troll by yourself, Manling! That is no small feat, no-no indeed, your arm may be of use to us yet. But for now, eat and drink, perhaps even enjoy the company of a fine woman," the Captain gave a small clap onto the maid's backside which caused her to shuffle and redden, "I will take your offer to the King."

At that the Dwarf and his accompanying warrior left the room with their heavy boot falls. Leaving Hector with the flustered Dwarf maiden who gingerly began to pull the small wooden chair out for him to sit and dine.

The Dark Lady


Indeed, the Dark Lady had made good ground as out of the morning mists the Deepmarchers would make out a city sprawled on a series of hills and up against several cliffs with an inset quay seemingly hewn into the cliff works. A city of white stone and black walls with gilded domes shining in the sunlight. Azulmeion. And beside the city's Northern wall a glittering waterfall cascaded down into the azure waters of the Blue Sea. Beyond it was the Elysian Republic, another nation, the destination of which was the Dark Lady. For while Azulmeion was formidable as a port city it had no easy routes to the Spine by land and if by Sea one would have to around in a roundabout fashion. But the Elysians had various rivers and waterways that reached into the footlands of the Spine across several points. Thus, it was the greatest opportunity for resupply and faster water-bound routes to the great mountain range that divided the Continent's western lands in two.

[Antimersia]

City of Mahas, Month of Hamor, Year CDXVII of the Republic (Year 3949 of the Hyborian Age)


It took nearly all day for the Dwarven mercenary captain to be seen by the Praetor Civicae of Mahas, every potential inquiry by the Dwarf being met by a simple ‘The Praetor is busy.’ by the vigilant, if bored, guards at the doors of the Admistorum, and indeed runners and Legio officers and other city officials could be seen entering and leaving all day. Finally, as the sun began to set and the shadows grew long, and the smell of roasting meats filled the air, the Dwarf was ushered in. He was escorted through the stone and marble structure until coming to a richly decorated room. Furs and hides were arranged on the floor, and thick leather bound tombs lined shelves on the walls. Behind a desk sat a bookish looking man, though not frail or weak looking, who was busy writing something down.

“They tell me you wish to offer your services, master dwarf, to the Legio, for the current business against the orcs to the west.” Praetor Civicae Mettius Claudius Iuba spoke without looking up from his work..

Orirmor felt a weighty distaste for him and his brethren coming from the Legio. He couldn't tell whether it stemmed from them being Dwarves, or them being mercenaries. Although, he did not discount the possibility that it was in fact both. With every utterance of 'The Praetor is busy', his blood boiled just a bit more. Orcish threats had attacked his home, and were moving closer to these lands by the day. So every delay felt not only like a personal slight, but also like an utter disregard for the seriousness of the situation. So when Orirmor was finally granted an audience he made haste, knowing he would barely be able to hold his tongue when he arrived. The well carved stone and marble normally would be something that Orirmor would appreciate as he passed by them, but he remains singularly focused. Entering the Praetor's office and listening to the man speak to him without ever lifting his face from his work. Orirmor stifled a bubbling anger as yet another needless slight was laid upon him. Speaking calmly, despite his anger he replies.

"That is correct. This threat becomes more pressing by the day. And the Bronze Blaze are not a military. We require coin to be effective. To stay fed, and to stay supplied. Your Republic has coin, and I presume that like all other realms, you could always use more men."