The Old Road Leads South (Closed, MM Only, See OOC)

[Magna Auallonia]

Though the headwaters of the river Auallonia lay in the far northern reaches of the empire, its namesake was an island in the middle of the great river, the Insula Avalonnis, where lay the sacred springs of the gods. It was here that the young Lady Arianell, daughter of the Lost Prince, granddaughter of the Imperator, had traveled, to baptize herself as her ancestors had for a thousand thousand years, since long before the coming of the Iron Men out of the South. “I will not be long. Do not, under any circumstances, come up the hills unless I call you.”

The men of the Custodes Fidelis who were her guardsmen seemed at first disposed to argue. So-called freemen of the northern lands, in their blood were millennia of raiding, reaving and ravishing. She had been subject to their hungry stares throughout their travel from the City of Lions to the Island of Apples. And it had come time to remind them of their place. “Were you to follow me up there, the gods themselves would object to your profaning of the sacred ritual. And if that is not enough, my grandfather would have your heads… and other parts I think you might be more attached to.”

This made her guards grudgingly lower their eyes. Satisfied, the noblewoman began her ascent up the worn steps.

“Tvåhundra guldmynt till mannen som följer henne.” said the oldest and grayest of the men, as he sharpened his axe.

"Pengar är inte bra för de döda." Another of the guards spat on the ground. “Inte heller är några tjejer”

But the youngest of the guards stood up, and stripped himself of his metal armor, leaving only his leather padding. “Alla dessa saker är bra, om man observerar från skuggorna”, He grinned, "och till mannen vars kuk inte kontrollerar hans sinne". Keeping only his dagger on, he started up the hill. “Dessutom kommer hennes tuttar att hålla mig varm i min karra… och dina pengar kommer att köpa en fin en!”

Every fifty steps along the walk to the springs, there sat a stone shelf enclosed from the elements. Though the outsides were moss-covered and worn, the insides were dry… and in each of them, Arianell placed an article of clothing. First her shoes, then her dress, then her shift… by the time she reached the bubbling water, she stood naked before the rising moon and setting sun. "Gran Mare, Pare Gloriós, davant de vosaltres i els déus, em nom una dona.” Great mother, Glorious Father, before you and the gods, I name myself a woman.

And then she dove into the springs, letting their mingled waters caress her, flow through her body and soul.

There had been twelve gods of the ancients, and Grandmother and Grandfather. Though not all were still worshiped, it was her duty to dive down to each of their springs and touch their icons, effaced and worn away though they were. Once. Twice…. A fifth time, a sixth time… a ninth time… a tenth time… each time, she dove and then she rose up, her blonde hair sparkling in the fading light of her childhood… even if she had considered herself a woman long before this ritual.

The guard watching would have agreed with that statement, as he kept himself to the shadows. He could not see much of her from this distance, little more than the rounding of her breasts and the width of her hips, but what he could see, he would have called womanly… if not divine. ”Stora Freyja, att jag borde se ...” Despite his earlier claims to be above such things, he found himself creeping closer. Especially as she rose for the twelfth time and swam to the shore, then walked naked deeper into the woods. He could not help but follow, her pale flesh a guide as he crept along the woods, following her deeper to the shrines of the two who were not named.

There, she stood naked before the two oldest and most worn of the icons. He had heard of these ancient stones, that some said were elfin, and others older still. And even from his place in the distance, he could feel their great power… but greater still was his growing desire. And as she began to bow forward, he too felt himself stepping… into blackness.

When his vision returned, she was standing on the edge of the clearing, still nude, and as unconcerned as ever she had been by it. Then she had not been the one to blind him… and he heard her speak, in the language of her people. "El meu pare em espera ... He d'anar cap al sud."

Her father waited for her? And she must go south? This did not seem… but she said something else, raising her hand… and the sky above the island seemed to go misty… and his eyes grew heavy… and the last thing he saw was her walking down the path that led to the other shore, opposite her clothes, her guards, and her boat… a path that had not been there before… “Vänta! prinsessa!” and then he fell asleep. His last thought being that had he known the princess to be a sorceress… but he did not finish it.

[The Castle of the Winds]

The summer flees the fertile valleys, pursued by the hunting east wind. Already winter touches the distant dagger-points of the sametebi, working the scudding clouds into ice over their rasp-toothed peaks. It will be a bitter winter, and a long one, and even the cities that stud the course of the swift Shkarobs will huddle before their fires and watch the breath freeze fresh from their faces. For the towns and villages nestled in the valleys’ glacial claw-marks, it will be a test of mettle. Already the wisest are taking precautions, stockpiling whatever food will keep in their towers, and charging their families with sparing their pennies, repairing their clothes, gathering wood. Winter will be endured in a haze of smoke and steam, in weeks of stunning inhalation and crackling exhalation, as it always is – at least by those who can endure it. Those who cannot endure will not see spring.

But for now, the little stream that bounds through the Miller’s Valley flows freely, the ice that will choke it and set the captive waterwheels splintering a problem for tomorrow’s tomorrow. On the steep slopes that form its natural walls, the goats browse, unthinking; in the mills, the wheels creak and the stones rumble and the millers whistle and sing off-key, and talk among themselves of the pleasures of summer, their sack hoists clattering. The harvest has been good, and carts creak and squeak their way along the rutted roads behind their great, plodding oxen with all the little urgency they can muster, bring the lowlands’ bounty, and the highlands’ wealth. They will be the last of the day’s traffic; the supplicant shadows have begun to bow to the rocky giants in the east. Beyond the woods that creep in advancing ranks up the valley’s flanks, the city of Silverwater is two days’ walk through the softening foothills.

Hunched on the slope of such a foothill is a shape, indistinct among the scrubby undergrowth and the carpet of brown, overlooking the grassy bank of one of the rivulets splashing down to the great river. Amqari Nazara. His dark eyes, set deep into sockets atop high cheekbones, roam in a steady pattern across the distant ranks of shivering trees. Between them, the bridge of a long, narrow nose seems reluctant to expose itself to the already nipping cold. A thick mane of dark, harsh beard, tinged with greying tips at its edges, protects at his cheeks and jaw and all but covers his broad mouth; but his forehead, lightly tanned, has been worn and carved by endless gusts and squalls. As dark as the beard, his hair is mostly crammed beneath a soft, woollen hat jammed shapelessly atop his rounded head. He half-sits, half lies, swathed in brown, as still as the fallen spruce on which he rests. His heavy felt kurku will keep him warm even as the night falls, and he has food and small beer enough to last until at least tomorrow afternoon. Gnarled and scarred hands firmly squeeze the well polished, treacle-golden wood of his crossbow, and he watches, silent. It is nearly time, and his opportunity will come only once. He breathes as slowly and deeply as he might, gripping a little too tightly. The moment must come, but it will tease him before it shows itself.

Timidly pacing down to the river's edge comes the prey. A roe deer; young, callow, and thirsty. A wary, wide eye surrounded by fine down pauses and gazes in his direction, seeking. Nazara sets sets his jaw, and his fingers twitch slightly before settling into the assured uniformity of practise and determination; he has walked a day and a night to reach the lowlands, and will not waste this last chance to take a prize before sunset. A soft click and the string springs to life, the bolt leaving its tallowed groove with a smooth snick, and with a distant, damp thud, drives itself neatly into the young buck's temple. The deer collapses in a tangle of limbs, twitching, its blood and sticky brains oozing wetly to darken the grassy mud, and Nazara smiles beneath his beard. Behind him, glimmering faintly as the sun begins to set, Silverwater beckons, and with it the rich merchants of Auallonia. Tonight, he will eat only shortbread and drink a little ale beneath the gentle moon. Tomorrow, he will sell his prize to the fat empire that absurdly claims his people's lands, and spend his money in preparation for another year's siege.

The kartsikhalki have been besieged more years than not; by empires and despots; by unnatural terrors; by the creeping tide of the undead that still washes against the shores of their land; by orcs; and by nature herself, with her great battalions of snow and ice, and her reiving wolves and bears. But nature herself made the perfect citadel, and the gods gave it to the kartsikhalki as a refuge. Through sieges beyond memory, none have conquered the Castle of the Winds.

[Magna Auallonia]

It had started as a simple legionnaire's fort, watching over the mouth of the river Auallon. Over time it had grown, and grown, and been reborn in timber and canvas, then brick, and finally in cut stone. It towered over the City of the Lions from its position on the hill, looking over the forum, the temples and the praesidium. The road that lead up it was one of the few paved roads still maintained by the Auallonians, a layer of concrete and brick that they had long forgotten how to replicate.

It was to these halls that the adventurers came, escorted by taciturn Legio Antiga in the green-and-gold of the Dragon. The walls were pregnant with age, and heavy with dusty paintings and statues. There was little time for the adventurers to sight-see, though. They were brought before the Imperator.

Artur had once been a strong man. Many years ago. His strength hung about him like the wreck of a better man. He was stout, rawboned, harsh. His hair had long since faded to white, if not to colourlessness. When he spoke, his voice rasped like a saw. "You are the ones who will find my granddaughter?" He coughed, violently, his entire frame shaking as he did. "You?" Large as he was, he seemed only a frail puppet dangling on broken strings in the great throne of Auallonia.

"And why not them, your majesty? They have proven themselves in our tests." Came a soft, soothing voice from the shadows. The man who joined them was middle-aged, perhaps, but he wore it well. Clean-shaven and finely dressed, he may have stepped from the tapestry on the wall. The guards, who had bowed to the Emperor, bowed again. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Julio Canales, Prince of Stones, your sponsor." He gave them a half-minute to bow, or not, as suited them. He didn't seem perturbed.

"Aye, you and your tests, Julio." Artur muttered and spat phlegmatically into a spittoon. "Why I let you talk me into this..."

"Majesty." Julio bowed with a flourish. "I only ever desire to serve you and Auallonia. If you find my proposal to be upsetting, there is still time to follow Aurelio's advice."

"And have half the paladins scouring the empire for our little runaway?" Artur's voice rose into a fury, and he nearly stood from his chair. But the moment passed, and he fell backwards into it, coughing violently. "Never!"

"Or Morien?" Julio didn't seem to smile or otherwise react.

"Prayer. Bah! Bad enough that Valerien's armsmen are seeking for her. I'll not have more of my people tied up in this." The Imperator settled back into a fugue, resting his chin on his fist. "She has embarrassed the house enough."

"Then that does leave us with the option of hiring adventurers, most noble lord." Julio looked over the party. "But they will not be alone. We will send with them one who knows the princess, remember?" He rose to his full height and clapped his hands. "Bring forth the prisoner!" Two more of the legionnaires came from the shadows, carrying between them a bound and gagged man. They threw him on the ground and tore the gag off. "May I present, gentlemen and ladies, your guide, Dorian of Kyngardr. He will earn his life by assisting you, for he sold it to suit his own gratuitous whims. Unbind him!" Dorian was stood up, unbound, and none-too-gently led to take his place at the head of the party.

The Imperator looked them all up and down and scowled. "I am a very busy man. But you may each ask one question before I send you on your way."

[New Dornalia]

Among the adventurers was a relatively young woman with cat's ears and a tail who answered the charge with a respectful bow, a clasping of hands, and a nod of the head. Her getup was certainly worthy of gathering attention. It nominally should have been some sort of nun's getup, particularly for those nuns who were members of the Ancient and Honorable Order's Eastern branches. Namely, a mixture of a straw hat with the sigil of the Order on the hat, plus white and gold colored priestly robes and a short cape, some light armor, and a monk's spade on her back. However, it looked a bit too fanciful and revealing for the usual outfit of the organization, to say the least. In some ways, she also looked much to beautiful to be a nun. She didn't even have her head shaved. And yet, here she was.

The woman nodded, and then spoke in respectful Common--with an accent betraying origins perhaps in the more urbanized centers of the Eastern Gatalands, "Your Highness, I, Sister Aileen Jiang of the Ancient and Honorable Order, accepts the challenge you have laid before me, just as I have accepted the challenges your man has placed before me previously."

As she said the last part, Aileen gave Julio a knowing side glance, with a smile. Aileen had been the recipient of one of the Prince's tests, after all. Five hundred men. One infant. One practitioner of the Way of the Protean Fist. The practitioner--herself obviously--had won the day in a flurry of chi-enhanced fists and kicks and eye gouges. Then, came the offer--and now, she was here. It wasn't hard to find the fancy castle or to get inside, either. Being rushed into a throne room did take getting used to, however.

She paused, nodded, and then asked, folding her arms and looking curiously at all present, before asking a basic question, "I'll take the opportunity, Your Highness. Did the Princess have any enemies or conversely any close companions, which might have given her a reason to run off like that?"

[Magna Auallonia]

"She had no reason to run off." The Imperator snapped, hitting his hands on the throne. "She's a princess. Her place is here at court, not gallivanting around the countryside. Had the Church not insisted, she wouldn't have undertaken the rights on the sacred isle." The Emperor was a very old man, of course. And he had little in common with his granddaughter. Perhaps asking around at court would be more effective, if they had the time.

[Kyngardr]

“Right, you didn’t trust the Church to keep a close eye on the princess, so you sent us with her.” Dorian muttered drily, speaking for the first time. “And look where we are now, your Majesty - your predictions proven correct once again. I’m sure the Archmagister is proud.”

Dorian was a true man of the northern isles, and this was only confirm by his unnatural quickness as he sidestepped the Legionnaires’ attempt to shut him up. “Now, a question for either the Imperator or his Prince - how are things in the south? If we are to search for the princess across Auallonia, we must prepare accordingly - and it would benefit us to know if the south is overrun with undead if we must venture that way.”