The Wolf and the Eagle (IC/PT/Low FanT/Signup Required)

[Phaenix]

The world as most know it is in turmoil. From the freezing winds of the Nordlands to the tropical climes of the Gulfmen, worrying rumors abound. Rumors of war, of a Two-Headed Wolf, of forces across the freezing Easter Sea, of men long thought dead returning to reclaim what was once theirs. Most sensible men dismiss these as the talk of sailors, peasants, and the superstitious, but there are a few who believe them. Chief among them is the Duc de Terreneuve, who has sent his great fleet across the Easter Sea to learn of these so-called "Brythons." His fellow Nordlanders have dubbed him 'the Mad,' for no ship has ever crossed the Easter Sea and lived to tell the tale, but the Duc believes that if he can learn of these Brythons, and their mystical land of Albys, he could perhaps stand a chance of surviving the coming storm, if the talk of sailors is to be believed.
In the South, the burgeoning Confederacy of the Neurld faced threats both internal and external. The current Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, won the election by a mere two votes, and so his rival, the self-proclaimed Emperor Clark IX Tennesley, has roused his supporters to rebellion. As the Confederacy deals with a civil war, Lonestar raiders under the Texarkan king, Bartolmew Beckett, have crossed the Confederate border into the Grand Duchy of Misasipye, wreaking havoc across the fertile fields and towns. Even the great city of Saint Lewis, old even before the Collapse, is under threat.
Farther West, the people sing praises to the Seraph, the Heavens, and to the line of Nortonid, who trace their lineage to the first Emperor of Calif, Norton I. The current Son-of-the-Seraph, Celestial Zophar 'the Magnificent,' rules the Heavenly Empire of Calif with a firm hand, yet beneath the calm exterior, Calif is in turmoil. To the South, the revanchist Empire of Mexica, under Emperador Zipactonal Coaqui, seeks to bring the rowdy Lonestar tribes to heel, while even farther South, a great jaguar sleeps.
Rising amongst the ruins of the fallen Union of Northemeria, the great maritime republics of Neuangla hold the ears of king and emperor alike. The greatest of these, the Serene Archate of Neuyore, is where the Blood of Old Northemeria still runs thick, and names like Roseavelt, Clinetoon, Barocke, and more still hold sway. It is here where the Aekademi of the Olurld is situated, which studies the possible existence of the Olurld, which is mentioned many times in antediluvian works, especially ones by the great Gaemes Worshop, who most historians have credited with writing most of what is known about the Olurld. It is here where the tongue of the Old Northemerians is still spoke, Anglith, and to speak the Common Tongue is to be treated as scum.
And lastly, we journey to the Sea of Eyrie, where the rising power of the Kingdom of the Cleave rules. Holding land from the Ilynoi Marches to the border of the Nordlands, the Kingdom of the Cleave has been ruled by House Hexos for the last century. Situated in the ancient city of Cleaven, the current ruler of the Cleave, King Bismaric III, seeks to expand his territory, and has recently sent his twin children, Prince Lykos and Princess Lupa, to harass the border villages of the Pensigreik in preparation for the main force. Yet King Bismaric III does not lack for enemies, and his half-brother, Ottaker, has managed to rouse the various jarls and petty kings of Mikag to war, and has had himself proclaimed Iskonge of Mikag, and prepares to march his Mikager host to war. In the Wolf Court itself, Bismaric's brother-in-law, Lord Peremyr Nikraski of Chikagoe, seeks to restore the ancient line of Nikraski to the Chikagoen throne, and will most likely make a move against House Hexos if Bismaric marches to war.
It is a horrid time to live in Northemeria, with such conflict brewing just on the horizon. But if the rumors are true, can the lords of Northemeria put aside their differences to throw the men across the waters back into the sea, or will they drown in their own hubris? Only time will tell, and the wills of men.

Palace of the Wolf, Cleaven

King Bismaric III Hexos looked out over the Salt Bay, past the Goldport, past the Sunken City, and past the ships in bay. Bismaric stared at the horizon, where just beyond his sight, the frozen island of Mikag stood, and a horde of barbarians under his half-brother, Ottaker, prepared to burn all his forefathers had made to ash. The cold wind coming off the bay bothered Bismaric naught, as he was a true Cleaveman and had grown up on the water. Bismaric smiled, though under the great mass of his black beard it was nigh invisible. He remembered his days as a pirate, plundering ships up and down the Easter Coast and bringing great wealth to the Hexos name. Though that was years ago, and Bismaric was no longer a petty pirate, but king of all the lands from Ilynoi to the Great Forest of Kentuck. The black iron crown on his head attested to this. The sound of footsteps broke Bismaric out of his reverie, and the king turned to see who was approaching him. The man was tall, pale and had the blue eyes and blond hair of a Chikagoen. His plate armor bore the crest of House Nikraski, an eagle on a red and white field, and the great wings on his back rattled in the wind.
"How are you, Lord Peremyr? I thought you were leading you Winged Knights against the nomad horde of Jineral Nathaniel Marfont?"
The Lord of Chikagoe smiled, and from behind his back threw a head, dipped in tar. Bismaric smiled, and had a servant take it away to be shown to the people of Cleaven. Striding forward, Bismaric placed his hand on Peremyr's shoulder.
"You will be rewarded for this, my friend. In the eyes of God, I hereby proclaim you Warden of the Ilynoi Marches, and Viceregent of the Cleave."
Peremyr smiled, though the titles were mere honors with no power, and bowed low.
"Thank you, Your Royal Majesty. You are too generous."
Bismaric laughed, and ordered a servant to prepare the guest rooms for Lord Peremyr, while inwardly hoping his troublesome brother-in-law would suffer an unfortunate fall.
"Please, Lord Peremyr, you must be tired from your journey! Why don't you stay the night? There will be a great feast!"
Peremyr shook his head, knowing his life expectancy fell the longer he stayed in Cleaven, and spoke up.
"I am sorry, my king, but I will have to pass. Maryna is expected to give birth soon, and I would like to be in the Hall of the Eagle when she does."
Bismaric nodded, and watched the man walk away, wondering if he could hire an archer to shoot Nikraski before he returned home.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

The noise in the Confederate Diet was deafening. Electors shouting, pounding on tables, stomping their feet, and all the while their Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, sat in the center of it all, trying desperately to sink into his throne.
"How dare they? Those heretics dare to raise a sword against the God-chosen Emperor!? They will burn forever in Hell for this!"
The booming voice of Patriarch Graham echoed through the hall, and was met by a chorus of agreements. After allowing the noise to continue, Elector-Duke Frederick Hanover of Marielyn raised his hands and shouted.
"ENOUGH! Electors of the Confederacy, quiet yourselves. Arguing amongst ourselves will accomplish nothing. While we sit here, Clark Tennesley and his Noileaners, Texarkans, and Gulfmen are marching unimpeded through Jorga, and unless we do something, then we'll all be hanging from the tress in the Confederate Garden."
This quieted the Diet, who listened as Frederick explained his plan.
"I will lead the combined might of our armies to the Jorgan Pass. We will establish fortifications and force the rebels to meet us on our terms, lest they starve. That is how we'll beat back Clark and his horde of rebels!"
The Diet erupted with cheers, and Frederick stood stoically, soaking in the praise.

[Dragos Bee]

((Co-write by Dragos Bee and Phaenix.))

The winds coming off of the Easter Sea were cold and fierce, especially to a Southron. To the citizens of the Serene Archate, however, it was a pleasant and warm day, especially for the season. What was not pleasant to the Neuyorens, however, was the large amount of mercenaries in their city. While they were unnaturally well behaved, having only gotten into a drunk brawl a few times, the patricians and even the common citizenry treated them as less than them, mainly due to their failure to speak the Old Tongue. However, they served a purpose. The Archate of Jersea, nothing more to the Neuyorens than an upstart city, had begun to take Neuyore’s trade posts in the South, even being so bold as to start a rival trading operation in the Gilded Cirkill in the warm waters of the Karabe’in Sea. To counter this, the Serene Archat, Rondal Beaukanon, sent out word to all major free companies, sell-sails, and privateers that if they would serve him and raid the Jersean ships and harbors, they would be rewarded well. So that is how the Serene Archat, dressed in his finest doublet and frock coat, found himself speaking with a, supposedly, disenfranchised Southron nobleman. Slightly tipping his tricorn hat, Serene Archat Rondal spoke in melodious tones.

“Grand greetings, Lord Martin. I do hope your stay in our magnificent city has been nothing less than wondrous.”

Rod Martin tilted his head slightly at the Serene Archat, then said in prefect Anglith, “It has. My noble mother misses the south, but I spent most of my life here, waiting for an opportunity to reclaim the Duchy that her blood gives us a claim to. Then it turned out that there are certain aspects of my private life that, while normal in this center of civilization, would be regarded as heretical in their backward lands - Don’t tell my mother I said that about her homeland, though.”

A sigh, “Now, the humbling of Jersea. We have less than a thousand folk but most of them are hardened veterans, loyal to the memory of my father, Valten. We’re also willing to be the vanguard of the first few assaults in exchange for first pick of the loot and a generous payment alongside that promise. Oh, and of course, provisioning.”

Rondal clapped his hands and two well-dressed servants carried a chest forward, dropping it at Rod’s feet before opening it. Inside, the gleaming glow of gold, silver, and other valuables glittered.
“As you can see, I am a very, very rich man. Should you choose to lead the vanguard, you will receive a bonus according to the chaos you cause, and any Jersean loot you find is yours for the picking. However,” using his foot, Rondal closed the chest, “as an added bonus, I’d be willing to speak to Emperor Maxwell II on your behalf. The Bank of Beaukanon can call in several favors from the Confederate Throne, and perhaps you’d get your land back. Maybe even an Electorate.”
Rondal smiled, a smile that had sealed many deals in his decade of being Serene Archat, and stepped back.
“So, can we come to an agreement, Lord Martin?”

Rod nodded, gave a deep bow, and smiled, “It is as good as signed, Serene Archat.”
Rondal smiled again, and removed a piece of parchment from his frock coat pocket. On it were the terms the Serene Archat had presented to Rod, and the neat print of Rondal Beaukanon was already dry on its page. Handing it, along with an inkwell and pen, to Rod, the Serene Archat spoke.
“Then it is agreed, Lord Martin. Your men, while they are in our most glorious city, shall be stationed in Fort Liber, near the Faithful Colossus. I will ensure your men are fed. Should you wish, you may join me and my fellow councilmen in the Imperial Statehouse. If not, I will send a few casks of my finest Nordlander mead and turkey for you and your men to enjoy.”

Rod signs the contract, again in perfect Anglith, before saying, “I would be honored to be your guest - My mother and my various loyalist commanders can take care of my men.”

Rondal quickly grabbed the contract, before handing it off to a servant. Still smiling, the Serene Archat moved to leave, shouting over his shoulder, “We shall reconvene at eventide! Good day, Lord Martin!”

[Yuzhou]

Journey from the West
Nadia
Somewhere near Misasipye

Dara the horse munched curiously on a patch of long, wet grass as her rider kept sharp eye on the horizon. The land around them was flat, perhaps even flatter than the plains, and greener too. The only thing blocking sight in any direction where the increasingly common stands of trees, or the villages that began to densely populated the roadsides This was the most settlement they had encountered since leaving the desert.

"Let's go girl." Nadia spurred Dara onward with her heels.
The beast complied and began lumbering in the direction she was encouraged towards. Dara was a warhorse, an expensive animal, specifically bred for the Yute deserts. As a result she was stocky and close to the ground, built to traverse sand and rock, designed to cross cliff-edge and ravine. It also meant she was keen on following command tightly.
That was perfect for Nadia's companion on the great trek they had taken together.

Nadia scanned the map she had purchased carefully to try and gain a sense of direction. The strange environment was disorientating, but nothing a skilled tracker couldn't deal with. The advantage to wherever she was now, was that there was more civilization to navigate with. Out on the plains, you often had to trust on your guess and avoid the nomads, but here the village people provided some feedback on place in the world, even if she often could not understand them. She spoke what they sometimes called "common" only roughly as a part of her education in court, and the people everywhere but home often had grating accents that doubled her trouble. She could speak Dene better than her common, and preferred to do that — only it proved useless beyond the desert. What she really spoke best was the language of her family, the secret Foscan tongue, which was any speech augmented with words that supposedly came from her sea spirit ancestor. Words of power, words of magic.
But that too did not aid her in communication.

"Guess we're going this way, girl." she said idly to Dara.
She had a habit of voicing her thoughts out loud now that it was only her and her mount. She had been on the trail alone for quite some time now, and speaking to herself was a way to combat the quiet. She once enjoyed the unbroken hum of nature, a silence that was comfort when she spent many starry nights among the dark of the pine forests on the mounts. Now, here, she hated it. It was a silence like nothing from her homeland. Not of midnight crickets, not of sun baked mesa, not the bubbling of canyon splintering stream. This quiet, she was certain, was evil. More evil than the nomads she had fought on the plain.
Because that quiet whispered the name of her brother. Whispered it in the lull of thought. In the small moments of calm between one task and the next.
That, she would not endure.

Nadia was dragged from her thoughts by the clanking of carts. Before her on the road came a troupe of people, and she quickly pulled her bow from from its place at her hip and grasped a free arrow in her hand as she looked ahead. It was clear, even from a distance, that these were not soldiers or bandits before her, but farmers. As she approached, their escort of two or three armed guards eyed her nervously. Though the equipment of the watch was much shoddier than her own, she stepped Dara to the side of the and kept a birth of the train, ready for anything.
The peasants reacted as most did to her — wide-eyed and suspicious. She had long since learned that her desert dress and kit had aroused curiosity and distrust wherever she went, just the same as the bizarre fashion of these foreign lands did to her.

A man near the front, with his pitchfork slung across his soldier, called out to her as she passed the caravan.
"Careful now! King Bartolmew isa raidin' that way! Get out while you can travler!"

Or at least, that's what she thinks he said. She couldn't really understand. As was custom, she simple raised her hand in acknowledgement as Dara took her lazily beyond the troop. Still, she had looked and by the state of the travelers, they were most likely fleeing from something. Just another roadblock for her to sneak past as she had always done.

A couple miles down the trail and she had come to exactly what the map had suggested she would — a river. This river, in fact, was the largest she had ever seen. It was large enough to take her breath as she gazed across it. It was amazing, blue and flowing. She wasn't sure she had ever seen so much water in one place, and upon it showed the true density of the area. There were boats, many boats, large and small, that all traveled up and down the current. She could make out the individual people as they sailed the seemingly endless water. All along the shore sat fishermen and docks. She stood and admired it for some time.

If only Hugo were... she banished the thought from her mind.
"Looks like we made it, girl." she said to Dara quickly. She reached down and rubbed the horses white neck as she watched on. Nadia knew that this river marked the informal border between the east and the west. On her side, from the spot she stood to the Wester Sea marked the domain of the setting sun. The direction from which her whole life had derived. Before her, across the blue scar in the verdant fields, sat the ancient land from which her illustrious ancestor came. She wasn't there yet, his homeland wasn't flat like this, but she had after so long made it to the east. Now all she had to do was cross.

Though she had broke from the roadway some time ago, she knew following the bank would take her to a bridge at some point. If not, she could perhaps pay a boat to get her across. Either way, she looked behind her and took a deep breath. Crossing from one side to the other meant more than just passing a river. Deep down within her heart, she almost wanted to stay on the west shore.

[Phaenix]

In a small hamlet along the Misasipye

The day was hot, but not humid, and the sound of hoes tilling the fields could be heard all throughout the small hamlet of Witten. The children laughed, the young men flirted with the lassies, and the old men talked politics in the shade.
"Emperor Clark's got a stronger claim to the throne then that feckless Maxwell! Every second that craven sits on the throne, he soils the good name of the Confederacy!"
One old man shouted to the other, banging his fist on the arm of his chair. His friend scoffed, and idly sipped ale from his cup.
"Oh, so you think the man who invited foreigners, barbarians, into our land and unleashed them upon us is fit to even enter Jameston? I trust in the Diet, and they chose Maxwell of the venerable House Rothschild. Clark's no more than a pretender, and once his savage horde get's too occupied with looting, our armies'll smash 'em like bugs."
The Clark supporter was about to answer, when he saw a man on a horse, a black banner in hand, on the horizon. The old man stood, and grabbed his cane.
"What the hell's he doing over there? Is he some sort of-"
The old man was cut off by a fierce yell coming from the rider.
"Prepare for the greatest of the greats! Prepare to be trampled! Prepare to die!"
With that, the day's quiet was broken by the sound of a hundred, no, a thousand hooves and savage war cries from the Texarkan horde. The Texarkan cavalry, dressed in lamellar armor and steel war masks while wielding lances, axes, swords, maces, and even the occasionally flail, crashed through the feeble fence that the farmers had made to keep out foxes. Most of the farmers ran, dropping their hoes and shovels, but two stood their ground. One was a big man, easily seven foot, wielding his hoe like a battleax, and the other seemed to be his son, who had a shovel and was shaking like a leaf. One of the riders laughed, and charged right for them, but the big man stepped aside and swung his hoe with tremendous force, taking the raider off of his horse, before savagely removing his head. The boy, however, was not so lucky, and when another rider charged he attempted to stab the horse, but his shovel was not a pike, and the horse barreled into him, killing the boy instantly. The big man, seeing this, seemed to lose hope, and did not step aside when the next rider impaled him on a lance. Seeing their defenders fall, the villagers attempted to flee. Luckily for them, they had a great deal of horses, and most managed to escape. A few horse archers attempted to follow them, but the main force was sacking the hamlet, looking for any hidden treasures. After finding none, the raiders burned the hamlet in frustration, before returning to the main army. King Bartolmew Beckett's army was larger than any Northemeria had ever seen, numbering in the hundred thousands, almost all of them cavalry. Only a few thousand slave infantry were with the army, making it difficult for the Texarkans to assault walled cities, but Beckett did not care. Across the Misasipye lied Saint Lewis, the wealthiest city this side of the Sierra Madre, and he intended to take it. After dividing the loot, King Bartolmew ordered his raiders to raid up and down the Misasipye, though in small groups so as not to attract the notice of the defender of Saint Lewis, Duke Baudoin Lemarquis, the Grand Duke's brother. One of these raiding parties, a mere five men strong, spotted someone alone on their side of the Misasipye, and their leader smiled. Riding forward, the men drew their weapons, the leader a sword with a golden hilt, his lackeys an assortment of axes and maces. Still smiling, the Texarkan raider rode forward, blocking Nadia's path.
"Why good day, m'lady. Ya seem a bit lost, and confused too, seeing that ye've dressed yerself up like a man. Why don't ya let us relieve ya of that heavy armor there in exchange for takin' ya to the nearest city. Whaddaya say?"
To enunciate his point, the Texarkan flashed his sword.

Palace of the Seraph, Sacred Mento

The smell of incense and lavender permeated the Celestial Hall, where Celestial Zophar the Magnificent sat in his throne of pure gold cushioned with velvet. At the foot of his throne were two men dressed in steel yoroi armor, their faces hidden behind demonic masks. And at the center of the Celestial Hall stood the first of a long line of supplicants, all wishing to be heard by the Son-of-the-Seraph. A herald spoke.
"His Serenity, Leaguemaster Ammiras Dunlap of the Dunlap Trade Company, who comes seeking finances to explore the lands beyond the Wester Sea in search of the homeland of the Nioni."
Zophar stared the man down for a moment, before gesturing for him to begin. Seeing the motion, Ammiras spoke rapidly.
"Arigatou gozaimasu, Your Perfection! I have sent several of my own ships as far as Hawaiʻiloa, where the strange natives often trade with the Nioni people. However, my merchants were unable to trade directly with the Nioni, and were forced to go through the frugal natives to obtain Gohan and Sakuranbo. If we were to find the Nioni homeland, or even the mystical Cathay, we could easily double, no, quadruple the wealth of Calif!"
Zophar sat silent for a second, before summoning his two Angels two his side. They spoke in hushed tones, before eventually returning to their spot at the foot of the throne. Zophar stood and quickly pulled out the Celestial Seal, before stamping Ammiras' document.
"In the eyes of my Mother, the Seraph Above, I, Zophar Nortonid, hereby declare that the supplicant, Ammiras Dunlap, Captain of the First Nioni Expedition!"
Ammiras bowed and continued bowing as he walked out of the Celestial Hall, the supplicants cheered, and Zophar smiled, because there was nothing the Magnificent Zophar loved more than gold.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Lord Gaylen Tailier
Jameston, Virgenland, Southron

The discordant ruckus of the Diet slid through the chamber's inner walls and into Gaylen's ears, unbeknownst to the Electors concealed within. Gaylen did not mind, for, though he was not at present permitted to enter the Diet's main chamber, he could still glean at least some information from the Electors' raised voices. He heard snippets of "God-chosen Emperor," "Hell," and, finally, a booming "ENOUGH!" from Duke Hanover of Marielyn.

Gaylen found it peculiar that Hanover held such sway over the Diet, considering it was set in Virgenland, but maybe that was precisely why he had come to such prestige. He was not immediately influenced by the local politics of the surrounding region. House Hanover was indeed one of the most powerful Houses in Southron, just as House Tailier was. Nay, its power was more comparable to that of his mother's family, House Lee. Jameston was certainly more steeped in Lee patronage than it was in Tailier, and highly affluent. House Tailier, however, had the advantage of owning more land and having control over a larger sect of the army on account with its military might.

Uncle Adami, his father's closest sibling in terms of age, was the Elector representing the region dominated by House Tailier. Gaylen had accompanied him as an auxiliary in case things went wrong at his father's behest. Being subordinate, Gaylen had had no say in the matter, but he rather enjoyed listening to the Diet debates. They gave him a gauge on the political situation in Southron better than rumors or the press ever could.

At this particular meeting, the Diet was deliberating how to properly deal with the rebels in the southwest who had propped up a heretical emperor and were now marching to Jorga. The thought of it made Gaylen's stomach tighten. He held command over a few hundred men as prescribed by his great uncle, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be required to lead them into battle. Such was the way of nobility.

But he had an infant son to look out for now. He prayed he could find a way to be with Caroligne and little Theodore without putting them in jeopardy, though he knew it was futile. His family commitment and his rank in the army meant he was needed both as a leader and as a pawn for the likes of Hanover and his great-uncle.

If he could face the enemy in a swift, simple duel, if he could sneak into their leader's encampment under the cover of darkness, yes, he could end things easily. An ambush that would kill the traitor Clark would be disorienting enough for them to use their shock against them. Strike ere the anger could brew, ere the germs of revenge were seeded in their minds.

Gaylen growled, knowing that was wishful thinking. Disposing of Clark would not undo all of his damage. He had amassed too much of a following to make anything straightforward except to go to war.

What, Gaylen mused, does he think he will gain from this? What is the size of his army compared to ours? These were the questions he could not answer. Hopefully he would never meet such a wretch face-to-face, but hope was not enough to go by in matters of war. Hope kept you going when your forces were surrounded, your comrades lay slaughtered all around you, you were breathing in the mist of their blood and swinging your sword in desperate strokes with numb yet burning arms. In that scenario, you hoped you would make it to the next day. Hoped you would live to see your family again. Or you clung to the hope that God, were you to die, would not find overwhelming blackness in your soul.

Once his great-uncle officially mobilized the Virgenland army, Gaylen would be headed to Jorga alongside his father and uncles. The helm of House Tailier would go to his mother and aunts for the time being, unless his aunts were tasked with ruling the houses of their husbands. Female leadership was not unheard of. Primogeniture traditionally dictated the rule of the house passed to the eldest son, but if the firstborn was female, then was she not entitled to the estate of her ancestors?

Gaylen shook his head to divert his thoughts away from philosophical politics. He needed to prepare his mind for the brutalities of war. House Tailier was not to slip into weakness for any mistakes he might make.

Caroligne, if she so chose, could join the military and lead a regiment under either House Tailier and House Claymore. Gaylen knew she was choosing to opt out of this war. With Theodore so young, he needed constant parental care, and prolonged separation from both his mother and father would harm him. Gaylen had witnessed firsthand the effects of parent-child separation, though he was not supposed to ever have known.

In his head, he whispered his half sister's name. Poitri. Poitri, who lived with her Vikun mother to the North. Gaylen had not seen her in over three years. It was too risky to write her, just as it was impossible for his father to acknowledge her existence. Gaylen felt his father did, however, acknowledge her to an extent. He had to. Surely, he loved Poitri as he loved Gaylen and his siblings. Perhaps more, because she was not yet a political pawn. Would preferably never become one.

Poitri, Gaylen silently repeated, shutting his eyes as he visualized her tear-stained face.

[Phaenix]

The Fields of Verdant, Jorga

Carrion birds circled the battlefield, summoned by the stench of death. The dead Confederates all bore the crest of House Greenfield, a boring green field with a blue sky. Only a few Noileaners lay dead amongst them, mostly because they had been surrounded by the Greenfield knights. Clark Tennesley, or Emperor Clark IX, leaned on his claymore as he watched his army plunder the battlefield, looking for loot and survivors. The only ones who did not participate in this were his Noileaners, those dark skinned warriors dressed in bright colors. Strangely, although their city was home to almost constant celebration, the Chevaliers Brillants were a grim bunch, rarely smiling and certainly not celebrating. Clark did not care, so long as they fought. The self-proclaimed emperor watched as the surviving Greenfields were brought to him. Old Earl Victor Greenfield, the patriarch of the family, walked forward, not giving off any emotion. Then came the firstborn, Felix, who sneered upon seeing Clark. Finally came Josephine, Felix's wife, who did not look Clark in the eye.
"What? No love for your champion?"
Clark taunted. He had fought for her affection during a tourney held by the last emperor, Davis V Rothschild, and he had given the Wreath of Beauty to her. Felix growled, and stepped forward.
"You will not speak to my wife that way, you traitorous cur! You're not even properly highborn! You're just some up-jumped hedge knight!"
Victor attempted to speak, but before he could get a word out Clark elbowed Felix, and then removed the man's head from his body. Josephine screamed and Victor fell to his knees. Clark merely laughed and raised his sword.
"Thanks for kneeling down for me, Ol' Vic, saves me some work."
And with that, Victor's head joined his son's. Josephine closed her eyes, but Clark grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. The smell of ale wafted off of him, and grinned, showing his missing teeth.
"No, my sweet, you won't be dyin' today. No, you'll warm my bed for a good, long while!"
That night, the sounds of screams were drowned out by Texarkans feasting with Noileaners, and a Gulfman bard broke into song while the village of Verdant was burned to the ground, its citizens put to the sword, and its wealth put into Clark Tennesley's pocket.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

After hours of argument about who would lead what, whose banners would be flown where, and who would have the honor of the vanguard, Elector-Duke Frederick spoke.
"All quiet for the Emperor's edict!"
The Diet quieted as Maxwell II stood, before clearing his throat.
"Er, ehem. Uh, well, you see, I have, eheh, decided to have, um, Lord Gaylen the Elder lead the, er, vanguard!"
Some Electors cheered, but most booed and hissed, hoping to have led the vanguard themselves. Frederick allowed the ruckus to continue for a minute before raising his hands for silence.
"The Emperor has spoken! Lord Adami, I do hope you will pass this on to your brother, and I offer my congratulations to you on this honor."
Frederick, however, smiled inwardly. The position of vanguard was a deadly one, and should Gaylen fall, it would temporarily disrupt the Tailier line of succession, and perhaps causing some chaos. He could use that opportunity to take some of the choicer Tailier lands for himself.

[Dragos Bee]

'Jineral' Albirt Hillingham

The Abbey by the Missyouri River was beautiful, made of dressed stone and surrounded by productive fields and vineyards. The Monks and Nuns in the abbey worked hard at writing manuscripts, preserving what they could of the lore of days past, and debating the finer points of theology in order to attain salvation from the sins of this life. It even held fine gardens, where roses and other flowers were grown along with other, more useful, medicinal herbs. It was such a shame that such beauty will have to end, for the monastery's vault held treasure unimaginable, gold and silver and gems.

And Jineral Albirt Hillingham had to please his horsemen, lest he look weak. And one who would change the Nomads' ways must not look weak. But he took no pleasure in this, not anymore. As he and five 'hundreds' of nomadic horse prepared to descend on the Abbey, to terrify the tenant farmers and burning the fields, then dismount to break into the doors of the unguarded buiding to slaugther all those who resisted, it took all the Jineral had to order his men not to torch the vineyards - They were the source of the wine that his men and women were beginning to savor as much as fermented mares' milk.

If he didn't join in the massacre, the slaying of old men and women whose value lay in their heads and not their infirm bodies, he would not be able to give the orders he needed. If he didn't sieze the Monks' and Nuns' vault of treasure first, he would not be able to keep his army. So Albirt had to bloody his blade with the blood of the undeserving - All for the Kingdom that will transcend everything the Nomads have accomplished so far.

He steeled himself as his men and women gathered around him, waiting for the order to begin the sack of the monastery. No lapse, no hesitation, as he drew his sword and said, "All right, boys and girls - Let's give 'em a good smacking!"

-------

The slaugther had ended earlier than expected, with the Jineral's sword barely bloodied. But he and his twenty most-trusted men had siezed the Abbey's treasure vault first, allowing the others to pillage the reliquaries and crypts, as well as the lavish 'High Altar' of the monastery. Another trusted twenty, under the 'Beane Caounter' Jimm Starlinng, had taken the libraries, saving the precious books within from the ransacking by the ignorant masses. And now, another thousand of his personal army had arrived - This was a mixed group of cavalry and infantry which guarded the wagons where the majority of siezed goods will be loaded for distribution to the rest of his forces, with the 'Beane Caounters' making sure that as many people were satisfied as possible.

Of course, the best of the spoils would go to his father, the best treasures, silks, wine and women...

His detached mood continued, a detached mood that allowed himself to think clearly even in the midst of all that was happening. Once the infantry and wagons arrived, he could rest -

"Jineral," said one of his Kolonels, a bow-madien named Aeriel Lee. "What shall we do with the prisoners?"

Ah, the surviving monks and nuns. Of course he'd be called to decide their fate. Albirt said as coldly as he could, "Round them up and bring them to the field just outside their big stone house - I will decide what happens to them."

--------

The Abbot was an old man, concious of his place in the divine hierarchy, prejudiced towards 'brutes' and 'savages' like him, and possessed of a black and white morality where he'd rather die and go to his 'heaven' than collaborate. So Albirt decided to help him along rather than endure his glares as he knelt on the plain, his hands bound by ropes.

"Turn him into a spiked ball," he ordered his accompanying soldiers, who promptly shot him with three-score arrows, making him look like a spiked ball indeed. He then turned to the rest of the monks and nuns, seemingly unmoved at their suffering.

"You all have three options," the Jineral said in a loud and clear voice, "Join your 'Abbot' in death, submit to slavery and serve me and my troops... Or become one of my 'Beane Caounters' and save yourselves and your 'holy books', as well as have a chance of gaining the wealth and power you claim to despise, yet hoard anyway. What will it be, folks?!"

There were eightheen hundred monks and nuns before the slaughter, ten hundred after. Of those, fifty joined the Abbot in death, nine hundred and thirty submitted to slavery and were promptly given to his troops to do as they wished. And twenty, the most unscrupulous, or in case of the Nuns among them, believing that their virtue was worth more than their loyalty, joined the Beane Counters and were promptly tasked with helping count the treasures taken from their old home.

All in all, a good day...

[Zjaum]

Gess Leg

The chanting of the choir rushed through the trees and bounced off the mountaintops of the Serras Navda. The wind carried the tune east across the mountain range towards the desert below, to the hope that perhaps even the heathen lords beneath them could hear. The whole assembly of House Leg, soldier, smith, and settler, had gathered in the meadows on the Sabbath to praise their God. They needed not fear the abandonment of their precious Lake Tao, for they knew that their adversaries valued the Sabbath as much as they. Come evening, the Wardens would return to their duties. For now, they would practice relaxation and divine reverence.
As the chant ended, the high pastor stepped forward. The man to his side carried a banner to his side, bearing the icon of Christ. The pole on which it stood planted firmly in the grass, steadfast against the easterly. He bowed to the congregation, who bowed in return. He raised his hands to the sky. "Glory be to the Ancient, the True and Only!"
"Glory be!" announced the crowd. First among these were select members of the Wardens, in full garb, Gess first among them. Quiet from contemplation, she kept her head low in humility, even after the pastor's salutation. She knew the recital by heart, even the words of the high pastor. She mouthed the words of the pastor as he continued. "May the grace of Christ the Ancient and the love of God the First and the benevolence of the Eternal Spirit be with thee. Selah!"
"Selah!"
Priests passed through the congregation, dipping evergreen branches into bowls and flinging the fresh Tao water that clung to the leaves onto the people thereof. "Whoever drinks of the water bestowed by Christ will never be thirsty again. The hour is coming when neither on this mountain nor in Salem will we worship the Dad; nay, the hour is here when we worship the Dad in spirit and in truth!"
"Praise be to the Dad!"
The chorus resumed their song, and the pastor prepared himself for his profession of God's truth.


When the service concluded, the members of House Leg diffused across the field and surrounding areas to commence with the great Sabbath feast. Gess was among the last to turn. She had not deviated from her position during that entire time. She excused herself from the church grounds and turned to walk towards the gatherings of plates. Lord Leg was, in fact, the last faithful in bowed position. He knelt behind where his people had stood; one could only conclude that he returned late from his meditation the previous night. "My liege, dost thou plan to attend the banquet?"
"Yea, in a moment; I must pay penance for sleeping too much, valuing rest over timeliness. A most grave sin. I will join thee hence."
Gess turned to join her compatriots, but the lord tapped her wrist. He kept his head bowed. "Prithee, I wish to speak with thee and thine company after the meal."
"I will inform them at once, sire."

The newly-appointed herald approached the lunch table of her kin. She drew her sword and laid it on the shoulder of a compatriot. "I challenge thee, Maksh!"
Maksh turned around. "Again? I am eating. Art thou not hungry?"
"Not quite, sirrah!"
"Do not tell me thou hast eaten before the Sabbath, then?"
"Nay, but I challenge thee all the same!"
"Dost thou not have anything better to do on this fine Sabbath?"
"Certainly, but this is my favorite thing to do on a Sabbath. Up thee go!"
Maksh trod out his sword. "And prithee, why has it been me for the past five Sabbaths?"
"I am the fifth most talented swordsman in the company. Thou art the fourth. When I defeat thee, I will pass on to yon Neteniol."
"Can I surrender, so that I might eat my turkey in peace?"
"And thou callst thyself a Warden! Wouldst thou have Deseret think so little of thee?"
Maksh twirled his sword around. "Fine. Have at thee!"
Maks lunged forward, making himself vulnerable to attack. Gess attempted to take advantage of the opening, but Maksh's weakness was merely a ploy. In two swift moves from each opponent, the broad side of Maksh's sword thumped across Gess's back. "None of thee had better have touched my turkey."
The vanquished responded. "I would like a rematch."
"Once a day more than suffices."
"I have orders from the lord."
"Do tell."
"Only with a rematch."
Gess took a plow stance, having bribed public opinion away from Maksh by dangling news in front of him. "Confound-able Rukkeland knave."
Max adopted an ox stance. Gess was the first to make a move this time. Maksh tried his usual trickery, but Gess struck the sword from Maksh's hand in one of his riskier moves. In that movement, the sword accidentally poked Maksh in the torso. No blood was spilled, but Maksh yelped a little, to the humor of all except him and Neteniol. "Does that satisfy ye, Gess? Blast!"
Gess bowed. "My thanks for the duel. 'Twas an honor." She righted. "As for the rest of our ensemble, our lord wishes to speak with us after the meal. For now, eat, drink, and be merry!"


Lord Leg was seated upon his throne. He'd yet to finish his meal, but he set it aside to discuss with Gess's company, which now knelt before him. "Blessed afternoon to thee. Thy lord decrees a scouting party to the east, to scout out the outpost-towns of Nero and Carß. I have heard rumors of foul machinations in the desert, and I wish to confirm them. I look across thy faces, and I see odd looks. Prithee, what is the quarrel?"
The company was silent for a moment, with Maksh breaking the tension. "Far be it from thy servant to deny thy decree, sire, but why does my liege send a company of Wardens, when he has many other soldiers to enact his will?"
"House Leg has no soldiers more skilled than the Ever-Blue Wardens. Even if that was not so, the expedition may need one who can read Old English. If that be so, there are few in my employ more educated in the language than Gess."
A few heads turned to Gess, who felt compelled to respond. "Milord, thou hast bade me never leave thy territory except with thy explicit permission. I have sworn allegiance to protect thy house but also to keep the Tao Lake ever-blue. My duty is to this land, not to ambitions miles away!"
The lord nodded, with an air of understanding. "My ward and warden, dost thou think that the protection of our fair lake extends only to its perimeter? Nay, sirrah, the Deseret heretics and their kith have ever been spiteful of us, and might stop at nothing to see us suffer. Mayhaps, beyond the Serras Navda, they grow an army to push back our forces, leaving Lake Tao at their mercy. Mayhaps they develop some foul tincture to cast into the lake. Mayhaps nothing, but thy liege must know to govern this matter properly."
"I have never been this far east, milord."
"Not to worry; Neteniol has. He will be thy guide. Now, thy fears subsided, I bid thee all rest well this Sabbath, and pack thy possessions. Thou shalt leave at first light tomorrow." The king resumed his turkey and mashed potatoes.


The morning hymns of the noble daughters cascaded over the stone walls of Castle Leg, bidding the travelers adieu. The Ever-Blue Wardens who remained escorted their kin to the furthest reaches of House Leg on the other side of Lake Tao. Their leader, rumor had it, was still in bed, but all involved felt in their hearts that his heart went with them as they left. Gess looked back at her home of years, wondering whether this would be another chapter of her life, or part of her current one. And so, with dried fruits and meats on their backs, the company set off for the ashen deserts of Navda, into the foul heart of Deseret itself.

[Phaenix]

Zion, the Holy State of Deseret

Though it was eventide, the streets were strangely bustling. Men shouted at their wives, and if they were a polygamist, they shouted at their many wives. Preachers stood at every corner, reading from the Book of Mormon and shouting praises to the Godhead. Heavily armed soldiers patrolled the streets, looking for sinners and criminals, while a great feast was already well on its way in the center of the city. And at the seat of honor sat High Priest Damascus Higbee, ruler of all Deseret, though this meant just Zion and the surrounding sands. Still, the Mormons were strangely wealthy and prosperous, with their armies able to stand up to the Valley Lords of Calif, though not against the might of the Celestial's personal army. Though their preachers demanded total abstinence from alcohol, ale flew freely from flagons, while tobacco was freely available to all who wished it. As High Priest, Damascus did not overtly take part in these activities, though once he returned to the great Temple of Moroni he would feast on the finest meats, drink the finest wines, smoke the finest cigars, and indulge himself in his wives. A shout woke Damascus from his reverie.
"All praise to the High Priest, whose generosity knows no bounds!"
Cheers followed this, along with a newly growing saying.
"And death to those heretics of House Leg! The Angel Moroni will grant us victory!"
More cheers, along with the slamming of tankards and stomping of feet. Damascus smiled, and then motioned for the herald to speak.
"And the Angel Moroni has blessed us, for our brave missionaries have found a treasure trove of ancient Northemerian artifacts! In his generosity, High Priest Damascus Higbee, blessed is his name, will open this great bounty for all to see!"
The crowd cheered, and Damascus walked towards the great box. The size of the box surely meant that a great deal of artifacts lie inside, but as Damascus pried open the lid, he immediately realized that this was not true. The crowd went silent, as the emaciated remains of a Northemerian stood silent, and unmoving. Dressed in a black suit, he appeared almost as if he was sleeping. Damascus drew closer, and the Northemerian opened its eyes. Damascus fell backwards, afraid, as several soldiers charged forward, weapons drawn. The Northemerian stepped out of his coffin, and spoke.
"Rsh tdim, oaite teeyepelbtirab l neontumgnp i se olcm mk."
The Northemerian spoke a strange language, nothing at all like the Common Tongue or Anglith. Damascus stood, and spoke in perfect Anglith.
"W-what do you want, creature? I will have you know that I am High Priest of Deseret, and I will not suffer-"
The Northemerian laughed, and grabbed Damascus by the shoulder. Speaking in Anglith, the Northemerian laughed.
"Ah, you primitive fools. You think that this is English, do you? Hah! If my compatriots heard this, they'd fall over dead. Well, more dead then they already are. But I am hungry, and my body is quite thin."
With that, the Northemerian sank his teeth into Damascus' neck, draining the High Priest like a tankard of ale. As he drank, the man began to appear more alive. His emaciated form returned to normal, and his bald head grew a mane of thick, black hair. Finally, when the High Priest was little more than an empty sack, the man threw him aside.
"Ah, God bless you Joe and your vampire fantasies. I owe you an apology. That was easier than I thought! But first," the man turned to the shocked Mormons and spoke in common, "I am Manuel Cannon, and I am your new ruler! Bow down before me, or face the same fate as your High Priest!"
The Mormons, still shocked, bowed before Manuel, who smiled. He had always wanted to be a king, and now he was an immortal one. Chuckling, Manuel grabbed a cigar off of Damascus' corpse and lit it, before sitting down at the feast.

The Camp of the J'hawcs

Koache Ralph Hillingham, tankard in one hand, a slave girl on the other, walked out of his tent to greet Albirt.
"Ah, son, how was the raid? Did ya bring glory to the clan?"
Upon seeing that some of the nuns and monks were not in chains or headless, Ralph spat.
"Don't rightly know why ya keep bringin' back soft Southrons alive. What good are they besides being used as arrow-fodder or bed slaves? But nevermind, show me the gold!"
At the mention of gold, several nearby J'hawcs walked forward, eager to see if they could get some of the loot. The biggest of them, the spawn of Ralph and some Cleaveman bed slave, stepped forward, a large axe on his shoulder. Spitting near Albirt, the big J'hawc spoke.
"I be Gregory, son of Ralph, and methinks that them shinies should belong to me."
A few others stepped forward at the mention of a challenge, and Ralph laughed.
"Just what I needed to brighten up my morning, a little bloodshed!"

[Dragos Bee]

Jineral Albirt Hillingham

As several chests of gold were brought inside the tent, their contents emptied to form a great pile of treasure into the floor, Albirt grinned as he drew his sword, saying, "Brother of mine - Die!"

Unlike the attack on the monastery, Albert was excited for this fight, exhilarated, even. Quickly rolling away from the swing of Gregory's axe, the young man counterattacked with a flurry of cuts and slashes which fell like rain on Gregory's shoulders - The large man had not even put on any armor, and so his bare upper body was swiftly bleeding: As the fight drew on, Gregory seemed even more enraged that he could not get a hit in, while Albirt continued to dance around his brother's attacks. Finally, he decided to present a fake weakness, seeming to slump, only for Gregory to strike the ground with his axe so hard that the weapon's blade was stuck in the earth.

Then Albirt cut off his head with one clean stroke. Presenting said head to his father, the 'Jineral' said, "I hope this shows the other J'hawcs that I am no weakling like the Southrons." More men came, this time presenting a chest of precious gems to Koache Ralph, including several diamonds and blood-red rubies, "Additional treasures from the Southrons' house of stone. Let it not be said that I've never given you the best of the best, father."

This was true. By attacking the Abbey of the Southrons, Albirt had hopefully drawn the attention of the Confederacy to the J'hawcs - Such an outrage cannot be overlooked easily. They'd come for his father, who was his overlord, and once they did so, Albirt can just let them and the 'Koache' destroy each other, or let one side defeat the other and then swoop against the weaker force. Even then, though, there were the Lonestar to consider, thier 'Kingdom' might get to Saint Lewis before they did, and if that happened... It can only mean ill.

[Zjaum]

Gess Leg

The route the adventurers chose wandered far north of the Lake. Neteniol assured his comrades that the ancient road builders built few other routes across the mountain range; and that the road they traveled now was easily the quickest trip across to Nero. After the Carß investigation, the party would meet with watchmen on the rim of the lake, and the company would take a rowboat safely back home. Even still, the troop had not even cleared the mountains by the time it settled for the night; they were still in Calif-sovereign territory. They built a bonfire beside their trail of gravel and ebony dust, overlooking a large lake, before ancient structures guarding the lake from the valley below. The water may not have been as pure, but it was truly a sight to behold.
They would have time to gaze upon the wonder in the morning, however. For now, time was occupied by games and theology. Few approached the monstrously tall Chloe Leg, but Gess chose her as her intellectual sparring partner for the latter pastime. Now the two were the centers of attention (at least, for those not playing sticks, cards or dice) as they struggled to find truth.
"Deception is sin. Simply sin. God does not deceive; so we should not," continued Chloe, looking around, nervous as to the small crowd gathered around her.
"Thou shouldst not deceive when strong, just as thou shouldst not oppress. Yet Jacob deceived his own father to found the sons of Israel, and Ehud deceived Eglon to free them."
"The Good Book states explicitly not to lie."
"Not to bear false witness, and that against thine neighbor," Maksh supported from the wings. "Does Deseret count as a neighbor, or an adversary, sirrah?"
"Samaria wast an adversary, yet the Samaritans were considered the quintessential neighbor. Further, mortal law inscribed in the Scripture is extended elsewhere."
"Mayhaps, mayhaps," pondered Gess. "Yet I posit that-"
"Willst thou both quarrel all night?" announced Private Samsung, who had lost at dice long ago. "We have many leagues yet, and I know full well that thou will regret thy lack of slumber."
Maksh nodded in agreement and stood up. "Very well is it settled. Leave the flame to perish; we shall invade Nod Land with great haste."


The company remembered their morning recitations even in the midst of the bountiful view before them. The march of black dust and smooth gravel that marked their path took many boring hours, but the marching songs they had prepared kept their spirits high and their step sprightly. They at last crossed the Serras Navda, being ever cautious to not attract any more attention than what a forest troop could attract in the desert.
"Do not stray from the path," said the vigilant guide to those who could hear him. "There are lands in Navda that could make a strong man sick merely by treading upon them."
A soldier called out. "Then we'll just send Chloe instead." Gess had through her impertinence made Chloe within reach, if not physically then socially. Chloe made a curt nod, unsure about the new attention.
Neteniol brought the group back to sobriety. "Beware the great holes, and we shall soon reach our enemy's halls."
The final mountains of the Serras Navda overlooked Nero, and already the troops marveled at the giant blocks that arose from the valley below. Gess had seen the spires of the Sacred Mentos, but even she could be impressed by the odd spherical building amidst the otherwise bland concrete ruins. All the same, the work tasked to the team lay well before the architectural marvels, but rather beside a wide-spanning network of palisades constructed at the very base of the mountain. It was here that the Nero task force split into groups of five to scout out enemy activity. They had missions to return to the point of assignment by sundown; those who couldn't make it would be considered captured or killed, and ultimately abandoned.
To Gess's fortune, she had been grouped with Maksh, Neteniol, Chloe, and Samsung. Gess was fine at moments but annoying in hour-long increments; her partners were simply the only four capable of tolerating her after a minute. Because the leader and guide of the entire expedition was among the five, though, Gess's team would have the riskiest, toughest, and furthest mission.
The palisades had few watchtowers, each manned by an archer and a spotter. Fortunately, though, they were not so tall as to see over the ruined ancient dwellings, or the intense shrubbery that covered the surrounding area. Tumbleweed abounded where the greener plants did not, and the scratches inflicted on the party proved more daunting than the enemy himself.
The area in front of the palisades was either burned or cleaned by hand; the soil was too ashen already to tell. Regardless, there were no clear ways through the palisade walls. The openings that served as gates, though, served as ample enough viewfinders for the five's purposes, and what wasn't cut had plenty of eye-sized openings. Neteniol and Gess took the left flank looking rightward, Samsung and Maksh took the right flank looking leftward, and Chloe took the center.
Through the bramble, Gess saw very little of note. There were no large forges, or furnaces, or smithies of any kind. There was an assortment of weapons resting on a bar: spears, axes, pickaxes... shovels? Hm, an odd choice for a man-at-arms, and certainly not one she'd ever encountered in her few skirmishes. She motioned her comrade to follow and began moving leftward. Her new perspective, dozens of meters away, revealed a dozen men tugging at something below ground via rope. She paused with baited breath, not that those above her could see her anyway, as the excavation revealed a large box.
"What dost thou suppose that is?" whispered Gess.
"Methinks it is a box."
"Yea, but, prithee, what is the purpose of yon box?"
The answer seemed obvious. "Yon box is large enough to fit a human, mayhaps two. When a box of that size and shape is lifted out, it must mean..."
"They are uprooting the dead from their rightful resting places."
"Now, the question that remains is for what purpose the dead are raised..."
Neteniol was at a loss for the final quandary, but Gess made no hesitation. "Mean they to raise the dead? Sorcery! Witchcraft! Heresy!"
The thought was plausible, and no better theory arose. The Holy Order of Deseret was in no shortage of swords and shields, and the common Deseret soldier was far from one to cling to gold like the pompous Celestial, who made his seat from the stuff. Caches of materials were unlikely. But would the Holy Order go so far as to renege on their own faith and practices so callously? Regardless, this was a memory to be discussed after surveying Carß, in the presence of Lord Leg. "It is far from sundown; we have time yet. Let us linger yet longer, and mayhaps we will find new insight from yon workers."

[Phaenix]

Nero Dig Site, Deseret

As the day turned to eventide, the sounds of digging quieted, and a the miners and diggers clambered out of their hole. The preacher led them in prayers, and afterward retired to his tent. The guards changed, with the day guards retiring to their barracks, and the night guards taking their place. Two Mormons, dressed in chain and leather armor, walked towards the boxes, their knuckles whitening on their spears. Once they had taken their position, one of the guards whispered to his partner.
"D-do you think that one of these coffins will open, like King Cannon's?"
He began to hyperventilate.
"I-I don't want to be drained like the High Priest was! I don't want-"
The guard's partner shushed him.
"Be quiet, Dayson! That priest will sell us out to Cannon in a heartbeat if he heard this! And then we'll be sent to," the guard shivered, "the pits."
The guard named Dayson grew white, and went quiet. His partner looked at the coffins as if they were about to break open.
"I just hope whatever's in there is dead. For good."

Camp of the J'hawcs

As Gregory's body was taken away by slaves, Koache Ralph laughed and took the best gold and jewels, along with a few of the enslaved nuns, for himself. Taking a final swig of his ale, he drunkenly slapped Albirt on the back.
"Good job, son! Tonight we'll feast and fuck till' ya can't stand!"
Laughing to himself, Ralph walked off, his slaves carrying gold, jewels, and dragging the nuns. As they left, one of the nuns who had joined Albirt noted his limp.
"My lord, Koache Ralph seems to be suffering from gout. From the limp, if his leg is not removed, he will die within the month."

Castle of Lewis, Saint Lewis

Duke Baudoin Lemarquis slammed the report onto his table. His advisors fidgeted, except for Marshal Charles Ray, representative of the Knights of Kentuck. Charles spat on the floor and stepped forward.
"I don't mean to offend, Duke Bao-dwin, but me an' the boys can show this here 'Jineral' the strength of the South, and by God we'll lick em' good!"
Baudoin thought for a second, before sighing.
"What would you have me do? That barbarian may have sacked a monastery, but if I send you, your knights, and my men to deal with the horse lords, then I'll be leaving Saint Lewis open to the Texarkan hordes."
Charles nodded his head, before pulling out a letter with the seal of the Patriarch on it.
"Well, if you look at this here letter, Mister Le-mark-iz, it says that I can do whatever the hell I want to defend this godly Confederacy. So, I WILL be taking my knights to kill that heretic, and then we'll kill that savage Bartolmew too!"
With that, Charles turned and left, and a few moments later the sound of a thousand hoof-beats could be heard leaving the walls of Saint Lewis to hunt down the J'hawcs. Duke Baudoin sighed and dismissed his advisors, before looking over Saint Lewis, past the Misasipye, and at the camp of the Texarkans.

[Dragos Bee]

Jineral Albirt Hillingham

Jineral Albirt looked at the nun and smiled, before whispering, "All the more reason to feast, then."

His father was dying, and his siblings were none the wiser. If he can get his forces positioned in time, he can be the leader of the J'hawcs with minimal fuss, allowing him to deal with the Confederacy's retaliation. Speaking of which... He had made sure that several hundreds of his cavalry were patrolling the plains east of the J'hawcs camp in Cansis, ostensibly to engage in minor raids, but in truth to watch for any revenge expedition against the nomads. He had a few able lieutenants, mostly promoted slaves, who ought to be able to delay even a large force long enough for him to begin planning for his father's upcoming death.

Unknown to him, it wasn't even a large force riding towards him, but a mere thousand folk, a mere thousand folk who should not be underestimated, but who should already be suffering harassment and skirmishing from his riders if they were in reach. Even if their armor can block arrows, even if they can afford to have their horses armored, his men and women were more nimble and had spare horses, while a few others had throwing spears which can pierce through armor. And if the reraliatory force really were able to carve a way through that, he can always give the order to send reinforcements. In fact...

He whispered to the nun with him, "You find one of my loyal folk and head for my portion of the camp. Once there, tell the other loyal 'Kolonels' and 'Beane Counters' to increase the number of my troops patrolling the plains while distributing bribes to my agents among the other commanders. If possible, find an excuse to have fifteen hundreds of my horse archers on the fields east."

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

The Fields of Verdant, Jorga

Carrion birds circled the battlefield, summoned by the stench of death. The dead Confederates all bore the crest of House Greenfield, a boring green field with a blue sky. Only a few Noileaners lay dead amongst them, mostly because they had been surrounded by the Greenfield knights. Clark Tennesley, or Emperor Clark IX, leaned on his claymore as he watched his army plunder the battlefield, looking for loot and survivors. The only ones who did not participate in this were his Noileaners, those dark skinned warriors dressed in bright colors. Strangely, although their city was home to almost constant celebration, the Chevaliers Brillants were a grim bunch, rarely smiling and certainly not celebrating. Clark did not care, so long as they fought. The self-proclaimed emperor watched as the surviving Greenfields were brought to him. Old Earl Victor Greenfield, the patriarch of the family, walked forward, not giving off any emotion. Then came the firstborn, Felix, who sneered upon seeing Clark. Finally came Josephine, Felix's wife, who did not look Clark in the eye.
"What? No love for your champion?"
Clark taunted. He had fought for her affection during a tourney held by the last emperor, Davis V Rothschild, and he had given the Wreath of Beauty to her. Felix growled, and stepped forward.
"You will not speak to my wife that way, you traitorous cur! You're not even properly highborn! You're just some up-jumped hedge knight!"
Victor attempted to speak, but before he could get a word out Clark elbowed Felix, and then removed the man's head from his body. Josephine screamed and Victor fell to his knees. Clark merely laughed and raised his sword.
"Thanks for kneeling down for me, Ol' Vic, saves me some work."
And with that, Victor's head joined his son's. Josephine closed her eyes, but Clark grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. The smell of ale wafted off of him, and grinned, showing his missing teeth.
"No, my sweet, you won't be dyin' today. No, you'll warm my bed for a good, long while!"
That night, the sounds of screams were drowned out by Texarkans feasting with Noileaners, and a Gulfman bard broke into song while the village of Verdant was burned to the ground, its citizens put to the sword, and its wealth put into Clark Tennesley's pocket.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

After hours of argument about who would lead what, whose banners would be flown where, and who would have the honor of the vanguard, Elector-Duke Frederick spoke.
"All quiet for the Emperor's edict!"
The Diet quieted as Maxwell II stood, before clearing his throat.
"Er, ehem. Uh, well, you see, I have, eheh, decided to have, um, Lord Gaylen the Elder lead the, er, vanguard!"
Some Electors cheered, but most booed and hissed, hoping to have led the vanguard themselves. Frederick allowed the ruckus to continue for a minute before raising his hands for silence.
"The Emperor has spoken! Lord Adami, I do hope you will pass this on to your brother, and I offer my congratulations to you on this honor."
Frederick, however, smiled inwardly. The position of vanguard was a deadly one, and should Gaylen fall, it would temporarily disrupt the Tailier line of succession, and perhaps causing some chaos. He could use that opportunity to take some of the choicer Tailier lands for himself.

Gaylen Tailier II

His ears perked when a hush fell over the diet, presumably to permit one of the senior Electors to speak. Much to his surprise, however, he heard the voice of Emperor Maxwell as opposed to an Elector-Duke.

"Er, ehem. Uh, well, you see, I have, eheh, decided to have, um, Lord Gaylen the Elder lead the, er, vanguard!"

Gaylen's body went rigid. Surely, he had heard that incorrectly. The wall was muffling the Emperor's voice. It had to be. Because there was no way they would put his father at the forefront of the offensive. One of his uncles, yes, but the heir apparent of one of the most powerful Noble Houses in Southron? That was political suicide. It would make more sense for Gaylen to lead the charge, or even his granduncle--yes, especially his granduncle.

And he was especially peeved that Maxwell had neglected to mention his family name. Could he not have just said Gaylen Tailier the Elder? Was he above even that? The spelling of their name had changed over the past few generations, but its pronunciation had not; the Emperor, then, was besmirching the honor of House Tailier.

What dost thou have against us, hm? We are no threat to your power. My father hast not offended thee or any of the Diet in any way, and neither has Uncle Adami, so what is your problem with us? Heat lanced through Gaylen, and he clenched his fists, shaking from the suppression of his urge to burst through the doors and demand to know why his father had been selected for this task. But he was more mature than that; he could hold his temper.

He could remain slouched against the slightly roughened walls separating him from the chamber of the Diet, from its glossy wooden chairs upholstered in the colors of Southron. The sound that bounced off its walls was reduced in its echo from out here, the dispositions of the well-dressed and often armored noblemen were invisible to him, and would remain as such. Gaylen would not push through the Diet and approach the wooden railing separating him from the central forum of the building, lean over it, and glare directly at the Emperor, who was hardly older than he.

Not yet, as it were.

Gaylen knew how to conduct himself in a stately manner. He could win people over with his sharp wit and level temper. His political stances were ingrained within him as the colorations of a stone, as the wind blew across the earth and ruffled the grass and the trees. His tactics were rivers reshaping the land to form their courses, his countenance remained more neutral and distant than the celestial Moon that phased through its varied degrees of aloofness.

He could direct the orders of the Emperor with a brief stream of calming words rooted in rationality, had he the authority. If, in the heated passion of dispute, he had the gall to physically attack the Emperor, he would be able to do so without much effort. Maxwell was hardly more than a boy, pallid, hollow-eyed, and Gaylen had the physical strength to snap a man's neck. He had even done so once. Unlike Maxwell, Gaylen was a soldier, trained from youth to be his own weapon. But loyalty to the Emperor was as much a part of his nature as his finesse and strength, and he saw no need to attack Maxwell. He was appalled that the notion had skittered into his mind. He suspected, but had not confirmed, that Maxwell had no true power, and as such was unsure where to direct his fear and choler.

He realized, as his pulse began to slow and his mind reduced the rate at which it spewed forth thought, that Maxwell's greatest flaw was his ignorance. He did not know what he was doing, nor did he understand the situation he had been thrust into. Unless Gaylen had mischaracterized him, Maxwell seemed to be utterly unsure of himself.

Not for the first time, he yearned to be where the action was. Were he present in the room where it was happening, he could properly assess the situation, or at least get an idea of where some of the Electors stood. He might discern who was attempting to control Maxwell. Gaylen doubted he could gather all of this were he present, but he would love to see who was truly running today's Diet.

Uncle Adami knows, he reminded himself. He is in the room where it is happening. He shall tell me if I ask.

He felt a corner of himself relax as he waited for the diet to adjourn.

[Dragos Bee]

Irene Augusta

Where once there were dozens of sides among the Eastern Ilynoi, now there were only two - Those convinced of Irene Augusta's blessing by the Virgin, and those convinced she was a Witch. The latter had rallied under the leadership of the city of Dekator, raising a massive army of hoplites, skirmishers, and light cavalry to destroy the Warrior-Queen and her threat to the established order. This army, reinforced by exiled Iconoclasts and even an expedition from the Heathens to the West, was much larger than her own and possessed of their own hot-blooded resolve. Rather than allow her enemies to converge on Neopoleis, she had left the city in the capable hands of her husband with the bulk of her forces, marching towards Dekator with greater speed than expected, helped by the fact that instead of carrying their supplies themselves, boats and rafts had been constructed in Neopoleis itself to sail down the Xanagamon River which ran towards Dekator and it was these vessels which carried the necessities for her army.

If the folk at Dekator had caught on to the purpose of the boats and had river-ships of their own, this gambit would have failed. But they hadn't and they didn't, and so Irene was able to surprise the Coalition Army in the early morning before they had eaten breakfast, the most important meal of the day. She wasn't going to give them time to fill their bellies - Honor was for those who can respect it, not these heretics and heathens.

Raising her banner, which glowed brightly even in the sunlight, she called out to her Winged Knights, "Show courage! God is with us!", before she and the rest of her army, having eaten early, before sunrise, charged the forces of Dekator and their allies, careful not to let herself and her heavy cavalry be cut off in the midst of battle - She was courageous, not reckless! Driving her banner-lance through the heart of an enemy infantryman, one who had not managed to get into phalanx formation, slaying her way through disorganized and hungry foes with her drawn sword, her bodyguards fought like lions beside her, even as her own hoplites and crossbowmen worked as one, the latter softening up those of the enemy who had managed to organize into phalanxes so that the former can break them. Nevertheless, Irene felt the need to shout, "Stand strong!" as the enemy's resistance stiffened.

The Iconoclasts and Western Ilynoi Heathens, grudgingly working together against her and the threat she posed to the Ilynoi way of war and life, proved their valor and courage as they combined together in one huge phalanx supported by a flimsy screen of slingers, holding out against repeated showers of crossbow bolts, assaults by her own phalanxes, and even a charge by her own Winged Knights - Even when she felled the enemy Captain with her sword, they stood firm, fighting with their swords once their spears broke, and with their hands and teeth once their swords shattered or wore down. But in the end, they died to a man, taking down fifty Winged Knights and eight hundred other troops.

At the end of the battle, Irene changed her mind and decided that the dead men were worth honoring for their valor after all. She gave orders for the enemy dead to be buried honorably, albeit without prayers for their souls. Those who surrendered and were made prisoner were treated with clemency, promised their freedom without ransom as a reward for the valor of their peers. Many swore fealty to her after this show of mercy with judgment... Including the City of Dekator, which was admitted into Irene's burgeoning Empire as its latest member, with many of its elites rewarded with titles and pensions for their submission.

But in her heart, Irene knew that the deaths of more than ten Winged Knights were a great loss, especially when she depended on them and their loyalty for the bulk of her conquests. Her husband would have to get more...

A Few Weeks Later...

Ioannes Augustus (NPC)

To: King Bismarc of the Cleave.
From: King Consort Johann Augustus of Neopoleis.

Greetings, Royal Kinsman, and we hope this letter finds you well and healthy. As you know, my wife, the Queen Regnant of the fair city of Neopoleis, has just won a victory at the banks of the Xanagamon River against a coalition of heathens and heretics and is now in a secure position to further repay the aid you have given her and her father. And so, with her authority, I offer the aid of 1000 of Neopolies' Hoplites against the threat posed by the traitors to your west, requesting only that once the treacherous Mikadgers are defeated, that we open further negotiations for the betrothal of my son, Prince Basileos, to another of our family, with a further dowry of Winged Knights for my Queen's attempts to defend the realm of Neopoleis...

[OOC Notes: Dekator is IRL Decatur, Illinois, and the Xanagamon is the IRL Sangamon River which goes past Decatur.]

[Phaenix]

The Hall of Judgment, Palace of the Wolf

King Bismaric III sat on the great, black throne that for the last century had been the seat of the Hexos kings, and listened as a noble, dressed in pelts and plate armor, gave a report.
"Your Royal Majesty, the Mikagers have been growing bold. Just last Sun's Day they burned Lor Ain to the ground, and now they've sacked Sanusk!"
Bismaric scowled, and after a brief moment, he spoke.
"Lord Krisztofer, I will send a contingent of hearthguards with you to ensure the safety of your fiefs. Will three-hundred suffice?"
Lord Krisztofer bowed.
"It will, my king, it most certainly will."
With Krisztofer satisfied, a messenger walked into the hall. Obviously of Ilynoi origin, he spoke in accented Tradespeak, and presented a letter to Bismaric.
"His Majesty, King Consort Johann Augustus, has graciously loaned you a thousand of the famed Neopoleisian hoplites to aid you against the Mikagers."
Bismaric read the letter, and grinned. A chance to weaken Nikraski? Why, of course he'd take it! Calling for a pen, parchment, and some ink, Bismaric wrote a response.

To His Majesty, Johann Augustus, King Consort of Neopoleis
From His Royal Majesty, Bismaric Hexos, Third of His Name, King of the Cleave and Indus, Overlord of All the Lands Between Rhoksfyrd to Jolientholis, and the Wolflord of the Blackline

Most royal bloodkin, we have received your hoplites, and with their help we will assuredly place the traitor Ottaker's head on a pike with little difficulty. As for the possible betrothal of Prince Basileos, my son and heir, Prince Lykos, has a few bastards laying around, and one of them is female. If you so wish, I can send little Ariena to you within the month. Send my respects to your wife, and remind her that we make a great ally, but an even greater foe.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

For the next hour, the Diet argued about taxes, trade, and most of all, Clark Tennesley. Right before the Diet retired for the day, the doors slammed open, and the lazy clap of hooves on stone echoed through the Diet. Patriarch Graham stood, his mitre almost falling on the ground, and shook his scepter towards the sound.
"Do you know where you are!? The Diet is in session, and by God I'll have you tried for heresy for this interrupt-"
The Patriarch stopped when the rider came into view. The Diet collectively gasped, as the rider, slumped over with an arrow in his back, fell before Emperor Maxwell II. Maxwell squeaked, and fainted, while Duke Frederick reached down and rolled the man over. His tattered tabard showed a green field under a blue sky, and in his hand was a note. Frederick grabbed the note, and read it aloud.
"The rebel Clark's army has reached Verdant. House Greenfield slain to a man, Verdant burnt. Texarkan raiders followed me until I reached Jorga. One of them bastards got me in the back. Don't think I'll make it to Jameston."
The Diet began to rumble with voices. Prince Barnabus Keswick, the Prince of Jorga, stood.
"Those bastards are almost to Jorga!? Well, I'm headin' out. Gotta rouse the levies."
Barnabus left, along with his men-at-arms, as the Diet continued to argue. Maxwell regained consciousness, only to curl up into the fetal position upon hearing the noise. Frederick banged his fist on a podium, and shouted.
"QUIET! QUIET I SAY!"
This quieted the Diet, and Frederick spoke.
"It seems we may be unable to have Lord Gaylen Tailier the Elder lead the vanguard, so I propose a vote. I know that Gaylen the Elder's son, Lord Gaylen the Younger, is in Jameston. All in favor of having Gaylen the Younger lead the vanguard, say 'aye!'"
The Diet, even though it had been against having Gaylen the Elder lead, quickly voted seventeen to thirteen in favor. Frederick, a smug grin on his face, turned to where Adami Tailier was sitting, and spoke.
"Congratulations, Adami. Your nephew has been given the honor of leading the vanguard. May he find glory for the Confederacy."

The Fields outside Saint Lewis

Corpses littered the field, most of them in the armor of the Knights of Kentuck. Marshall Charles Ray crawled out of the scorching sun and under a tree, watching as the J'hawcs looted the corpses of his men. Grimacing, Charles pulled out a bandage and began to patch up the wound in his side, before falling unconscious. Of the casualties, all one-thousand knights had been slain, and only two-hundred J'hawcs were food for the worms.

[Travislavania]

(Image)

The world as most know it is in turmoil. From the freezing winds of the Nordlands to the tropical climes of the Gulfmen, worrying rumors abound. Rumors of war, of a Two-Headed Wolf, of forces across the freezing Easter Sea, of men long thought dead returning to reclaim what was once theirs. Most sensible men dismiss these as the talk of sailors, peasants, and the superstitious, but there are a few who believe them. Chief among them is the Duc de Terreneuve, who has sent his great fleet across the Easter Sea to learn of these so-called "Brythons." His fellow Nordlanders have dubbed him 'the Mad,' for no ship has ever crossed the Easter Sea and lived to tell the tale, but the Duc believes that if he can learn of these Brythons, and their mystical land of Albys, he could perhaps stand a chance of surviving the coming storm, if the talk of sailors is to be believed.
In the South, the burgeoning Confederacy of the Neurld faced threats both internal and external. The current Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, won the election by a mere two votes, and so his rival, the self-proclaimed Emperor Clark IX Tennesley, has roused his supporters to rebellion. As the Confederacy deals with a civil war, Lonestar raiders under the Texarkan king, Bartolmew Beckett, have crossed the Confederate border into the Grand Duchy of Misasipye, wreaking havoc across the fertile fields and towns. Even the great city of Saint Lewis, old even before the Collapse, is under threat.
Farther West, the people sing praises to the Seraph, the Heavens, and to the line of Nortonid, who trace their lineage to the first Emperor of Calif, Norton I. The current Son-of-the-Seraph, Celestial Zophar 'the Magnificent,' rules the Heavenly Empire of Calif with a firm hand, yet beneath the calm exterior, Calif is in turmoil. To the South, the revanchist Empire of Mexica, under Emperador Zipactonal Coaqui, seeks to bring the rowdy Lonestar tribes to heel, while even farther South, a great jaguar sleeps.
Rising amongst the ruins of the fallen Union of Northemeria, the great maritime republics of Neuangla hold the ears of king and emperor alike. The greatest of these, the Serene Archate of Neuyore, is where the Blood of Old Northemeria still runs thick, and names like Roseavelt, Clinetoon, Barocke, and more still hold sway. It is here where the Aekademi of the Olurld is situated, which studies the possible existence of the Olurld, which is mentioned many times in antediluvian works, especially ones by the great Gaemes Worshop, who most historians have credited with writing most of what is known about the Olurld. It is here where the tongue of the Old Northemerians is still spoke, Anglith, and to speak the Common Tongue is to be treated as scum.
And lastly, we journey to the Sea of Eyrie, where the rising power of the Kingdom of the Cleave rules. Holding land from the Ilynoi Marches to the border of the Nordlands, the Kingdom of the Cleave has been ruled by House Hexos for the last century. Situated in the ancient city of Cleaven, the current ruler of the Cleave, King Bismaric III, seeks to expand his territory, and has recently sent his twin children, Prince Lykos and Princess Lupa, to harass the border villages of the Pensigreik in preparation for the main force. Yet King Bismaric III does not lack for enemies, and his half-brother, Ottaker, has managed to rouse the various jarls and petty kings of Mikag to war, and has had himself proclaimed Iskonge of Mikag, and prepares to march his Mikager host to war. In the Wolf Court itself, Bismaric's brother-in-law, Lord Peremyr Nikraski of Chikagoe, seeks to restore the ancient line of Nikraski to the Chikagoen throne, and will most likely make a move against House Hexos if Bismaric marches to war.
It is a horrid time to live in Northemeria, with such conflict brewing just on the horizon. But if the rumors are true, can the lords of Northemeria put aside their differences to throw the men across the waters back into the sea, or will they drown in their own hubris? Only time will tell, and the wills of men.

Palace of the Wolf, Cleaven

King Bismaric III Hexos looked out over the Salt Bay, past the Goldport, past the Sunken City, and past the ships in bay. Bismaric stared at the horizon, where just beyond his sight, the frozen island of Mikag stood, and a horde of barbarians under his half-brother, Ottaker, prepared to burn all his forefathers had made to ash. The cold wind coming off the bay bothered Bismaric naught, as he was a true Cleaveman and had grown up on the water. Bismaric smiled, though under the great mass of his black beard it was nigh invisible. He remembered his days as a pirate, plundering ships up and down the Easter Coast and bringing great wealth to the Hexos name. Though that was years ago, and Bismaric was no longer a petty pirate, but king of all the lands from Ilynoi to the Great Forest of Kentuck. The black iron crown on his head attested to this. The sound of footsteps broke Bismaric out of his reverie, and the king turned to see who was approaching him. The man was tall, pale and had the blue eyes and blond hair of a Chikagoen. His plate armor bore the crest of House Nikraski, an eagle on a red and white field, and the great wings on his back rattled in the wind.
"How are you, Lord Peremyr? I thought you were leading you Winged Knights against the nomad horde of Jineral Nathaniel Marfont?"
The Lord of Chikagoe smiled, and from behind his back threw a head, dipped in tar. Bismaric smiled, and had a servant take it away to be shown to the people of Cleaven. Striding forward, Bismaric placed his hand on Peremyr's shoulder.
"You will be rewarded for this, my friend. In the eyes of God, I hereby proclaim you Warden of the Ilynoi Marches, and Viceregent of the Cleave."
Peremyr smiled, though the titles were mere honors with no power, and bowed low.
"Thank you, Your Royal Majesty. You are too generous."
Bismaric laughed, and ordered a servant to prepare the guest rooms for Lord Peremyr, while inwardly hoping his troublesome brother-in-law would suffer an unfortunate fall.
"Please, Lord Peremyr, you must be tired from your journey! Why don't you stay the night? There will be a great feast!"
Peremyr shook his head, knowing his life expectancy fell the longer he stayed in Cleaven, and spoke up.
"I am sorry, my king, but I will have to pass. Maryna is expected to give birth soon, and I would like to be in the Hall of the Eagle when she does."
Bismaric nodded, and watched the man walk away, wondering if he could hire an archer to shoot Nikraski before he returned home.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

The noise in the Confederate Diet was deafening. Electors shouting, pounding on tables, stomping their feet, and all the while their Emperor, Maxwell II Rothschild, sat in the center of it all, trying desperately to sink into his throne.
"How dare they? Those heretics dare to raise a sword against the God-chosen Emperor!? They will burn forever in Hell for this!"
The booming voice of Patriarch Graham echoed through the hall, and was met by a chorus of agreements. After allowing the noise to continue, Elector-Duke Frederick Hanover of Marielyn raised his hands and shouted.
"ENOUGH! Electors of the Confederacy, quiet yourselves. Arguing amongst ourselves will accomplish nothing. While we sit here, Clark Tennesley and his Noileaners, Texarkans, and Gulfmen are marching unimpeded through Jorga, and unless we do something, then we'll all be hanging from the tress in the Confederate Garden."
This quieted the Diet, who listened as Frederick explained his plan.
"I will lead the combined might of our armies to the Jorgan Pass. We will establish fortifications and force the rebels to meet us on our terms, lest they starve. That is how we'll beat back Clark and his horde of rebels!"
The Diet erupted with cheers, and Frederick stood stoically, soaking in the praise.

how do i signup

[Dragos Bee]

Irene Augusta

As her husband sent word that yes, her son's future wife can be sent within the month, and that no, Neopoleis will never think of breaking their alliance with the Cleave, Irene was now pondering how to further centralize her rule. It was clear that each city having its own Patriarch was a problem, but demoting the head clergymen of the cities under her would be a politically inadvisable move. So, she had a more palatable idea: Patriarch Ioseph III, her friend and one of her chief supporters (besides her husband), will be appointed High Patriarch of all cities which had pledged allegiance to Neopoleis, with gifts, titles, and bribes being distributed to make sure that all naysayers would find themselves isolated and without support.

Once the High Patriarch had secured his position, representatives from the cities would be invited to discuss another matter entirely, a set of standarized weights and measures, as well as a common coinage - If her plans panned out, all coins would have the Savior's image on one side and the Blessed Virgin's image on the other. Provisions would also be taken to make sure that the roads in-between the cities which pledged allegiance to her were free of banditry - To keep her Winged Knights in practice while waiting for Lady Ariena's dowry of more heavy horse, she herself would ride to burn out the lairs of whatever bandits were foolish enough to plague her people...

Jineral Albirt Hillingham

The day after the feast, word arrived of the victory against a stupidly-small retaliatory force from the Southron Confederation, as well as a prisoner taken alive - A Marshall of the Southron Knights. As Jineral Albirt Hillingham received the news in his personal tent, he was asked by one of his Kolonels, "What should be done with him?"

"Is he a stubborn man?" was Albirt's response. It was obvious from the Kolonel's expression that he was. So he continued, "Give him as a gift to one of my warrior-sisters, or one of my brothers who are inclined to brawny, bearded old men - I prefer handsomer fare myself. Also, next time, make sure to capture a few more slaves in the moment of victory." Then he smiled. "Nevertheless, you're promoted. What's your name?"

"Zekeriah, sir - Former Slave you yourself freed," said the Kolonel. "And thank you, sir."

"Well," Albirt said, "You are now a Lieutenannt and command a thousand. Your first job would be to take the armor, clothes, and weapons worn by the now-dead Knights, go back out into the field, and find one of the parties of the Lonestars King - Bartholomew, was it? Then you put on the armor, clothes, and weapons you took and attack the Lonestars until you kill at least eight hundred and take their clothes, armor, and weapons."

He then looked around, gesturing for his personal guards to seek out any eavesdroppers, then said, "Then, dressed up as Lonestars with bandanas to hide your faces, you attack one of my brothers - I suggest Henry - Make sure he's dead, and that there are survivors riding back to the J'hawcs saying that the Lonestars have treacherously attacked one of their own. Then you are to return to your normal J'hawc clothes and come back with no one the wiser."

The reason for this? Now that the Southrons had been proven to be weaker than expected, and the Lonestars probably stronger than desired and advancing rather fast to Saint Lewis, the Texarkans were the greater threat and had to be dealt with. He risked giving the Southrons a breathing space if the Lonestars couldn't be defeated in time, but better that than losing Saint Lewis to the Lonestar King, Bartholomew...

[Zjaum]

Gess Leg

The sun wandered closer to the horizon, and Neteniol and Gess were still there. They hadn't set on an agreed time to stop surveillance, but there was always a few small bits of helpless tidbits that could be obtained: certain rites, certain armor and arms combinations that they used, certain food abundances and shortages. Neteniol knew most of it, but even he was surprised by some. Every bit was just one more excuse to continue sitting there, until finally Chloe's large hulk appeared in the bushes to their left.
"Hey, Maksh and Samsung hoped to leave a few hours ago, but they wait to see what thou wouldst do. Art we leaving now?"
At that point two overly-armored soldiers began to set up their watch. Gess shrugged. "Let us hear what these people have to say, prithee," she spoke in a low roll.
Neteniol was getting a little anxious, knowing that he'd ordered the group to leave in an hour, that at the latest. "Run back, and tell them to hold off until we return."
Chloe nodded without hesitation and faded back into the brush.
It was mostly hushed whispers, which were much too far away to be heard. The more tense of the two helped them out by announcing in a panicked voice, "I-I don't want to be drained like the High Priest was! I don't want-"
The soldier was quickly silenced. Gess turned to her partner in espionage. "Dost there be a draining ritual in the heathen Mormon faith, Neteniol?"
Neteniol shook his head. "None that I know, and I was there for two decades. Something foul stirs in the highest councils of the Mormon faith, and it has to do with those boxes, I wager."
Gess responded. "Good news for us, then. Our venture was a success!"
Neteniol nodded. "I can only hope that we return to tell our comrades."
It took them about an hour to return to their point of assignment. The ascension past the bramble and the ruined houses was a more careful hike than the others, especially in the dark. They spotted the three others in their assignment, who stood around patiently and quietly. Neteniol was in a much ampler position to call loudly. "Where be mine brothers, sirrah?"
"We did not arrive in time; they left without us for Carß," stated Maksh.
"The fools do not know the way there!"
"They only need to follow the road southward, right?"
"...Thou makest a fair point. We told them not to rest in enemy territory, so we would have to run to fetch our fellowship."
Chloe nodded. "I tried, sirrah. They were too far gone for me to catch then. They would be much too far for us now."
Neteniol nodded. "Then they are left to their fate until we reach Carß. Perhaps we will rendesvous with them then. I hope they have not fallen to an ambush by our foe. If we are to be delayed, though," Neteniol announced. "Maksh, we have heard that the High Priest was 'drained.' I can only assume a literal meaning, as there is no liturgical meaning in Mormonism. I wager that the boxes have something to do with it. Go back along the route which we came and tell our lord thusly. Can you do so?"
"I do not recall the exact way," replied Maksh.
"I do," announced Samsung. "I will go in his stead."
"Very well, then."
And so the four wardens that remained traveled southwards in trepidation.


Obadiah Hishaw

The day was windless, and the sun beat down quietly on the fields of blue grass. Obadiah Hishaw wandered the perimeter of Pervil with a few good friends to survey the territory.
"See, this is what I mean: a few well-dug trenches here would put a stop to a charge of horsemen," posited Obadiah.
"Yes, but I was hoping to extend that part of my farm to grow a new crop of oats."
"Joshua, you know that oats are my domain!"
"Multiple people make wheat. Multiple people make corn. I don't see why oats should be any different."
"Not enough people eat oats enough for two farmers!"
"Mules eat oats, and does eat oats. What's not to say that people won't eat more oats when I make more oats?"
"Joshua, Moses, could we get back to the task at hand, please?" interrupted Obadiah. The party had stopped in the meantime. "Joshua, I would have dug a trench on my own land if it was the most suitable; you know this to be true. But right now, your farm is the most southwesterly of all of ours. Our defense needs to start where we most expect the horde to come. The farther out it is, the easier it will be to circumnavigate, and the longer we will have to make it. It's the best plan for all of us."
Joshua nodded and tapped his foot. "I want compensation."
"I'll pay for it myself. Name your price."
"Wait, Obadiah, you spend too generously. You know you don't have enough to pay. Here, Joshua. I'll pay your compensation. Least I can do to protect my oat crop, leastaways."
"Then is it settled?"
"Yes, I guess it is."
"Very well, then. I shall start digging once I've tended to my crop, and I'll invite the town to do likewise. Our people shall be safe from the Texarkan horde in a month's time!"
"...Do we have a month's time, Obadiah?"
Obadiah hung his head. "I don't know, Moses. I will work as diligently as I can, but we can only do so much. I trust the good Lord to provide and protect."
"Provide and protect, indeed."

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

The Hall of Judgment, Palace of the Wolf

King Bismaric III sat on the great, black throne that for the last century had been the seat of the Hexos kings, and listened as a noble, dressed in pelts and plate armor, gave a report.
"Your Royal Majesty, the Mikagers have been growing bold. Just last Sun's Day they burned Lor Ain to the ground, and now they've sacked Sanusk!"
Bismaric scowled, and after a brief moment, he spoke.
"Lord Krisztofer, I will send a contingent of hearthguards with you to ensure the safety of your fiefs. Will three-hundred suffice?"
Lord Krisztofer bowed.
"It will, my king, it most certainly will."
With Krisztofer satisfied, a messenger walked into the hall. Obviously of Ilynoi origin, he spoke in accented Tradespeak, and presented a letter to Bismaric.
"His Majesty, King Consort Johann Augustus, has graciously loaned you a thousand of the famed Neopoleisian hoplites to aid you against the Mikagers."
Bismaric read the letter, and grinned. A chance to weaken Nikraski? Why, of course he'd take it! Calling for a pen, parchment, and some ink, Bismaric wrote a response.

To His Majesty, Johann Augustus, King Consort of Neopoleis
From His Royal Majesty, Bismaric Hexos, Third of His Name, King of the Cleave and Indus, Overlord of All the Lands Between Rhoksfyrd to Jolientholis, and the Wolflord of the Blackline

Most royal bloodkin, we have received your hoplites, and with their help we will assuredly place the traitor Ottaker's head on a pike with little difficulty. As for the possible betrothal of Prince Basileos, my son and heir, Prince Lykos, has a few bastards laying around, and one of them is female. If you so wish, I can send little Ariena to you within the month. Send my respects to your wife, and remind her that we make a great ally, but an even greater foe.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

For the next hour, the Diet argued about taxes, trade, and most of all, Clark Tennesley. Right before the Diet retired for the day, the doors slammed open, and the lazy clap of hooves on stone echoed through the Diet. Patriarch Graham stood, his mitre almost falling on the ground, and shook his scepter towards the sound.
"Do you know where you are!? The Diet is in session, and by God I'll have you tried for heresy for this interrupt-"
The Patriarch stopped when the rider came into view. The Diet collectively gasped, as the rider, slumped over with an arrow in his back, fell before Emperor Maxwell II. Maxwell squeaked, and fainted, while Duke Frederick reached down and rolled the man over. His tattered tabard showed a green field under a blue sky, and in his hand was a note. Frederick grabbed the note, and read it aloud.
"The rebel Clark's army has reached Verdant. House Greenfield slain to a man, Verdant burnt. Texarkan raiders followed me until I reached Jorga. One of them bastards got me in the back. Don't think I'll make it to Jameston."
The Diet began to rumble with voices. Prince Barnabus Keswick, the Prince of Jorga, stood.
"Those bastards are almost to Jorga!? Well, I'm headin' out. Gotta rouse the levies."
Barnabus left, along with his men-at-arms, as the Diet continued to argue. Maxwell regained consciousness, only to curl up into the fetal position upon hearing the noise. Frederick banged his fist on a podium, and shouted.
"QUIET! QUIET I SAY!"
This quieted the Diet, and Frederick spoke.
"It seems we may be unable to have Lord Gaylen Tailier the Elder lead the vanguard, so I propose a vote. I know that Gaylen the Elder's son, Lord Gaylen the Younger, is in Jameston. All in favor of having Gaylen the Younger lead the vanguard, say 'aye!'"
The Diet, even though it had been against having Gaylen the Elder lead, quickly voted seventeen to thirteen in favor. Frederick, a smug grin on his face, turned to where Adami Tailier was sitting, and spoke.
"Congratulations, Adami. Your nephew has been given the honor of leading the vanguard. May he find glory for the Confederacy."

The Fields outside Saint Lewis

Corpses littered the field, most of them in the armor of the Knights of Kentuck. Marshall Charles Ray crawled out of the scorching sun and under a tree, watching as the J'hawcs looted the corpses of his men. Grimacing, Charles pulled out a bandage and began to patch up the wound in his side, before falling unconscious. Of the casualties, all one-thousand knights had been slain, and only two-hundred J'hawcs were food for the worms.

Gaylen Tailier the Younger

He was nearly asleep from boredom when the clopping of hooves sounded from within the Diet. Startled, he bolted upright, leaping to his feet in a swift motion with his eyes darting to and fro with panic. The subsequent uproar caused him to literally flatten his head against the wall so that he might glean what was being said, for to intrude now seemed to be in bad taste.

Silence. Then, "The rebel Clark's army has reached Verdant."

Gaylen felt every single muscle in his body stiffen, felt his skin ice over and his blood freeze in its tracks. His stomach lurched and his mind roiled, and he became locked in place against the wall, numb with terror and shock.

He steeled himself, gritted his teeth, forced his ear to detect what was being said. The Prince of Jorga announced that he was heading out; after that, ruckus. Undiscernible voices, shouts, rebukes.

Vaguely, Gaylen wondered how the Emperor was taking to all of this, since he did not seem the type to stomach things such as imminent war, but he never got an answer. Lord Hanover was shouting, subduing the Diet into silence, and they obeyed. Of course they obeyed. Hanover was the one at the helm of today's Diet, of the Confederacy, it appeared. Perhaps he always had been.

"It seems," Hanover began, his aristocratic drawl tinged with pomposity, "we may be unable to have Lord Gaylen Tailier the Elder lead the vanguard, so I propose a vote." Gaylen's stomach leaped into his throat hearing his father's name on Hanover's silvery tongue. He braced himself for the Elector-Duke's next words. If his voice contained enough authority, he knew, Emperor Maxwell would go along. I know that Gaylen the Elder's son, Lord Gaylen the Younger, is in Jameston. All in favor of having Gaylen the Younger lead the vanguard, say 'aye!'"

Gaylen lurched forward. He stumbled, slumping against the wall as his weak knees began to shake. He could taste the hints of his morning repast again, could feel the bile crawling up his throat. His entire mind was blank save for the vast swaths of panic engulfing it.

The vote lasted an eternity, or maybe no time at all. His perception of the passing minutes was too warped by fear for him to make any sense of it. All he could think of was Theodore losing his father before his first birthday, of Caroligne having to raise him on her own. He imagined his parents sickened with grief and Henricus being handed the yoke Gaylen was supposed to bear. Already, the gruesome sounds of vicious warfare clamored about in his head, and the bitter stench of blood overwhelmed his nostrils until they were no longer capable of smelling anything else. He wondered how searing pain would feel, how long he would lie on the ground and wait to die were he to fall.

"Milord," urged one of his attendants, "Milord, what is troubling you?"

Gaylen held up a finger to silence the man. He offered no verbal reply.

As soon as Hanover broke the silence, Gaylen was certain of the outcome. He prayed his uncle had voted against him, but he knew such a plea was in vain ere the first syllable had left Hanover's mouth. "Congratulations, Adami. Your nephew has been given the honor of leading the vanguard. May he find glory for the Confederacy."

He shook, violently, his eyes wide and his jaw slackening. He could not rip himself away from the wall or let out so much as a scream. He was a soldier, was he not? He had seen war. But he had not had an infant son during his last campaign. He did not have a little boy to care for.

"Milord, what is't? What is happening?"

He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. "N--nothing. Nothing of great importance." Compelled by his noble training, he straightened and summoned every bit of his will. "'Tis the Texarcan rebels and their false king. Knavish piece of work, that man, thinking he can march through the Confederacy and lay waste to out lands." Gaylen was practically spitting despite his best efforts to contain himself. "Let me recline for but a moment. Or rather, I shall stand here and look aloof so they do not suspect me."

"Yes, milord." The attendant backed away so as to give Gaylen space. Gaylen exhaled, his gaze flicking over the few other heirs gathered outside the corridor. House Tailier was not the only one to send a backup in case of sudden death.

"I must write to Caroligne anon. Fetch me a quill and parchment for when we return to our guest lodgings." He still had the urge to regurgitate the contents of his breakfast, but he swallowed it back. Now was not the time to throw up like a child.

He had been to war before. He had killed. He had no fear of Clark, and he used to have little fear of dying.

But he could not deny the fact that he was utterly petrified.

[Phaenix]

Pervil, the Duchy of Kentuck

The horselord rode into Pervil. Some villagers fled, others grabbed weapons, while some just stared. He did not care. In his hand he carried a sack, blood dripping from whatever was inside. He rode into the center of town and dumped the sack's contents out. Five heads, all from minor lords and knights, tumbled out onto the ground.
"I be Elliot Campbell, son of Lucas Campbell, and I be here to deliver a message from Cheef Darby Carlton, son of Quinten Carlton, and about to be Cheef of everythin' from here to Kentuck; surrender, or we'll burn yer land and sell yer children to the Gilded Cirkill."
The horselord sat atop his horse, waiting for a response.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

Emperor Maxwell II, relieved that the Diet was adjourned, quickly fled to his quarters, followed by several courtiers. Duke Frederick went towards his allies, Patriarch Graham, Knightmaster Harlan Verne of the Knights of Kentuck, and Marquis Régnault II Beliveau of the Texarkan Marches. They whispered conspiratorially, with Harlan occasionally coughing up a wad of phlegm. Graham was the first to speak.
"Did you see the look on the whelp's face when he learned he was to lead the vanguard? Priceless! If he dies, it is surely the punishment of the Lord for his father's sin. Lying with a Vikun! Unthinkable!"
Régnault sneered, and spoke also.
"Do you have proof, though? My cousin, the Seigneur de Travournée, has had his eyes on the Tailier's Western lands for quite some time now."
Patriarch Graham fumed, but before he could respond, Harlan spoke up.
"We have no definite proof, just the rumors. But, should we let Clark reach the Tailier's lands, I'm sure they'll be wiped out."
Graham was about to protest, when Hanover raised his hand for silence.
"No, no. If we let Clark march to Orange, he'll be a week away from Jameston. I want Tailier land, but I want to be alive to see it. No, we'll have to hope Gaylen the Younger commits some act of cowardice, so we can blackmail Zackeri."
With that, the conspirators followed the other electors out of the Diet, and into the hot, humid day that hung over Jameston.

On the Road to Carß

In the darkness of the Deseret night, the only sounds were those of the wind, the crickets...and bones breaking. A caravan, presumably Mexican from the Imperial banner laying on the ground, lay dead. The guards torn to shreds, and the bodies looking as if something was eating their innards. Most would assume wild animals, but no pack of coyotes could take down a regiment of Imperial Legionaries. No, the perpetrators were hunched over the plump body of the caravan master, using long claws to rip into his belly. They appeared emaciated, but as they ate, some color returned, but their emaciated forms remained. One shrieked, and tore at its face, while the other ignored it, and continued to eat. The creatures appeared vaguely humanlike, but their animalistic screeching and the fact they were eating their fellow man would make others think differently. One guard, having fallen unconscious from a blow to the head, crawled away from the massacre. After an hour, the man managed to escape the creatures, only to fall unconscious yet again from dehydration.

The Old Imperial Highway, Near Pontus

The Free City of Pontus, perhaps the only free city worthy of that name. The wealthiest of the Ilynoi city-states, Pontus has managed to stay free of the Kingdom of the Cleave and the rising power that is Neopoleis. Yet the magisters of Pontus did not wish a war with the Cleave, so they gladly let Lady Ariena and her escort across the river and through their city. Yet outside of Pontus, bandits, deserters, and the remnants of the Dekator armies roamed. Already, the escort had been attacked thrice, and each time the elite Wolvenguard assigned to Ariena, as befitted a member of the Blackline, threw them back. Yet this time, the so-called Sons of Dekator, blocked the carriage's way with two separate phalanxes. Although the Wolvenguard were elite, they numbered only fifty men, and to charge on horseback into a wall of spears was suicide. The leader of the Sons of Dekator stepped forward, only to catch a bolt in his head. This enraged the bandits, who marched their phalanxes forward. The Wolvenguard dismounted, and formed a circle around the carriage, yet Ariena stepped out. Dressed in black plate and a vendel helmet, Ariena raised her axe.
"Come on, ya feckless bastards! Face a daughter of the Blackline!"
Her Wolvenguard harrumphed, and those with shields began steadily beating them. A few of the bandits looked frightened, but most simply continued their advance. The few Wolvenguard with crossbows peppered the advancing phalanxes, but it did little to even the odds. So the fifty Wolvenguard, along with Lady Ariena, stood ready to die against the two-hundred bandits.

On the Confederate Highway

Cheef Royce Bexley looked down on the Confederate caravan and smiled. He was known as 'the Endless-Belly' for his seemingly infinite tolerance for booze, and the caravan below him was carrying more beer than he'd ever seen in his life. His band of raiders, numbering nine-hundred give or take, prepared to storm the lightly guarded caravan, when the sounds of war cries filled the air.
"What in Tar Heel's name is that?"
Royce turned, only to see a thousand knights, loosing arrow after arrow at his confused men. By the time he had organized his force, half of his men were dead or dying, and the rest were pinned against the cliff. Drawing his sword, Royce raised it and charged.
"FOR KING BARTOLMEW! FOR TEXARKANA!"
The remaining Texarkans returned the cry, and charged headlong towards the knights' arrows. A few managed to reach the line of horse archers, but most were cut down, including Royce the Endless-Belly. With the Texarkans dead, Lieutenannt Zekeriah ordered his men to take their clothes, before looking across the gorge to see the approaching warband of Henry Hillingham. By the time the young Hillingham arrived, the Texarkans had been stripped and hidden, and Zekeriah's men were ready. Henry approached, smiling away, not put off the slightest by the fact a thousand arrows were trained on his band of eighty.
"Why, Endless-Belly! You're skinnier than the stories claim! What's this about wanting to meet me, the great Henry Hillingham?"
Zekeriah mimicked a Texarkan accent.
"The kill the mighty Henry Hillingham."
With that, the arrows were released, and Henry found himself suddenly filled with arrows. His warband was soon cut down, but two managed to escape. Watching them flee, Zekeriah smiled and turned to his men.
"Let's get out of here and report back to the boss."

[Dragos Bee]

Irene Augusta

Hooves.

Irene had heard of the 'Sons of Dekator', rebels against her rule who refused to accept the new order and had turned to banditry. And she and her Winged Knights were putting down bandits close to the area, knowing full well that they might meet with Basieos' intended wife early. And they did, just as the two phlanxes of the bandits were closing in on the 'Wolvenguard'.

With the phalanxes distracted and unable to maneuver anyway as they moved to crush Lady Ariena's escort, it was child's play to charge into the rear of one of the enemy phlalanxes with two hundred of her heavy horsemen, scattering them, causing them to fragment, even as another one hundred and seventy knights were charging at the second phalanx from flank and rear. Hopefully, the Wolvenguard, seeing rescue, had joined in, and she can see if these new Knights were just as good as the ones she had.

A smile, as she saw they were even better.

Once the rebels were destroyed and scattered, Irene would ride up to where Lady Ariena was, and introduce herself with, "That was a great fight! Greetings, Lady Ariena, I am the Queen Regnant, Irene Augusta of Neopoleis, mother of Basileos Augustus. We came early to pursue the bandits and raiders still prowling the land, and we are glad that our forces arrived just in time to destroy these rebels and clear the road to Pontus." Another smile, "Let's see if there are more bandits in the area to get rid of - I'm sure the Magistrates of Pontus would be glad to see the end of a threat to their commerce..."

Jineral Albirt Hillingham

On hearing the news from Lieutenant Zekeraiah, Jineral Albirt Hillingham said to the Lieutenant, "Good, good!" before tossing a pouch of gold at him. "Now we wait for the Koache to declare war on the Texarakans, and hopefully we can slow them down before they reach Saint Lewis - That city should be ours."

Hopefully, we can win quickly. Hopefully, we don't weaken each other enough for the Southrons to recover and counterattack. And hopefully, Father does not get his leg cut off during this war, because that might actually allow him to survive his gout.

The worst possibility of all was that Koache Ralph Hillingham was smarter than he looked and already caught on to Albirt's probably-transparent ploy. If that happened, his life was forfeit unless he conducted a quick coup...

[Zjaum]

Obadiah Hishaw

Obadiah raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the savage. He side-nodded to his compatriot. "Hey, Mordecai, can I borrow your walking stick for a moment?"
Mordecai was leaning on it, but he didn't quite know why Hishaw would call his pitchfork such a term. Still, he handed it over with a shrug.
"Much obliged," said Obadiah casually. He took three long steps up to the horse lord and plunged the fork straight into his gut, under whatever possible armor the horseman may have shown or concealed. Continuing pressure, Obadiah crouched down so as to stay out of reach of whatever weapon the herald may have had. "Secure the horse!"
Those who armed themselves rushed to his defense, as all proper posse members should. Others took hold of the pitchfork; far be it from them to put their leader at such great risk. It took a couple minutes to gain control of the situation, but those with arms ended Elliot son of Lucas in a more humane way than the pierced gut wound.
Obadiah returned to Mordecai and those who had gathered around him. "That was my father's pitchfork!" announced Mordecai.
"I apologize; I left mine at home. Didn't think I'd need it."
"Got it from the city, he did. Quality craftsmanship. Now it's got blood all over it!"
"I concur; I'll clean it off later."
"And why would you stick him like that?"
"You stuck a man once."
"Yes, but we're hoping to avoid this fight!"
"It appears they didn't give us a choice."
"So tell 'im no!"
"And then what? He goes back to his posse, and we have an hour to make ourselves ready. At least here they have the plausible excuse that he got lost for a day. We can get ourselves ready then."
"Yes, but in far larger numbers!"
"It takes only twenty or so to burn down a village. From where I stand, numbers don't much matter. Especially when we can funnel them through with the choke points we're digging."
"And how's that going, pray tell?"
Obadiah nodded. His cohorts had grim faces to a man. "We're going to work double time on the ditch," called Obadiah to the fleeing villagers who'd returned. "Take whatever you can turn into a shield and make it one. Chair bottoms, table halves, anything well crafted that can take an arrow."
Joshua returned with the pitchfork. "Cleaned it up for you, Mordecai."
He smiled to a audience of stone faces. He took a moment to let the sentiment set in. "This is going to be the last stand of The Wagon, isn't it?"
Something lit up in Hishaw's head. "Mordecai, I want you to run over to Hersbog. Demand as many carts as they can spare, and bring them here, as fast as you can."
Mordecai did it without hesitation. Joshua nodded. "What's the plan?"
"We're going to use the carts to supplant the yardage that we couldn't dig," said Obadiah, with giddiness that he hadn't had in years. "We might be able to get through this yet!"


Gess Leg

The light of the stars was ample, as was to be expected of a cold, cloudless night. The four adventurers had kept a brisk pace for miles, their comrades no closer as far as they could tell. The body they found on their way was almost a relief to them, as they could stop their journey for a moment's rest. Still, they had no knowledge of the rest of the scouting party, and someone outside of the group meant either interception by another faction or, pathetic but plausible, the troop got lost.
Maksh came close to the body, feeling temperatures and viewing tongues. He sheared the armor from the unconscious husk. "Dehydration," he said.
"He doth not look like our soldiers," said Gess.
"Nor like theirs," said Neteniol. "Maksh, canst thou bring him back to health?"
"In this light? God hath blessed me to learn that much. I would need to wait until morning, and even then..."
"We must figure out what he knows, and what happened to our company. Chloe, willst thou carry him on your back until dawn?"
Chloe stood there, merely pointing a finger towards the horizon. She could see farther than her compatriots and saw the spectacle first, but everyone soon saw the silhouetted mass of still bodies splayed across the ground, and a mass of beastly human shadows shimmering on top.
"...What foul evil is here..." Chloe said instinctually.
"I think we can take them," Gess murmured, trying to assure herself but failing miserably.
"We shall not stay here," said Neteniol. "I pray that it was his kith and not ours that met their sorry fate yonder, but we must return to tell our liege and serve him again."
"Concurred," said Maksh. "Still, give this man what water remains in your pouch. He might yet provide light for what happened."
Neteniol agreed. The now-armor-less Mexican flung over Chloe's back, the four ran like hell away from the scene, lest the unholy fiends down the road notice their observers.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Pervil, the Duchy of Kentuck

The horselord rode into Pervil. Some villagers fled, others grabbed weapons, while some just stared. He did not care. In his hand he carried a sack, blood dripping from whatever was inside. He rode into the center of town and dumped the sack's contents out. Five heads, all from minor lords and knights, tumbled out onto the ground.
"I be Elliot Campbell, son of Lucas Campbell, and I be here to deliver a message from Cheef Darby Carlton, son of Quinten Carlton, and about to be Cheef of everythin' from here to Kentuck; surrender, or we'll burn yer land and sell yer children to the Gilded Cirkill."
The horselord sat atop his horse, waiting for a response.

Confederate Diet, Jameston

Emperor Maxwell II, relieved that the Diet was adjourned, quickly fled to his quarters, followed by several courtiers. Duke Frederick went towards his allies, Patriarch Graham, Knightmaster Harlan Verne of the Knights of Kentuck, and Marquis Régnault II Beliveau of the Texarkan Marches. They whispered conspiratorially, with Harlan occasionally coughing up a wad of phlegm. Graham was the first to speak.
"Did you see the look on the whelp's face when he learned he was to lead the vanguard? Priceless! If he dies, it is surely the punishment of the Lord for his father's sin. Lying with a Vikun! Unthinkable!"
Régnault sneered, and spoke also.
"Do you have proof, though? My cousin, the Seigneur de Travournée, has had his eyes on the Tailier's Western lands for quite some time now."
Patriarch Graham fumed, but before he could respond, Harlan spoke up.
"We have no definite proof, just the rumors. But, should we let Clark reach the Tailier's lands, I'm sure they'll be wiped out."
Graham was about to protest, when Hanover raised his hand for silence.
"No, no. If we let Clark march to Orange, he'll be a week away from Jameston. I want Tailier land, but I want to be alive to see it. No, we'll have to hope Gaylen the Younger commits some act of cowardice, so we can blackmail Zackeri."
With that, the conspirators followed the other electors out of the Diet, and into the hot, humid day that hung over Jameston.

On the Road to Carß

In the darkness of the Deseret night, the only sounds were those of the wind, the crickets...and bones breaking. A caravan, presumably Mexican from the Imperial banner laying on the ground, lay dead. The guards torn to shreds, and the bodies looking as if something was eating their innards. Most would assume wild animals, but no pack of coyotes could take down a regiment of Imperial Legionaries. No, the perpetrators were hunched over the plump body of the caravan master, using long claws to rip into his belly. They appeared emaciated, but as they ate, some color returned, but their emaciated forms remained. One shrieked, and tore at its face, while the other ignored it, and continued to eat. The creatures appeared vaguely humanlike, but their animalistic screeching and the fact they were eating their fellow man would make others think differently. One guard, having fallen unconscious from a blow to the head, crawled away from the massacre. After an hour, the man managed to escape the creatures, only to fall unconscious yet again from dehydration.

The Old Imperial Highway, Near Pontus

The Free City of Pontus, perhaps the only free city worthy of that name. The wealthiest of the Ilynoi city-states, Pontus has managed to stay free of the Kingdom of the Cleave and the rising power that is Neopoleis. Yet the magisters of Pontus did not wish a war with the Cleave, so they gladly let Lady Ariena and her escort across the river and through their city. Yet outside of Pontus, bandits, deserters, and the remnants of the Dekator armies roamed. Already, the escort had been attacked thrice, and each time the elite Wolvenguard assigned to Ariena, as befitted a member of the Blackline, threw them back. Yet this time, the so-called Sons of Dekator, blocked the carriage's way with two separate phalanxes. Although the Wolvenguard were elite, they numbered only fifty men, and to charge on horseback into a wall of spears was suicide. The leader of the Sons of Dekator stepped forward, only to catch a bolt in his head. This enraged the bandits, who marched their phalanxes forward. The Wolvenguard dismounted, and formed a circle around the carriage, yet Ariena stepped out. Dressed in black plate and a vendel helmet, Ariena raised her axe.
"Come on, ya feckless bastards! Face a daughter of the Blackline!"
Her Wolvenguard harrumphed, and those with shields began steadily beating them. A few of the bandits looked frightened, but most simply continued their advance. The few Wolvenguard with crossbows peppered the advancing phalanxes, but it did little to even the odds. So the fifty Wolvenguard, along with Lady Ariena, stood ready to die against the two-hundred bandits.

On the Confederate Highway

Cheef Royce Bexley looked down on the Confederate caravan and smiled. He was known as 'the Endless-Belly' for his seemingly infinite tolerance for booze, and the caravan below him was carrying more beer than he'd ever seen in his life. His band of raiders, numbering nine-hundred give or take, prepared to storm the lightly guarded caravan, when the sounds of war cries filled the air.
"What in Tar Heel's name is that?"
Royce turned, only to see a thousand knights, loosing arrow after arrow at his confused men. By the time he had organized his force, half of his men were dead or dying, and the rest were pinned against the cliff. Drawing his sword, Royce raised it and charged.
"FOR KING BARTOLMEW! FOR TEXARKANA!"
The remaining Texarkans returned the cry, and charged headlong towards the knights' arrows. A few managed to reach the line of horse archers, but most were cut down, including Royce the Endless-Belly. With the Texarkans dead, Lieutenannt Zekeriah ordered his men to take their clothes, before looking across the gorge to see the approaching warband of Henry Hillingham. By the time the young Hillingham arrived, the Texarkans had been stripped and hidden, and Zekeriah's men were ready. Henry approached, smiling away, not put off the slightest by the fact a thousand arrows were trained on his band of eighty.
"Why, Endless-Belly! You're skinnier than the stories claim! What's this about wanting to meet me, the great Henry Hillingham?"
Zekeriah mimicked a Texarkan accent.
"The kill the mighty Henry Hillingham."
With that, the arrows were released, and Henry found himself suddenly filled with arrows. His warband was soon cut down, but two managed to escape. Watching them flee, Zekeriah smiled and turned to his men.
"Let's get out of here and report back to the boss."

Lord Gaylen Tailier II

Gaylen waited for his uncle to emerge from the Diet before he started walking out of the building. He felt less frightful now, more sure of himself, for this was his duty. His politician's cloak was cast aside, and he was polishing his armor, whetting his sword. The heralds of war were nipping at his heels as he mounted his steed and gave his mind the order to charge.

Uncle Adami, he noted, wore a stony expression that accentuated the age in his features. Gaylen could not discern at first glance whether his uncle had voted for him to assume command of the vanguard or not. But the downcast eyes and heavy footsteps soon gave it away: Uncle Adami had indeed been part of the majority. That must be why he was not meeting Gaylen's eyes.

They made their way to their lodgings in utter silence. Shadows flickered across their faces and on the surfaces of buildings that hid from the twilight beams of the sun. Gaylen kept his gaze rooted directly ahead of him and pretended night was not encroaching, but ignoring the inevitable would solve nothing. He would be leading men into a war with a vermin who dared call himself Emperor, and hundreds, no, thousands would perish. 'Twas possible Gaylen himself would die by the sword.

That was the risk that came with being a soldier. Gaylen feared it not; if he did, he would be consumed by fear every waking second.

They reached their lodging, a small cottage tucked away behind an inn. The space was spacious, relatively speaking, and even had a second floor where their beds were housed. Gaylen headed for his room without a word and hastened to the desk, where a quill and parchment were set out. He shut the door behind him, locked it, crept over to the desk.

His hand quivered as he took up the quill and set the tip to the beaten and thinned out animals skin. Strange, really, how humanity could take anything from the natural world and shape it to suit his needs, no matter the damage done to the original object; if something had to die to make a surface to write on, well, the death would not be for nothing. Politics resembled that, except the people were the resources to be expended. Wealth, too, and power. It always came back to power. The real power lay not in the hands of the Emperor, who was young and weak and possibly more naïve than Gaylen had been at thirteen, but in those who most closely advised him. Men such as Duke-Elector Hanover were the ones with the reigns of the Confederacy stuffed into their britches.

Hanover would be pleased to see someone not of his own House leading the vanguard. As long as his sinewy neck was safe from the tip of the blade, he could rest comfortably and enjoy his mead while battles raged all around him. Hanover stood exactly where he wanted to stand, yes, all he needed was for the other Electors to swear absolute fealty to him.

Gaylen gritted his teeth in frustration. He needed to clear his mind so he could draft a letter to Caroligne. Politics had no place in something that could easily be intercepted and picked apart for clues as to his loyalties beyond his allegiance to the Emperor.

My Dearest Caroligne, My One Love, My Northern Star,

May God cast you and Theodore in the beams of His grace now and for all of your days. May you face nothing but prosperity and joy, and may that radiant smile always be upon your visage. May your beauty forever linger, may your soul stay forever pure, may the power you wield strike terror into the hearts of our foes.

Glory to Emperor Maxwell, that his reign be long and peaceful, that he be ever kind and just, that he leads Southron into an age of unprecedented glory.

Caroligne, I write to you on this date to inform you that a vote has passed in the Jameston Diet to send me off to war. As you know, Clark is marching against the Emperor with his band of rebels and is now in Jorga; there is great urgency, and there were few candidates. You are aware I have led two campaigns before, and I want to assure you that I carry with me no fear. Our state is under a major threat, and the time to rise up against the dastardly enemy is nigh.

I shall leave Jameston promptly and will likely not write to you for a long time. This is to be the first Southron onslaught against the rebel forces, and the army I shall lead will usher forth a new era of war. There will be bloodshed, but I pray you fear not for my soul. Pray for me, fret over me, but do not worry yourself to the point of illness and sleeplessness. Theodore needs you now more than ever. You are strong, very strong, and I trust that no matter what happens you will emerge from this conflict victorious.

Know I am always thinking of your, praying for you, loving you. I do hope things are well back in Orange, and that Father, Granduncle Zackeri, and everyone else are doing well. I imagine Granduncle will summon all men under his command as soon as he hears the news, and Father will, too. I know you are a capable and fiercesome warrior, but I entreat you for the sake of our son to refrain from taking up arms for the time being. I do not want to risk him being orphaned. But if it becomes absolutely necessary for you to do so, do not be afraid, but ensure Theodore's safety and fight with everything you have.

Please, above all, be safe, my darling. I love you. Send my family, especially Mother and Theodore, my love. I know how trying this must be for them.

Signed,

Lord Gaylen Tailier (II) of Orange, Virgenland, Southron

[Phaenix]

August, the Principality of Jorga

Prince Barnabus Keswick, the third of his house to hold the title "Prince of Jorga," looked out from the great Caelanian Walls that had guarded the Jorgan Pass since the days of High King Caelan Cùil at the horde the rebel Clark Tennesley had brought against him. Hundreds of brightly colored banners flapped in the wind, showing the coats-of-arms of the traitors who had turned against the Confederacy. Among the knights and their men-at-arms stood dark-skinned Noileaners, clad in colorful armor and as grim as death, and besides them rowdy Texarkans and Gulfmen clad in dusty leathers and scavenged steel. Fierce Gulf beastmen, those mad warriors who fight in suits resembling the demons and gods of the Northemerians, screeched and howled as if possessed. The King of the Gulf, Mickey XXV Waltsson stood laughing with a Texarkan Warcheef, the fearsome visage of the god Mickey of Mouse adorning his helmet. And though Clark's army consisted of barbarians and savages, it also held one of the brightest minds of the era; Herr Doktor Ulrich Wenzel. Ulrich, though advanced in years, was reputed to have discovered a way to use the rare substance guunpowdir, occasionally found in ancient Northemerian vaults, as a weapon. While the common workers built siege towers, trebuchets, battering rams, and ladders, Ulrich led a team of engineers in building a massive weapon, the Bieg Kannon. Barnabus scowled, and turned to his servant.
"Get me our best rider and our fastest horse. I've got a message for him to deliver to the Emperor."
The servant saluted and turned, while Barnabus began writing.

To His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty, Long May He Reign, Emperor of the Holy South and Heir to the Northemerians, Maxwell of the Imperial House Rothschild, Second of that Name
From Barnabus of the House Keswick, Prince of Jorga and Protector of the Pass

My most gracious liege, I write with dire news. The traitor Clark Tennesley and his mongrel horde have reached the gates of August, but they will go no further. We will hold them back, and with the Grace of God we will send these heathen dogs back into their sandy hell. Yet I must urge you send assistance posthaste, as the traitors have Herr Doktor Ulrich Wenzel with them, and under his guidance have built a weapon of horrifying power, capable of throwing fiery death upon our walls. Nevertheless, I will not allow the bastards one inch of Jorgan land without sending ten of them to Hell!

Praise be to God and the Emperor!

When the servant returned with the rider, Barnabus handed him the note and the rider left. Looking across the field, Barnabus tightened his grip on his sword and scowled.

Jacken, near Pervil

Screams filled the air as Darby Carlton, Cheef of the Lon'ghorns and Right Hand of King Beckett, watched his tribe ransack the city. Though no Noileans, Jacken was home to a prominent Merchant Guild, whose patricians now lay dead, surrounded by their guards. The Lon'ghorns were now riding up and down the alleys of Jacken, killing, raping, and looting, while Darby sat on a throne his raiders had dragged out of some merchant's mansion, picking the best loot and slaves for himself. One captives, a grizzled veteran, spat in the Cheef's face.
"You'll pay for this, you damn horse fecker! Duke Cain does not take kindly to raiders!"
Darby smiled, wiped the spit from his eye, and calmly slit the man's throat.
"Really, now? Well, I better be careful then. This Duke Cain sounds real dangerous!"
Darby than broke out laughing, along with his Kolonels and Jinerals. However, he did harbor a slight worry. His messenger had yet to return, and that could mean trouble. But the Cheef perished the thought and grabbed a tankard of ale and a bedslave, laughing and joking as people were murdered and a city burned.

On the Road to Carß

The water and being jostled, along with the cold desert air, roused the Mexican. Looking around, he began speaking in his strange tongue.
"¿Que demonios? ¿Dónde estoy?"
Seeing that he was with humans, and not being eaten alive, the guard began to speak quickly.
"¡Humanas! ¡Debemos irnos, rápido! ¡Esas criaturas aún podrían estar aquí!"

The Next Day, Jameston

The citizens of Jameston cheered and shouted as the might of the Confederate army marched out of the city. Knights in shining armor made up a good quarter of the 80,000 strong force, but the rest was a mix of men-at-arms in chainmail and armed with spears and swords, archers from Kentuck, and a company of Neuanglan mercenaries, armed with arbalests and pikes. At the front rode Duke Frederick, along with Marquis Régnault and Lord Gaylen II Tailier. Frederick smiled and waved while Régnault threw roses to the ladyfolk. Still smiling, Frederick handed the letter he had intercepted from Prince Barnabus to Gaylen.
"Here, boy. Good ol' Barnabus claims he can hold back Clark's hellish horde, but methinks we may need to hurry."