~Naaru Dominion, Deephome~
Deep within the ocean depths, where the sun never shines, there lies a city. The strange city was carved into the side of a volcano. This relatively tame volcano has gentle slopes and occasionally spews smoke. The city itself consists of little more than small hovels and large spires haphazardly thrown about the volcano. The most pitiful hovels were simply holes into the ground, and the greatest of the hovels stood a few stories high and feature many stone pillars in their construction. The large spires soar hundreds of stories upwards into the water and all spires without exception use great stone pillars within their construction. Amongst the large spires is one of red granite and towers over the rest, which stands out amongst the buildings made of the blackish basalt. Coral grows throughout the city, and even climbs up the spires. The inhabitants of this city have dubbed it "Deephome".

While the city is certainly strange, the inhabitants could be said to be even stranger. The inhabitants, who are called merfolk by the rare sailor that spots them and call themselves Naaru, have pale milky white skin. Their eyes are pitch black and well adapted to the depths of the ocean. They have arms with webbed hands, and a scaly fish's tail instead of legs. The merfolk are completely hairless. They are somewhat smaller compared to a human, and have gills on the side of their neck. They have sharp pointed teeth for tearing meat. They lack ears, and only have holes where they would be, and they also lack a nose. In all other respects they are similar to a human's appearance.

Several of these merfolk darted in and out of the many spires of Deephome, carrying onwards with their daily business. An outsider may hear lots of song and singing emanating from the city, but in truth it is just everyday speech. It is simply more practical for the Naaru to speak in a way that doesn't separate its words with pauses, as ours does, because it would be harder to understand within the ocean. If one was able to understand the singing, one would hear a chaotic mess of merchants haggling their wares, some screaming at one another for some wrong done to them, and others were laughing in mirth.

Swimming above this chaotic din, was a merfolk surrounded by three guards. The woman was almost completely covered in pale white shells, while her guards had simple wrappings of seaweed and wielded spears tipped with bone. She raised her arm, signaling the guards to stop, and darted into a large chamber filled with several merfolk. As she entered the spire, she was met with a scolding in the merfolk's tongue: "[You are late, Ghassa.]" The voice emanated from the Naaru resting on a throne carved from the skull of a whale. The Naaru who sat on the throne was adorned with shells of vibrant color and strings of pearls that lazily hung about in the water. She gripped the spear of bone that was lain across her lap as her curled her face into a snarl: "[If I didn't know any better, I would think that you don't take my summons seriously.]" The rest of the merfolk in the chamber remained deathly quiet.

Unfazed, Ghassa took her place amongst the crowd and said: "[I apologize High-Mother Danassa, the currents were against me. I truly desire to learn what beasts have been encroaching on my territory and devouring my fish, perhaps more than anyone present.]"

The false display of anger faded from Denassa's face and she released her spear, she liked to keep her subjects fearful of her in case they stepped out of line. Danassa replied in the Naaru's tongue: "[Very well then Ghassa.]" The crowd breathed a sigh of relief, and Denassa continued: "[I believe I have left your curiosity unsatisfied for far too long, it is time for you all to learn what has been causing the schools of fish to slowly dwindle.]" The high-mother lifted her spear and pointed it at a member of the crowd: "Rise Rha, and tell the Naaru among you what you went through."

And so Rha rose ten feet into the water, he dared not refuse. Rha was a man who wore simple garments of seaweed, and nervously wrung his hands together in the presence of all of these mothers and fathers of great Naaru broods. He began to tell his tale with the entire room's eyes on him: "[I am Rha, I am a fisherman by trade. Not more than a few moons ago, I was near the end of the water in the Northern Fish Fields]", he nodded to Ghassa paying respect to the Mother of those waters and continued,
"[when I saw something strange skimming along the top. It was large and brown, and I believe most of it skimmed along the surface, although I didn't get much of a good look for reasons I will shortly describe. The beast cast its great net into the waters, and was gathered the school of fish I was hunting myself. I got caught in its net, and at one point was forced to breach the surface, and the cruel sunlight made it hard for me to see the skimming beast that captured me. Fortunately, I had my knife with me, and without it, I doubt I would be speaking with you today. Fearing my life, I fled into the depths.]" He sunk below once more into the crowd. The crowd murmured amongst each other, asking questions about what it could be and what they are going to do about it. Several hounded the poor fisherman for answers. After some time of this debate, Ghassa rose from the crowd exclaiming: "[I don't care what the beast is, I am going to kill anything that steals our food!]"

A far older merman, who's milky skin wrinkled said from the crowd: "[Let's not enter the mouth of a whale, we should learn more about the beast before we attempt to drive it from our waters. It could be extremely dangerous as our friend Rha has told us. What say you High-Mother?]"

The High-Mother thought for a short moment before declaring: "[Your words ring true, Shaa. Clearly old age has not taken away the sharpness of your mind. I will send several of my children to observe these strange beasts, and after a few moons we will drive them from our waters.]" After Danassa declared as such, there was no debate to what happened next. Although many held dissenting opinions, there was no defying the High-Mother. To outsiders, merfolk sightings raised from extremely rare to an uncommon occurrence within the Naaru Dominion.

"The kingdom of Marmon holds to light a new glory in the funeral of it's old regime. A new chaos in which a man may take what he wants and must give what he can't keep. A land of pure freedom in which the general will adapts to the new unrestricted society, revealing the raw taste of a man's morals."

- Jacque Armain, The King Of Thieves

Marmon, North, Pakarahel

The outskirts of the massive city was skirted by farmland and spots of forest and the occasional lake. This area has fought hard for it’s rightful title as the land of the bandit, as all roads to Pakarahel are cool and shady; the perfect hunting grounds of the more aggressive criminal. The windless morning air gave it an unsettling calm as a rider pounded down one of the many dirt roads leading from the city, a letter had arrived in Pakarahel instead of the capital, and perhaps for the best. The messenger rode with the royal seal on his saddle, a clear sign of suicide and loyalty to the Curlow crown, a near extinct situation.

The ambitious loyalist had neatly packed the foreign letter unopened and in a soft leather satchel that slapped carelessly against the rump of his speckled steed as its powerful hooves stomped and kicked up clouds of dry dust. The man wore a green riding cape that fluttered in the wind generated by the speedy gallop, and his gloved hands tightened around his reins anxiously, for even a dope of a man who had ever stepped foot in Marmon knew the high risk and penalty for such royal support, especially such a publically open one, let alone on some of the most dangerous roads in the region.

The trees began to whisper as their leaves rubbed against each other in a sudden breeze that smelt of the many fields, farms and the wild berries of the wood. The serenity of the wood was definitely misleading as the trees grew thicker and thicker along the sides of the road that grew rougher and rougher as it progressed further from the walls of Pakarahel, until if one were to turn and look for where he had came from, he would be met with seemingly endless rows of trees and a vanishing dirt path through them. Suddenly a loud twang tore the suspenseful scene asunder and the horse whinnied horrifically as it fell to the ground, throwing its rider far and hard onto the path, skidding across the dust and dirt.

Two athletic looking men gleefully strolled out of the trees, big smiles on their dirty yet shaven faces. They wore dirty green clothes of foresters, but more noticeably they walked with the cocky ego of not any old bandit, but a thief of Armain. One squatted next to the angry horse that laid on its side and flicked a finger against a metal wire that wrapped its vice grip tightly across the horses hooves, the force of the trap had cut it slightly into the skin and produced crimson blood. The other man gently put a boot on the fallen riders neck, threatening to stomp if he moved.

Eventually the horse was freed from it’s momentary prison, as well as it’s saddle and satchel which were happily taken by the thieves. The rider was stripped naked down to his long wool underpants and blindfolded, then taunted and jeered into running into the forest blindly, motivated by the threats of knives. The first thief laughed heartily, his roguish sharp hazel eyes watching the poor rider run into trees as he attempted to escape.

“Ever think he will find his way home, Jim?” The other asked the first, Jim.

Jim looked over to his comrade, who was almost identical in size, stature, and face: Lean, tall and unusually handsome. William was the name of the second and a lifelong friend and partner in crime with the clever Jim. The two had a small reputation in Pakarahel as some of the finest con artists and swindlers, but also quite the clever pair of rogues, as this poor rider had found out.

Jim just shook his head, letting his dark hair fall in his face, “Maybe, maybe not,” He said disinterested as he pointed to the satchel, “Did ya check it yet?”

William looked at Jim blankly, suddenly snapping out of whatever thought he was in with an “OH!” and quickly tossing the satchels lid aside and rummaging through. Old papers not worth a run through were tossed aside, an empty velvet pouch was shaken until proved to be useless, one shiny stone was pocketed, and eventually William produced a fine looking letter, stamped flashily and on some nice quality paper. The thief held it out to Jim with raised brows, “Message for ya M’lord,” He mocked.

“Ah! It must be the Countess Von Pennysworth requiring my special services once more,” Jim gave a wink and snatched the letter with a false and mimicking regal pose and voice.

With exaggerated caution he opened the letter while William shook his head, suppressing a few chuckles at his ridiculous friend.

Jim quickly scanned the paper without breaking his pose and closed it slowly, turning to William with his nose in the air and eyes closed, “Just as I expected,” He began with his false noble accent, “Muddy Kazoo requested my presence with an escort at his palace for his birthday jamboree, and I’m not allowed to bring my mighty sword of pauper slaying and tax collecting!”

“Damn that muddy kazoo!” William laughed as Jim broke character and began a long chuckle.

“Hey, hey,” William blurted in between deep giggles, “We should go.”

Jim rubbed his chin, he knew it wasn’t a good idea, but at the same time it was a hilariously great idea, “Well, I do say I make quite the dashing Jeffsoff.”

William shook his head, “I don’t know, you don’t have The Bulls cock in your hand that so extravagantly separates him from the rest.”

“We will just have to work around that,” Jim shook his head, cringing at the image “This would be the best swindle and play we would have ever done.”

Will nodded, “to be honest for a change, Jim,” he began with a sense of emotion, “I was kidding, but now I’m not so sure you are.”

Jim slapped Williams shoulder playfully, “we wouldn’t give up such a chance!”

William looked up from a thought, ‘We wouldn’t?”

Jim just shook his head and Will winked in response and suddenly Williams devilish smile grew on his face, “Too true, let’s go steal us some costumes and a good sum for a boat ride.”

Marmon, North, Mallkim: The City of Thieves

The castles dining room was as rugged and torn as the rest of the ancient building. Dust had conquered the faded grey wall tapestries, and the long oaken table had grown hollow and chewed by carpenter ants and termites. Paintings of once important royalty hung on the chiseled wall disfigured and distorted by time and devilish pranksters. The carpets were stolen, for what reason such ragged cloth was desired was beyond Jeffsoff as he scraped his worn boot against the dirt covered floor, crinkling his nose in memory of how awful everything he owned really was. The swinging door to the kitchen was long lost and crude unmatching smells of simple dishes made by talentless pauper chefs creeped their musky way into the large room. Spots of clean rock was visible on the dusty wall, but not to anyone's joy as it just reminded them how the brass braziers once bolted to the thick rock was stolen a few weeks ago.

Jeffsoff blew an annoyed sigh, almost coughing on the kitchen smells with a gargleg hack. He let himself fall into one of the old wooden chairs, that was surprisingly still there. With a loud crack and the sound of wood splintering the legs of the chair snapped and threw the tired king backwards, landing him on his back and knocking the wind out of him.

He gasped to regain his breath as he sat up and weakly grabbed for his dented crown that was thrown off his head. With a large inhale finally securing his lungs he sighed once more as he sat on the cold floor.

"Too royal for seats are you?" A loud aggressive voice had shot from the doorway.

"Good morn, Verchoff," Jeffsoff said rolling his eyes as he stumbled back to his feet.

"Please, please," said the massive man who now appeared next to the king. His arms were as thick as legs and his bald head and face was covered in dark tattoos. A large and heavy long sword hung on his belted waist and leather wrapped his torso and legs protectively, "Once more, call me, The Bull."

Jeffsoff realigned his crown as he looked up at the monstrous man, eager to get this over with, "Very well. So as I mentioned in the letter, I have a proposition for you."

The Bull sat on the worn table with an audible creak, "Go on."

“Expansion…”

...

Marmon, South, deep in an unknown cave system

The soft glow of torches illuminated the dark stone walls of the hollowed out chamber. These passageways and small in mountain village like holes have long sheltered those who wished to escape from harsh realities or bitter judgement. In one such mountain dwelling some claim the King of Thieves lives, directs and orchestrates his community of sly men and women. However this particular ancient dwelling is not his but one of a more noble and disciplined aspect. Here Mikus Dominum rests with his cohort.

The large hollowed out dwelling was filled with warm tents and makeshift huts using the resources of the forest. The endless stone walls were poorly decorated with old banners from Marmon's golden age, complete with the profile of King Decimus, and of course the pole mounted battle banner of the fourth legion. It's black cloth had faded into a grey and it's golden snake turned a sickly and tattered yellow, and on top an eerie reminder of the past in the form of a copper crown was secured to the pole. Any existing tassels and ornaments otherwise had been long disposed of in battle.

Patches of moss blanketed the cavern floor and plump edible mushrooms dotted it's soft carpet. Water could be heard dripping from the sharp cavern ceiling and gently falling into natural rock walled basins, filled with the melted snow that had made it's way through the mineral and dense rock of the mountain.

By one silver watered basin sat Mikus, his armor had been replaced with an old black wool tunic over thick brown pants. His eyes watched as a drip of chilled water disturbed the basin with it's pluck into the collected liquid, sending tiny ripples bouncing off the stone sides. The Commanders mind was elsewhere, warm in a daydream of long ago and embraced by a past love and happiness.

A small smile was carved onto the man's perplexed face and his silvery grey eyes were distant and otherworldly as he thought so deep. An optimistic time of joy and contentment wove a tightly knitted and warm blanket over his mind, warming his soul and lifting his heart to a sense of euphoria. Dreams had always been the best escape from pessimism and especially from everlasting night, a sun among lifeless moons. Such a cherished notion of times past and times to come sparked an eager hope and a comfortable joy that one bitter night could not strip from an optimistic heart. After many years such a spark had grown dim, but still present, and now and again found its way back to the mind of the stone built commander.

Another drip freed itself from the ceiling and with it's tiny plop the daydreaming soldier was snapped back into cold reality. His smile quickly straightened across his stubbled cheeks and he shifted his buttocks as to relieve the sting of the cold mossy floor. With a sigh of discomfort the commander slowly rose to his booted feet and stretched out his back with a silent yawn.

When his eyes reopened from the yawn, he found they rested their gaze upon Glemus Puwonem, one of his best soldiers.

"What is it, soldier?" Mikus narrowed his eyes as to retrieve his usual authoritative stance.

"There is word of a possible expansion, Jeffsoff announced it earlier this morning. Rumors are The Bull funds it with his money and beserkers. We were quick to hear of it, sir," the soldier stood straight and respectively as he spoke without a stutter.

"I see, very good, soldier, you are relieved."

The soldier gave a shallow nod, "Thank you, sir!"

With that the soldier turned on his heels and walked back to the warm center of the camp.

Mikus rubbed his chin, surely good can be made out of this shift of force. His strategic mind began buzzing and fixing up grand solutions to every problem he could think to repair. He would need to wait for further development of Jeffsoff's possible movement, but either way, he knew what had to be done no matter what: Seize the opportunity, in a wise and secured strategy.

Realm of Manram, North District

Many hours had passed since the duo had met one of the Order of Truth overseers walking along the wall opposite to their path, and it had also been many hours since they had thought about why they had spotted an overseer who didn't follow his own order regulations. The two of them had simply concluded, that with the arrival to the gates of Enoch, the overseer had simply ventured to take care of the body of a man who fell victim to the beasts of the winter. However the curiousity they had felt then began to bite once more at them within the large dining halls of the shudid inside the Walls of Enoch, in fact, the Walls of Manram were massive fortresses in and of theirselves. the four wall segments of Manram were all like that, with the Walls of Enoch being the strongest of the bunch, as well as facing the North.There was also the Walls of Equox, Malidon, and finally Equest.

''Sure is nice to eat some Juldir [famous holiday dish] once in a while, you just don't get bored with the taste!'' At one of the many tables of the dining hall was the duo, a pair of patrol soldiers deployed to the wall for their first assignment, not only that but they're also being trained by overseers from one of the Orders, their arrival will be in one month, after all the orders were busy with their practices. ''I can't agree more bilq, it's simply too delicious! The cooks did good today!''

''I heard that one of the nearby village cooks came over to supply us with the needed goods to make the Juldir..'' He said with another spoon approaching his mouth cautiously, yet with incredibly haste and desire. ''If you find that cook, then tell him that I'll give him my zalzabar! [Militarily Religious object, A knife]'' He said, taking it up from it's sheath and displaying it for his friend. ''Now, now, you don't want anyone to hear you say that..''

''Bliq, I couldn't agree more!'' He said with a growing grin, however at the sound of approaching footsteps he quickly sheathed the blade and looked behind him. What he was met by was the appearance of a man, no, rather a Giant covered in inscribings of both color and scars made in a seemingly religious fashion, he was brought out of this fasination by his partner. ''Halq [A word used to grab attention], the hell are you doing glaring at a weaponsbearer?!'' Just as he was brought back, he was met with the returning glare of the weaponsbearer, his size and body structure made it seem like it was the same overseer that they met on their patrol route.

''Hey... What's with those body paintings, and what the hell were those weird scars..?'' As he turned back from the piercing glare of a hulk, he waited for a few minutes before he opened his mouth more, he had always thought that even members of the Order were human beneath their great shells of iron, but this revelation made him question his previous resolve. Sure, what he had seen looked like a man, but the eyes of such a behemoth were not that of a human. ''Those were Morm, [body paintings in conjuncture to the Order of Truth] they are deeply spiritualistic and pseudo religious in nature. They are said to be what binds the truth..''

''Truth, what truth?'' As this question was asked his partner and friend took on a quite nervous face, however in the end he spilled out all that he knew to his friend. ''Look, I didn't tell you this but... The truth, or otherwise known as lop'qol, is the rejection of evil..'' His face became wary, and he looked both left and right, behind and before him as he spoke, incredibly cautious about anyone who might be listening, he observed the overseer as he sat down by himself as he ate. ''That doesn't sound to ba-''

''This is accomplished through the integration and assimilation of evil.'' Silence consumed them as they each took another spoon of Jublir and feasted on the wonderful taste in silence, however his friends weariness didn't ever faulter. ''It's said that their new recruits are put through a ritual which relates to ancient beliefs, and through this they are possesed by a demon, they then are forced to assimilate it, and it is through this that they gain their power...'' He returned to his silence, and his friend wanted to speak out, however he was left voiceless by what he'd heard. ''Isn't it strange that the strongest military asset the Gu-shedal holds is the Order of Truth, yet he limits them to the incredible secluded and religiously righteous monasteries of his nation? Did you hear of the Mal'faqdi?'' [Church/monastery incident] Their whispering was slowly becoming more and more inaudible, and his friend had to focus in order to hear it all with understanding.

''A long time ago in Murl-biq [A village in the Northern District] there was a deeply devote man to the ways of Balhabat, [native northern religion] he went to the designated monastery every night and day so that he may appease the Gods proper, but one day he was met with a stranger, one clad in the heaviest armor he'd seen through the days of his life, and suddenly this hulk turned towards him, on the helmet was the Galgubar cross that you can find on all weaponbearers. The man was caught by surprise and let out a feint scream, however the hulk would not respond kindly and bursted after the man. You can imagine how it ended, and let me tell you this, it ended just like you imagined.''

With a slight sip of his habaq [soft alcohol in the military] and another spoon of his jublir, he was left with many questions, and as he turned to the overseer in the far reaches of the room, he was bemet by simply more questions. He did not believe in demons or spirits, but he had seen what men can do, and how would the Order of Truth create such a thing, and then force a man to live his life in the same body as such a beast.. Surely they'd lose their humanity, and it was then that he was bemet once again by the face of the overseer, as he was staring back into the eyes of his own.

''I lost my appetite...''

The Golden Citadel, Ulzschath, Hanartha

The throne room of the Golden Citadel was a grand and spacious room, a long hall of polished marble leading towards the throne of Hanartha. The throne itself was gigantic, a massive golden chair so high that the front of it had short flight of stairs. And on top of that, it was located atop a round dais. It is said that when a ruler is seated on his throne even giants should look up to him, and it was obvious that those who had built the throne took that to heart. Napizzi wasn't too fond of it, since it was a pain to climb up onto and he always worried about falling. Not only would it be an embarrassment, but he didn't want to break his neck; that would be a rather ignoble end to his life and his reign.

But Napizzi put those thoughts from his mind, gazing out over the throne room from the regal perch. Currently it was occupied by a fairly sizable crowd, and he could name every one of those assembled. They were, after all, family. He could see his mother and sisters and their children, aunts and uncles, and all manner of relatives. He even spied the short and wrinkled form of his great great uncle, who was pushing 2 centuries. And there, off to the sides and practically hidden in the shadows, was his son Suthra.

It had been several days since their talk, and news had spread of Xisuki's invitation. It was, after all, nearly impossible to stop gossip and rumour. But that wasn't the only news buzzing around the Citadel; an invitation had arrived from the Estron kingdom of Manram to a festival celebrating their ruler's birthday. The Citadel was abuzz with news of the two festivals, and which one the Grand Prince would be attending. And today was the day that Napizzi would officially announce his decision, though he'd known which he'd been attending from the very beginning.

"Attention!" he shouted from atop his throne, getting the attention of all those assembled. A moment before they had all been chatting and talking amongst themselves, with the exception of Suthra, but now all were silent before the Grand Prince.

"As I am sure you are all aware, the Governor Xisuki of the Bhanil Coast has invited me a festival celebrating the birth of his first nieces. Truly a momentous occasion for an esteemed individual such as himself," Napizzi called out, "But, as I am sure you are all equally aware, I have received an invitation from the Estron Mundir Kazidu, King of Manram, inviting me to a festival celebrating the anniversary of his birth."

Napizzi paused for a moment, though it was unnecessary as everyone there, bar some of the more elderly family members whose minds were what they used to be, already knew of the information. "I have decided, that as Grand Prince of Hanartha to attend Xisuki's celebration," he announced, and then waited for their reactions.

The crowd waited for a long moment, making sure that the Grand Prince was not going to speak again, before all began shouting their opinions at Napizzi, doing their best to be heard. First were those who disagreed with his decision, but those who agreed quickly raised their voices in defense of Napizzi's decision. From where he was sitting, Napizzi could see them all though he wasn't sure whether most agreed with his decision or not. Not that it mattered of course, he was Grand Prince and would do as he willed.

"Do you not think Manram's King will not take this as an insult?" someone yelled, though Napizzi could not tell who, "One cannot just ignore another ruler!"

"Silence!" Napizzi yelled, and the effect was almost immediate. The throng of family members stopped their arguments and looked back to the Grand Prince.

"I did not say that I plan on ignoring Manram's King, but I will not be making a personal appearance," Napizzi said, "Instead, I will send others in my place. Others whom I trust will adequately represent Hanartha in the court of this Estron King."

Then Napizzi looked to where his son was sitting, still away from the rest of his family, "Suthra, step forward."

Suthra went pale at his father's words; they hadn't talked about this, they hadn't discussed this. This was not good at all, and Suthra could already see family members giving him dirty looks, but he did as his father asked and strode forward until he was standing in front of the dais holding his father's throne.

"Yes, fa-" Suthra began, before his words were broken by a short fit of coughing, "Yes, father?"

"Among the Estrons, sons and daughters are viewed more highly than nieces or nephews," Napizzi said, "And so, I task you with representing me at this festival. Do you accept?"

Suthra wanted to say no, he didn't want this responsibility thrust upon him, but he didn't feel like he had much of a choice. Not here in public, where it could be viewed as an insult, even by the people who didn't want him to take on the responsibility; he thought it rather hypocritical in truth. "Yes, father," he said, "I will do my best to bring honour to Hanartha in the court of this King."

"Good, now Alurar and Asurar, you come forward too," Napizzi said, and a pair of Hanarth made their way to where Suthra was standing. The two were identical twins, and were actually Napizzi's nephews, though unlike most Hanarth they had bright red hair and dark blue eyes, "I wish for you two to travel with Suthra, and act as Hanartha's representatives all well."

"Of course, Uncle," the twins said in unison, before grinning at Suthra. And it wasn't a malicious grin, these two were one of the few who didn't have any qualms about Suthra's presence. Most others either viewed it as a break with a tradition or saw Suthra as a possible threat to their political power. The twins didn't care about that particular tradition, and they made it no secret that they didn't desire the throne.

Then Napizzi waved the trio away with his hand, Suthra returning to his place away from the other family members though this time both Alurar and Asurar followed him. "Now, the Golden Citadel and Ulzschath require someone to rule them in my stead whilst I am away," Napizzi said, "As the capital and seat of my power, this is a tremendous honour and responsibility. Uthros, step forward."

From the group of people strode a young Hanarth, his hair cut short and a cocky grin on his face, "Uncle?"

"I would bestow this honour upon you in my absence," Napizzi said, "Do you accept this honour? And the responsibilities it entails?"

"Of course Uncle," Uthros said, the grin never once leaving his face.

Napizzi nodded, "Good, we shall have the official ceremony tomorrow before I leave." Then he gestured for Uthros to return to his place, before continuing, "That is all the important business for now. You are all dismissed."

Napizzi sat patiently while his family members made their way to one of the many doors along the side of the throne room. Everything had gone well, aside from the dirty looks Suthra was still receiving. Then he heard Uthros's voice, above the chatter of the rest.

"Better luck next time whoreson," he said, "I guess being Uncle's son doesn't get you everything."

Napizzi narrowed his eyes at Uthros, who he could see taunting his son. His son didn't reply, but Alurar and Asurar did. Presumably to defend Suthra; Napizzi had always liked those two boys. Uthros was a completely different story. The young man still had the same smug grin on his face, but then he saw people staring behind him. And his grin fell from his face as he saw Napizzi approaching, anger burning in his eyes.

"What did you call my son?" Napizzi demanded.

"What? I didn't-" Uthros began, but was cut off as Napizzi's hand slapped the boy so suddenly and so hard that he stumbled backwards.

"I heard you," Napizzi growled, "Now what did you call my son?"

"A, a whoreson," Uthros said, his cocky demeanour completely gone as a bright red hand print began to appear on the side of his face.

"Are you saying I am a whore, boy?"

"Wh-what? No, of course not," Uthros stammered.

"Then you are calling Suthra's mother a whore."

"B-but, she was."

This time Uthros fell to the ground as Napizzi punched him right in his face. He laid on the ground, sputtering as blood began to trickle from his nose and lip when Napizzi laid a foot on his nephew's chest. "Learn when to hold your tongue," Napizzi snarled, pushing his foot down harder onto his chest, "Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes," Uthros managed to sputter.

Napizzi didn't say a word as he lifted his foot off Uthros. Then he looked around at the people assembled, searching for someone. "Elotian, come here," he said, and another of the hanarth came forward, this one with long brown hair and a short beard to match. Though not as tall as his Uncle, he had his large build.

"Yes, Grand Prince?" he asked, ignoring his cousin on the ground.

"I have changed my mind, I want you to take care of the Citadel and city while I am gone," Napizzi said, "So prepare for the official ceremony tomorrow."

"Of course," Elotian replied.

"You can't do that!" Uthros yelled desperately as he managed to stand up, "I am your heir! The responsibility is mine!"

Napizzi took a step towards Uthros, which made the boy flinch backwards, though he made no move to hit him again. "Your mother may be my eldest sister, but Elotian is my eldest nephew," Napizzi said coldly, "I have yet to choose an heir, so it would be in your best interest not to get a hold of yourself. Understood?"

Uthros mumbled something quietly, to which Napizzi responded by bellowing at him, "Do you understand?"

The Grand Prince's sudden yelling surprised Uthros, and he fell backwards on the ground again before looking up at his Uncle and saying, "Yes."

Napizzi didn't even deem it necessary to respond to that, instead walking over to Suthra and the twins. "Come on then, you three need to prepare, right?" he said, putting an arm around Suthra's shoulder, "You have quite the journey ahead of you." He left Uthros sitting lying on the ground as he left the throne room, and in fact seemed to forget about him completely before he turned and gestured to him, "And somebody find someone to clean that up!"

Adjutor Insula

Triumph

The fires that had raged in Love were still smouldering in the city's innermost districts, despite the lavish attempt by the desperate members of the Hero's Road to quell them. The Palace of Truth, where the Lord Defender had heroically stood to the last man against the tide of Karkarth was nothing but a hollow shell, owing the damage it sustained in the fighting.

Six thousand people had died, many of them trapped by the flames set by the Karkarthian raiders. It had been a black day for Adjutor Insula, culminating in the greatest attrocity ever comitted on home soil.

Furthermore, it would have appeared that some of the Sighing Hand's highest ranking officers had been slaughtered in the fighting; including Horse Master Jacbos of the Sighing Hand's cavalry wing, and First Captain Henrick, the Sighing Hand's infantry commander. Over seven hundred Sword Brothers were also killed, and were it not for a ten-thousand strong detachment returning to the city after performing mock manoeuvres, it is unclear whether or not Love would have fallen.

The greatest tragedy of all, perhaps, is the unlawful and cowardly murder of Guide Charity IX. The Adjutor Order, the nation's provisional governing body, has declared a month of mourning, and has placed Adjutor Insula under a military lock down. The island's fleets have been recalled from their various missions, and will be docking at harbour for the duration of the crisis.

The Adjutor Order has called for a Council of Sorrow, an emergency meeting between branch members, to discuss the situation and to proclaim a new Guide.

Council of Sorrow

"Karkarth would never invade us, not with their civil war broiling in the North Lands, it makes no sense," said Matron Scribe Marcella Colias, showing grave irritation.

Marcus did not relent however; he had the high ground. Fear sweltered around him, he could feel it. The entire chamber was thick with the stuff, and he wasn't about to let one woman snatch away his chance. "The Scorched King is a war monger, this is well known, Sister," he said. "We are, as we have always been, a humble land with humble intent. That this has not happened sooner, is nothing short of a surprise."

Murmurs of agreement erupted from the many rows of wooden benches, as men and women threw their lot behind the Lord Defender. Adding to his brovado, was the gleaming suit of full plate he was wearing, despite the established dress code of robes and cotton. This was not wasted on Mercella.

"Perhaps the Lord Defender's mind is clouded by his recent heroics," Marcella sneered. "Why does he wear the plate of war? Does he expect the Scorched King to march through the doors at any given moment?"

Markus nodded grimly, "if he does, then I'm the last man left on this island capable of defending you."

The murmurs exploded into heated debate, and calls of outrage. Marcus bowed his head as the storm of words swirled around him. To a keen eyed observer, they may have noticed a wide grin appear momentarily on his lips.

Mercella shook her head in disgust. "Lord Defender, it is obvious to me," she shouted above the growing commotion, "that your mind is set to conflict, and not to diplomacy. That is not our way, it is not Adjutor Insula's way, and despite your undeniable bravery, I move to have you suspended from your position."

Now the Lord Defender was angry. Who was this stupid, middle-yeared bitch to suggest his suspension? He was a hero! The people called his name. It was time to play his hand, to throw down all the cards.

"War is coming, whether you want it or not, Matron Scribe," he snarled, standing from his chair. He waved a dismissive hand at her, and turned to the benches of the Order members. "Those of you who still have the will to save this land, to prevent a mass genocide of our people, and to extend the legacy of Adjutor Insula, come with me." Then he turned to leave, but before he left - and over the 90 decibel clamour - he clasped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "the rest of you, hide behind those that follow."

As he descended the many steps from the Council Chamber of Promise, in the city of Hope, he found himself excited. No doubt, he reasoned, Matron Scribe would rally many to her cause - enough to split the army. Adjutor Insula would plunge into civil war in short order, and it would be a battle that even if he won, the army would be too diminished to carry out his plans in his preferred time frame.

The middle-yeared bitch was going to have to die, and the Lord Defender had found himself a natural in arranging untimely ends to untimely people.

With this in mind, he journeyed to Hope's Diversity District, home to a large portion of Hope's non-human population. There was someone he needed a favour from, before he could consider doing a favour for them.

~Naaru Dominion, Deephome~

Within the waters of Deephome, Danassa sat on her throne of whale-bone. Another, younger and far poorer, mermaid was infront of her, clutching several engraved tablets of stone. The High-Mother broke the silence: "[Speak scribe, and do not attempt to deceive me with fanciful tales.]" She gripped a spear of bone with her webbed hands while glaring at the commoner before her.

The scribe nervously smiled with her pointed teeth and said: "[Uhm, but of course High-Mother. We have come to the conclusion that these 'skimmers' are not beasts, but constructions of intelligent races. We als-]"

"[I thought I had told you not to deceive me with fanciful tales.]"

The scribe cringed at the accusation: "[I haven't been! Look!]" The scribe began to frantically show the high-mother of several carvings of ships, humans, and satyrs on hunks of stone. "[All of these drawings are done by different scribes, do you truly believe that one such as me would be able to convince so many to undertake such a lie?]" The scribe pointed to a carving of a ship: "[These things are not... natural to say the least, what else but intelligent beings could construct such a device?]"

The High-Mother relaxed the grip of her spear: "[Perhaps... you are right.]" She paused for a brief moment then continued, "[However, I still want to know more about these beings and these ships before I take great action. You may go, scribe.]" Never had someone left Danassa's chamber so quickly. Afterwards, she looked over the several carvings of the ships and its inhabitants for several hours. Finally she came to a decision, and called her son Aeo to her chambers. The dutiful Aeo arrived within minutes and quickly prostrated himself before Danassa. She simply said: "[Rise, my son Aeo.]"

Aeo, a young merman covered with the bones of slain merfolk, did as he was bid: "[Yes, High Mother?]"

In Danassa's heart she felt a great pride for this son, but she betrayed none of these feelings outwardly as she decreed: "[Aeo, you are to sink one of these... skimmers, and bring one to me for further study. Is this understood?]"

Aeo who so desired to please Danassa replied: "[Yes, Great High Mother, I will not fail you.]"

"[Then go, take as many Naaru as you need. The future of our race may hang in the balance.]"

~Naaru Dominion, off the coast of Fristreek~

Some time later, after Aeo had gathered a school of fifty Naaru, he had found a target. Off of the coast of Fristreek, there was a ship sailing towards the Kingdom of Marmon for the high feast. Perhaps out of some unfortunate twist of fate, Aeo had targeted the ship of Lady Sara. In all honesty however, it was quite deliberate. Aeo had passed several opportunities to seize a ship, for who sought to please the High-Mother, wanted to seize the grandest ship he could. And what was more grand than a ship of a great noble? Not that he knew that it possessed anyone of importance, he simply recognized the ship for being as impressive as it was.

And thus, under a full moon, Aeo began his assault of the vessel. Well trained and disciplined, Aeo commanded that his men do not speak before they strike, remain in formation, and never breach the surface of the water. The school dived deep into the ocean, and rose directly under the vessel. In one swift charge their spears were driven into the wood with an audible crunch, and water began to flow into the ship. Those asleep aboard the ship had a rude awakening, the battle had begun.

- Naaru Dominion/ Coast of Fristreek -

The battle on the boat may have gone unnoticed by other nations. If the boat sunk, people would more likely blame it on bad weather than attack - after all, who in their right mind would kill off such a high value target? If they repelled the attackers, victory would be at a high cost. The survivors would be forced to retreat for safety's sake.

Yes, the battle, though important, may have been forgotten if not for the Divine Wind, pride of Torin's navy. The boat was an experiment, an attempt to create a small, fast ship meant to ferry ambassadors and generals to places quickly, though it's use as a scouting ship is being negotiated. The Divine Wind happened to be carrying Gaius Maro, one of Torin's top negotiators and ambassadors. Maro had integrated tribes, negotiated peace and trade treaties and at one point even defused a potential civil war. The boat was meant to be taking him to Fristreek to get additional supplies - the cargo bay of the vessel was remarkably small. It was luck and chance that lead them to the attacked boat.

"Looks like something's going on over there." One of the spotters said to a fellow soldier, pointing to the attacked boat. "D'you want to check it out?"
"We should tell the Ambassador." The other soldier said, squinting to see exactly what was happening. "It's not our place to call the shots."
The message was soon relied to a sleeping Gaius, who, to his credit, dragged himself up to the deck to look over at the scene.
"Anyone know that boat?" The ambassador asked
The crewmen on deck shook their heads.
"Anything I should know about the situation?"
"We can't be certain, sir" the spotter told him "but it looks like some kind of raid or attack. But there isn't another boat that the attackers could have used, and we're a bit too far out to swim from the coast."
"If that's the case -" the ambassador cut himself off with a yawn, then continued "If that's the case, bring us in a little closer. If you see any of our allies or trade partners, back them up. If try to resolve the fight without bloodshed if possible."
And so, the Divine Wind revealed itself, sailing close enough to the assaulted ship to confirm there was indeed an attack. They did not do anything but watch, though, as both sides were unfamiliar to the soldiers.

Bapentui

A hundred banners of a hundred clans flew flying in the air. Emblazoning the sky in a rainbow of hues and emboldening the seat of the Satyr Kingdom of miles around. Upon the horizon travelers under the clear afternoon sky looked out from the golden hills to the colorful flags that danced on the warm Savannah wind. Against the clear blue, nestled along the snaking waters of the Bapa river as it exploded into the many shallow and swampy runs of its flush green delta.

Banana and date palms stood sentinel around the city in the fertile marshes alongside the expansive reedy farms of rice and barley that grew in the fresh clean river water. And although still very distant, when the breeze blew right the salty smell of the distant sea blew inland, beckoning a cool refreshment from the distant ocean.

Carving across the hills, winding between totems of stone welcoming and warning visitors a webbing network of dirt road ways all bent and danced through the Savannah grass and under the welcoming shade of wide umbrella trees. The chirps of a hundred birds sung in the warm summer air. Monkeys screeched and chattered to themselves in the tall grass, sprinting away from the road side as along the road the silver army of the Seusebi made their solemn march for home.

Along the side of the road the farmers that had spun out into the fields well outside the city stopped to observe the heavy footed army as they came for home. The red banners of the Seusebi flying over their heads in a field so thick it was fire in the sun. These farmers, living in tall mud and thatch estates hung by at the fences, pensive and joyous to see the return of their spiritual leader. Their families taking the posts as they all wore the same excited looks.

It had been a good many years, and along the country roads leading into the city strong evidence of their people's growth persisted. Fields thick with lush grass and pensive bison stretched for miles in every direction. Their herdsmen and their family just as thick at the green grass yards, separated from their fields with hedges of thin spiny bushes.

Wives and daughters of the large herding clan estates stopped their busy work at tending the beats and roots they grew in their gardens. Their backs and breasts wholly warmed by the high afternoon sun. They smiled warmly at the passing army. Some of them had husbands, brothers, or sisters who marched in the retinue.

Behind them the expansion of their private estates went on by the men folk who did not march in service. Evidence of the growing effect of continual bumper seasons. Wooden frames from great palm trunks stood struck in a ground filled with gravel and stone. Thatched sheets of wattle slowly being nailed to the trunks as nearby vats of mud-based daub was prepared in blood-red clay troughs.

As the host wound out of the herds land and into the green orchards and fields of the Bapa delta region the feel changed considerably. Though still dominated by the small family-clan units, the neccesaity of size made them more constrained. Becoming rounder and compact - in comparison to the larger and rectangular estates out more – the farming clans of Bapentui's exterior lived more among their crop. Built up be generations of farming and growth within the family and within the expansion of their means.

Networks of stone and thatch and palm-roofed bridges ran a gauntlet through the maze of fields and orchards. Running over where the men and women toiled in the river-side muck or small fishing boats wove through the water, hunting for the traps the fishermen laid out for freshwater crab. The smells of roasting dunner filled the air as the wind trapped it beneath the soft green balcony of the fruiting trees. Mixing roasted nuts and meats with the scent of fresh ripening banana, dates, and pecans. It was earthly. It was pleasant. It was heaven on Earth. Farming communes coalesced into informal villages, just on the outskirts of Bapentui itself. And climbing up the shallow hill that would be crowned by the city itself.

Bapentui. The hill-top city that laid claim for itself the countryside a clear day away. A kingdom that laid claim to a hundred more tribes many more days out. Earthen walls stood guard over the hill. Organically bending and twisting to its contours. Conical towers standing right and powerful, flying the hundreds of colored flags of the kingdom's many tribes and clans. Behind which the stepped and tiered towers of its temples and its homes reached out for the sky. Flocks of birds flew in the air, chirping madly at the city below as they darted to and fro between the towering roofs. At the foremost crown the palace of the Kabaka at the ziggurat of the Seusebi.

Through the columned gates that stood open into the city the host marched. Passing from the packed clay of the outside to the winding cobbled paths climbing the city. Cut as tears, no more than a step high they cut the hill flat, taming its once dramatic robust peak. Crafting it to a landscape that over time could be used. And as the city would grow, so would the hill shrink. Or loose its definition.

Bapentui's markets and homes were a series of courtyards between covered walkways. Brick and plastered houses stood at the corners or at the edges dividing open air gardened plots. Steep angled roofs rose to the air, bearing deep thatched bosoms. Long grasses sat at the crown, or intertwined palm fronds. Long wooden verandas encircled many of the structures, covered with ceramic shingled roofs on frames of thick sticks.

The marching host attracted the attention of the populace. Many of which stood aside as the armed satyrs passed through, guarding the pallbearers that carried the Seusebi's covered throne. Faint glimpses of her shadow shone through the heavy silk canopy that shielded the priestess. And as the people watched her on, she looked ahead. Up the winding roads to where she'd arrive at the palace.

******

Ashra's hooves echoed softly off the soft amber plaster of the palace's inner walls. A soft sunlit glow shone softly from the precipice between the ceiling and the walls, illuminating the expansive hallway as the Seusebi kept a brisk pace. Moisi kept close behind, looking up at the wooden ceiling with awe in her eyes. She had been in the palace before, but never enough she'd be muted by it.

Along the walls the elongated and slender tribal busts of anonymous figures marched on. Between lamps of oil they gave a constant silent vigil against those that came in. To the Afarid, such decorations were a ward off spirits and agents of evil. Many were benign in their evil, being little more than mischief. But people of power attracted the stronger agents of evil, those that would bring disease and death, or confusion and madness.

Ashra turned a corner in the mighty hall. The light of the sun beamed strong at its opening several feet away. And guards stood vigilant at its opening. Tall capped Satyrs with tall conical helmets. They watched the approaching high-priestess behind wild distorted animal masks. Fully alert to her presence but not choosing to show it. Moisi drew closer to her guardian as they came closer to the guards.

“Mi Sui.” said one of the guards as Ashra drew closer. He held out his arm, blocking her path with his spear, “The little one may not enter.”

“Like the Hells she can't you thick-headed bafoon.” Ashra cursed, booming with anger. Grabbing hold of the guard's spear she continued, “She's in my care, and you have nothing to worry about! Release this spear or I will see you burn upon my altar!” she threatened angrily, leaning into the guard's face.

He seemed to consider the threat momentarily. “I will see my husband will know!” she spat angrily.

Obediently, the guard released the spear from his hands, handing it to the high-priestess. “My apologies.” he said stiffly, stepping aside.

Ashra glared at him angrily, spear in her hand. With a distasteful grunt she threw it on the stones before her and walked through. Moisi hugged her legs closely as they passed the two watchful sentries.

Passed them they entered into a large garden court-yard. Thatched awnings bowed over a covered walk that cut around the edge and through the middle. At any available post stood watch another guard, dressed shoulder to hoof in deep red cloaks. They turned to watch the visitor curiously, almost grudgingly. Too much for her taste.

All over the gardens palms loaded with bananas and dates grew alongside crystal pools filled with golden orange fish. The unfolded fronds of ferns provided shade for a number of tiny mushrooms growing in the dark soil at their base. Smooth stones marked the edge of grassy paths that wound through the garden courtyard and around islands of bushes loaded with pearl white and rosy pink flowers open to the sun above.

It would have given the Seusebi piece, if it wasn't for the paranoid watch of her husband's guard.

And she found her husband, sitting hunched in the middle of one of the paths. Knife in his hand busying with a bush of large orchids.

Yesobi Bawentui was by no means a simple man. And he was by far older than his wife. His body was still thick and heavy with muscles, and under his white robe there would be a wandering landscape of scars, both from battles and hunt. Though as his thick fuzzy head of hair thinned and grayed, so too had he left the field of battle as his hair retired from his scalp.

In his recent years as his fingers went stiff and he could no longer sprint the distance of his younger companions he retired to simpler choirs and devoted himself to past-times he had not otherwise the time to practice between others. Ashra could not say she hated it. They were endearing, if not awkward for a war leader.

“Yesobi.” Ashra said, bowing.

Yesobi paused, hand half way into the bush as he carried the knife over to the base of a dish-pan sized orchad. He looked over, puzzled. “Oh!” he said, seeing his wife. His face washed itself with a king relief. He was a dark Satyr, blacker than most. And against that his eyes shone a bright green, “It is you, my love.” he smiled, “I did not imagine you back so soon.” he continued standing up.

But looking in her eyes he soon realized something was wrong. There was a bitterness behind Ashra's gaze. And Yesobi saw that. Concerned him. “What's the matter? Did the guards give you trouble.”

“I feel it is more than I usually receive, but it is not the matter.” Ashra said sharply, “The matter is something went wrong. Terribly wrong.” she added, her tone going softer and lower. She gave paused, biting nervously on her lip.

Yesobi nodded, turning to his guards he held out a hand. “Go, leave us!” he shouted. His voice carried like a shot of thunder. And they obliged the order as if carried on lightning. Turning and filing out of the garden.

“Should Moisi be here?” he asked, concerned. Looking down at the small Satyr child. With the guard leaving she was more relaxed. But still stayed close to her guardian.

“I'm afraid she was there when it happened. I doubt she'll leave my side for a while. She's shocked.” Ashra said despondent and distressed, “I hardly think it will matter. It's no secret, or news to her.”

Yesobi nodded, “Go on.” he said, bending over to pick the basket that laid on the ground at his hooves.

“The camp was attacked.” she said, “Almost a week ago, when we began the trial. We had retired for the evening after the initial proceedings and settling for the night when they came.

“I don't know who they followed, but they came after me.” she said, her voice almost choking. She reached out to Moisi and held her softly by her shoulders, “My guards were quick to act, and they were dealt with. I myself had to fight them off. Niyo was most helpful. But something went wrong, very wrong.”

“Niyo wasn't hurt?” Yesobi said, panic stricken as well, “Rwan?”

“Niyo is OK. But Rwan disappeared after the battle. We suspect he was kidnapped. Niyo went off to locate him and took several of my retinue with him. It's suspected the Bugan had a hand in this.”

Yesobi's face was flat, devoid of any show of emotion on the news. But his body shook. Ashra could see it in his hands. The jittering dance of the flowers in the basket. Ashra held out a hand, holding the king's shoulders. Carefully, she helped him down, and they sat in the grass.

“The Bugan...” he said. His voice cracked in his chest. He placed a scarred hand to it, messaging his breast through his long white robes. “How'd it happen? Do we know!?” he said, demandingly. His voice cracked in his throat. His eyes wild with desire and anger.

“Niyo said he left Rwan with Mami before he came to assist me.” Ashra said, “At the battle... Someone tried to kill him. But Niyo pulled him back. But the assailant took Rwan's eyes with a knife.” it was still hard to talk about it. He weighed heavily on her shoulders and heart. And every time the words escaped her lips, or crossed her mind, she could feel the surgical knives on her stomach again. Their cold sharp precision moving to save life before it ended without entering the world. They had cared for him so much then, afraid he would die weak and frail...

“I suppose we will need to bring him to court.” Yesobi grumbled, “And there will no excursions out to perform trial. It will be here, and always here.

“We'll need to find Mami first, or his sons. Do we know where they went?”

“We'll look for them.” she said, “We did recapture the human though, we can press him for information here at home. I sent him to be held at the temple. When the time's right, we'll start.”

Adjutor Insula

The Bastard of Karren

Marcus shoved open the door to one of the Insula's few houses dedicated to social drinking. Alien faces glanced up at him from ale soiled tables, and smokey pipe haze. Dwarves, Elves, Gryphs and foreign humans occupied the Three Tails Inn, and few of them were in good standing with any God. It was ironic, to Marcus, that a nation built with the sole purpose of bringing out the best in people, would also harbour exiled murderers, thieves, rapists and of course, usurpers.

"You're late," muttered a tall figure, clad in tattered brown robes. There was a slight hiss to its voice. "Remind me, Lord Defender, why it is I have so much faith in you, when you cannot keep a deadline."

Marcus ignored the figure, and strolled up to the bar. A rough looking Gryph, with his golden skin tinted a slight red from whatever substance abuse occupied his interests, grunted at him.

"Cured water, if you would please," Marcus said, flashing a warm smile, and half a silver coin. The Gryph jumped into action.

The figure stalked Marcus, and placed a scaled hand onto his plated shoulder. The Lord Defender's friendly smile vanished, and a scorn quickly replaced it. He turned, and grabbed hold of the figure's wrist.

"You'd do well to remember what it is you owe me, Bastard," Marcus said angrily. "The Council overran, as I thought it might. I need a favour from you."

The figure snatched back its hand, and used it to throw back its hood. From the shadow of the robes, came forth the ridgid, pointed face of a Draconian with a delicate pattern of green and red scales. Yellow eyes, with vertical pupils looked out from that majestic face, and thick saliva gathered around exposed fangs. Draconians looked angry by nature, and so it was sometimes hard for a human to judge their emotions, but it appeared Ragnak of Karren was in an obvious rage. Such was his nature, most of the time.

"More blood?" Ragnak snarled, shaking his head bitterly. "How many old monks, women an children must I slay before you come good on your favour to me!?"

Marcus drunk his cured water in one solid gulp. And then grimaced. He quickly returned the half silver to his purse, and gave the Gryph a full copper. The Lord Defender's almost regal position saved him from the bar keeper's revenge.

"Just one more, my King," Marcus said, smiling. "And if you wouldn't mind keeping your voice down, then that would splendid."

Ragnak grabbed Marcus again, this time by the front of his armour. Marcus did not fight back, only smiled his customary grin. "One more. One more or I'll kill you myself, and flay yo-"

"Yes, yes, you'll flay me alive. Or kill me first, then flay me, which I think is what you were getting at," Marcus interjected, pushing the lizard from him. "I'd like to see you try, my King. Your armies in the north of Karkarth are a long way from the Insula, and last I heard, the Scorched King had you on the run after he smashed your troops at the Battle of Bloodspire Pass. A battle he should have lost."

"I was outnumbered, you swine," Ragnak spat. His forked tongue slithered throguh his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. "No one could have wo-"

"You had him pinned in a valley. If you'd of held your ground, you would have starved him into a suicidal attack. Karkarth would be yours, but no, you had to play hero didn't you."

Ragnak's hand fell to a blade hidden in his robes. Marcus didn't flinch. "Interrupt me one more time, human, and see what happens."

Marcus sighed. "Do not forget, my King, who has funded your campaign. Do you think it was easy for me to send that gold into your coffers, without the Order noticing? I've killed a century of men in the last three months, just to keep everything hush-hush. People are talking of a curse, which is fortunate, but sooner or later they'll start pointing fingers. I need you to win, Faran be damned."

"I will win. As soon as I return, I will win. The Scorched King is a mighty warrior, but he is not a smart king. Every day, he pushes more of his subjects into my hands with his acts of dishonourable slaughter and his bloody-minded tactics," Ragnak spat on the floor; the bar keeper muttered something distasteful.

"Yes," Marcus agreed, "you will win. Kill the Matron Scribe for me, and fifteen thousand of the world's best infantry will land on your shores, with five thousand of the world's heaviest horse. You will win, because I will make it so."

Ragnak's anger ceased suddenly, and he lent in to Marcus. "You can do that?"

Marcus nodded. "Yes. Kill the Matron Scribe, but be sure it is one of your people to do it, and be sure that he or she does not escape."

Ragnak's anger returned as quickly as it had gone. "You want me to kill one of my own?"

Marcus nodded again. "You're a smart King, Ragnak. My people have to know beyond doubt that the Insula is facing its End Times. In me they will see a hero who can stop the wheel from turning, and once I have achieved control, the Sighing Hand will no longer be fixed to home defence."

Ragnak paused for some time. The other patrons hadn't paid the conversation much heed, and if they had, then they didn't care. The Three Tails Inn was Adjutor Insula's epicentre of organised crime after all, though the trade was a minor one. No doubt someone would have seen the Lord Defender enter, and no doubt he'd have to answer for his reasons for visiting a notorious establishment, but Marcus had an answer for everything. He had always said that in his times of personal trial, he would visit those with less grace than he, and bless them.

"Very well," Ragnak snorted. "She dies."

"By today," Marcus added.

"Why so soon?" Ragnak asked, curiously.

Marcus glanced through the pipe smoke, and saw a squadron of Heavy Horse arriving outside of the Three Tails.

"Because from now, until you do your job, I'll be under arrest. No freedom for me, no help for you. Killing her will fix all this, especially if a Draconian is seen doing it."

High Sun, Rotaerus Castle

There was quite a bustling noise coming from the council room. Six Purveyors, four Mayors, and a handful of royal guards were all standing around the elongated table in the center. The powerful group of people were intermingled and talking, discussing the going ons of the Kingdom. From the pirates in the east, to the clansmen in the north, and of course the faint whispers heard from across the world. It should be noted however that international affairs are not a favorite subject of conversation in the Osterlaind. Their notorious isolationism has been one of their defining traits; and now it could be their biggest problem.

As King Arthur and Prince James walked in, every man turned and bowed, as was customary. "Please, let us begin," the King announced. At his request, the mayors and purveyors took their seats at the table.

"If I may speak your grace," Derek Goetz, the Purveyor of Justice began. The King nodded to grant him permission. "Thank you. I must say that it is highly unusual to have non-council members sitting in on a meeting; especially one that is by no means about a normal topic." He was of course referring to the mayors and the prince. As per Osterlaind law, only members of the council could vote in their meetings.

"Your point is noted," replied Arthur in a manner befitting a king. "I can assure you that they are not here to vote; I know the law as well. They are merely here to express their opinions on the matters at hand. These issues facing us, indeed face all of us. I believe the mayors should be able to speak their peace." Derek Goetz nodded in acceptance and sat back into his seat. "And on that note, we are here to discuss the resource issue, the clansmen in the northern valley, and the pirates off of the eastern shores."

The Purveyor of Industry, Edward Stevenson, and the Purveyor of Prosperity, William Caldwell began discussing the heart of the resource issue. The large problem was the isolationist ways which had their rule over the nation for many decades. At one point in time it had helped the nation; but now it was taking its toll. The economy of the Kingdom was suffering as gold deposits were becoming scarce within the mines. Add to that the issue of increasing population and continuous raiding from the north and east, the situation was not looking good.

"There are two ways to aid a failing economy your grace; war, and trade. Given the state we are in, the latter would be preferable."

The king folded his hands and leaned onto the table. He agreed wholeheartedly. "Yet who would engage in trade with a nation who has cared nothing for others? Granted, we have not committed any direct offenses towards anyone; but ignoring them can be just as insulting. I fear our ancestors ways have put us in a tough position."

"I believe there is something we can do about that," the Purveyor of Diplomacy said. Nicklas Anders pulled a letter from his robes, bearing a broken foreign seal and addressed to the King. The letter was passed down the table to Arthur, who opened it and began reading intently. His eyes grew brighter, and his demeanor seemed a bit more cheery. The letter was hopeful indeed.

"This is a letter from the Gu-shedal of Manram. He is inviting us to a celebration in honor of his birth date." Murmurs arose around the room as they discussed the opportunity. The King turned to Nicklas. "Do you believe they would be willing to engage in trade with us?"

"I see of no particular reason why not. If we attend the celebration, we could use this as both a moment to forge bonds, and perhaps cause prosperity for us and our new found friends. We have everything to gain from this." Truly, parties could be make or break moments in terms of diplomacy. There would be many foreign dignitaries and rulers attending, making it extremely convenient for a nation seeking to make friends.

"And everything to lose..." Muttered the King. "He requests we come unarmed." Again a murmuring arose, this one not so calm nor polite. For a King to go someplace without protection was unheard of. Kings in the Osterlaind had always worn swords on their hips and always had loyal guards following them, with swords on their own hips. The council members did not like this idea in the least.

Sen spoke above the rest, "my King, I strongly advise against it. Even in the name of good will and respect, one cannot be so foolish as to enter a foreign city without protection." Several others voiced their agreement with the Purveyor of Guardianship.

Arthur sat there contemplating the ramifications of each decision. "We will discuss this issue later. But I can say with surety I will be going to the land of Manram; with or without weaponry."

Sen frowned at the sound of that. "As you wish my king." He knew there was little he could do to change a kings mind.

"Now onto the matter of the clansmen. Something must be done to stop their attacks upon our people."

"Perhaps an army could be raised?" Philip Rich held the title of Purveyor of Advancement. "A small force could be sent north to deal with them once and for all."

The council began discussing the proposal immediately. Raising an army would put a minor strain on the economy; however, it would take care of the problem that's been bothering them for quite some time. Short term loss for a long term gain sounded acceptable.

"Let's put it to a vote then," Sen suggested.

The King agreed. "All in favor of raising a force of one thousand men to go north and fight the clans?" Every member of the council including the king held their hand up, voting unanimously 'yes.' "It would seem we are agreed then. Call the soldiers to arms and have the General take command of the offensive. Tell him I wish for no harm to come to women or children. Within reason, he may use whatever methods he chooses to gain victory." The messenger standing in the room bowed and left for the barracks. There he would find the General, and from there, civil defense soldiers would call up one thousand regulars out of civilian life.

"And what of the piracy epidemic sire?" The mayor of Moltosaere knew all to well of this problem. For months now the coastal villages of his city had been raided and ransacked. "The navy is not large enough to deal with the increasing threat."

The king sighed, he had momentarily forgot there was more than two problems. He wondered if there was ever a king who had it better, for he would surely trade places with that man. "Would raising the navies numbers be prudent?"

The Purveyor of Industry raised his head, "I believe it would your grace. It would give the craftsmen in Caederon a boost in production; that should at least help the local economy."

"However, having to supply those ships and then pay the crews thereof would be an added problem," the Purveyor of Prosperity interjected.

"So a modest number then?" The king suggested. "Should twenty ships dedicated to protecting the Moltosaere coast suffice?"

The mayor nodded his head, "I believe it might you grace."

"All in favor of a twenty ship expansion to the navy?" Again, they all voted 'yes.' "Then if there is nothing more to discuss, this meeting is over. If my son and Nicklas would both meet me in private; we must discuss the issue of the trip to Manram."

Adjutor Insula

Blind Justice

Marcus emerged from the Three Tails with feigned humbleness. He bowed deeply, but somewhat unsteadily, to the squadron of mounted warriors before him.

"How can I help you, brothers?" he asked, stifling a laugh.

One of the riders, marked as a captain by his burnished helm and red plume, bowed in his saddle. "Forgive me, Lord Defender, but I have orders to secure your arrest."

Marcus gasped, surprised, or so he made it seem. "Arrest? But my brother captain, what on earth for?"

The captain shook his head. "I do not agree with it, Lord Defender, because to me you are a hero - the saviour of Love. When all else fled and fell, you stood against the tide... and somehow lived. You are Faran's chosen."

Marcus smiled warmly; inwardly he savoured the captain's admiration, even if it was based on lies. "Come, tell me, what offence have I committed to my beloved peoples?"

"Warmongering and disruption of the peace," the captain replied with a heavy sigh. "By order of Matron Scribe Mercella. Her motion was backed by the other branch members. I am sorry, Lord Defender, but I have no choice in this matter."

Now it was Marcus' time to sigh. "If it is what the Adjutor Order wishes, then I shall obey. I am under your command, my brother."

And with that, Marcus was led away from the Three Tails under an armed guard, and a swelling surge of open-mouthed spectators.

He With No Name, No Past, No Future

Urek stalked the streets of Hope with a single minded dedication to his goal: redemption.

Ten years a warrior, five years a general, six months a coward.

He had failed his master at the Battle of Bloodspire Pass. When the Scorched King's lines held against his beserkers, he had fled with the remainder of his men, rather than die in a haze of glory. That was not the Karkarthian way, and the rightful King Ragnak the Fanged had stripped Urek of his wealth, possessions and name. Though he did not take his life.

Ragnak did not take his life, because men with no futures, such as Urek, had their uses. And he was about to fullfill his final duty.

A dozen Sword Brothers crossed a narrow street; in their midst, a fragile feminine figure of white robes and greying hair. She had on herself a kind face, and she had made it her custom to stop every few paces to give praise to the commoners that paid her heed. It was a stupid idea, especially for someone who held the reigns of a Kingdom, to mingle with the mob in such a fashion. Urek made his move.

"My lady," he croaked through cracked fangs and a forked tongue.

Marcella Colias, Matron Scribe of the Noble Way, and no doubt soon to be Guide of Adjutor Insula, turned to face him. So did her bodyguards, but they did not draw their swords in anger. Even from a distance, Urek could see a form of kindness in their eyes - weakness, truth be told. They were not warriors, just wonderful men with armour.

"I wanted to apologise, my lady," Urek lied. "For the destruction my people have wrought upon your lands. I do not stand with them."

Marcella pulled back her floral veil and smiled at him. "Nor do I suspect that you do, brother. Your kind is not to be judged by the actions of a misguided king and his lackies. You have my blessing, Draconian, may Faran be with you."

"And with you," Urek replied, as he reached the first of her bodyguards.

A few seconds passed, and neither he nor Mercella moved. Her kind eyes kept his curiously. "Is there something else brother?"

Lonan Brill had been a Sword Brother since his thirteenth year. A full decade in the drill yard had taught him many things, mostly about how important it is to not kill prisoners, or not to strike a man on the ground. Some things in a man however, cannot be taught, and he sensed something. A danger. This Draconian was not a friend, no, he was an assassin.

Brill's shout of warning ended in a gurgled scream, and he fell back with a pierced throat. The other eleven bodyguards reacted slowly; shocked almost into inaction. Urek made good the opportunity and surged between them.

Marcella did not move. She did not cower or scream. She only smiled, and as Urek's venom laced dagger penetrated her chest, she held no ill will against him. War was a vicious circle, and she reasoned in those last moments, that she would have no part in propelling the senseless hatred. A noble ideology, but ultimately flawed in the face of reality.

"For the Scorched King of Karkarth!" Urek screamed, and then he turned on the hapless bodyguards; some of whom had collapsed to their knees in disbelief.

He tore into them, knocking swords out of the way, and stabbing anywhere his blade could find a weakness. With venom, you didn't need to cause serious injury, you just needed to cut the skin, and this he did to great effect. Eight men were fitting on the ground, coughing red foam, by the time Urek was finally brought down by a lucky sword blow to the shoulder.

Before the remaining guard could subdue him, he was able to plunge the dagger deep into his heart. His lips formed a smile as he embraced his redemption.

“A woman so beautiful you would cry at the mere sight of her; I say ‘would’ because chances are you’d be long dead before you could catch a glimpse.”

- Unknown, on Sister Death

“Now think of an army that is run not by command, promise of pay, or even patriotism and virtue, but one that feasts on fear and drinks the wealth of the damned. Dangerous is the army of the criminals, an army that needs to be put down by the loyal, honest, and the disciplined.”

-General Herphus Derangem

---

It was a warm day on the plains just west of the northern Marmon border. The sun was ascending to it's peak as the morning shadows scurried under small ragged bushes and the occasional apple tree. The emerald plains laid its flat grassy body between two sets of dense deciduous forests which were brimmed with summers lively green colors. No small creature was in sight, and only known to be existent by small chatters carried in the gentle forest breeze that weaved through the trees and carried the faint smell of sap with it as it spilled into the calm flatland.

The chill of the Marmon mountains were a mere afterthought to any who ever experienced it's chilling grasp and unknown to foreigners that lived so close, as this land was kissed with the gentle warmth of the sun and brought forth the fruits of spring and summer.

On the far end green plains stands a rather large village of people not sworn to any banner or nation, a stable and prosperous group who knew strife only from the occasional Marmon bandit or the rare case of a bad crop. These villagers' historians barely remember when Marmon was a booming and established country so long ago, but more so they remember how it had crumbled after its civil war, and now they know it for the letter sent to them days ago, a letter of conquest, taken as a bluff by the village elders.

A young boy dressed in wool clothes colored with paints of the earth and sporting wild curly hair on his head, ran through the tall standing huts and hovels, shouting about horses and invaders. His bare feet padded against the trampled grass of the village, his loud warnings spooked clucking chickens and stray snorting pigs until he finally ran into the arms of an old cloaked man with a thud.

"What is it my boy?" The man asked urgently, a look of worry shone off his earthen colored eyes, hooded by white brows.

"Riders!" The boy squeaked, "riders on the far side!"

He pointed a mud covered finger toward the stretch of grass that spanned until out of sight with blue mountains in the faded distant sky. The weary old mans eyes failed to see what the young boy pointed at, but did not waste the warning on skepticism.

"Grab your uncle," the old man said hoarsely, "tell him to round up the men, we make a line on the plains."

Soon the village erupted with aggressive shouts and worried cries. The clang of axes, hammers, and spears being ripped from the armory polluted the air as the warriors of the village took up arm and shield.

With in a matter of minutes the men of the village had formed a tight defensive wall of shields across a good portion of the plains, stretched so that it was only two men deep.

Thunderous sounds began to vibrate in the ears of the helmed villagers. Horses whinnied in the distance and the men tightened their grip on their weapons as a black mass became visible in the far distance.

The mass soon formed into separate figures brandishing polished lances twice as long as their humble spears that reflected the sun into the villagers worried eyes. The mark of the Curlow crown centered in the sigil of Marmon shone off the riders shields as the galloped with thunderous booms shaking the plains. Peaceful means had failed, and Edwin, who lead the charge, didn’t plan on a second chance as the charge was moments away from impacting the soldiers who readied their dull and worn weapons.

The sound of metal chain and flesh ripping filled the air as the long reaching lances lunged over the defensive spears of the villages, piercing their soft bodies with deadly and bloody precision, the force impaling the lance through and out their backs, and slamming into the second lines shield as the horses trampled over the first line. The sound of the second line falling backwards and scrambling to a hasty retreat back to the village was challenged by the screams of the impaled and the harsh whinnies of the massive horses.

Out of the woods poured myriads of thugs and mercenaries who bore the mark of The Bull, waving axes and hammers over head and painted in frightening war paint as they shouted and hollered curses at the frightened villagers. The flanks of the small village army crumbled in the carnage of the sudden attack and began to fall back rather than fight the aggressive invaders.

The mere seconds of slaughter ended when the old village elder shouted over the carnage and waved his hands in surrender, accompanied by the tattered survivors of the initial charge and the retreated flanks. Edwin blew a horn in recognition and after a few more toots the barbaric mercenaries brought themselves to a stressed calm, upset at the end of their sadistic fun. The most extravagant horse of the charge, a large white heroic looking creature speckled with crimson village blood, trotted over dead and dying villagers, gored and bloody, and stopped next to the blood soaked elder. On top of the towering horse sat Edwin, garnished in noble looking mail and holding a new and well made lance. The commander looked down on the shaking man with fury still pumping through him from the charge, “Speak, nave,” He shouted, his voice shaking with adrenaline.

The old man glanced at his injured brothers and friends then back at the polished commander, he spoke through chapped lips and his stomach dropped at the sound of his own words, “We yield.”

Edwin just stared at the man, who became unsure if Edwin even heard him for a moment, but then the look of sick triumph washed over Edwin’s face. The commander smiled a toothy grin and leaned low in his saddle, getting as close as he could to the old man without dismounting, “You will feed my riders, pay us for our trouble, and further, you will tell the other villages one thing if anything.”

“Yes, man of Curlow?” The old man’s voice had detectable anger in it’s shuttering whisper.

“Tell the others,” Edwin began, lifting up an exquisitely decorated helmet to place on his own head, “Marmon lives.”

Bapentui City

The wooden whistling of the pan flute ebbed and rose in the afternoon garden air. Surrounded by cascading stone walls where vines fell from planters high above like a green waterfall a pair of Satyrs sat by, dressed in light and thin garden robes, sleeves cut clean off freeing their arms to the pleasant afternoon sun. Wood beads wrapped around the waste of the younger, holding to his hip a long red shawl that hung at his side a small curved dagger. Brilliant blue embroidery ran intricate geometric and symmetrical designs in the thin fabric of his robe. Hugged in his lap a long stringed instrument lay, its body a drum of bleached hardened leather, it sung in a wavering droning note at each note plucked from its two-string neck. The gabr, a simple if popular instrument among all Satyr.

His companion, an elderly individual with long thick dreadlocks that dropped to his feet sat nearby. His dry parched lips blew across the pipes of his flute, whistling in creative and improvised creation with the gabr. His old eyes rested closed as he played his song. His scrawny legs bobbing to each suggestion of a beat. Being lesser, he wore a much simpler set of dress, but similar to that of his companion. A band of painted sticks wrapped in cotton twine held back the heavy mane of silver rope that framed his head from falling into his head.

The two sat on a pair of stone-carved benches. The stone was as pink as grapefruit, and warmed by the kiss of the sun. Grass grew from the feet in thick tufts, and large palmy fronds of surrounding palms rose up alongside, circling an inner grove amid the stone walls of one of many gardens in the palace. A nest of birds sat in the top of a twisting and out-reaching spindly tree, speckling the grass and stepping stones with dazzled speckled light, the family of birds chirped out of tune. But to the two musicians it was as if they were attempting to join their song.

The notes of the improvisation rose and fell to the flow of the distant sighing and wavering cry of the gabr, and the crystal sharpness of the pan flute. Like the wind it brushed through the air. Moving slow and cold. Then warm and fast. The tempo moved at not defined pace. Merely at the rhythm dictated by the player's own hearts, finding common timing at the plucking and the whistling of a note.

There came a sharp whistle, followed by a trailing falling through the notes as the old satyr blew onto his flute one final time. Signaling his retirement from the peace. In subtle time the younger did the same. The sharp twang of the gabr falling silent. A brief moment of silence passed filled only by the birds as the strung instrument was adjusted in the youth's lap.

“Music to the Ubangandai of the Buwan peninsula is considered such a fact of life that they fight war by it.” the old satyr said, smiling, “They do not raise weapons against themselves or their neighbors. Instead when they seek battle against themselves they strike up their drums, and sweep into their arms every instrument possible and meet the other tribe in the grasslands. Then they play music, from sunup to sundown. The tribe to have a stallion of their own still standing when the final note is struck has settled the dispute as the victor.

“Afterwards they toast themselves and retire home. They are patrons to Muvadi Moa.” the elder said with a dry smile. It told much about him. The days he had traveled and the sands he had tasted. His eyes had a clear gem-like shine to them as well. They did not speak warmly of combat, but instead sung fondly for experiences well seen. In one look, even the youngest knew he weathered hot summers and cold winters among amazing realms and creatures.

“Who enforces the contest though?” the young one asked. He was princely. A curly head of hair crowned him so tight it was a uniform cap of fine wool. A stout black afro black as the darkest night sky, “I mean, someone must think song is not enough and attack.”

“That would be the fair assumption, but in my time among the Ubangandai from the clans of the Moii-Ubangandi to the Eo-Ubangandi I have never seen anyone take righteous offense for loosing. They recognize the honor in simply having competed, toast to a dispute well settled, and praise the Moa. It was said to me when I asked that they believe Muvadi Moa will strike them deaf and mute, incapable of partaking in the world's sounds and contributing new ones if they so terribly breach her contract.”

“Are the Moa that willing?”

“Ushandi Yesobi!” the old one laughed, “Do you doubt Cele Moa's involvement in the world by continuing to be our life giving sun?” he chuckled, his deep tar-pitch face beaming red as he smiled. Even his deep brown eyes seemed to laugh. Not hauntingly, dismissively, or as a bully. But as a dear old man that has heard a good joke.

“No, I don't. But I haven't heard of contracts on entire tribes.”

“The Moa work strangely, as do their creation.” the old one said, “I briefly traveled through the court of the far-southern kingdoms of the Hayeckapuntuzeidi on the southern mountainous shores of the Sea of Boa. There were the sun is the driest, and the mountains most stained by Cele's embracing heat the cleft-hoofted worship not the great Moa, or at least Moa as we are familiar. But beings of metal and steam and fire. They call their heavenly king Chinakanmetaghakanmard. His temples presided over by the brassen depicition of their Moa. He who looks nothing like their horned visage.”

“How could the Moa be made of metal though if they are the stars, Afurendi?” Ushandi asked, shifting on his bench. He stretched out his silver legs as he leaned against the arm of the granite bench, wrapping his arms around his gabr.

Ushandi was youngest save to only Rwan. By no means strongly built, he was capable. Though intelligent, he was hardly as interested in the Moa in the same way his younger brother had become. He was worldly. He wanted to see and know the world beyond the walls of Bapentui. If he could he would have preferred to be of the nomadic Overroomi, like Afurendi.

“We are the amalgamation of gods and bambezi.” Afurendi reminded, “I don't think we should rule out one's Moa being any different than the other. Besides, to many tribes it'd be offensive.”

“Well, still. It seems silly. Why do the bambezi worship a monkey king? Why not the natural horse or zebra? Or the goat?”

“Why is the Bodye seemingly deaf to our patronage?” replied Afurendi, “Why do the Hayeckapuntuzeidi not worship the goat instead of brass and iron, as you suggest we do the zebra? It is the way things are. Do you wish Rwan were here?” he teased.

“No, we'd be here all afternoon talking about Moa and the Bodye.” Ushandi snickered, “All respect, but I don't think Cele Moa wants us to go on too much on the color and size of her glorious sunbutt.”

“A fair initiative. So whose glorious sunbutt do we discuss?”

Ushandi held silent to consider. Affurendi slide his flute to the side on the bench, then stretched his knuckles.

“Tell me more about music.” Ushandi said, “Who plays what, and where?” he asked.

“Ah, now that's a fine non-sunbutt topic.” Affurendi laughed, “On leaving the courts of the Hayeckapuntuzeidi I spent a great deal of time in the halls of the kings of the Ethozepied. A fine powerful tribe, to be sure.

“There, they had a instrument very much like the gabr. But wide, bearing seven strings and not upwards to three like we have. All are strung to an inwardly curving bow. They hold the instrument by a metal plate on the back, and when plucked they drum against its body. It's such a strange magnificent sound, somewhere along the lines of a antelope running across the ground and the song of the gabr.

“I have known musicians in the courts of those kings to play the instrument with a bow too. One from their very hunting arsenal or from war. It created such long notes, like a curious wailing.

“And very earlier I traveled as a youth along the southern shores of furthest tip of the Cape Hourn. The Hwazulu who lived there played a bag of flutes there. In one hand they would coax the sing-song from their pipes, or choke it. And with another the other they would make the instruments lung draw and expel air.

“The most magnificent players among the Hwazulu tribes could produce notes so eerily akin to the voice of man or satyr alike a distant listener may confuse it for a distressed chanter. According to their legend, their instrument could speak to their ancestors and they used it to convey prayers to their ghosts, asking for alms, blessings, and every other manner with the exception of willing more death. For that they had drums.

“Music was big to the Hwazulu but not so much as the Ubangandai as I later learned.”

“In comparison to here, they seem by far more interesting.” Ushandi commented melancholicly.

“I would not go far as to suggest that.” Affurendi laughed, “Ero, Bunei, Bugan, Szi. I have found all the tribes that compose your father's kingdom are similar in that music in no small part of their life, as any other satyr tribe or clan from here to the Hourn in the south. It's the placement in all the tribe's life and its use that matters. And for one who has lived so long within it it would be understandable that it's gone unnoticed. A personal blindness, I must say.

“These tribes, united under one kabaka and seusebi in your people's concepts of one-ness – Afarid – all have come to share the same style of music in their life. Music to you is not for war, or for ritual contact of the dead. Nor impressing on nobles and achieving high-status as an individual while boosting the prestige of a kabaka or king.

“Very, I would go so far as to suggest music permeates the Afarid tribes as it does the Ubangandai. Your warriors may not be judged by the songs they can play. But nearly every individual I have met can play an instrument or is willing to sing a song. The breadth and length of their library is astounding, even to an Overroomi with as extensive a catalog of songs we have.

“But it is not for war or for death your people sing. It is celebration. In reverence for Cele Moa in particular you make Muvadi Moa happy by engaging in all songs of celebration. As you yourself engage in, you partake in celebration of life and existence on a nightly basis. Your entire life is dictated by songs of joy. Your poetry a deceleration to the Moa, telling them their creation is most wonderful and exciting; for all its flaws and dangers you find reason to praise imperfection.

“The Hwazulu and the Ethozepied would become quiet stolen back if they happened across the broad scope of your music. To them, their life-style is the bland and the normal. But to you, you are the exotic to them. I wouldn't be so quick to judge your own people when you have not seen others. If you get the chance, I would encourage you travel as an adventurer. See other peoples so when you return you can appreciate the qualities of your own kin.”

“And what of your kin, the Overroomi?” asked Ushandi, “What music do you have?”

“Our people are travelers.” Affurendi said, “I do not know how many months or years it has been since I have seen another one of my brothers. So I would not know all the songs my brethren know as they would not me.

“But as I was taught when but a foal, our songs are a prayer to the road ahead that when we walk it we are not stolen. That we can walk through the lands of the sons of Moiniki and not be slain. That we will see the lion's jaws and not be caught. Or if we must fail that we die quick.

“When last I sung to the road we must do so loud, facing into the wind. Declaring to the Moa our hopes, or even seeking to summon one of our to give us company. A solitary life is not one for a satyr. And many have called us hermits. So perhaps we travel and sing for a religious purpose as much as we are born into it.”

“Would there be good reason for me to travel with you when you next leave?” the prince asked.

“I doubt it. You have your place here, no one will want you to leave. I fear Yesobi would have me hunted if it were suggested I had allowed you to come with me. I can not have the persecution after me; I've had enough.”

“So do your people ever get tired then?”

Affurendi had heard that question many times, and he greeted it with a pensive smile. “Sometimes.” he said softly, “I think it is perhaps the reason I have stayed for as long as I have. We often wonder how long it'll be until we find the ground to which we will root ourselves. And in my age I wonder if I had found that in your father's court.

There was a moment of silence as they too sat. Not speaking, thinking. “Have you heard the song of Korwanji bird?” Affurendi asked.

“I haven't.” Ushandi said.

“I will need to see if I can locate one for you.” the old satyr said, “In my experience their song is most unique. Like a mocking bird they can mimic the sounds of nearly everything they hear. But unlike the mocking bird much more clearly. And their feathers are very colorful.

“They're highly praised by the Ethozepied. And I have seen them winter at Kilaro. When the time is right I might have to go and catch you one.”

“Sounds interesting.” Ushandi commented, unenthusiastic.

Silence fell on them again. Shuffling on the bench Affurendi sat up, gathering his flute in his hands. “Well my prince,” he said, “it was an honor playing again.”

“As to you.” Ushandi replied. Smiling as he sat up, he turned to the nearby hall. From within the familiar clop of hooves echoed. Ticking out from the stony hall. The two watched, bearing no enthusiasm for their potential guests. But as he rounded the corner both stood straight. Ushandi even rose from the bench as he stood to bow to his father.

“Bui Yesobi.” Affurendi said, bowing low. His hands wrapped around his waist, “It's an honor.”

“Ushandi, Affurendi.” the kabaka said, bowing in turn to them. His face looked tired and his gaze distant. There was a stress hidden in his voice. “Ushandi, I have reason to speak with Affurendi. I hope I am not intruding on anything.” he added.

“No, we were just finishing.” Affurendi said, “Your son gets better on the gabr every time we meet.”

Yesobi nodded and smiled. Taking wide steps the traveler made a quick canter for the king. “What is it you need?” he asked, looking the king in the eyes. His gaze sharp and wishing, seeking to know.

“Walk with me.” Yesobi said, turning back down the corridor.

“As you wish.” nodded Affurendi.

Together they turned from the courtyard garden and into the interior corridors. Their hoof falls echoing off the stone walls and wooden ceiling. Not a word passed from the Kabaka's lips as they strolled. His face remained stoic and straight.

“I need your assistance.” he said finally as they turned a corner.

“What for?” the Overroomi asked.

“I didn't want to say it in the presence of Ushandi, I didn't want to burden him. But something's afoot.” the war-chief said, “I heard from my wife that someone tried to kill her when she was presiding over the trial for murder between two tribes.”

“I'm sorry to hear.” said Affurendi, shocked, “Is everything alright?”

“Ashra is fine. But they managed to take something from me.” Yesobi continued, his gaze still glued ahead. He did not look the nomad in the eyes as they walked, “In the attack against her chief Mami of the Bugan is suspected to have kidnapped Rwan. Niyo is in pursuit to get him back. I want to know why.”

“Rwan?” Affurendi gasped, “Why would he be taken. He's a good colt.”

“We think someone took advantage of the situation.” Yesobi sighed, “Ashra is putting together the means to carry out a trial here. But we can't finish it until we have evidence to present before the chief and Mami himself.

“I no doubt Niyo will return with Rwan and him in tow. But as it goes we need testimonies, evidence.”

“Understandable.”

“You still have connections with the Bugan?” Yesobi asked.

“Yes, bui.”

“I want you to use them.” Yesobi said, stopped and turning to him. His aged and wrinkled face carved deep by the light of oil lanterns. The shadows and lights that danced in the firelight burned the wrinkles and the pits of his old face deeper. He was an old elephant, enraged and ancient. Made only more so by the firelight. “I want you to find who, why, and what was done to stage this dishonor.”

Affurendi nodded, “I understand. When do you wish me to go?”

“Ideally as soon as you can.”

“I can leave tonight.”

“Then do so. And return when you have the information.”

“As you wish.”

Adjutor Insula

The King of Adjutor Insula

"She did not deserve the end she was met with," Lord Defender Marcus proclaimed to the second Council of Sorrow of the day - of the decade. "You were all wrong to ignore my warnings, to issue my arrest, and to enable the Scorched King's hand in yet another scenario of butchery."

There were no murmurs or calls of outrage from the Adjutor Order members this time. Only the silent and regretful nodding of heads.

"We stand on the knife's edge. Faran's way, the way of peace, compassion and forgiveness will bring ruin to us all," Marcus continued, though this was met with some gasps. "The man was holy, holier than I shall ever be. This I do not doubt. He was honourable and noble, full of fine promise and ideals. Though, in my earnest beliefs, he was centuries before his time."

"Blasphemy!" someone shouted from the packed benches.

"Oh? Is that so?" Marcus retorted. "The Adjutor Order is one of the most powerful political bodies in the known world. It has stood for centuries, not because of kind words or foreign aid, but because of the steadfast dedication and courage of those who have defended her. Let us not forget, the War of Vulnurbility, when Karkarth's fleets last made their attempt on our shores. Were it not for the Sighing Hand's Homeguard, we'd all be knee-deep in dragon-eggs by now. Killing is a fact of life, and it is just when all else fails."

"I will not allow this, Lord Defender," yelled Doctrine Master Olan, of the Questioning Eyes. "The others do not see your treachery, but I do."

Marcus felt himself shrink into his armour. Had one his many loose ends come to fruition?

"You would use the raid on Love, and the murder of our beloved sister, to plant yourself as King of this island. With no one left to oppose your orders, you would embroil us in a hundred year war against an enemy we can never hope to conqueror," he hissed, spittle flaying from his pruned lips. The Doctrine Master turned to face the other Order members. "Who here will support this man in leading us to certain doom?"

The Lord Defender sighed, and stepped down from the podium. His plated armour rattled with each step, and his hand fell to his sword. The members of the Order Guard nearest him hesitated. "Doctrine Master," he called, and the old man turned to face him. "I hereby suspend the Adjutor Order, for the duration of the crisis."

Before Olan could even gasp in disbelief, anger or frustration, Marcus' longsword pried apart his ribcage and pierced his heart. It was a bold move, but Marcus had tired of the constant murders, the assassinations, the backhanding, the bribing and the lying. He was taking this country by force, now, or never. He let slip a clattering of Karkarth gold coins, chasing the old man's descent to the cold stone beneath him. Some may have seen the deft move, others wouldn't have. Either way, they'd cry murder, or they'd hurry behind his cause in the next few moments.

"Traitor!" Marcus yelled, pointing his bloody sword at Olan's coin littered corpse. "How deep has the Scorched King reached? I can trust none of you."

The Order Guard surrounded the Lord Defender; their spears lowered at him. "Come," he yelled at them, "murder me, finish your Master's plot."

The guards hesitated. Marcus seized the opportunity. "They do not kill me, because they know I speak truth. From the moment Love was sacked, the Scorched King has shown his hand in the very midst of our population and government. He is responsible for countless murders, no doubt, and even now he conspires at the highest level of our sacred office. Accept me as your King, for a term of one single year, and I will fix this land, and I will save it."

The hall erupted into further commotion, and men and women grappled with each other as Marcus' test pitted ideology against human instinct. Survival against honour. Some called for his immediate appointment, others for his execution. All was blasphemy, under Adjutor law, but it was beautiful. As the chaos continued, Marcus brushed through the blockade of the ornate Order Guard, and climbed back onto the podium.

"I do not have time for the cowards to be weeded, or the saints to be announced. I go to Love, with the Home Guard at my back. From there, I set sail for Karkarth, to end this war. If any of you think yourselves worthy of stopping me, then I beg you, stand in my way so I can see you through to Faran's false promises," he called.

Right on cue, and waiting for those particular lines, a troop of Sword Brothers burst into the Council of Sorrow with swords drawn and shields raised. They made a B-line for Marcus, knocking Order members left and right, and threatening the Order Guard with arrest or worse for any intervention. They circled Marcus, and escorted him through the chaos like a ship in a stormy sea.

"Good to see you again, Sire," one of the Sword Brothers uttered.

"And you, scoundrel. I see your little band has grown since the battle at the Palace," Marcus replied, smirking. He stopped to punch a particularity fat and red faced man directly in the nose.

"Aye, Sire. They'll want paying though," the Sword Brother replied, knocking an Order Guard arse over tit with his shield. "They're good men. No child fiddlers or killers though, as promised."

"Excellent, you'll do well in my New World, scoundrel," Marcus laughed.

- Caballeria, Torin -

"WHAT?"
The bellow resonated around the entire city, waves of sound bouncing around the cobblestones and wood. There wasn't one person in Caballeria that didn't hear the shout.

The voice belonged to one Lanius Inculta, General of Torin's well-trained army and Commandant of its formidable navy. The man was the most vicious, most mean-spirited soldier in the whole of Torin. It was almost inspiring how quick he could turn from being mildly annoyed to absolutely furious. Once, he caught a recruit out of uniform and had him scrubbing toilets for a month. He could go on the most ear blistering rants with nary a breath between words. No wonder he was the most feared man in the Gryph Empire.

But when not one, not two, but three pieces of bad news came through his door, he showed little mercy. If someone dared look at him the wrong way, with the mood he was in, they could kiss their army career goodbye. His face was bright red as he read the reports in front of him.

First of all, the Empress had left, alongside Corvus and Luna, leaving Father Bitter-root in charge of political affairs and EVERYTHING ELSE for him. It was hard enough training a bunch of sorry, half-wit maggots to become a fighting force formidable enough to guard Torin, but now he had to deal with the creepy Inquisition as well as uphold basic Law. Bitter-root was alright, and he could trust the High Inquisitor with Luna and Kali's lives, but he had way more important things to deal with.

Secondly, the Karkarth/Adjutor Insula feud. Both sides could be important political and military allies. If rumours were correct, things in the Insula were getting more heated by the moment. There was talk of conspiracy, murder and assassination. If things didn't calm down soon, the war between the two would evolve into something far worse. Either one side had to be crushed, or peace would need to made, before Torin could allow itself to breathe again. Either way, it had to be done swiftly.

Finally, Marmon. There had been more attacks, and it was becoming difficult to keep things cordial. Trade was strong, but the more raids and crimes, the tougher it was to garentee security. The local guards were worthless, and many Gryph tradesmen were fleeing, no-one staying around long enough to set up elaborate trade. Torino was making money, little by little, but less and less traders wanted to go there. It just wasn't safe.

"Why couldn't that old Bitter-Root buzzard deal with this?" Lanius grumbled, head in his hands. He had a few options, but Lanius wasn't really trained for any plan that didn't involve bashing in a few thousand skulls or sinking a few boats. Political matters were beyond him.

Think, soldier, think. What would you do if this was a war situation?

Lanius thought. He couldn't go in all bows firing, nor could he cow out. He was picking allies, securing positions, planning strategically, not tactically. He had to deal with these issues now, but in such a way that the benefits of his actions were felt far in the future.

First, Marmon. He couldn't publicly support the crime lords, but he could aid them in other ways. Set up a system that would hurt the thieves just as much as Torin if things went awry. At the same time, he had to make it look like he was supporting Marmon's natural government. If all went well, there would be way more trade between the two nations and at least Torin would benefit.

Now, The Adjutor Insula and Karkarth. Both sides seemed to be struggling, but after the recent raid on Love (Honestly, what kind of name was that? What kind of hippy lunatic named their city Love?) Lanius had to concede that Karkarth was on the offence. It would be wise to hedge one's bets with the victor, but at the same time, a public display of support for the passive Insula would make Torin look like supporters of the Underdog, and everyone loves someone who cares for the weak. Maybe there was a way to support both sides?

Politics was hard.

---

---

- A greater amount of Gryph and Kasai can be seen in Marmon, typically as traders.
- A noticable surge of Gryph and Kasai have arrived in the Adjutor Insula, acting as peacekeepers and promoting an end to the war. Most are armed. Discussion with both warring governments is yet to occur.

Shulhu, Hanartha

Shulhu was not a particularly large town, and in most cases it wasn't of any more importance than any other town. However, at the moment its value was multiplied thanks to the presence of a single man: Alkisir Rha, the Warden of the East. The Warden of the East was the military commander in charge of the entire Eastern peninsula of Hanartha, a position of enormous power and responsibility. The West had a mirroring title, but it hadn't been filled in centuries due to a lack of need. The East, however, was a different situation. It wasn't an especially violent or unsafe area, but the Finger, referring to the portion of Hanartha surrounded by Marmon, had an exceptionally high number of bandits and thieves prowling the countryside. They were mostly those from Marmon who decided to leave that land for one reason or another and pray upon the Hanarth. And the Warden would not have any of that.

Which was why he was currently in the Court of Shulhu, watching as a group of a dozen or so humans stood before Shulhu's Judge. The men were a ragged and dirty lot, chained together by the hands, feet, and necks. They were all bandits that had been preying on the nearby area, and that Alkisir had lead a detachment of men out to catch. The fight had been short, with casualties on both dies. But the bandits in the end suffered the worst of it; the dozen men here were only half of those Alkisir's men had engaged. The Judge himself was a hanarth dressed in a plain black robe, looking at the men from above on the Judicial Throne. Behind him was a wall of black stone completely covered in black engravings. And in the corner stood Alkisir himself, a tall hanarth with dark brown hair and piercing grey eyes, as well as a face that was bisected diagonally by a long, jagged scar. He hadn't had time to change out of his armour, so he was still dressed in his bloodstained armour; steel lamellar over chainmail, with a dark green cloak fastened to his armour with a golden clasp.

The Judge sighed as he looked down at the assembled men, some of whom looked scared and some of whom looked furious. "You claim that our soldiers simply attacked you for no reason?" he said in the language of Marmon. Most judges in the Finger knew it, since it was much easier to deal with criminals when you could speak to them directly.

"Yeah!" one shouted, "We was just minding our own business when they attacked us!"

"A group of twenty-odd armed men, with no banners or identification," the Judge clarified.

"It don't give him no right to-" another began before being interrupted.

"Close your lips, your lies defile this place of justice," Alkisir shouted, before turning to the Judge, "Me and my men gave a fair warning of who we were, and these brigands attacked us first. We gave them a chance to surrender."

"Yeah, and be carted here and have some point-eared bastard have our heads chopped off?" one of the men shouted angrily.

"So he did give you a warning?" the Judge said.

"Uh, what?"

"You just gave a reason for ignoring his warning, but earlier you claimed they attacked you without warning."

"I, uh..." the man stammered, while the rest of the men glared at him angrily, "You see, we, uh..."

"I see perfectly clearly," the Judge said, shrugging, "You are bandits and brigands who fail to understand that, in Hanartha at least, laws actually mean something."

The men started to raise a cry in outrage, before the Judge stood up and shouted, "Silence! This trial is over. I hereby find you all guilt of banditry, brigandry, thievery, and murder. As your punishment, tomorrow morn the headsman's axe shall kiss your necks."

The men raised up another cry, but this time several guards entered the room and escorted them away. There were a few times that the prisoners lashed out, but the guards replied in kind with their fists shod in steel and iron. And it wasn't long before the prisoners were all gone, to await their fate in the morning. Then the Judge looked over at Alkisir and smiled, "I have to thank you for coming personally; it is an honour to have the Warden of the East in our town."

"No problem at all," Alkisir replied with a shrug, "My job is to protect the East, and protect it I shall. Until the last wisps of breath leave my mouth and the last drops of blood leave my veins."

"You still could have sent a group of men to catch those brigands, though," the Judge said back, "There was no need to come personally."

Alkisir shrugged once again, "If I always sat comfortable in my fort, I would not be deserving of the title of Warden."

The pair's conversation wasn't over, but it was interrupted by the entrance of another man. Unlike the pair in the Court, he was human, but he was dressed as a hanarth and when he spoke he spoke in the tongue of the hanarth. After all, not all natives of Hanartha were elves.

"My Lord Warden, I bring a message from Nosha," he said, panting and out of breath.

Alkisir looked over at the Judge and nodded respectfully, "I apologize, but I must cut this conversation short."

The Judge nodded respectfully as Alkisir turned to the messenger, putting his arm around his shoulder as he spoke. "Come, walk with me," he said, "What sort of news is it."

The messenger took a few more moments catching his breath, and by the time he began relaying the message they were already outside the Court, and making their way along the dirt roads of Shulhu. "It is not urgent, but your Lieutenant wanted to get the news to you as quickly as possible," he said, "Marmon is on the move."

At that Alkisir stopped outright, giving the messenger a strange look, "On the move? How do you mean?"

"We have reports that they have begun a campaign of expansion westwards, into the free villages between them and Manas," the man elaborated, "And not peacefully either."

"But how could the King of Marmon raise up an army to conquer them?" Alkisir wondered out loud, "From what I have heard he cannot even raise up enough men to protect his palace from looters and thieves."

"Well, we don't have anything concrete. But your Lieutenant at least believes that the army was most likely mercenaries and thugs," the messenger replied.

At that Alkisir narrowed his eyes and began walking again, "Of course. I wouldn't be surprised if the King wasn't even aware of what was happening." Alkisir considered them to be something of his personal rivals, viewing their existence as the reason for the rampant crime in Marmon and thus the bandits and brigands that plagued the Finger. And he would like nothing better than to see their heads roll across the ground.

"This is a disconcerting development, and you were right in bringing me the news as quickly as you did," Alkisir said, "Now go get some rest and a good meal. You deserve it."

The man nodded his head in agreement and walked away, leaving Alkisir to ponder what was happening as he walked. This wasn't good, since it meant he'd need to cover more ground with his men. With the small independents coming under the 'rule' of Marmon there was the chance that they'd begin to prove as much of an issue in terms of bandits and brigands as Marmon proper. Then again, the independents did have some functioning rule of law and that could keep them in check for a time. But that was still a risk. He didn't like this situation one bit; while they seemed to only be threatening independents for now it was probably only a matter of time until they wanted to come after Hanartha or Manas. He need to get back to Nosha, the city that served as his 'base of operations' of sorts in the Finger, and find out if there was any more information available. And then he needed to write a letter to the Grand Prince; Alkisir was certain his Lieutenant had already sent one but he wanted to send a letter with his own suggestions. An alliance with Manas, or perhaps Frisstreek, seemed necessary to the Warden and he would say as much to Grand Prince Napizzi. But in the mean time, he needed to prepare for a possible expansion of the threat to the Finger, and possibly the entire southern border of Eastern Hanartha.

-Sarahn Empire-

-City of Atrius, one year ago-

It was dusk and rainy that night when the Dark hooded riders moved down the main road on ebony horses. Loud horns sounded their arrival, foreign horns announcing an envoy from another land. They were escorted by Imperial cavalry but these other nationals were allowed to announce themselves. They were greeted by the people of the city, with a degree of contempt from the general populace. No one was a fan of foreigners from nations so far off but this event was far beyond what the citizens thought it to be, beyond their wildest dreams. As the men dismounted, wind tugged at their outfits and stirred the fires that illuminated the walkways. These men began their ascent up the long stair case that leads to the capitol complex itself. Soldiers wearing ornate armor and ceremonial weapons lined the steps watching these visitors every move. Citizens stood below, watching this event take place, unknowing of their mission.

Titus himself had arrived at the complex gates to greet the newcomers. He forced them to stand on the landing outside the capitol buildings massive doors. Titus didn't show any emotion when these men dropped their hoods. They didn't bow or acknowledge they were speaking to a leader, something Titus was not fond of. The lead one smiled, his grin was dark, illuminated solely by the few yellow teeth he still possessed. "On behalf of the scorched king, you are required to-" Titus rose his hand, cutting the man off. Titus spoke with a thunderous, commanding voice. "Who is this scorched king, who is he to require anything.". The scorched kings envoy smiled again, "Do not mistake the scorched kings requirement as something you can dismiss. I have come to call on your people in an upcoming campaign."

Some of the Imperial guards were coughing at this point, doing their best to be respectful of the Emperor but their giggles were showing through. Titus himself gave a puzzled look and started to smile himself. This smile led to laughter from all sides. The lead one spoke, enraged by the laughter, "You think this a joke?! Do NOT test me!" The man was huffing at this point, red in the face with anger. He began to open his mouth to yell again when Titus drew his sword. The mans escorts drew their swords. Titus didn't have to say a word before the guards drew their weapons as well. Titus walked towards the man with his sword pointed directly at him. He spoke with a thunderous tone, "Listen here, little man. I do not know who you think you are but you have no authority here, nor does your pathetic king." And with a smile, he thrust his sword right in to the mans mouth. His blade pushing through the back of the mans head. The other foreigners stared in shock at the sudden shift to hostilities. It was somewhat obvious what things were leading to this but, it happened so fast. "The rest of you." Titus said as he slowly drew his sword from the now dead mans mouth. "What is your afterlife like?"

One of the Imperial guard began laughing as he looked down to see a stream of urine running down one of the foreigners pant legs. Fear was ripe with these men now, for good reason. Titus sheathed his sword. "Men, show them the fastest way out.." He turned around and took a few steps before stopping, "to their afterlife." and then continued walking. All he could hear is the muffled screams an unique sound of bodies hitting cold stone floors.

This was... an informal declaration of war.

-Eastern frontier, seven months ago-

Soldiers fists rose in to the air and armored boots stomped the cold, dry ground. Their breath was visible as they cheered "General! General! General!" Beyond the cheers lay a field of battle, littered with the dead. Goblins and men alike moved through the field, looking for imperial survivors and making sure that the enemy forces were dead. The General moved through his ranks, shaking hands and patting people on the back, most of which were bloodied and bandaged with some still carrying injuries from prior battles.

The General stood at the top of the hill where the artillery spotters coordinated from. He could pretty far in all directions from here, eyeing the retreating enemies from the battle. "All this bloodshed for a land bridge and some mountains." He said softly. His second in command spoke up, "All this bloodshed for the empire, sir. These mountains make for a good barrier for the empire and this basin below would be a excellent new province."

"A new province indeed, what do you think they'll name it?" the general asked.
"Maybe they will name it after you?" his second replied.

The two shared a laugh and continued their over-watch before marching could be heard behind them. "Sir! is that another full strength army?!" The general looked in awe, "That's incredible, does the emperor want this basin that bad? to send two armies to take it?" Before they could continue their conversation a rider came through the woods behind them. The General wiped his hands that were stained with dirt and blood. "Rider, what news from the empire?" The general shouted. The rider stopped at the two before the man dismounted. "The fifth army is here to relieve yours. The Emperor has recalled your army, appears your deeds have not gone unnoticed." The generals second in command clasped his hands, "Finally a break from this damned winter." It wasn't right to the general though, something just didn't seem right, to recall an entire army right in the middle of a campaign.

Months later, the army had finally marched home to the applause of a proud nation. Red flower petals rained down on the troops and children ran to the soldiers with flowers. Titus met the army at the head of the city, near the barracks itself. Titus began to embrace the general and upon release, bowed to the army. "My emperor, 3rd army has arrived as you commanded." Titus gave a warm smile. "Tell your men they have a three month leave. There is a new campaign in the works and I require my best general to do this." Titus motioned for the general to follow him and as the two walked, the emperor spoke to his as if they were just friends. "So... Atriaus, how is the life of a general treating you?"

The two walked off, continuing their small talk until entering the capitol building. The third army had dispersed and began their three month leave. Short as it may be, any time away from the front is always a blessing.

-City of Atrius, present day.-

A guard, clad in blue, walked down the spiraling staircase in the prison section of the barracks. It was cold, wet.. dark.. only countered by the flickering light from a small hand held torch. These stairs stretched pretty far into the ground until the guard finally reached a well lit room at the base. In the room were three guards, all tasked with keeping the prison maintained.

"Is someone rotating out so soon?" one of the guards asked. Another with a raspy voice answered, "No, he is here for Quintus." That first guard just leaned back against a wall and sighed. The three guards stepped aside for the arriving guard, opening the doors for him. Inside those doors was a secondary processing room which had yet another guard, holding Quintus by a rope around his wrists. "Well, here you go.. again." The arriving guard just smiled, "Yeah.. this is the what, fifth time this month?"

Quintus made no surprising moves or said anything as the guards watched him leave the prison. After the long walk up the stairs and exiting in to the sunlight, th guard released his wrist binding and motioned towards the distant capitol building where Titus himself was waiting. Quintus walked slowly, his head low and muttering to himself, reflecting on certain prisoners that had been nothing short of assholes to him. Citizens would scoff at him when walking by while some of the younger ladies stared in awe.

When he arrived at the steps, Quintus bowed before the Emperor who then motioned him into the building. Thin but tall windows let plenty of light in to the potted plants and vines that ran down large white marble pillars. Titus cleared his throat then began to speak "So.. Quintus.. First an army officer, then a gladiator and finally a mercenary? where will your life go next Quintus..". Quitus spoke in a low tone, almost under his breath, "I am not sure."

"Well, Quintus, if you continue this path, you're going to end up in a prison for life or worse.. Is that what you want?" Titus asked.

Quintus rolled his eyes and released a very obvious sigh. "Please do not tell me you brought me here for a lecture."

Titus had a slight smile as he looked around the mighty halls. "Do you remember running through these halls when you were but a child? All those dreams you had... 'Father! look at me! I'm a famous hero!'.." He said.

"Well, Emperor, things change." Quintus replied.

Titus sighed this time. "Look, you were my son before I took the throne, and you still are."

Quintus pinched the bridge of his nose before lowering his hands. "I.. Look, when you were a senator, things were easy! once you took that position people started expecting things from me." He said. His voice started to shake a bit, "Didn't you consider that?"

Titus stopped walking, and began looking around to see if anyone was watching. "Listen, you've reached a point where people only expect you to be a man. You do not have to take my place on the throne, it is either who I select to be my successor or who the senate elects. you know this." he said. It was easy for people to forget these things though as the son of a king is always known as a prince. Titus knew this as well but has always tried to push Quintus from that mindset.

The two continued walking through the halls before arriving at a large room. In it was a large desk and numerous other pieces of furniture, all of which looked very expensive. Titus motioned to a chair, "Take a seat Quintus." He obliged and sat down. "Now, Quintus, I have something you can do for me." Quintus looked at his father then down at a paper that Titus was slowly sliding across the table. "You've always enjoyed travelling beyond the borders and this is a good chance to go out and maybe make a better name for yourself?"

Inside was a message from the Manram, an invitation to a week of festivities. "See? nothing you can't handle." Quintus eyed the paper. "But, wouldn't it be more prudent for you to go?" Quintus asked. "No" Titus replied. "There's far too much to do here. I have a capable son that can take care of this.. do I not?" Quintus wasn't sure how to react at this point, what emotion to show? He loved his father and his country but just wasn't sure what to do in life. He had done the military life.. became that hero in his childhood fantasies. Killed in the name of coin.. but nothing really called him.. Maybe this would be a good chance to try something new. His father obviously had faith so Quintus took a deep breath. "All right father, I'll do this. When do I leave."

Titus sighed in relief. "Immediately."

Bapentui City

Affurendi moved through the room like a ghost. Even the hard knocking of his hooves muffled as he drifted by lantern light between shelves and drawers and coat pegs. Outside the distant sounds of music wafted in the cool evening air, blowing in through the tall open windows on the coming night breeze. Night time would not be the best to move out in. But when often times the word of the court moved faster than the wind, being inconspicuous was often the best choice.

The roads would be lonely, and the satyr behind their own doors. No one would notice.

The old Overroomi through open the palm-bark doors of his dresser. Few clothes inhabited the confines. Inside only court clothes hung. But tucked in the corner the heavy and dark waves of a sagging traveling robe hung. He pulled it out without ceremony, closing the doors behind him as he threw down his traveling sack.

Holding the coat up to the dim light he looked over it. It had been years since he donned the overlapping dark cloth of his people. Clouds of dust still clung to the threads as well, ground deep into its fibers. Red, orange, gray, and light browns. All rubbed so deep, whether by wind or fight. Despite the years, it still smelled the same. That strong dry, musty smell of sweat, blood, and mud.

Waves of nostalgia washed at his feet as he held it up. He'd be on the road again soon, if not in the respects of free wandering. But he'd be out on it again. He wondered if he still remembered how. What all the tricks were. Where all the shelters were.

The clasp of knuckles on wood sent out the tide, and he quickly came back to the firm dry ground of reality. Lowering the robes Affurendi looked up, turning to the door. “Come in.” he invited. Folding the heavy wool and cotton up in his arms and throwing it aside for now.

The door creaked open on its brass hinges. The wood beat heavily as in walked Affurendi's guest. A skinny familiar satyr. Tall with a bowed back. “Affurendi, I thought I'd find you here.” he smiled. His lips were large, and flush. They seemed only bigger and meatier as they stretched his face. His eyes lit with a light of their own by his own happiness.

“Burundi.” Affurendi greeted, “I wasn't expecting you.” the elder commented.

“Well I wasn't expecting to have to look for you.” the other said smiling. He rose on his hooves, touching the tips of his long fingers, “I figured you'd be ready to eat, and you'd be at your counter. No one else has seen you all day, or not since this afternoon.”

“I already ate.” Affurendi said plainly.

“Oh, that's good to know then. And it would explain!” Burundi laughed nervously, “But, is something going on? Why are you pulling out your old coat?”

“I was asked to do something” the old satyr said, unfolding the robe in his arms, “I'll be leaving. I don't know for how long.”

“Leaving, to where?” Burundi said aghast, walking across the room. His hooves beat heavily off the wooden boards as he drew near. He was a bald man, and his crown shown with the brilliant gold of the lamp-light.

“Important.” Affurendi said, “What have you heard about Rwan?”

“Rwan?” Burundi said with wide eyes, “I've heard rumors. Is it true he's missing?”

“I'm going to look for information on that, confirm it.” confirmed the Overroomi as he opened the robe again in his arms, “I'm heading out into the kingdom's interior to ask around. Get some leads and pursue them.”

“Can I help?” asked the courtier excitedly. He was one of the few Affurendi helped raised. Burundi, a bastard by birth never had a father until he came. There was an almost unsettling appreciation Burundi had in Affurendi, like a last effort to make a father out of someone he was not. But it was appreciated by the traveler. And he after all did not know fully how many sons or daughters he himself had sired, and failed to raise.

The Overroomi considered, standing quiet. “I suppose you could.” he said, reaching down to pull off his court dress. Stripping naked before his old student he continued, “I could use some eyes and ears in the Bugan. I can't be in two places at once, given where I'll be headed.

“Kabaka Yesobi would like to know everything you hear about Rwan. But do not let the Bugan know that.”

“This sounds deeper than I thought.” he commented with a trembling tongue, “Is this involving Mami?”

“It could.” Affurendi confirmed, “Try to get their trust, or anything you can derive their intentions. Or Mami's intentions in being involved with Rwan's disappearance. If you get anything, bring it to the Seusebi and the Kabaka. But give it to Ashra first. I don't want to retest the legendary wroth of Yesobi, even if he has mellowed in the years.”

“I see. And where will you look?” he asked.

“I can't tell you, that'll be betraying too much.” scolded Affurendi, “Remember what I taught you about getting information. You never reveal your intentions. You are not who you were before.

“If you can confirm something is afoot, confirm yourself in their ranks and infiltrate. But always keep yourself a secret. I can not stress this. If it is a collective mission, then I fear they'd want you dead.”

“I understand.” Burundi said, “It can't be much harder than when I helped Mufrundi find her lost necklace.

“But I don't think the reward will be as fun.” he laughed nervously, “But I'm involved now. I- I guess I have no choice.

“Now that I told you: no. You're committed.”

Savanna

Under an open night sky a small fire burned in the bush below. Resting below a acacia tree. The chirping and buzz of the cool night life sang around the camp as the warriors nestled below the tree sat in wait for day. Overhead stars glistened in the purity of the night sky. Unadulterated by clouds, the million lights of night could keep watch on their children below.

Isolated from the fire Niyo sat alone, set on a rock at the edge of the fire light he slumped against his spear; a new one given to him before they left camp. He watched the lights, the eyes of the gods, wondering just went wrong. Wonder how he could let go of his brother. And how he could be blind to his obvious distress. But could it have really been safer if he brought him into the thick? Could he have spared the time to find a different tribe present?

Or were they all enemies now?

Behind him his entourage talked softly. Laughing among themselves, not wholly committed in the same way as Niyo. True, they would go to save his brother. But by their laughter and jokes they did not feel nearly as invested as the prince himself. They were along as company, and of support. Niyo didn't know how easily it would be for them to falter and head home if their demands permitted it.

The idea of being so easily abandoned by them troubled the prince as much as the thought of Rwan being harmed anymore than he was. So he secluded himself.

It had been a hard day of tracking. A longer week of that. In the grass it was easy to loose their tracks. It was hard to tell how far ahead they were, and so how readily truthful the way the stalks were bent. Thick mats of yesteryear's grass littered the ground between the stalks, a thick mat of yellow and brown. If they gave way to hooves it couldn't be seen.

But for as great as the task felt, it was possible. They found the trail and stuck to it, as hard as it was. Where there was mud they stopped, inspected the trail. The depression of hoof prints, how far apart they were, and in one direction. Feeling and seeing their depth helped figure who was in the party. All evidence suggested Mami was still on the run with his guard.

How fast could they move? How fast could Mami run? Such a fat bastard suggested not well. But it had been a week without meeting them. Or seeing them on the horizon. But they had a twelve hour start.

There was no blood in the grass as well. Which lead Niyo to believe they had tended Rwan's wounds well. That he had stopped bleeding. But how was he traveling?

Twigs snapped behind him, and Niyo looked over. Idii stepped alongside the prince, he lowered himself alongside him. Sitting on his haunches in the sandy grass alongside the rock Niyo leaned atop of.

“You don't come and sit with us.” Idii said plainly. Looking up at the prince. A look of concern deep behind his face.

“I want time to think.” Niyo said.

“That's all well and good.” Idii said, “But I have learned even the most troubled soldier needs to be one with his comrades.”

“That may be true,” Niyo said, “But I don't feel ready.”

“I can tell this wears on you heavily.” Idii sighed.

“It does.”

Idii nodded, tracing his knuckles through the sand where he sat. “I lost a brother too, once.” he said, “He was out by the river, looking to spear fish. A lion took him.”

“You sound at peace with it.”

Idii laughed, “Well, it was years ago.” he chuckled, “I moved on. But the important thing is I believe I've moved past it. I'm sure my brother would have wanted the same.

“Would Rwan want you to be so isolated?”

“He already knew I isolated myself from some well enough.” he said, “I'm not my younger brother Agoa. So I don't think he would think anything less of me.”

“Well, in that case what would the men think?” Idii asked, “They will follow you far. But they do need a leader to be present with them. And not away from them. A chief doesn't sit himself away in his hut, closed off from the world and all but himself and his closest.

“He is not a leader. He is a coward. Not afraid of his enemies, but of his allies. They will go far, but only so far if they are not confident.”

“How far is far?” Niyo asked, “I am ready to go to the edges of the world to recover my brother. Will they follow?”

“If you be with them, and make them feel it is their mission too. And they are not but accessories.” Idii spoke, low and soft. Like a sage. “We trained together, I will go as far as you will. But I can not speak for the others.”

“I'll think about it.” Niyo replied, “I want to meditate on this more.”

“As you will.” Idii sighed, standing up, “But do not seek solitude for long.”

The Royal Palace of Elamin-i-Farshiv

The Royal Gardens were filled with people. The cream of the Shahdom's nobility had been invited to Shah's Danush 69th birthday party, and the elderly ruler had spared no expense for this party. Food and drinks from every corner of the nation and beyond along with the best musicians, dancers, acrobats and other entertainers had been bought to the Royal Palace to attend to the guests. The Shah was of course at the center of everything, never straying too far from the massive golden throne erected in the center of the gardens and followed closely by five bodyguards covered from head to toe in lamellar armor worn over a chain mail.

Farther from the center of the party stood Farroukhan Bavandid, the Shah's Chief Minister and closest friend had disentangled himself from the throng of nobles and courtesans seeking his favor for a mission of utmost important, at least in his opinion. For Vidarna Jaisalghamid, the young son of Noor Lakshmid, the Shah's daughter and regent of Cheromassia, had arrived in the capital without the company of his mother. For Farroukhan this was a golden opportunity to talk to the boy alone, far from the influence of his mother and access the personality of the future Satrap of Cheromassia. Hopefully the boy would prove to be an ally to the Prosperity Faction in their political struggle against the Expansionists, though considering the opinions of his mother that was more likely wishful thinking.

Vidarna was accompanied by two bodyguards while he spoke with a couple of members of the Mazdakaite Church in a isolated corner of the gardens. The two bodyguards were tall and broad shouldered, wearing scale cuirass along with shoulder and leg guards over chain mail and plumed helmets that also covered their faces, their hands never straying too far from their belts. The future Satrap wore a gilded red tunic and pants decorated with geometric patterns. The priests as usual wore red jackets over long yellow and white robes, the woman wore a golden sun-shaped tiaras while the man wore silver moon-shaped crowns.

Farroukhan approached the group casually, calmly drinking from his wine goblet. One of the bodyguards was the first to see him, the soldier promptly placed himself between him and Vidarna, as if the old Chief Minister could actually be any threat to the young Satrap-to-be. Vidarna soon noticed the impasse and dismissed the bodyguard with a short command in the Sakae idiom.

"Farroukhan Keyghobazadeh Bavandid. It's a honor to finally meet such esteemed statesman face to face." He said while enacting a short bow.

"There's no need for such formality." Farroukhan replied amicably while extending his hand. "We're all equal here." Vidarna extended his own and they shook hands

"You arrived just in time for a very interesting discussion then. I had just started to talk with these Mobads about the religious practices of the Sakae tribes of Cheromassia." The young man spoke to Farroukhan

"Nothing more than heresies my Lord, I assure you." A elderly mobedyar (female priest), interjected." Their worship of spirits and use of unlawful herbs is a grave heresy against the Divine Couple."

"Their heretical customs are the cause of their backwardness." The male Mobad, with a braided beard, added. Farroukhan simply nodded, he had no interest in getting into a religious debate right now. He needed to talk to Vidarna, preferably alone.

"Now that's where you are mistaken Khosraw." Vidarna replied, visibly excited. "You all here in Dakistan have gotten a wrong image about the Sakae, they are not mindless and filthy savages. And I can speak with the knowledge of someone who knows their customs and ways from personal experience. They're excellent craftsmen, warriors and herders, their culture is surprisingly fascinating once you manage to understand it. If you want proof just look at my two bodyguards." Vidarna continued, pointing to the two armored men." Their armors and weapons were made by Sakae artificers. My mother herself sought that blacksmith in particular for he's known as the best metalworker in the entire Satrapy. I can confidently say that their culture can be just as great as our own."

"You dare to compare us to those nomads? You say that they are advanced, but what temples have they built to honor Nooran and Boran? What epics have they written that are known across the land? What great poets have come from that arid lands that have captivated the crowds? You speak of their weapons, but any barbarian can create good weapons. A real culture is more than blades and pots. The Sakae that you seen so enamored to don't even have a written language" The mobedyar replied in an admonishing tone.

"But Mehraz." Vidarna started to retort."They have a written language, and though its quite rudimentary when compared to our own, I'm accompanying the work of a group of learned men and women from several different tribes that are working to standardize and expand their alphabet, my mother has gone as far as to give them an official stipend to incentive their efforts." With that he paused for breath."Furthermore, you speak about their lack of poets and epics when you haven't even bothered to look for them, they're simply unknown here because the Sakae tribes do not come this far south. And to adress your other point, what use do the Sakae have for opulent temples? They live in the steppe, following their herds. For them mobility is more important than opulence and a tent that can be dismounted in a hour is much more useful than a colossal stone temple. It's just a question of different priorities."

Farroukhan was starting to get frustrated, this discussion would get nowhere and he wanted to have a talk with the boy before the Shah or one of the many boot-licking nobles came looking for him. Yet, he had lost the chance to catch Vidarna's attention. Now there was no point in waiting around and being ignored while the trio discussed the finer points of religion and culture . The Chief Minister decided to keep roaming around the party waiting for a chance to talk with the young Satrap.

30 Minutes later

Half hour had passed and Farroukhan had lost sight of the Satrap and his two bodyguards. The conversation between Vidarna and the Mobads had lasted only 10 minutes but before the Chief Minister could use the chance to finally get to talk with Vidarna, a flustered servant had approached him to complain about several young couples fooling around in the more isolated areas of the Royal Gardens. As if a man such as Farroukhan had the luxury of bothering with such minor issues, this was the task of minor palace officials. Not the bloody Chief Minister, and he told the servant that much.

Unfortunately, that short interruption was enough for him to lose sight of the boy. After 20 more minutes of searching Farroukhan decided to give up. After all, why was he so interested in talking to the boy anyway? It's not like he was ever going to turn Vidarna into a political ally with just one short conversation. His mother was Noor Lakshmid for crying out loud. What was he thinking? The Shah's daughter still resented him for his role in arranging her marriage. No doubt she had already poisoned her son's mind against Farroukhan and his grandfather. Plus, it was no secret that Noor was unashamedly supportive of the Expansionists and no doubt her boy shared the same ideas. In hindsight the whole plan was a wine-fueled mess. Not that he would give up on the boy, 17 year-olds were usually fickle with their ideals. He just had to gradually talk to the boy and lower his expectations, maybe get one of his other allies to do the talking if Vidarna proved to be hostile to him. Though admittedly, fighting the mother's influence would be an uphill battle. But the prospect of having one more Satrap on his side working against the Expansionists was too good to pass up.

Unfortunately, the Chief Minister's musings were cut off when the two large Sakae bodyguards emerged from a nearby path leading to further into the gardens. One of them carried the bodies of two men dressed completely in black while the other bloodied form of Satrap Vidarna, his once dusky skin now pale and chest completely covered by blood from a deep cut into his neck.

Realm of Manram - Albrius Tempis – Ghal Fuqal

---

Through the distance of seventy thousand Ghali’s, (measurement standard, one Ghali is 0.5 meters.) through both heaven and earth, thunder and rain, even the fiery rage of your ancestors. Apparently something was wrong and there was only one who was more certain of this than the Gu’Shedal himself. Dos. A legend amongst the legends, the name Dos, is no individual, but more an avatar of knowledge manifest. Dos has existed through this for hundreds of years, he is more a symbol than an identity. But rather than a figure of peace and prosperity he is more a manifestation of anger, in such senses. Corrupted by the vice of man, he, Dos, avatar of knowledge, does more battle than the common preacher would.

The march from Divini Templui, the stronghold monastery of the Order of Truth, to Ghal Fugal had been long and tedious, had taken a week at least, and Dos, together with his brothers in arms, had stopped by cities only to help the occasional peasant. However, Dos was no entity of emotion, he was known as the Judge of Sulfai for reasons obvious to the beholder. Dos had a very long legacy of execution in his area of operations, and his coming task would no doubt prove him satisfactory.

After all, there was no such thing that Dos disliked more than the common heretical filth, dirtying truth by their filthy standards. At his back, almost the entirety of his Order, the seekers of truth, and 10 of his most trusted Champions of Truth. The march of armored giants seemed almost too surreal to witness, and it would be, 7’ monstrosities clad in the anatomy of man would truly be a sight to behold, but not only that, but they wear the cloth of giants, iron and the occasional steel, these men were, simply by looking at them, not of low standard. Each and every one of them dragged with them a large shield following the standard tower format, each customized following their given Champions own insignia.

‘’For he carries the will of Old!’’

The sudden burst coming from the titans marching at the head of a legend was unexpected, however in unison, no disorder, no unwanted words, only that which was necessary. Unknown to those whom haven’t read the Asparagus Codex, this was, indeed, a holy line from the most final pages of the Testament of Sulfai, forger of the Order of Truth.

‘’On the shoulders of Titans...!’’

The banners of their Ordos were now being pointed towards the heavens, and the rain was slowly picking up in its strength. The downpour was truly astounding. The occasional thunder crackling in the distant horizon just above the ocean, the ocean which they sought after. Dos remained silent, towering over the titans, his presence was not only physically greater than his peers, but also his mental presence was miles above the rest. His silence was groundbreaking, and his silent march with shield and hammer in hand would be nerve breaking to the opposition it they would see this sight.

‘’So that He may rest!’’

Their united march, unison in even the slightest detail of their stepping rhythm. Suddenly, as the distant hills weren’t distant any longer, the water would come into sight, and further down their current path lied a city, one which held a massive harbor, but a not so massive urban area. In its harbors lied an armada of ships, all manned to the brim by workers and engineers. But also loaders and merchants. For these were no normal battleships of the Manram’s Holy Oceanic Triad, no, it was a normal trade fleet, loaded to the brim with goods from all around the world. Whilst Ghal Fugal was no large urban city, it was, however, a trade center for the region.

Suddenly Dos chained his hammer to his waist, as well as his Fuqdil Suprima. Seemingly from behind his shield he brought forth a book, ancient in texture, rounded and reinforced by steel and iron. This was the Steel Biblicon. Suddenly Dos’ voice flourished above all others, roaring without roaring, echoing the valleys.

‘’He whom holdeth the Trident, the Book, The Shield, and finally, the Eye, shall see abolition left and right!’’

Suddenly the marching came into a more united pace, each step shaking the earth under all of their heavy soles, the banner bearers pointed united to the heavens and all together roared. ‘’Ave loq’pol, Ave!’’ The fire of their torches in the darkness of the rainy night seemed not to die, therefore their wills were also unchanged, flame. Flame was the center piece of Order of Truth belief and ceremonial practice. The Everburn standing central in their will as an order of Manram, the holy land.

‘’But, let not yourself believe unjust! There willeth also be thee whom seek darkness, and if he caught glance of thine Hammer, thine armour, and thine shield, then knoweth that all hope willeth be lost to time!’’

Soon the border of the city was within their grasps, and their wait would begin. For soon it was time for the reclamation. ‘’Ave, Dos, Ave!’’

---

Realm of Manram, Capital District

---

''Whilst that is all good and fine, I am still very hesitant of this, mi'lord...'' Imperia stood at the entrance of the personal chamber of his royal lord of Manram, the Gu'Shedal. Whatever business he had in there was of no importance, fore at the mention of Imperia's voice had brought out the Lion from his den. ''Imperia, you are simply such a bother at times...'' Mundir reached for his personal mantle from the hands of Imperia, and at the first sight of the act, Imperia quickly knelt down and reached out her hands for Mundir so that he could grab it with greater ease. ''Now, I am well aware that you have fought well and hard in order to gain this position, and I have no intention of throwing the title of First Lady from your hands-'' As Mundir seemed to finish, Imperia unknowingly cut him off. ''Then, mi'lord, why will you allow-?!''

''It's not a matter of allowing! It's a matter of convenience. Within short time I will enact the Galiac, [A military reformation act] and every order will be forced to accept.'' The Lord and his personal guardian, the first lady, walked through the halls of the Gu'Shedal's personal palace. ''If that was all, mi'lord, then I would have nothing against it, but why do you plan to place HER in a commandeering position within the reformed Order?!'' Imperia, unlike her usual self, came to envoke serious emotional gestures upon her face. ''Calmness, Imperia, whilst the Orders have served the Manram realm well until now, the time of legends have finally come upon us. As stated in the Breiux Testament, when all golden and platinum artefacts are gathered upon the molten pedastal of Gaius, the time for the Impiux Reform is nigh.''

''Mi'lord, if anyone, I should be aware of that statement, but I still see no connection between the fifth line of the Breiux Testament, and HER reinstalment into the reformation!'' Imperia and Mundir came upon a turn, this turn lead out into the central courtyard of the Palace, a place of fine and beautiful park, all within the confines of the marble walls of the palace. Redsurc trees and their wonderous red leaves bloomed wildly, and the hopping fish of the ponds did their best jumping from pond to pond, not ever missing their target. ''Just like the beauty of the world, there are places for certain things, and there are places where certain things are prohibited, whilst the current world may dispies Almeria, the new world will not, for new beginnings always start of with trial, the initial months of the reformation will be the worst of our nation, but what comes after will carry with it golden rain.''

''Imperia, you don't need to know why, but rather, you need to realize that it is because I will it so.''

''Yes, mi'lord...''

'Now, shall we continue our walk? I would quite enjoy some sustenance as of right now. After that maybe we can also have a spar, how does that sound to you?'' The serious attitude of Mundir was slowly fading, he had his swings, and whilst he was naturally cold and calculating, he had learned to hide it under a mask of friendliness and kindness. Mundir quickly smiled and turned to Imperia, hopefully awaiting a simple 'yes'. ''Yes, Mi'lord, that sounds joyful.'' Imperia almost forcefully crafted herself a smile on her lips, but it was obvious to it's forced nature.

''Let's.''