Two Years Ago

Darkness swirled in the Ruins of Aelp, the lonely throne with the mad man sitting on high with the beaten and battered former member of the Apotheoses Council at his feet. The eerie silence, devoid of even the tiniest of sounds, was all that remained. Even the obvious gurgled blood of the Elf before the Leader of the Apotheoses was silenced.

“Everyone I ever trust betrays me, no matter how big or small. I put my trust in my parents, and they shun me for not believing in Michael. I put my trust in the Ringmaster, and he fails to produce on his trick and he dies. And now, I assemble this esteemed group of likeminded individuals, and one betrays me. One prays to their God, even though our crusade against them is in full swing.”

Words spoken broke the silence, and the soft patter of blood staining old stones untold millennia old. To the left, a soft cackle joined the growing course of returning sound. Parted thunderclouds revealing the faintest glimpse of moonlight reflecting off the bright black edge of a immaculate axe being swung in a descending arc at the merest gesture from the shadow hidden Leader. So swift and strong the swing, so sharp the blade, and vicious the intent that the stone beneath the neck of the man cracked with a thunderous report. The rest of the moonlight revealed the Executioner’s Axe being wielded by the Lordess of the Hook, Eclava Oussrett.

Another hand, older, reached down and gripped the long silver hair that slung to the now decapitated head of the Elf. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” The soft voice of the elder gentleman, “Sir, I told you over the last game, that you couldn’t trust this one.” The almost impenetrable darkness seemed to twitch. A movement. “Yes, Yes, you can say whatever you like - but, the fact remains… we need a new representative.”

“Always the practical thinker, aren’t you, Ivan? Perhaps the reason you have almost bested me in every game in which we’ve partook.” The voice commanded attention and respect, but even the lowest of the Apotheoses Lords could sense the madness. The half dragon-man, Jean, twitched a smile every time his Lord spoke, a far cry from the unceremonious weeping he used to do until his adoptive mothers, collectively known as Illyria, or rather one of them, sexually assaulted it out of him.

The thick sound of a blade scrapping across old rock and dislodging itself from its brief earthen sheathe disrupted the course of conversation, turning all attention to the woman who wielded the iconic weapon of her father. “I do believe I have a solution. My second in command, my liege. He fancies himself in love with me, and though he thinks it not, I can feel the tension between him and Saranix as they play a game of emotional chess for my heart.”

“And why would he be a good fit?”

A dark pink tongue slid between the dark lips of the Drow woman as she licked the fresh blood from the glistening edge of her blade. “For one, the Axe he carries is very special. It can only be wielded by the person who defeats him in battle, and with his martial skill and his innate ability to judge a battle from any point of view, and command a considerably large war without effort, I would say he’s the man for the job. Plus, he won’t mess this up, as he’ll see himself on par with me and well, he’d always want to please me.”

Two Weeks Ago - Rocoa

“Madam Eclava, the time has come to move the worrisome prisoner.” A sultry, silken voice said from the darkness. Eclava could see the figure standing before her as clear as day. The new third in her personal army, having been such since the traitorous Fananatu betrayed her and the Apotheoses for his own shot at glory.

“Sheu, yes, that Warlord’s time has come. Unfortunately, the Mighty One has decreed he survive, but with his loyal compatriot on the tear we can’t risk him finding out Warlord Worren is here.” Her voice rolled out of her mouth with an almost sickly displeasure. Eclava was nearly killed during the assault on the summit by the Tengu and Human pairing; Warlords from the far North, who worked well together.

Worren was a man of almost magical charismatic aura, often his very presence bolstering wavering troops to continue the fight. And the Tengu, whose name had been stricken from the records when his quest for vengeance began, was a master at transmutation, especially when it came to something as simple as paper. Both were wildly capable martial artists in their own right as well, and almost single-handedly, the winged Warlord was tearing a path of destruction throughout the Hook. It was definitely time to move Worren.

They had been in communication with Bastion about the construction of a specialized cell, and the transportation of Worren into it. That would relieve the pressure on the Hook and allow Eclava to continue to control the Hook. Should things have went wrong then Falden would have sent in Ivan, and that would have done nothing but cause a lot of issues for her future plans.

Present Day - Outskirts of Kyut Forest

Across the several mile long plain, the gigantic gorilla head that marked the location of the forest city of Kyut could be seen towards the center of the green expanse. The old codger, who was once the secret behind the first female Warlord’s success, stood at the edge of a small cave, which opened up into a small, underground city that was unmarked on any map. It was simple really, the town just didn’t exist. It was a fairly creative congregation of a roving band, known as the ‘Moving’, who offered support on dangerous missions. The old codger, turned and headed back into the cave, before being stopped by the Tengu they were sent to assist.

“You know, my friend, they will never let you past the first mile into the forest. That’s why they sent us.”

The bird man, twisted a piece of paper into the shape of a flightless bird and blew into it. The magical miasma well from his gut and gave life to the tiny creature, who immediately took off towards the forest and disappeared into the foliage. “Are they on their way?” He asked, an obvious twinge of disdain in his voice.

The man, the old man, had long since stopped worrying about such things as tactics; his love had been slain in Eclava’s barrage on the Summit. He had been passing on strategy to the woman as they made love, allowing her tyo take his place as a Warlord in the Summit. Many did not think the woman could handle such responsibility, but with him hidden from sight, she performed admirably. “Yes, they should be arriving with the end of the day, some may already be here.” The man lifted his hand and placed it on the armored shoulder of the Tengu, and patted softly. “Come, join me in drink - the day is drawing to it’s peak height, and the Kyut Forest Elves have some interesting insight on the arrangements that’ll be attempting to thwart our ploy.”

Both men turned and entered the cave, the darkness wrapping around them - as statuesque warriors lined the halls, prepared for any attempted strike against the Moving.

Moving Forward

\ Hmph, we haven’t had much contact with the Wolven creature that remained shackled for so long. I hope he has not forgotten the fact that is place is drawing near and that he is needed for our plan. \

/ I am not worried, you worrisome creature. With Michael as forlorn as he is, and the rest of the Gods and Goddesses attempting to draw him from his funk, we have adequate time to perfect the ritual. Besides, Lloth has been sneaking around attempting to gain knowledge on what we are attempting here, so it is for the best that he remains out of contact, so to speak./

\ The God of the Beastkin does not worry, you slimy lizard. If Alchviem is to be here at the right time, all pieces must be in their place. That is how a pride hunts, that is how the strong survive, by playing their roles. Surely, Wolvus would have realized that. \

/ Do not fret, Anomanderis, I am completely confident in the Wolven, the chains wove around him will be the perfect conduit; his release and Falden’s entry into the hallowed halls of our fair heaven. Besides, as it were, even my own preparations are not complete yet. The rituals needed for this far exceed what I am capable of without the prayers of my flock. Do not worry, I can do it, but it will continue to take me a while.\

The Moving. That's the name Ceinna heard attributed to the large camp that spotted and filled the forest. People milled, talked, laughed, cried. The sometimes seductively alluring woman took comfort in the tears she heard coming from other tents at night. She was not alone in her grief, or in her anger. Months ago she had traded some of the last bits of her silken, expensive, clothing in exchange for food, coin, and more appropriate clothing.

Time spent on the run had not been kind to her. She had considered, more than once, turning back on such an impetuous decision she had made. Joining a resistance? Who did she think she was, what did she think she was? Much of her was still the same, she knew in times of less despair, but contentment had been replaced with vengeance that would not let her whimper back to Rocoa.

The tent she had taken up residence in was not her own. Another woman, rough around the edges and clad in well worn commoner clothing, had offered to let her stay with her. "Pretty faces don't last long, not even with the good'uns." Ceinna hadn't even tried to protest, a dry place to sleep at night, even if it was still on the hard ground, was better than nothing. And her host was often gone during the day, returning late at night.

Ceinna had lost track of how many days she had been in the camp. Going home wasn't an option, but in the moments she was free from sorrow, she couldn't help but wonder what good she was doing following this herd of people. Was there a plan? Surely there must have been, but she hadn't a clue who to ask. She wandered during the day, between tents, listening for any information she could over hear. There had to be more to do than just be there. It was a feeling that welled inside of her, the ache to do something, anything. But without a guiding hand, she was left to vainly hoping that someone would give her purpose.

This is no Jungle.

His hand brushed the familiar roughness of a tree trunk and his bare feet trod upon the sodden detritus that littered such places, but it was not home. The trees did not huddle together so tightly, starving each other of light and stunting their growth in his homeland, they grew tall with fruit and life aplenty, they were a sight to behold. The hooded man seemed a contradiction of terms as he strolled through the forest, while he seemed suitably attired from the waist up his lower body was adorned with short pants and nothing else, suggesting he preferred a more natural style yet wished to cover his head regardless. As he walked he often knelt and examined odd plants and flowers, twisting them in the rare spots of light piercing the canopy, sometimes adding them to his belt pouch.

Without his hood his messy dreadlocks would roll down his neck, and his greenish tinged skin and pointed ears would announce that he was not quite human, but rather a strange variant of Elf. That much was only the surface of Akael’s hidden persuasions however, for he was an Elf with many secrets, and one not all that willing to divulge those secrets and relinquish the power they gave him. He stood suddenly, deciding it was time to call it a day as he turned on his heel and began pacing through the forest more quickly, his ears alert to the sounds around him. Familiarity with the terrain, despite his misgivings, allowed him to traverse his own passage through the forested area in a pittance of time, reaching the edge in under an hour. As he reached his destination he was forced to nod towards an armed man who was shrewdly peering into the approaching darkness, and before-him was the tent village, known as the Moving and home to the resistance.

Within this little, humble forest camp, men and women of many races went about their lives. An air of uncertainty, tension and change hung low amongst the scattered tents and framework. The Moving, the resistance movement against the Warlords and the Aphotheoses, a ragtag bunch of misfits led by an old man once mighty to combat the forces of darkness before their land fell to the shadow and became hell. Such was the miracle of their existence; for even in the darkest of times, there is always a glimmer of light to guide those of strong, noble heart towards their destiny, a higher calling by the light to those that would see their world renewed and rejuvenated in nature and in spirit. Warriors, brave and courageous all, though they did not see so far into the future as to know the end of their journeys.

Of course, none of those thoughts passed through the mind of a certain hulk of a minotaur that sat within a corner of the camp. Instead, what did mosey through his head were thoughts of his next meal, and a place to find more straw to finish the hat he was weaving delicately in his huge, sausage fingers.

Argrom sighed and set the straw hat down on the dirt floor. It wasn't finished, of course, but to fit his head he'd require a lot more materials than just whatever long grass he could find that could pass for straw in the forest. He'd come from lands away, many days ago, in fact. The lands where he came from were lush, with rolling plains of golden wheat and maize, thick, juicy heads of corn and the long, flowing rows of rice in their paddies. It was far, far to the East and the farming life was much behind him. Here, now, he was in a very strange place, recruited to a cause he knew almost nothing about, the only reason why he was here being the sheer size of his body and his innate physical strength. Nothing more.

His accomodations within the camp were meagre; since they did not have any tents big enough to house him, he instead slept on the dirt, nestled underneath the shade of a particularly large tree in a corner of the camp. Another, more gracious resident had offered him a small mat upon which to lay his head, which he'd gratefully accepted, but nothing else was given, not to his surprise. His size and bulk were apparently very intimidating to those comparatively smaller in stature to him; but he didn't know much about that either, all the other people he'd known had all been minotaurs, not until the humans and other races had rolled into his village seeking able-bodied men to fight in the resistance. These other, tinier races intrigued him greatly, but he was too shy to ask or query any of them.

T'was only a few minutes before Argrom decided to have another rest, since he had nothing better to do. He kept the half finished hat close to him as he rested his head on an upraised tree root, closed his eyes, and took a nap. Mayhaps later in the day something of interest might happen but for now, he would rest.

Vague rumblings were murmured, echoed, and whispered along the makeshift streets of the Moving, Resistance Camp. An offensive against the Kyut city entrenched Apotheoses army was set to take place any day now. Inside their cave, lit by the dull magic of one or two flame bearers, plans were altered and altered, Warlord’s gathered and passed information on the city and the surrounding forest, relaying the best routes to take to avoid major detection and the enemy forces camped within. From said cave, they could see the outskirts of the forest. There was a palpable excitement in the air, the first major offensive since the Port Jinn skirmish two or three years ago was about to be underway.

Yet, that excitement did not come without a healthy dose of fear. Bastion was renowned for his military presence and tactics, and many often wondered why they had not yet been attacked outright. Was there something on the Apotheoses front that was preventing them from bringing down the full force of their sitting forces down against them. They had to know that they were there, watching and preparing. Countermeasures were the popular reason for the lack of attack, letting the Moving draw themselves into the trap before wiping them all out in one fell swoop.

“Tsk.” The Tengu sucked his teeth in, as he stared down the business end of a now empty tankard of some surface elf wine, promised to be just as strong as dwarves ale, which in of itself was a terrible stereotype. Dwarves made something called Wishkey, or Wiskey, and it was the best thing he had ever tasted, next to the human’s drink called ‘scotch’. As he sat the large cup down, filled probably too much with the harsh drink, he glanced around at the worryingly silent figures situated around him. The Old Man had sent him these people, supposedly excellent at tracking down the sent members of the Resistance.

”Well, what do you have?” The Tengu asked, peering across the table.

”As it so happens, two streets over there is a former flesh worker, as they are wont to be called who has been sent up to assist in this mission. Such traits gained by that most noble of professions could come in handy once they enter the city.” The first said, letting the tell-tale sign of his love of escorts enter his words.

”OF course you’d say that, Melui, you’d have had to pick the escort anyway. Pay her any special visits?” Werr didn’t wait for the man to respond, but instead turned to the Tengu, ”The minotaur is currently making a hat. He’s a big fella, should be real good in a jam. Best hope there isn’t any magic flinging around, ‘cause he don’t seem to have no real way to keep it from himself.”

The Tengu turned to the last one, strangely quiet. ”The third to have arrived, or whatever order in which he did, is currently outside the cave. In about a minute, my magic will initiate and the guard will take him to this tent,” the man slid a piece of paper across the table, a small crudely drawn map. It marked a unremarkable tent off to the right of the Camp, just outside the area for the courtesans and other dredges who often followed armies.

The Tengu balled it up and slid it in his chest pocket, thanking each man in turn before heading out. ”Go retrieve them.“ As the flap to their meager bar rose, he was accosted by the various smells and sounds of the Camp. Everything was in motion, tents being pulled and set, training for skirmishes occurring.

As he marched through the Camp, people moving to part ways for him, he realized that this would be the first in many offensives against the Apotheoses in over two years. Sure, he had been on a murderous rampage that had ended the lives of many, but they were among the lowest on the totem pole, none were any game changers, any leaders, or anyone of any notable rank.

He passed through the market and went into the outskirts of the Camp, where an even more decidedly vagabondish collective of people jabbered away, trying to hawk their wares anywhere, and anyway they could. Some sold ‘magical’ items, others sold the very bodies their mothers and fathers had made them. It was a wicked truth of war, like death and betrayal, that those who could would forever feed off the men and women who fought for their freedom. After several twists and turns, he found the rundown tent, molded on the outside, yet strangely guarded by soldiers meant to blend in.

A passerby, similar to those he had left in the minutes prior, seemingly floated by, so effortless his moves. ”A caravan has just arrived, via teleportation runes set up by Lord Gallafrent. Another for the mission is supposedly on it.

The man left as quickly as he’d come, blending into the crowd with an effortless ease that would be the envy of many spies and assassins. The Tengu said not a word, instead, turning towards the tent and entering it. His eyes were directed towards a small cavern carved into the back wall, and there is where he entered secondly. It featured a small room, with a connecting tunnel out towards the forest. The Old Man was right, everything was falling into place. Unfortunately, he could not join the mission for his features would attract too much attention. Here he waited for the arrival of those he would entrust with his best friends safety. New members of the Resistance, chosen for their lack of notoriety, their lack of a known presence to the Apotheoses. Any minute those meant for the mission would be approached, in some method he did not know what, and brought to him.



The gruff Minotaur hoisted his would be opponent clear over his head, and launched him like a dart across the grassed floored Jungle, before beating his own chest with thunderous blows. A howl of victory escaped his lips as his opponent attempted to stand, a unimagined feat itself, and then crumbled back to the ground .He wasn’t dead, nor was he to be put to death. The new Apotheoses leader simply needed an outlet for his building rage. Somewhere out there, outside the realm of his forest but within the considerable reach of his army, was said to be a a coming storm. The Resistance, whom could not decide on a more suitable name, were coming to him - coming to remove him from power.

His station, being the middle of Allaria, was of the utmost importance - it lead to all the other domains of the Apotheoses holds. If he fell here, if he failed Falden, Eclaava, then the Resistance would have a sizable foothold and while surrounded, could conceivably reach any other point in a much shorter timeframe. No, he could not fail. His tactics were top notch, that was why he was chosen to lead this area - to be one of them, to reach her level. Bastion would stop them at all costs, and his intel was coming in as steadily as he needed it to. Something was coming, a precursor for what was to come later. Did it have something to do with the Warlord within his holding cells, or was it just a strange coincidence that this was taking place at the same time.



( Michael, Michael, Michael, shall you ever break your somber state? It has been over two years now, and still you do not speak to us. You barely acknowledge our existence. Is there something you know that us, your equals, do not? )

Michael’s cold blue eyes, once as bright as a sky, not as dull as dirty pottery turned towards the dwarves God, and then back towards the table. This was the most he could move when spoken to, those sad eyes forever locked in their ways.

< Slowly, I fear, the Human God is losing his mind. Even as something considered as lowly as a Butterfly, I can see that. Whatever ails him is not something we can fix by speaking to him. This is a storm that we must wait out.>

( Wise beyond your years, you are, young God. But still, we must try. Though equal, he leads us when times are tough. Whatever hurts him, equally hurts us. There is no metal in the world I cannot bend, no strike more truer than that with my hammer upon the anvil, but even I cannot foresee what I must build to fix this. )

Michael still had not moved, even when the many feet of Lloth sauntered into the room. She sat on the far end of the table and contemplated the evidence she had gathered. Still, not enough to overthrow Anomanderis and Ouroboros. She could not bring this to the others, especially not the unstable Michael. Her dark black eyes stared towards the man, what would he do with such information. To kill the Messenger…

Lanariel Vanalan breathed in the cool air of the open forest as she made her way down the twisting narrow path. A strong wind caused the flowers caught in the breeze to dance about her like a spinning cyclone. Here and there a green leaf from the trees swayed among the blues and whites. A sudden sneeze rocked the cloaked figure--oh how she hated her allergies. The day was beautiful out as any fool could see yet she could scarcely enjoy it. Unused to the great outdoors, the woman found herself stuffy and congested constantly. A fate no magic she possessed could remedy sadly. It was sometimes infuriating to imagine magic was capable of countless wondrous things, yet for something as trivial as this she had no power to overcome.

Perhaps had she been a druid? No if such was the cause she would have had much more resilient a constitution in the first place. At least her journey would not last much longer. The wind was bothersome, but the heat from the sun above warmed her bones well enough. It was a cloudy day to be sure; the hooded and cloaked elf only hoped there was to be no rain. She could hardly tell the weather given her lack of experience in the outdoors.

The woman’s long coat, a deep black, aided in hiding her stunning features and pointed ears. All signs that would have given away her race instantly. Her magnificent silver snow hair cascaded down and peaked from the folds of her hood. Silver eyes watched the surrounding terrain with a mix of caution and anxiety. She once again questioned the wisdom of her superiors in sending her to aid this resistance. Sure she held promise, but her experience in such a role and away from the grand temples no less… she had to admit she held some doubt in her heart. She gripped the quarterstaff in her right hand more firmly as she climbed a small hill. A few bells tied to one end that rattled with each step. Her most interesting aspect however, was not her choice of cloths or race, but instead the interact tattoo of a death mask plastered upon her face. Giving her the appearance of a black and white death head.

From her new vantage point the young elf (young in the years of elves at least) caught her breath at the sight. Countless tents, pavilions, and numerous wagons. This had to be it there was no doubt. The Moving. The younger races often thought of the most mind numbingly mediocre of names for such things. Still she guessed it was fitting enough.

Well she had at least arrived, she only hoped that the news of her coming had preceded her as her superiors had planned. She wondered what awaited her on this path she had been given.

Akael was found lurking in the marketplace, though not without some difficulty. Despite his strange appearance the Elf was adept at blending in with the impoverished and down-trodden, his clothes seeming thread-bear and strictly practical his unusual characteristics were not evident to most. It would take an uncommonly observant man to spot the Elf in the crowd, fortunately for the Tengu who sought his particularly cold set of skills; he had such a man in his employ. Akael noticed him only a few moments after he himself had been spotted, but before he could prepare to escape the man raised his hand in a sign of peace. Akael’s eyes narrowed, one hand clutching the knife sheathed at his side as he turned his body, hiding his intent.

“Akael, I am from the resistance, I’ve got a message for you.” The man said, his words formulaic and practiced, as if he was resisting the urge to return to the gutter speak he was likely born into. Akael’s response softened somewhat, but he was still ready to slit the man’s throat as he got close to him. Akael suffered a minor pain behind his forehead as his pangs hit him, always at the most inopportune time. Gritting his teeth, he nodded his head slightly.

“You’ve been asked to work for the boss, the Tengu, he wants to see you, if you’d follow me I’ll be able to lead you to him, he isn’t easy to find.” The man told Akael.

“I’ll find him.” Akael said, refusing to follow someone into what could possibly be an ambush. The Tengu was unique, Akael was confident he could find him. If he couldn’t it was really no concern of his, he wasn’t all that interested in what the strange bird-like man had to say at any rate. The man frowned, but Akael had already made efforts to melt into the crowd, disappearing in the press of bodies around him.

It took him perhaps half an hour to pin down the Tengu’s location, mostly from a smattering of conversation and one nonchalant question asked in a crowd where his appearance would not alert the people to his identity. He worked from these clues to find the tent, conspicuously set against the side of the cliff, and after a cautious moment peered inside, to find that as he suspected it was a front for a cave entrance. He followed it with careful steps, knowing all too well how his steps could echo and reveal his presence to enemies, but as he ventured into the strange obviously crafted-room and spotted the Tengu within, he knew he was in the right place. He had managed to arrive first, despite almost an hour since his messenger had been sent out to find him, suggesting that the others were dawdling for whatever reason.

“I am here, Tengu.” Akael said, his deep voice resonating as he spoke in a reserved, almost quiet, fashion.

Kokoro nervously fidgeted in her seat, the rocking of the supply wagon doing little to curb her anxiety. A plethora of questions and second thoughts ran circles through her mind, gaining momentum the longer she sat, and the closer she got towards the Moving, the location of the resistance. Would she be found out? Is she capable of reaching her goal? Can she even handle the tasks given to her? By the time she nearly thought of just curling up and hiding inside one of the storage boxes carrying the supplies, the wagon stopped, having reached its destination. Glancing furtively around, she slowly disembarked, before looking about. Her anxiety and stress that was built up over the course of her journey was unable to be released, as she drew the gazes of curious onlookers.

Avoiding eye contact, she weaves her way through the crowd, aiming to reach a more secluded area, preferably at the edge of the camp, while attempting to ignore everyone. Despite wearing armor, she still felt slightly out of place amongst all the gruff and well-built people around. However, before she could move too deeply through, someone had placed a hand on her shoulder. Barely managing to keep herself from shrieking at the unexpected contact, she stiffly turned around to meet a man. "I hope you aren't too weary from your travels, Kokoro, but the boss, Tengu, wants you to work for him. Allow me to guide you there.". Finding herself far too strained to speak, Kokoro could only give a stiff nod as a positive response to the man.

Being led in a winding, almost maze-like pattern, Kokoro was easily confused as they neared the rather normal tent, yet seemingly guarded quite heavily. Was this the place that she was suppose to meet this Tengu? Nervously glancing at the guards, the weapons in their hands, the messenger behind her, she got a short, "Go on." from the man, before he moved on, presumably to collect yet another person. Sighing in an attempt to relieve her pent up stress, she shifted aside the entrance flap of the tent, before blinking in surprise. A cavern entrance, behind the tent? This was most likely not a simple coincidence.

Slowly walking deeper in, her footsteps easily heard as they echoed. "H-hello?" A nervous greeting, to whatever was hidden in the shadows.

Still napping, the big bull never did notice the man approach him. But once he was tapped on the shoulder, he snorted and awoke with a bit of a start. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes he sat up and looked around in a daze before settling his gaze upon the smaller human.

"Sir, the boss wants to see you. Please follow me."

"Uh, who's 'the boss?' "

"A tengu, sir. Now if you please, we're kind of in a rush."

Argrom shrugged and stood to his full height, nodding to the man as he gathered what little he had into his little satchel bag, including his half finished hat. With a wave of his hand the human bade the bull to follow, which he did obediently.

The route he followed to the tengu was long and winding, taking him through the camp through a myriad of different tents, past stalls and people and food and supplies until he reached a beige tent. Nondescript in appearance, it was the presence of guards at the entrance that gave him the hint that this wasn't what it seemed. The man opened the cloth doorflap and Argrom ducked in, a horn catching gently on the fabric. He snorted and struggled a little to free it, stumbling rather awkwardly inward as it pulled free of the tent.

Inside, the tent was merely a cover; it hid the entrance to a cave, one whose entrance was smaller than he. The bull stooped and entered sideways, his horns gently scraping against the rock as he advanced into the cave, wherein lay his...acquaintance? New friend? Employer? He didn't know. This...tengu was new to him too.

Hopefully his size wasn't too intimidating or inconvenient. His hooves clacked gently against the stone as he walked in, and soon he bumped into a lady that was in front of him, nervously plumbing the cave with a stuttered greeting to the air.

Not wanting to surprise her, he stayed quiet, though his noisy hoofsteps would've given him away anyway.

He hoped he didn't get stuck in here by virtue of him being huge.

The Tengu sat in silence, waiting for the arrival of those he had sent for, those whose hands held the fate of his friend, and in truth, a vital part of the Resistance. There was little chance that the Camp would still be there when they rescued Warlord Hank, due to the proximity of the camp to the forest itself, and the man who fancied himself the leader of the city within. Bastion. The game of military chess had already begun, but the Tengu wasn’t leading the charge himself, no, he had little use for tactics and the like, that was always Hank’s game. Having grew up with the human, who’d been abandoned near the Tengu temple on the southern edge of the island housing Feyerlun.

The spies of both sides had to have passed along information, making each passing moment a chore, as each person had to stay on alert. When would the invasion come, and who would be doing the invading. Would the meager camp, full of hardened commoners turned solider invade not only the forest and its majestic beauty, but the well defended city that lay within, or would the full might of Kyut knock down the stone walls and tents that housed the Moving, and take heads on pikes to show their leader?

A shadowy foot began to step from the darkness of the cave, but a voice caused it to retract itself. The Tengu, if he noticed the limb, didn’t pay it any special attention. Instead, his attention focused on the Elf, of strange hue, whom had entered alone. Did he ditch the man whom had been sent to find him? Interesting. He motioned for the arrival to have a seat across from him, though his eyes returned back to the table. What would he say to these people? Of course, they’d do what he asked, they came from the Resistance to the Apotheoses. All had lost something since their arrival, be it their freedom or family, their livelihood or station.

Silence would drown them for the next few minutes until the others arrived. One had come from a caravan one of the last that would reach the Resistance, and the other, a big minotaur, wasn’t far behind her. As they arrived, he motioned for them to join the other and waited until they did so.

“So, you must be the one that was outside the cave,” he asked, looking at the Elf. His attention turned to the minotaur, and he spoke softly, “You must have been fashioning the hat.” He sized the creature up, noting he had seen bigger, but this one seemed to hold a boundless potential for strength. How stereotypical of the simple folk. He turned towards the girl, not exactly knowing she was off the caravan, “And that leaves you, the flesh worker I would assume?”

Not realizing how wrong he was, nor would he be inclined to care, he allowed himself to fall silent for another couple of minutes as he went over the plan in his head one last time. He lifted an empty tankard, noted the lack and filled it with some dwarves wishkey, offering it to each of the arrivals in turn.

There should be more, he thought, not just the wishkey but more people to accompany this group. Perhaps Werr, Welui, and the other were already out retrieving them. He would wait. Not long, however, because every minute meant that his brother, his friend, could be suffering.

With sufficient time passed, the Tengu began to explain the plan. They were all chosen because they weren’t known. They held no special rank within the Resistance, they were the everyman, and could essentially blend into a crowd. He turned towards the elf, well, they could for the most part. That strange coloration could prove problematic if Bastion employed a well traveled scholar.

He shook the thought from his head, and continued to explain. Warlord Hank, his brother and friend, had been captured two years prior. It ignited a fire within the Tengu who, during his time in the hook, assaulted enough of the Apotheoses camps to force them to move him - here. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place for it, especially with the impending collision coming. Their job, the ones before him now, would be to become Apotheoses members in a concerted effort to free Hank, and take him across to another town for a debriefing.

They could decline the offer, as was their right, but would they have really come all this way just to say no? They were picked because of their respective skills, as well as their aforementioned lack of notoriety.

As he finished explaining, the Tengu, now on his third cup of Wishkey, looked over each of the gathered individuals. Would this be the last time he saw them? Perhaps. But it didn’t matter, they were expendable. Hank wasn’t.

“So, what shall it be? Enter into the forest and rescue the Warlord, or turn back and fight in the Moving’s eventual battle with Kyut. Either way, you’ll be pitted against a war leader so competent that only two people in the area could possibly match him. The Old Man, and the Warlord, Hank.” He hated sounding so defeated, so hopeless, but that was the truth of it. His personality had changed a great deal since Hank’s capture, given the two were considered the more playful of the Warlord’s.

Summary: The Tengu explains the mission parameters and offers them a chance to turn it down. Beforehand, a mysterious figure attempted to enter but retreated.

Akael was cautious, also timid, in approaching the seat offered to him by the Tengu. His eyes narrowed and he selected another, further into the room by with a better vantage point of the entry way and little opportunity for one to sneak up behind him. It was perhaps an unnecessary caution, but experience had taught the Jungle-Born Elf that caution was usually its own reward, and to act in any other fashion had a tendency to reward one with little but an untimely end. He sat on the edge of his seat, his body language perhaps revealing more than he would wish as he pulled the chair away from the table. He was like a trapped animal, caught in the hunter’s grasp but alert for that moment that had to come, call it what you will, the moment which held the greatest opportunity for escape. He said nothing to the Tengu, Akael was not uncomfortable with silence, he may have even gone as far as to say he preferred it.

He did not have long to wait, other assorted individuals of the motley kind that made up the resistance arrived in drips and drabs. It surprised him the sheer unsuitability of those that appeared to any single task, at least to his mind, though he could only assume whatever the Tengu had in store for them would make the choices at least somewhat clear. Time would tell. As he sat there in silence keeping his eyes low in that fashion which to the untrained observer could often make a man invisible, his senses took in all around him with the ease of a Jungle Hunter. The only slight marring to his strong concentration was the niggling but persistent ache of unfulfilled addiction, ignored for now, he knew it would return with a vengeance.

As the plan was outlined and the reason for his presence became clear Akael frowned beneath his hood. There were clear issues with the plan, not to mention the clear fact that he had severe doubts it had even the slightest inkling of success. He couldn’t be certain as he was unfamiliar with the nuances of the city and with social interactions outside his tribe in general, but when applying his experience to the situation it did not sit well. For one, he was not entirely sure the Tengu was sane, at least he did not seem to have the state of mind required for ordering a group of unsuited individuals on a mission that could see them all dead. The drink was the first clue, the second was the abstract dejection in his voice. Akael puzzled over this, unsuited himself for further perceptions in regards to the Tengu himself, wishing he had the eloquence to the broach the topic with the other individuals. The second issue was simple, why were they sending such a group on this mission, a group whose very diversity became their greatest misfortune, they would stick out like a sore thumb by his estimation. Akael was not familiar with the city, but when a warrior a shaman and a scout come together, one grows suspicious. When three scouts run together, they scout, when three warriors run together, they plan to fight, when one of each run together, their purpose becomes more complicated, and as a result, more suspicious. Again, Akael was unsuited to query the issue further, could his fellows?

He did have one specific insight though.

“This War Leader is the problem, yes?” Akael asked uncomfortably, his voice cold and almost quiet.

“Why send the Mongoose to release another when the first could so easily slay the snake?” His analogy was strange, probably as a result of his time spent in the jungle, but he still made an obvious point. If the group was to be sent on a dangerous mission and would likely face up against this war leader anyway, why not have them assassinate the man outright rather than struggling to release another for the task?

"Maybe we cannot match him, but poison brings death to all equally."

Summary: Akael watches the others enter the room from one side of the table, after the briefing he questions why the group would be sent to rescue a man to kill the Warleader, when it would be of similar difficulty to just assassinating him outright if not harder and more complicated.

He also has private doubts about the Tengu's state of mind and the suitability of the group for any covert plan, but lacks the necessary understanding to solve the issues.

With a polite shake of his head and a raised, beefy hand, Argrom declined the invitation to sit. The chairs were all too small for him anyway, so he opted to stand just inside and to the side of the main entrance, wringing his hands nervously as he waited for the rest. All the others present were foreign to him; he'd never even seen the pointy eared type before in his life, much less the bird-man that sat across the room. He understood that the...Tengu was it? That the Tengu was a beastkin like he was, but he had never heard of the existence of bird beastkin. Though, he supposed, that stuff like that was present in the big wild world outside the confines of the farm.

The Tengu laid down the bones of the supposed plan. To Argrom, much of this flew over his head. Warlord? Apotheoses? The farm had severely dampened how much outside news came in. All he understood from the discussion was that this man, Hank, was of great importance to this Tengu, and if they wanted to fight this...bad guy, they would need his help.

The plan was one thing. The supposed fighting was another. Outside of the occasional scuffle with livestock, the minotaur had never laid hands on another in his life. Sure, perhaps his bulk convinced others of his potential, but inside he was scared. Of harming others? Of even participating in such acts? All of that. He wasn't sure he could even bring himself to do such a thing to another minotaur, much less a living being smaller and lighter than he was. But...he had been called away from the farm for a reason. His village shaman had proclaimed it to be for bigger, greater things, that he was intertwined in the destiny of the country yada yada yada. If he had to accept...he had to.

In silence, he merely nodded his head in agreement with the Tengu's posed offer. To suffer in silence...a burden he'd shoulder for now.

Summary

• Argrom stands near the side of the entrance nervously.
• He has doubts about his capability to harm others when pushed to.
• He agrees with the Tengu's plan.