"Just so," he said, taking another sip of tea. His grey eyes glittered in the glare of the setting sun, which painted the vast city spread out below the balcony on which he sat in brilliant shades of crimson and gold. The Bay of Teeth shone radiantly in the evening light, its glittering red sheen pockmarked by the small black silhouettes of trading junks and slave hulks crawling towards or away from the Harbor of Chains. "Sacrosanctum will make its move soon. All of Geryon lies under its sway, now. My agents tell me that the Kingdom of Vassirya too has lent forty thousand troops to the God-King's cause."

Master Nagath put down his teacup, setting it upon the saucer with a delicate clink, and met the gaze of the monster across from him.

"Displeasure is expressed," said the Thing. Its voice was a flat, insectile buzz, and its mandibles did not move as it spoke. "Abelon also, a threat arising."

"We must position ourselves carefully," said Nagath, running a delicate hand over his black goatee. He was a tall man, broad chested and dark skinned, with the swirling brand of a Drathan Slave-Guild on his right cheek, a grisly scar so deep it revealed a white flash of cheek bone. Nagath was of course sufficiently accomplished in Fleshweaving that he could have healed that ancient wound if he so desired. But he did not wish his fellow Masters to forget his origins, nor that he now conversed with them as an equal in authority and in Art. "Abelon seeks to control the Spine as a buffer from the might of Sacrosanctum. Sacrosanctum seeks the Spine as a pathway into Tityos."

The Thing clicked its mouthparts, and coiled itself atop its tail like a huge, chitinous cobra, folding its spindly arms and legs flat against its flanks. "Tityos against Geryon, we must facilitate. The godling destroy the Forest and the Compelling City, can and should. With us enabling."

"My dear Uye," Nagath said with a slight smile, using the closest approximation of its name that a human could pronounce. "That is a remarkably dangerous suggestion, to bring Justinian so near. You know what the oldest Codexes say. You know what they imply."

"Time to mitigate implications remains. Danger and opportunity, a brood of two."

Nagath frowned, thoughtful and silent, gazing out over the darkening city.

-

Gabul sauntered through the darkening Harbor District, still busy with the offloading of wares and slaves from ports across the all the southern sea. The Avenue of Tears, along which he strolled, was a broad street, lined by palms and empty market stalls pressed against square buildings of mudbrick and adobe. A little ways ahead, the road opened up to the dockyards proper, the masts of a thousand different ships outlined against the starry sky.

Gabul was a short man, and thin, wearing a dark cassock that denoted him as an Adept at the Great Library. His pale skin was painted in elegant tattooes, words in languages long left unspoken. A smouldering pipe jutted from the corner of his mouth, and one hand rested on the pommel of his shortsword. The Masters' thugs kept good enough order during the day, but night along the Harbor of Chains could be a dicey affair.

Ahead of him, a Ghuud was being carried by slaves on a curtained litter. The insectoid creature was immensely fat, pale flesh oozing between its dark chitin plates. Gabul nodded to it as he passed, meeting its many-eyed, unblinking gaze. The Ghuud clicked its mandibles and buzzed at him: a polite enough greeting recognizing Gabul as an equal. Then it reached one spindly claw into a bowl at its side, speared a larva through the middle, and brought the squirming morsel to its considerable jaws, draining it of fluids, chittering with pleasure as it did so.

Gabul smiled. Some considered the Ghuud barbaric for their cannibalism. He found their honesty refreshing; their brutality lacked the artifice and pretense of the more humanoid races. Underneath, after all, everyone's a cannibal who isn't prey.

Pretense and artifice, alac, were to be his calling now. Master Nagath had given him a mission of some importance, an opportunity to prove his cunning and potentially attain the rank of Master for his own.

He made his way to the docks, weaving through crowds of sailors, slavers, slaves and merchants still milling about by the light of torches and the stars above, to an elegant junk tied to a private berth. The Almalexia was Master Nagath's ship, and it was to take him to Vitium.

"The increase in gunpowder weapons and armaments pose a great threat among the life of this great land and world. Progressed by the increased ignorance these weapons pose a terrible issue that may very well dissolve civilization into a pit of fire and sulfur.

It is our responsibility as the keepers of civilization, and our responsibility as conscious beings to object the use of total war and end the potential of mutually assured destruction of what we hold dear and even life. The power of fiery explosions and guns threaten the once noble way of battle and war, and build upon it's many vices and flaws to the point of no return, to the point that we have gone to far, and to the point that may see humanity blown off the face of Avara.

I as a knowing and conscious viewer of the acts of gunpowder and explosives say no, and move for the disarmament of all deadly gunpowder weapons for the greater of civilization and preservation of culture and life. Ignorance will not suffice when signing our names to the future, but only knowing and willing action to take a stand against this looming and growing technological threat.

I implore you my fellows, for this can only get worse with time if this disease is not cured."

Politician Alix Belerose closed his mouth and took a seat on a thick purple velvet chair. A multitude of bewildered stares blinked at him through an intoxicating and sugary smoke that clouded the brightly lit room of glittering gold and burning incense.

King Dion Monte stared with his mouth open wide in concern. The youthful and pompously dressed royal’s breath spilled upon a naked prostitute by his face, that stood leaning over his well crafted chair, her own vulpine grin frozen in shock.

The walls were lined with the similarly exposed flesh of nude women, adorned in simple chains and laces of silver and gold, exposed to the whims of the highly dressed desires of the Conference members that sat in the circular room. Statues of living men and women painted the color of marble stood still behind the desirable women, smoking sticks of incense sticking from their mouths as the ashes floated gently to the floor.

Grapes glistened with sweat from the room’s atmosphere and sat in cold gilded bowls on reddish wooden tables. Jewels encrusted the edges of the tables shapely, and bosomy hand picked women work swiftly around the crucible of fruits and important magistrates, eager to feed and bend to the will of their overwhelming authority.

“Ostrichberg itself poses a great threat-” Alix continued until a powerfully commanding voice, laced with a seductive masculinity cut him off.

“And you call this association to reverse these technological advances “CAP” or Cooperative Armament Pacification? If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn you were planning on destroying plump trade lines with your conviction mumbo jumbo, I think I speak for the Conference of Vitium when I say: Get out,”

A man wearing a thick and plump fur cloak hammered his rebuttal with a stamp of a classy cane into the marble floor. The vibration caused the light and long feather that struck from his large brimmed hat to wave as if dismissing Alix.

“Magistrate Jones the Bones,” Alix pleaded.

“Pimp Daddy Jones the Bones is correct,” Dion Monte raised a ringed hand. The youthful king nearly laughed as he spoke, “if it is your intention to create a faction to reduce and disarm gunpowder and modern weapons, you will find no official support in this conference.”

“Then I shall do without the conference!” Alix bellowed.

Fine, just know Vitium does not back your views in any form,” Jones waved a disinterested hand.

“Now wait a minute, Alix may have a poin-”

Magistrate Seclude Leeroy Duvall was cut off by Jones as the pimp slammed his cane into the marble again, “NO-ONE OF THIS CONFERENCE WILL BACK THIS.” He reiterated angrily.

Dione nodded, “I pass the kings vote in favor of dismissing CAP.”

”Here. here” The conference agreed, all but Alix and an abstaining vote from Leeroy.

-----

Franklin played with the old pistol in his hands as he marched through the light sheet of dust that covered the rocky slopes of the pass, so often avoided by travelers. The loose leaden bullet rattled softly inside the barrel, barely audible over the screeching wind of the mountains and the warm humming of his daughter.

Before him his wife, daughter and brother marched, their boots crunching on the loose rocks that lead down the path, tall trees on either side of the ill used road.

His eyes trailed from his gun to his daughter. She had grown during the journey; a budding woman. A smile of pride overtook his fatherly face as he watched her stroll over the rocks, passing time idly with his beloved wife, their hair the same golden hue he had grown to adore.

His mind wandered to the ghostly memory of the journey they had so far traversed. It had been long since they had seen the gentle warm fire that roosted in their humble home by some outskirted village on the other side of Vitium, and it was about time the merchant family made their way home.

Of course boat might have been easier, but Franklin didn’t have the money or the confidence to brave the slavers coast, not with all the Vitium slavers waiting with the bared bloody teeth of a wolf, eager to clench onto the first golden fleeced lamb they saw; no, he wouldn’t risk his family.

The cool air that slipped from the peaks of the mountains spilled through the rustling leaves. The platter of rain from the previous night pocked the harmony of the forest path with small tattters, and the thick humid smell of the passed storm tingled the nostrils of the man, fighting the hollow smell of the mountains.

A gentle smile played on the man’s lips, content with the day’s travel and the feeling of home quickening his heart.

“Daddy!”

His daughter shrieked as a gunshot rang through the forest, causing the family to freeze in spot. She ran to him, throwing herself into his chest, nearly knocking his pistol from his grasp as dark figures surrounded the family, with cheshire grins.

“Now now,” a raspy voice spoke from one of the Vitium Slavers, “no need to scream, we are simple toll collectors. This is a Vitium road.”

“Bullshit!” Franklin’s brother spat, tugging a long sabre from his belt. A thick cudgel swung itself through the air, connecting with his brothers head with a loud crack. The man’s body went limp as it crumpled to the ground.

“Geez, Pierre, easy on the merchandise!” A voice growled at a burly man holding the club. The large man shrugged innocently as it turned to tend to the body.

The hammer of Franklin’s gun clicked back. It’s tiny clack sounded like a thunderous boom in the quiet stand off.

“Wait, hold on now!” One of the slavers resisted, “if you fire upon us, I’m afraid your entire entourage might not make it to the market. You don’t want a dirt nap, now do you? Think of the kids.”

Franklin looked down at his shivering daughter, thinking of her. He knew- he knew what life she was in for at the end of this forced transaction. He knew the fate of the women slaves of Vitium, there was no trickery here- he knew.

He sighed a defeated sigh.

“Tell you what,” the slaver continued, “you give us the girls, and you can walk- what do you say, friend?”

Franklin looked down at his daughter, a sickening knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Tears blurred his eyes as guild swam in his thinning viens.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered into her ear, causing big watery green eyes to look up at him in terror.

“Wha-”

There was a loud gunshot. The slavers nearly jumped back in surprise as the sound of flesh splattering onto the rocks accompanied the thunderous baritone. Franklin’s daughter slumped to the ground. His wife’s screaming shook his vision and bled his brain as he looked down at his daughter, her golden hair stained red and pink.

“Shit!” A slaver swore, “grab what’s left of the bitch and mark her for Yeodrathan, cuff the rest- and rough the dumb one up a little.”

------

Pimp Daddy Jones the Bones sighed an exhausted sigh as he popped off a mask made of bones and threw it onto an idle chair. The room he was in was rectangle and glittering with precious metals that lined the walls so thickly, it strained the eyes and even hurt a little if stared at. Red carpets lined the floor and the pimp stood in front of four raised pedestals big enough for a human to perch their feet on.

A slim man with fake hair bounced around the four naked specimens that stood still and smiling on the pedestals. His little lips were speeding with details and salesman tact that roughed inside of Jones’ ear like sandpaper on metal.

He raised a palm, as if to silence the small man. The back of his hand then snapped and cracked him across the face, finishing the gesture with a frown.

“I’ll only take three,” He grunted as he pointed at what once was a mine worker, and now a greased up man in his thirties, a slim petite woman in her twenties, and another older woman whose hair held a tiny grey at the tips of raven hair.

“But why not all?” the man whimpered.

Jones groaned in annoyance and stomped over to the fourth, a rather plump woman, and slapped his hand hard against her rear, nearly sending her toppling over, “She’s fat!”

“Some people prefer it that way,” The man defended. Jones growled, “I’ve already told you! My stock in that department is full, there is no more room!”

“So what do you expect me to do with her?”

“I’ll buy her for one fourth the price, only because I am nice.”

Jones smiled a dazzling smile up at the large woman, “perhaps send her over to Yearning, land of the free- I hear they even have a courtyard named such. Would you like that, dear? To be free?”

The woman’s eyes glistened with hope at the man’s honeyed words. Jones turned back to the skinny man, “there, even your merchandise agrees on the price- one fourth for her, half for the old one with the nice-- yeah, the slim one and the man.”

“But- but,” The vender sputtered.

“I think you mean to say ‘sold’” Jones trotted over to the man and snatched his cheeks and chin in one hand, moving the man’s mouth for him.

“Yes, I did Mr. Bones.” Jones’ teased in a light voice, mimicking the tiny man.

“Brilliant!” Jones bellowed happily, “glad to help out a fellow-”

Jones the Bones’ voice trailed off into a scowl, “well nice to do business anyway.”

The Citadel Of Vrent

The Room Of Words

Stout internal buttresses dominated the Room of Words. It was a ‘small’ room in that it only measured a a few dozen feet across and a few dozen long. The ceiling however, was much further from the floor than one would expect, creating an almost cavernous space above the heads of the seven of those sat around the single table which occupied the room. Draped in yellow and and red embroidery, the stone table and chairs fixed with it, dominated almost all the space in the room.

“It isn’t something we can just lay back and wait for; letting history repeat itself is idiotic, we need to be proactive, or at least active!” called Trodd, Speaker of War.
His views were stern, and often apt. The Vrentian warleader spoke of course, of the seemingly impending whispers of conflict with Abelon. Whispers had reached them of troop mobilisation, nobles’ words and a general opinion.
“I still stand to the opinion they’re only mobilising the damned paleskins.” Rumbled Danus, the Farrg, Speaker of Magic. “ They’ve raided at least two towns now. We can’t worry about the imperial army just suddenly appearing at our doorstep when we need to be worrying about the rambling bloodletters at our border!”
Danus was resolute if nothing else. Well respected for his intricate understanding of magics and The Way. He was though, somewhat old fashioned and less than happy with Trodd’s current antics and rabble-rousing.
“By the Eye!” cursed Trodd, “You have your head dug in those tomes all day, surely you of all people know we cannot afford the same mistakes of the past?!” Trodd was becoming increasing frustrated in his attempts to convince the others. They’d be going around the table for nearly an hour now, with mixed results to say the least. The other Speakers seemed to maintain the cultural illusion that the Empire was a slumbering giant that would leave be if unprovoked. Naivety of the highest magnitude, in Trodd’s opinion.

Aiste had sat silent this entire time, The Listener doing her eponymous role quite well. She remained calm, doing her best to simply absorb the information as best as she could. At end of all this bickering, despite the authority wielded by each Speaker, the final decision would rest solely with her.
“Trodd is right.” She proclaimed, instantly silencing the others. “He is correct when he says we should not take the Empire so lightly, lest we forget our history and the very formation of our proud city.” Aiste spoke sternly with a tone of authority though not patronisingly so. “Yet, Trodd, our own instant mobilisation to the border would do nothing other than give Abelon an excuse to launch and invasion. And as we all know, Sfel is the real crux of any impending conflict. If we lose the northern bay, they’d swarm us like locust.”

All six Speakers ruffled in their chairs a little, a collective mental sigh issuing throughout the group. “We need to be clever about this. Trodd, we all appreciate your dedication to protecting our people more than you could ever know. But right now we’re dangling from a thread.”
“Trodd,” spoke Aiste softly, “I’d like you to mobilise slowly, I want doubled patrols along the border, double time, not double the men. I do though want moderately heavy additions to Sfel’s standing forces. Roll cannons there, begin construction of a fort, it’s up to you. I trust you. But I must ask you don’t openly, actively mobilise along the buffer zone.”

The Speakers all nodded accordingly, and the group began to leave. Aiste remained sitting, still having not moved much since the meeting had begun. “Ruwnda, I’d like to discuss something with you quickly.”
As the others filed out of the room, The Speaker of Secrets made her way over to the Listener. The two women wore similar robes, were of similar age and shared many worldviews.
“His last report was almost five weeks ago.” Informed the Speaker. “Either he’s had to go dark, or he’s making progress. Either way I won’t know until I know.”
Aiste sighed and nodded. The answer she had expected.

If war was to come, then the report they awaited held the future path of Vrent.



Quite a bit more ready to go. I just want to run it past @Sparrow before posting it!