The world was reborn.

Half a millennia since the Cataclysm the world has begun to piece itself together from the ashes of the old.

To the north.



The Great North Glacier once more begins to encroach on the Continent with many names with the inexorable slowness only Glaciers can manage. Upon and within it many secrets, many ancient foes trapped beneath great swaths of cold ice. And yet there were those who called its extreme edge home. Who lived in the glaciers shadow. But further south the mountains, forests and plains stretched out like a vast thing.



Buried within it were fledgeling nations rebuilding in the aftermath of the cataclysm. Some were deep forest kingdoms, others sprawling plains, some even desert kingdoms. Some were the homes of dragons, others were the homes of elves, orcs, humans, goblins and many other a race for it was a diverse continent filled with many peoples. Few old enough to remember the apocalypse.



And so now the nations must make their way in the new world. To bear the weight of their people on their shoulders and forge a future for themselves.

Or be buried under the weight of times inexorable grindstone.

Minotaur Encampment outside Erasmia,
Kingdom of Arturia

His opponent came rushing at him, a steaming hot snort trailing from the nostril, the horn’s glistening in the morning sun as the star-busts of light reflected off the dew-soaked bone protrusions. Ironfist; the great minotaur leader ducked under an enormously powerful but clumsy swing and landed an almighty blow to the minotaur’s midriff that impacted with a sickening crunch. The smaller minotaur stepped back, clearly affected by the blow which left a large fist-shaped red welt and the obvious signs of a quickly blossoming bruise on the beasts fur-covered skin. The first blow had been landed and yet the fight was already looking ridiculously one sided; then again his opponent had never really stood a chance. The smaller minotaur, Proudhoof, was trialling for a vacant spot in the exclusive Minotaur Legion, the finest Infantry in the Kingdom of Arturia. They were known for taking vicious casualties yet dealing death on a far, far greater scale than their troop numbered. As such their new members whenever one was required had to be the strongest, fittest and best fighters from the various minotaur tribes. The pride of their race rested on the Legion.

They circled each other now, hooves dragging up small clouds of dust from the crudely assembled fighting ring as the crowd of roughly dressed minotaurs watched on from the outside of the ring; placing wagers and cheering for the young fighter. Secretly they all wanted Ironfist to be hurt or even beaten; any possible weakness would be exploited with a ruthless leadership challenge. It was the way of their tribe that only the strongest should be worthy of leadership and Ironfist had been the strongest for a long period of time. Proudhoof came in again, this time more wary; more alert and made a tentative swing towards Ironfist; it was easily swatted away yet he failed to land a return blow on the smaller minotaur. The tentative combat continued for a few minutes; Proudhoof landed a few cautious blows; too minor to cause any real damage but the noise from the outside of the ring grew.

The younger beast grew more and more confident, throwing bigger and bigger blows; occasionally landing them and all the while Ironfist seemed to struggle. Eventually Proudhoof overextended and was punished clinically for it; a thunderous kick disabled his legs whilst Ironfist went for a true humiliation move; the horn toss. He jammed his larger horns into the smaller ones of his younger opponent and physically lifted the beast off the ground and discarded of him with a seemingly careless flick which sent Proudhoof sailing through the sky like a ragdoll. The fight was over yet one thing remained; the horn-breaking. Any time an Arturian minotaur was horn tossed he had to submit himself to be punished for this inadequacy; he placed his head and held his nerve as Ironfist stomped down on right horn, shattering it clean off with a thunderous crack and a painful bellow. Despite this act of seemingly unspeakable cruelty, Ironfist leaned down and pulled the younger beast up, all the while saying “You fought well youngling and took your punishment with courage. Consider yourself a part of the legion.” The pride was obvious in the younger minotaur’s eyes and clutching his broken horn, set himself off, thanking Ironfist and strode off towards his new tent and place in the Minotaur Legion.

The ramshackle tent city which the Minotaur’s had erected near the main walls of the city of Erasmia, the capital of the Kingdom of Arturia, seemed like an illogical place to live with a wondrous city built of dwarven stonemasonry right next door but the minotaurs chose to live outside. They found the city too oppressive and with the number of streets, quarters and pathways, a little hard to navigate. As such they’d lived outside the city walls for centuries; building their hide huts and tents and keeping to themselves. A number of these tent ‘cities’ could be found throughout the Kingdom of Arturia however this way by the largest and most populated; it was the home to the Legion and their Legate.

Library of the Ancients, Erasmia

Quite possibly the only building in Erasmia which hadn’t been redesigned and rebuilt in the time of the Great Construction; the Library of the Ancients had once belonged solely to the Draconian kind who’d haughtily refused the chance to rebuild the building anew. At the time the Draconians had been the advisors to the king; possessing hidden knowledge contained in the dustiest tomes that no other race had been privy to but now Turok the Clearsighted had turned the monolithic structure into the office of the Steward of the King; effectively his personal offices. This building had been his prize of conquest when he’d managed to oust the age-old monotony of Men-Draconian leadership and ushered in the winds of change.

He stood at the centre of a complex network of scribes, agents and officials who controlled the various arms of the Arturian government; ensuring their strength and continued presence throughout the land. At times it bordered on miraculous how they managed to retain their influence and keep the peace in a land that differed greatly in race, culture and desire. Despite the accomplishments of the administrative powerhouse created by Turok; the nation was still held together by the age-old notion of strength and right to rule. King Eyrar had a solidity of rule that could only be delivered by continuous military conquest and victorious; even sometimes at great numerical odds with the tendency of the Arturians to favour a small cadre of highly-trained, very experienced soldiers to triumph over the unorganised masses.

However such an army created a large and ceaseless demand for materials, men and attention to detail which King Eyrar was loath to provide unless it involved some new drill or tactical manoeuvre. As such these responsibilities logically fell onto the shoulders of the Steward and as such Turok found himself in control of large amounts of coins, capable of shifting them with little authorisation from the king who had faith in his steward. Yet he wasn’t called the clearsighted for no reason; Turok knew that to do so would be to court death and with a fastidious Knight-Marshal around there would be little chance of his improper business going unnoticed. Yet this wasn’t to say he couldn’t have some fun after all; he was more than known for using merchants bidding for various contracts to fund lavish parties for the king and buy expensive gifts that would often be shared by the king.

As such Turok had managed to not only collect a sizeable wealth within the kingdom’s coffers but also himself; being heftily rewarded by King Eyrar for tasks that seemed bewildering to a soldier’s mind but simple work to an industrious one. He possibly only had one real commercial threat in the land; Duke Rorin, the Master-Smith of the Arturian Dwarves, a dwarf of legendary skill with the forge and an unfailing eye for the right business. The job of steward was under no threat though; Rorin all but refused to leave Refuge Rock, only upon direct command of King Eyrar who often preferred to travel to see his dwarven subjects. As such it would be safe to say that Turok is here to stay in his role as Steward and possibly even ready to lift his Cyclops people into civility.

Locomotive Platform A, Refuge Rock

It was clear that Refuge Rock was built by a people escaping some great calamity; after all they’d built the perfect sanctuary from the outside wall. Aside from the subterranean locomotive entrance that extended out to a locomotive line which ran to a number of waystations in the land which linked the major locations of the Kingdom together, the only way to get to get into the citadel was the front path. This involved crossing from a smaller mountain onto a bigger one, by the way of a retractable bridge then climb a mountainous path that was rigged with activatable traps (left inactive unless under credible threat) to the citadel.

Then you’d have to bypass one of the biggest doors ever built; maybe a few centuries of ramming would do the trick. The intense preparations seemed somewhat overdone; however when it defends a group of dwarves somewhat adverse to both fighting and having a large amount of non-dwarven people there, it makes sense. Needless to say, strong garrison or weak garrison; Refuge Rock would be a hard nut to crack.

Rorin Ironhall stood on the sooty black platform, watching as the bronze monstrosity roll into the subterranean station; carrying with it a new delivery of minerals for the forges of Refuge Rock and supplies for the Dwarves within. Here the wheels of the Arturian war machine were forged, oiled and repaired; in this mighty Dwarven citadel was the factories of the Kingdom and the technological marvel of the mechanist Dwarves. Whereas other cities had been reconfigured to adapt Dwarven technology into it; the citadel had been built for it. The very mountain itself had been carved out in order to create a nigh upon impregnable fortress; every entrance had a metal door weighing hundreds of tons and requiring the most powerful pneumatic systems these dwarves had ever built in order to operate.

A busy throng of industrious Dwarves bustled around the platform, carrying various objects and setting up the machinery to unload their precious cargo and distribute them throughout the citadel. Rudimental conveyor belts transported large quantities of goods throughout the citadel, stopping and being redirected at various intersections throughout the mountain. Everything here ran smoothly; people were trained to do their job from a young age and carried themselves with an inhuman industry, at least until knock-off time. Rorin presided over all of this action; whilst he was often an aloof leader, his skills lying in the forge rather than in politics, he was responsible for turning the ragtag band of dishevelled refugee dwarves from paupers to the most powerful commercial enterprise in the land. More gold, goods and contracts passed through their hands than any else in the land; their position on the commercial food chain was paramount. Whilst much of the citadel seemed to be industry there was a large number of empty rooms and bare space; the citadel having been overbuilt as was the Dwarven way however ceaseless industry isn’t the Dwarven way either.

When the fires of the forges died out and the conveyors stopped; the dwarves rushed to the various mead halls and taverns within the Citadel. This formed the perfect circle of life for these reclusive Dwarves, the industrious day and the raucous night; a combination fit for any unadventurous Dwarf. Rorin Ironhall wouldn’t leave his hall of his own accord; the only time he’d ever left was upon Eyrar’s summons which were a rare thing to receive. Eyrar had a well-documented marvel for the Dwarven citadel; reacting like a kid to every new dwarven invention and seemingly never losing the ability to marvel at the old ones; no matter how many times he’d seen them. The technology was always being adapted and built into various holdings into the land and this had proved to be quite the boon to various facets of their society. Suggestions had even been made that such a taste wasn’t befitting of an Arturian monarch but with the great advancements brought by the dwarves into the kingdom; who would be stupid enough to suggest that to the king’s face?

Drill Yard, Reverent Hall

Reverent Hall was the one of the two major fortresses that dot the Arturian landscape; it was the main training centre for the kingdom. There were more drill yards, cavalry concourses and ranges here than in the rest of the land combined. The sound of clashing weapons, heavy breathing and the shouts of various grizzled sergeants who barked orders to the recruits and veterans alike who were clustered in front of them. However one ring had a rather noticeable crowd gathered around it; obviously they expected some sort of great spectacle from whatever was here and they were almost certain to get it.

He stood motionlessly in the centre of the circle, controlling his breath into a number of long, deep breaths that poured steam out into the crisp morning air. The lead-filled pipe seemed to be a comical sight in his hand when compared to the swords of the men standing around him with their swords bared to the morning light. They had a motionless few seconds as no man on the outside seemed willing to move; something had to give and eventually a rather fresh faced soldier made his move and cemented himself as the ceremonial first. The man in the centre left his movements till late, bringing the weapon in his hand with the speed of a rattlesnake, even despite it’s weight, to parry away the offending sword before he lashed out with a kick towards his opponents knee which caused the youth to crumple.

One he silently counted.

The next two came together; swords striking widly yet the pipe managed to keep up with the strokes; deflecting the blows with consummate ease; the two opponents were dispatched with two stiff blows to the midriff knocking the wind right out of them; leave them gasping for air and collapsed on the dew-soaked ground.

Three

The next series of blows came in a tremendous flurry, the man started to struggle with his handicapped weapon yet where his pipe failed to block the strikes, he always managed to get his body out of the way with a liquid grace. He had barely any time to piece any series of swordplay together but when he did manage to strike it was a ruthless precision; generally every blow he dealt incapacitated an opponent. The blows soon started to dry up in number as a group of mewling, incapacitated men were left around; they were soon dragged out by a crowd of assistants. There was one man left standing, two sheaths hanging from his hips; one belonging to each side. The man wordlessly motioned for the ragged looking combatant to toss away his lead-weighted pipe with a flick of his hand. The instruction was followed and soon a wooden practice sword was thrust into his hand.

He barely had time to grasp it before two wooden swords came flying towards his head so he ducked and rolled away, desperately bringing his blade up to block the next swing. By this time his muscles were in excruciating pain; the lead pipe had done its work and now his whole felt as if it was on fire. Every parry was an effort now and now he was facing a master of the blade; this took the whole challenge to another level. Eventually the man facing him was drenched in just as much sweat as him; whilst he was skilled he was significantly older than the man being trialed and his years had taken its toll on his stamina. They fought to a standstill and then the fight started to slip into the man’s favour; his opponent was growing slower and slower yet despite all his previous exertions he was managing to hold a steady rhythm. It was all over when the older man lost one of his blades, flying off after a flicked parry and it ended with a wooden blade next to the old man’s throat who merely nodded in respect before collapsing to the ground. He’d just beaten the best swordsman in the land, even after a significant handicap. He greedily gulped in the cold air and slumped into a chair.

“Knight-Marshal Cerannius, Mi’Lord. The King requests your presence at the Eternal Palace, there will be a train waiting for you and Greenmeadow Station” came a call from a fresh-faced page, running across the courtyard to him. Cerannius let out a weary sigh before rising from his chair, dreading the ride to the nearby locomotive station; it would be a marathon effort in his current state.

The Eternal Palace, Erasmia

“NO!”

The draconian’s clawed hand came down with a crashing thump on the edge of the solid mahogany desk; a few deep scratches penetrated the luminous burgundy surface of the well crafted desk causing a few frowns to appear on the face of the man standing next to him. King Eyrar the Restless, the hereditary-elect King of Arturia, Duke of Erasmia and Lord of the Four Peoples looked up from the map with an amused look as he replied saying “The enemy is certainly not on that desk, there; no matter how may exotic it may appear and now you’ve damaged a piece of furniture that was built by a band of travelling merchants that I’ll likely never see again. So now that you’ve made your frustration clear and my desk somewhat less than what I liked will you listen to Knight-Commander Aquinn here who will clearly explain the situation.” The King’s words seemed somewhat derogatory; especially given the fact that the rather abusive man before him was a powerful landholder in the kingdom. Yet their were laced with a deadly honey; the Draconian was Scion Tyrannius; the son of Duke Signius, the closest thing that Eyrar had to an rival but in his current position King Eyrar wouldn’t be losing his throne anytime soon.

The young draconian was about to pipe up again, predictably rising to the thinly-veiled threat of the King, when a raspy, reptilian “Silence” echoed through the chamber causing the Scion to noticeably shrink. “But Father, he -.” came the beginning before it was brutally cut off by the same raspy voice.

“I heard all that transpired in here and the king was well within his right to say what he said. You’ve damaged the King’s property so you should be lucky that you’ll only be paying for a group of men to ride out to find the caravan to procure a replacement which you’ll also be funding for the king. If you have any problems with this, feel free to speak up now.” The Duke Signius was an intimidating creature at the best of times; the jagged tear running from the tip of his brow to the bottom of his chin portrayed an aura of death and horror, the cut still had jagged pieces of dead flesh hanging off in parts. Tyrannius meekly nodded in returned and turned on his heel, shooting the impassive Knight-Commander a fierce look which drew no response out of the statuesque man. “I’m sorry for my son” the duke started with “he seems to think because I gave him a few pieces of land from his inheritance that he suddenly rules the land. It all went to his head and I just can’t work out why; his other two brothers are nothing like him, the pretentious twit.”

King Eyrar smiled at the Draconian leader standing opposite him; whilst their two people had always jousted for control of the kingdom, the two leaders had always been on amicable terms. The Duke was cunning, brave and an impeccable general who’d led the Arturian armies to victories before Eyrar’s father had even been born. “It’s okay Signius, the father is not responsible for the sins of their sons” he said quite sagely before adding “at least as long as they’re only minor offences” with a quiet smirk; a knowing look passed between the two of them as a personal joke flashed between the two minds. “Now as I was saying to your son before he somewhat impressively decided to have a fit of rage; it appears that we’ve annihilated the last of the bandit tribes here” he explained pointing out a ridge on the very border of a rather new looking map sprawled across the table.

“Ah and there’s no sign in any of the camps of people of locations they’d found further West of them?” asked Signius, gazing over the forests that’d recently been purged.The kingdom was at a stage where’d they outgrown their own cartography. The borders of their controlled territory were basically the borders of their known maps, it seemed like there was little else for the Kingdom to conquer.

“No, all the mentioned was empty plains; fertile enough and plenty of water to sustain peaceful expansion but where’s the fun in that? It appears, Duke Signius, that we are out of fight and if that continues this kingdom may struggle. We are born and bred for bloodlust to do without is often disastrous as you’d well know. All we have to go on is the tall tales of the caravans that pass through here.”

“I know My Lord, enemies will always appear it is the way of the world. In the meantime we can re-equip our forces, expand our railways and cement our place in the world.” The Draconian replied, deep in thought about how he’d work to keep the Kingdom together or maybe even split it apart. A kingdom run by the nobility is a powerful one but it only stays united if they can be kept happy. The extension of having a four different races holding different levels and types of power only accentuated the difficulties of running the kingdom. The easiest way of maintaining this kingdom would be through victory in war; nothing was a greater unifier than a battlefield and nothing provides joy like a comprehensive victory for a people who worshipped bloodlust. This was all something for Eyrar to ponder as he stared over the map; with no one to fight how could he provide a victory?

Sarkansa City; Imperial Palace; Throneroom

The Imperator, Sarkasian Wolfjaw saw upon the thone in his natural form, to most he'd appear to be human. But anyone with extended contact with Lycanthropes could see that he maintained more hair than most humans, his posture was that of a predator ready to pounce at a moments notice and his clothing seemed designed to fit loosely in places, the Lycanthropes, long since past the age of persecution finally had tailors willing to design clothing suited to them to prevent the embarrassment of finding themselves naked after the change.

Instead, he found himself listening to a detailed breakdown of all the possible misfortunes that could possibly effect a single lowly merchant. The tirade of dullness seemed to be entirely relentless and Sarkasian began to wonder if his jaws clamped around the Orc Merchant's throat could stop him when it finally ended. "And so my Imperator. I've come to beg for five hundred sarks to cover my multitudinous losses, a fair request for recompense my lord."

That was the straw that broke the ogres back, the whole court goggled at the daring of the idiot. Some even uttered a good laugh at the mans expense. But the look on the Imperator's face was not one that bespoke of this petty mans gall as an amusing thing. The temperature of the vast stone throne-room seemed to drop in the mans icy stare. When Sarkasian shifted into his were-form the full import of his error reached the merchants own survival instincts and whispered 'you dun fucked up' to him.

"You spin us a tale of woe and misfortune about how bad weather ruined your trade goods. How bandits made off with what wasn't ruined. How your wife sleeping with your son, the son your mistress bore you, is somehow the fault of the state. And that's just the summary." Sarkasian strode down the steps to face the man. "You have come here to extort gold from the government based on some percieved debt owed to you by your citizenship. Is that right?" The words were laden with venom.

The High Orc flustered trying to loosen the shirt that suddenly felt too tight at the collar. "Ah, well, that's not how i'd have put it,.."

"Is it not?" Sarkasian snapped. "You are guilty of attempted extortion of the Unified Government of Sarkor. I pronounce a sentence of ten years hard labour on the rail lines. Should you prove 'unsuited' to such work, a space can be made for you in the salt mines."

The High Orc collapsed to his knees and began to weep.

---

Alvalon; Murderbowl; Commentators Booth

"Welcome to the Murderbowl for another sunny day of Blood Bowl ladies and gentlemen." One of the Commentators. Einrik the Ravager, ex-Blitzer for a Lycanthrope team called the Sarkor Ravagers.

"Aye, should be another good and bloody day Einrik," the second commendator remarked, a High Orc named Jork Maddork, "today we have the Alvalon Gutbusters playing against the Rutarian Highlords. It's always fun to watch an all-dwarf team up against an all high-elf team."

"Indeed it is Jork, one loves to shoulder its way through all obstacles, the other likes to throw the ball a lot. You can never tell what's going to happen!" Einrik said. "But my money is on the Gutbusters, they've had a great season, and with the Aeyva Nightowl out with a case of mild death the Highlords don't have her leadership."

"Indeed Einrik, nobody expected Yanken to go full Lycan during that match, let alone a breeding frenzy. I don't think he'd even realised she was dead until he had spent himself." Jork pointed out. "Or at least I hope not, Yanken is a sick puppy at the best of times!"

The roar of the crowd signalled the teams coming down onto the field as the hedge-mages broadcast the commentary throughout the stadium.

Sixteen Coastborn Dwarves and Sixteen High Elves came onto the field, men were predominant though there were some women on both teams. The crowd went nuts, the Gutbusters and Highlords were two of the top seeded teams, though as the commentators had been so kind to point out, the Highlords had been forced to replace their star thrower after she was mated and killed by the rapid lycanthrope Yanken Hardball, star blitzer of the Lowborn Howlers.

As the coin toss began the High Elf team Captain, Blitzer Sheyn Ti, called out heads. Coming down as crowns the Gutbusters elected to receive the ball.

The lithe high elves kicked the ball with such fury that it nearly reached the dwarven endzone but managed to be caught by the man they had stationed there who tucked up and began his charge across the field, the long kick gave the High elves the expected time they wanted to put their plan into motion, but, unfortunately, the fists and boots of the other Gutbuster team-mates took the advantage back as the little fellow continued his run.

The crowd all flinched when Longarm Gutbreaker, a blocker of the Gutbusters punched the Highlords Star Blizter, Lewyin Longlegs in the crown jewels, the High elf dropping to the ground grasping his crotch and eyes boggling from beneath his helmet before Longarm booted the elf in the head and ran off looking for another elf. "Oooh, that's gotta sting, looks like Longarm is still aiming for that new 'cockpuncher of the year' title he promised he'd get this season." Einrick audibly winced.

"Indeed, and doesn't Longlegs look like he's feeling every inch of that ambition today. I don't think he'll be enjoying the company of any fans tonight, he's got a date with a bag of ice and tears." Jork remarked. The Gutbusters ran on for a touchdown and the crowd went nuts.

---

The Sunder; The High Tower;

Elliana prowled the tower-top as she studied the tome she held. It was mostly gibberish, written by idiots and imbeciles trying to catalogue the fall of the world and the Cataclysm, Elliania's father had seen some of the fall and it was beyond interesting. While he, and others who'd been alive at the time, could recall the Cataclysm perfectly, remember every detail any time they tried to speak of it, or scribe it down, the words were distorted and broken.

But this one had been in the hands of the Cult of the Natural Order. The owner of it was now bound with bands of shadow to a spike that protruded from the High Tower. He'd attempted to poison one of the primary wells of the Citadel but had been spotted by some off-duty Dwarves who'd half beaten him to death. Now Elliania looked at him. "An interesting tome you had." She remarked. "Some of the phrases are even not distorted, though they're meaningless on their own. Most curious."

"Doglicking bitch, you're not fit to read those words, you're not fit to breed with the beasts you consort with." The Cultist snarled, a High Elf born. Elliania didn't make any visible reaction.

"You'd be surprised how talented Orcs and Lycanthropes can be in that area." She remarked as a hand raised. Glowing with red energy. In response the runes she'd carved over his body began to glow and he began to scream. "Frigid cowards like you think that the missionary is the height of pleasure." The runes glowed brighter and he screamed louder. "But that doesn't tell me anything about how you came to be in control of such a tome." The red light faded and slowly the carved runes dulled back into acquiescent red. Ending pain too suddenly can rend a man as unconscious as applying too much too quickly. The body needs time to adjust to such radical changes. "And the poison, it can't have been easy to get that much hemlock and nightshade." She said plainly.

The Cultist looked fearful. "I won't say anything!" He decided was the right thing to say.

The reaction convinced him he had mis-chosen. The runes began to glow once more but worse... as he looked down he could see that his fingers and toes had begun to rot as if from frostbite. "I'm sure you don't mean that, I mean you never know what could possibly happen." The death in his fingers and hands began to creep inexorably. He suddenly realised that Elliania was really doing it. There was no illusion. She was using death magic to kill his extremities and start their decay.

"Please please no oh gods no not this!" He blabbered. "There is an town we have hidden in the blackheart woods, an apothecary there was growing it for this."

"Where." Elliania snapped. "Details or any kids you have would have to be undead." The poor bastard felt a tingling in his balls to accent the point.

"A league north of Rutaria!" He screamed.

"Ah, very good. Now that wasn't so hard was it." Elliania smiled. "Feed him to the Hydras. And keep it quiet." She said and her guards grabbed the babbling man.

The Orc that stepped up next to her next looked grim. "That's not good news." He said in a voice that rumbled like thunder.

"No." Elliania sat back against the cold stone. "I hated doing that. But it was necessary. So Axeborn, Wolfjaw has given you a free hand to deal with this what are you going to do?"

Krothog Axeborn sat down next to her. "What I must. I'm taking the Royal Wargs to flush them out, and asking for the Sky Lord to be there to provide air support. It'd be a great comfort if you could join us milady, we'll be moving too fast to take any Crossbowmen. I want this town flushed out and burned down before they realise their ploy here failed."

Elliania groaned. "Ok old friend, but you know I hate riding Wargs."

"Don't worry." He smiled. "I'm sure we can round up a horse for you."

---

Akeholm; Inn of the Broken Furniture; Common Room

General Toldan Gunderheist rolled awake with a snort that was half a sneeze and half a snore. The ground was sticky beneath his hands as he stood up and the common room of the inn.... well it was basically a total writeoff. "Right, I'm not coming back for next years Gutbuster contest." He resolved suddenly as he looked at the thirty or forty other unconscious people snoring away their drink.

Toldan gripped his head at the sound of a loud high pitched voice. "You won't come back to defend your title?!"

"I won?" Toldan said. "I don't remember anything past the second keg of that brew. So how do you." He accused.

"I'm not drinking that swill, i'd be dead before the week was out." The Lycan remarked as the Bartender awoke behind the bar. Standing up he surveyed the room.

"Oh fuck me." He said resignedly. It was bad enough that his Inns reputation was so black he'd renamed it after all the brawling that happened here and that his patronage alone kept a carpenter of cheap furniture in business, for nearly a decade now.

Toldan sat down on a particularly bulky, and unconscious orc, who burped in response and tried to roll over the skilled Dwarf General keeping himself on top. "Well, maybe I will then." He said. It must have been a pretty good night he concluded.

Fairgrounds just outside the city of Mirare
Bel-Hel Festival

Shadows flickered upon surfaces of rippling light, running along the wood of trees and encircling dull stars extending their warmth from the earth. Music of an active grimness hummed in the air, driven by the white-painted figures of many players, like the sounds of a gang of devils mischievously prowling the night. Hearty bellows of laughter and feminine wails permeated between the gaps of tents as the spirits of play, seemingly emanating from the impish grins that formed where the shadows met candlelight. Countless figures moved about the grounds, fleetingly or in a drunken stupor, arm in arm or crawling upon the ground in a frightening display of acrobatics and limber. Those spidery forms, dressed in black and painted with colors to convey their status as an actor of dead, moved hand-over-foot along the dirt, spooking small groups of women with short screams from the base of their flowing skirts. The lasses would jump and just as quickly cover their moment of fright with hands upon their mouths as they giggled and continued on their way.

Indeed it was the Bel-Hel Festival of Raphae, situated upon the gnarly fairgrounds of the Mirare province. Built along the grim forests known to most as the Bel-Hel Grove, it was the perfect spot to host such a macabre party. Themed after the dead, the spiritual, the incorporeal, its participants and purveyors dressed in dark colors and painted their faces with skeletal white patterns. Freaks of nature showed their faces here, astounding the people of Raphae with strangeness and a curious fear. Nonetheless, such a black event was far from going without the rambunctious nature of Raphae's people itself; food, drink, and dance were always the main attraction. Large swathes of bodies melded together in a field of burning pits, swinging about each other in a macabre dance under the night sky and the drum-heavy music that fell from it like sinewy bats.

While certainly not the largest of Raphae's traditions by far, it did well to impress. Few could truly engage in everything it had to offer; indeed one would be remiss to realize they had only a short time in the nights to partake in what was upfront and available. Those that dabbled too shortly in too many activities failed to fully enjoy but a few as well as others. Men and women alike skirmished with one another in a battle of the gut, their weapons a cold glass of ale. Connoisseurs of the grapevine cut at one another with blades of knowledge, identifying their drinks like a detective at the scene of a crime, with a leering eye and lips curled into pride.

But battle in its truest sense was also just as prominent. As was custom for the Bel-Hel Festival, knights of the Raphae might would dress themselves in terrifying, dilapidated armors reminiscent of that which a risen skeletal soldier might don themselves. Grinning skulls covered their already darkened faces, and they carried in their hands wooden swords as they prowled through the Bel Hel forest. In its center resided a fountain of coin, given to anyone who could reach its golden, metallic waters. Those brave enough to venture inside with their own acquired sword of wood would be met with these acting knights. Their comical stumbling and groans were reflective of how seriously they took their position. In the end, the knights often claimed they always attained more entertainment value than the stubborn citizens who desired sudden wealth.

The festival only halted when the participants could not move any further, too tired to continue, too drunk to stay conscious, or too occupied with the individuals they shared a bed with that night. All throughout the night, it perpetuated, fueled by that endless energy Raphae people exhibited. And as more and more entered the wall of tents and wooden booths late into the party, more and more were reinvigorated to continue. It was always a difficult gamble to discern when they would finally end their events.

Leaning upon the curled root of a large tree, two individuals stood watch over one of many groups of dancers, eyes glued to their enthralling movements, as if the simple sight of their unity and fervor brought out such a powerful desire of longing. A small girl, decorated in a checkered suit and red cape of golden embroidery, and a much larger man, donned in a ragged set of metal and chainmail armor, head cloaked by an equally tattered black cloth.

"My condolences to your... stature and stomach, Helen," the man spoke, arms crossed and mouth grinning with a sense of superiority. The small girl maintained her gaze upon the dancers, a metal chalice in hand. She sipped it lightly and responded with a dismissive tone.

"The effects of alcohol are of no matter when I put my mind to it. The colleges of Ornuel have more than once given me insight into the negation of livery harm," she stated. "I-" she paused to take a sip, "can drink," this time a gulp, "as much as I want." Archmage Helen finished with a several-second long swallow of the rest of her drink before gasping in satisfaction. Looking up to the armored man, she returned his jest with such a look of victory that the man could only roll his eyes in hard-pressed defeat. "And I don't plan on using the magic for now. I'm here to enjoy every nihilistic mistake I can."

"I fear for Carinna's mindset," he laughed.

"I fear for how it will be compounded by her mother's," Helen added. The two laughed together for a good while, until Helen promptly dropped to the dirt floor with a thud. The knight she spoke to paused for a moment in concern, then continued to laugh.

Warrior Arena, Kinthar, Capital City of the Kinthari Imperium

Bel-Khadan drew his greatsword into both hands, holding the tall weapon at the ready, his eyes not leaving his opponent, the sand beneath their feet gave way easily enough to their steps, as they circled one another the circle getting tighter and tighter with each step. The crowd was silent above them, watching in anticipation of the duel that had been the talk of the streets for nearly three weeks, the lowborn Elf who had stunned his High Elf brothers with his martial prowess, and now the fruits of his skills and training were before him, acceptance into the Swordmasters, immortality in the pages of history, proof that the average Elf could become one of the fabled Swordmasters. Korhal leapt forward suddenly, his weapon sweeping in and arc, low and precise, causing Bel-Khadan to jump back, the edge of Tyrion’s blade swinging through where his knee had been less than a second before. Focussing on the task at hand once more, the Elf brought his blade down in and overhead strike, hoping to use Tyrion’s posture to his advantage. The High Elf was far swifter than he appeared, laden down with a greatsword in his hands, and the weight of his scale armour and two longswords that were sheathed across his back, rolling to the left of the strike and coming up with his blade, grains of sand trailing the arc of the blade.

Bel-Khadan couldn’t bring his own blade back up in time to parry the strike, so he twisted to the side, keeping his greatsword embedded in the sand and narrowly missing the keen edge of Tyrion, kicking out to gain some breathing room from the veteran Swordmaster. The pair backed away from one another, circling again as they feinted now and again trying to open a gap in each other’s defences, the crowd was cheering as barely ten seconds had passed from Tyrion’s first lunge, but the two warriors couldn’t hear the crowd, their thoughts were all gathered to the goal of victory, all their senses fixated on one another. Bel-Khadan lunged forward, sweeping his blade in a wide arc, sparks erupting from where Tyrion’s own blade met his, the loss of momentum cause Bel-Khadan to continue the swing in another direction, a complete rotation that was not in the usual patterns of a Swordmaster, causing Tyrion to tilt his blade to back to deflect it. Despite the many years Tyrion had on Bel-Khadan, this was something the Swordmaster liked about the elf, he didn’t give up, even if his original tactic failed, he would somehow twist something out to catch someone unawares. Both warriors were silent as they continued, each attack met with a parry, every thrust met with a counter, both twisting aside of blades, the crowd roaring around them. Bel-Khadan surged forward, catching Tyrion’s blade and locking the two together, the Swordmaster felt the sand give beneath his, he fell back a step, the young elf following him, keeping their blades locked, the elf possessed strength that was beyond normal, suddenly Tyrion felt the pressure ease and his eyes widened as he realise his mistake, Bel-Khadan’s armoured leg flashed out, catching the Swordmaster in the side of the knee with enough force to cause the Swordmaster to lose strength and fall to one knee in the sand, the heavy greatswords pushed closer to his chest. Tyrion smiled, he had not seen that coming, a trait he had learned to expect from Bel-Khadan, pushing back with all his strength, Tyrion released his hold on his greatsword, both hands gripping the hilts the pair of longswords on his back.

Bel-Khadan watched carefully as Tyrion’s sword fell into the sand, keeping his distance of the two blades was his only tactic at the moment, with a greatsword, Tyrion was lethal, with his two swords; the Swordmaster was all but unstoppable. The crowd cheers loudly, as the Swordmaster danced closer, his left blade catching Bel-Khadan’s greatsword in the blink of the eye, his right coming around to try and catch the elf’s leg, Bel-Khadan leapt back from the strike, trying desperately to keep the distance to allow his greater reach to come back to his advantage, Tyrion was having none of it, keeping pace and easily deflecting attempts to ward him off. Both blades came down in an overhead strike, Bel-Khadan barely had a chance to raise his blade to block them, the impact driving him to one knee, Tyrion’s boot connected to his chest, sending him sprawling to the sand, his helm falling away to lay in the furrowed and marked sand around the pair. Tyrion leapt again, intending to end the duel at last, Bel-Khadan left his greatsword in the sand as he clambered to his feet, catching Tyrion mid-leap, both hands locking around the Swordmaster’s wrists, Tyrion’s surprise was evident on his face, as Bel-Khadan used his greater strength to manipulate Tyrion’s wrists, effectively causing the Swordmaster to avoid his own swords. He ducked back, the horsehair of his helm falling around him, and he felt Bel-Khadan release his hold on the Swordmaster’s wrists, pushing him back. Looking up, he watched the elf pick up his greatsword again, before pointing to the sand between them, several red strings lay in the sand, individual strands of the horsehair the was a part of his helm. Tyrion bowed his head in acknowledgement of how close he had come to losing the duel. Bel-Khadan readied himself again, before lunging forward, no longer trying to keep the distance, sparks flashed as blades struck, the sand around their feet rising as if the speed of their movements was creating a small whirlwind. And above them the citizenry of the Imperium cheered their joy of watching the duel, while in an arched booth, surrounded by ten Swordmasters, sat Emperor Bel-adir, his wife at his side, his son leaning against the edge of the booth.

“This elf is rather good,” his wife said, Lady Cristina was not fond of the Arena, she felt it was too warlike for the Imperium.

“Forgive me, Lady, but that elf is beyond good, he is facing a Blademaster, lasting this long is an achievement few can attain,” spoke one of the usually silent Swordmasters, his face hidden behind a veil of chainmail, his silvery eyes fixed on the duelling pair.

“Blademaster?” asked young Tyris, the Emperor’s son.

“The Blademasters, son, are the captains of the Swordmasters, theirs is the right to wear those additional blades, and often they are more lethal with their longswords than their greatswords,” answered Bel-adir, watching with interest as Bel-Khadan managed to yet again drive Tyrion to the sand.

Tyrion breathed heavily as he got to his feet again, he could see the exhaustion was setting in on both of them, the way Bel-Khadan kept his greatsword closer to the ground now, and the aching in his own muscles spoke volumes. Not in his wildest dreams had he believed Bel-Khadan ready to last this long against him, he had tutored the elf, taught him everything there is to know of the Swordmasters, but this test was not supposed to be this way, he wanted to demonstrate Bel-Khadan’s skills to the entire Imperium, but he had not expected the closeness of the contest. With a light sigh, Tyrion lunged forward again, it was time to end this. Bel-Khadan managed to parry the first strike, and narrowly avoided the second, the third caused the him to almost lose his greatsword, the fourth drove him against the Arena wall, the fifth sparked against the wall as he ducked and rolled aside. Tyrion struggled to not let the exhaustion show as he followed the younger elf, his helm was stifling now, he couldn’t keep pace with him for much longer. Bel-Khadan leapt forward now, Tyrion parried the strike easily enough and twisted away, but Bel-Khadan kept with him, aiming high, Tyrion knocked the strike aside, deflecting it over his shoulder, and aimed to drive the point of his blade into Bel-Khadan’s thigh. His blade never reached the elf, he leapt back with his greatsword still at the ready, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Enough!” roared a voice from heavens, the crowd fell silent as they slowly lowered themselves back to their seats.

With a beat like thunder, the golden majesty that was Draugithar’nuin descended from the clouds, the great dragon settled atop one of the four towers that were a part of the Arena, his long tail wrapping around the marble building carefully, he was old enough to know how much power to exert when landing atop a building, tiny furrows were all that marked his landing on the tower, but he stared at the two combatants with eyes of blood red. Both warriors bowed towards him, before Emperor Bel-adir stepped forward from his booth.

“Forgive us Great One, but this contest is to first blood, as is the law of the Swordmasters,” stated Bel-adir, his voice carried to the Dragon easily despite the distance.

“And First Blood has been given, young Bel-adir,” declared the golden dragon.

Murmurs rose from the crowd, none had seen the blow, then Tyrion planted his swords in the sand, and removed his helmet, placing his hand against the side of his neck, he drew it back with a look of surprise, the red wetness of his blood covered his hand, and he rose it to the crowd. A thin line showed where Bel-Khadan’s greatsword had pressed against Tyrion’s flesh, but the speed and fury with which they had fought, neither had noticed. Tyrion closed his eyes as he replayed every scene of the duel, his mind stopping on the high strike he had deflected, had he not pushed the blade far enough away? Had Bel-Khadan noticed and leapt back while he, a Blademaster of the Swordmasters, had continued unknowing he had been bested?

“Well fought, lord Tyrion, and well won, young Bel-Khadan, welcome to the Swordmasters, you are a fine example of what even the average elf can attain through training and determination,” roared Draugithar’nuin, taking flight once more, his large frame vanishing into the sky.

The crowd roared their joy at the spectacle that was before them, Tyrion bowing to his fellow Swordmaster, before sheathing his two blades and picking up the helm that had been discarded by the young elf. Tyrion smiled at the thought of how long it would be before he had his own tail of horsehair flowing from the back of this. Bel-Khadan rose a fist to the sky in recognition of the crowd’s cheers, before following Tyrion towards the Arena exit, the Blademaster had stopped to pick up his own greatsword, and handed the elf his helm before clapping him on his back.

“You are one of us now, Bel-Khadan, and it only gets harder now,” said Tyrion, putting his helmet back into place.

“Only just, I feel like I’ll faint,” muttered Bel-Khadan.

“I wouldn’t, if you faint you’ll miss your first duty as a Swordmaster,”

Bel-Khadan’s eyes widened in shock, until he saw Tyrion was smiling, then laughing as the stamp of a dozen armoured feet closed towards them.

“Your first duty, celebrate your victory, it’s not every day a mentor is bested by his pupil, enjoy your victory Bel-Khadan, for tomorrow, you shall begin your duties as a Swordmaster, but for tonight, you can celebrate it how you wish,” said Tyrion, as the Swordmasters began to clap both on the back, and they clustered around their new comrade, leading him to the best inn in town.

From the shadows just out of sight, a beautiful woman stepped forward, Tyrion turning to face her with a smile. Cyrene Ravenhair smiled back at him, before they both made their own way silently back home. She knew the truth of the matter, Bel-Khadan had surprised the Imperium with his victory, but Tyrion had known it would happen, not through allowing the elf to land a blow against him, but because he suffered as all Blademasters suffered when their time was coming to an end, plagued by dreams of their death, but Fate was fickle, and gave no hint at when such an event would happen, but what Tyrion did know, as well as Cyrene, war burned on the horizon, but for who did it burn? Whoever it burned for, Tyrion knew his death lay within it's flames.

The Music of the Beybarids

0500, Somewhere in the Sorry Slums, Port Babel, Babel

Torchlight leaked onto the street from a sandstone house, one much like the thousands of others nearby. But this building was no home or shop.

Inside, a crowd of three dozen cheered and jeered from behind a railing. What might have been an old inn had been re-purposed into a brawling pit, and in it were two chickens, knives tied to their bellies.

“Last chance to place your wager! Last chance to bet, fight will start on the sound of the bell!” cried a man on a podium. A sheet of stone marked with graphite listed numbers: 3 to 1 Tamul the Wily, 1.3 to 1 Fat Mamma.

A kender and a gnoll, just two parts of the the crowd, occupied the corner. The kender sat on a barrel, and took intermittent sips from a wine bottle he held. Though he tried to lean on the railing, his balance was kilted. Purple circles surrounded his droopy eyes.

The gnoll was bouncing up and down, wide-eyed, salivating, panting, counting the coins in his satchel.

“Baddy?” mumbled the kender.

The gnoll did not notice. He was placing coins into a purse, and trying to place it in the podium-man's hand. “For Fat Mamma!” The man eventually saw the coins, took them, and handed the gnoll a parchment slip. The slip was marked with a red seal, and 'ten shillies' was written next to it in fresh ink.

“Hey, Baddy?” the kender repeated louder.

“What, Horus, what? Place bet! Fight 'gonna start!”

“What time is it?”

“Me no know. Why care? Look! Fight!”

The kender looked toward the door. Two windows were near it, but both were boarded up. The kender was aware of his inebriation and lack of sleep, as this is what prompted his question to Baddy in the first place, but he thought he could make out sunlight from behind the boarding planks. “How long have we been here?”

“You drunk!” Baddy let out the shrill laugh characteristic of his people. “I think hours.”

“But. . . how many?”

“I said hours. Few. Three. Four. I not know.”

“We got here at. . .” the kender paused to scratch his head “. . . got here at eighteen?”

The bell dinged twice. “Fight!” called the podium-man. The crowd erupted, as did Baddy, and the two frenzied animals tore into each other.

But Horus didn't care for the fight. They had been going on all night, with the same podium-man calling the same things in the same room since as far back into the night as he could remember. All Horus cared about was going outside.

“I'm 'gonna. . . take a walk,” he tried to say to Baddy, but the gnoll wasn't aware of anything other than the fight.

Horus set his bottle down and stumbled his way out the door. Dim orange light and hot, dry air hit him like a punch.

Truly, how much time had passed? It looked like the sun was still setting. Had they only been in there for less than an hour?

But then, Horus realized where the sunlight came from: the eastern sky. Even in his state, that much was clear. And it dawned on him as the sun did: they had been in there from sunrise to sundown, even though there was something important that needed to be done.

He tried to piece together what he remembered. A mention of the place, a resting stop, but he couldn't remember what they needed to do. He shook his head. The only thing he could think about was a warm feather bed.

The kender stretched, and yawned. He would come back for Baddy later. The gnoll would probably still be there when he woke up.

Horus meandered along the streets, trying not to bump into anything. The torches in houses and on posts were being put out by men and women, rising to seize the day. Horus nearly tripped over an old homeless man, who wearily stuck a coin mug in his face. He was hoping to find the inn he had originally slept in, but any place at all would do.

He had to cross through an alleyway, and the stench of death overpowered him on entrance. A laughing gnoll was scratching the cheeks of an immobile man, pale, devoid of any warmth, surrounded by flies, and with skin caved in at parts of his body. The gnoll was drawing up dead flesh, as a child might with a cake, and sticking it in his mouth to suck it up. He didn't even notice Horus as he stumbled by, out through to the other side of the alley.

On the other end was a little hut set up next to the canal. Several young human boys, children, were inside. They were smoking lit leaves an old man was giving them. One of them started giggling, and charged out of the tent abruptly, full of energy, bouncing around the street like a rabbit. “The poppy will make us high! The poppy will make us high!” he kept calling. As he was bounding around, he took a misstep, and dropped into the canal. The current started to carry him away. The child was still laughing, repeating his phrase as the current dragged him further and further, either toward the ocean, or the sewers.

Horus made his way to a busier street after some time. People were awaking in earnest. Some were walking to the edge of the canal to take a shit on the stones, before wiping their ass with a few deft handstrokes. Horus hoped this was indeed the canal to the sewer.

The street itself was narrow, flanked on both sides by buildings at least three stories tall. One building on the right had no door, but merely a set of stairs, and columns made in the style of antiquity. Inside, a gnoll sat on a couch, caressing two beautiful human women, dressed in revealing silks. He, and other men on other couches, took puffs from their hookah, or sips from coffee cups, and chatted.

Horus dodged a man dressed in pink silk and jewels, beside a huge camel. Three camels were tied to each other behind his, each carrying boxes and sacks of trinkets. Horus swiped a silver kettle. It was the best he could manage as he was.

An ogre held a man by the throat, with a stone in his right hand. Two other ogres stood on either side. The man was bleeding profusely from the head, holding his hands out, trying to speak, flailing his legs. He was a man dressed in moth-eaten rags, with a thick black beard, and gnarly yellow teeth.

“You owe us. You borrowed from us. But you didn't plan to pay us back,” said the strangling ogre.

“I-I'm sorry. I want. . . to get work,” the man managed.

“When you say work, do you mean as a wallflower at the track? Or a dice roller?”

“Work. Want to stop. . . that.” The man looked to be near collapse. The ogre growled, then delivered a sudden blow with the stone, but this time to the solar-plex, then let the man's throat go. The man feel to ground, coughing blood, choking, but alive.

Horus continued on. Stall managed by of every race in the city lined the street. They called out goods and prices to create the grey noise of commerce. Horus swiped a wrapped stack of parchment for no particular reason.

A man tapped Horus on the shoulder. “Would you like to buy a camel? Very cheap, very good camel, not too old.”

Horus shook his head. “What would I do with a camel?”

The man laughed. “Take it to the beach? It would be your camel, you could go where you wish with it.”

Horus turned away and continued on. The man went to pester someone else.

A very large shop occupied the attention of a crowd. 'Mobo and Son Goldsmiths' was written in shiny gold script above the store's door. Horus couldn't quite remember how, but he found a ruby pendant encased in gold, with an equally pure gold chain, hanging over his silver kettle.

Horus saw what looked to be an inn. In painted white script was 'The Feather Inn' and a picture of a feather, drawn on a swinging signpost protruding over the street. 'Feather Beds, free meals to guests!' was written at the bottom of the sign. He made his way into the inn, up the stairs, past the crappy lock on the nearest room, and toppled over the bed.

Warm and feathered, just like he imagined.

~ * ~

0800, The Feather Inn, Port Babel, Babel

“You are Garlo?” asked the Ogre. He wore a chain vest that encased a bulging belly, and held a pike in one hand. His feet were bare. His skin was tan, and bags drooped over his yellow eyes. His large figure cast a shadow over the table, even with the morning sunlight pouring in from the tavern windows.

“Aye,” Garlo replied. “Garlo Diamondeyes. You must be Saul.” The dwarf wore patched, tattered, hooded brown robes. His skin was pale and wrinkled. His eyes were the color of ice. They were transfixed on the air in front of them, oblivious to what lay beyond. Garlo gestured to the seat across from him. “Have a seat.” Saul tried to fit his bulky form over the chair, forcing him into a kind of fetal position. “Looking 'fer a bodyguard for my caravan.”

Saul grunted. “Where to?”

“The western deserts.”

“Sagev Sal?”

“Nay. Further.”

“There is no place further west.”

Garlo shook his head. “There is.”

“Villages, perhaps, but no place for a monk.”

“Who says I'm a monk?”

Saul shrugged. “You dress like one. You are a dwarf, and you are old.”

Garlo waved his hands over his self. “You see any pendants? I'm a merchant.”

Saul laughed. “Merchants dress in silk and jewels, not a potato sack!”

“Times are hard. You going to get me where I'm going, or you just going to keep 'laughin?”

“Tell me where we are going.”

“You wouldn't know.”

“We Ogres know the deserts better than any dwarf. Do not be prideful.”

“Whose prideful? Just leave 'gettin there to me.” Saul shifted in his seat, which creaked under his girth. The tavern door happened to be open. Outside, Garlo could make out a dozen Ogres, wearing padded leather armor, and carrying pikes.

“Those your men?”

Saul grunted.

“This is going to be a long journey. I don't know how long it'll take. If I had to guess, five days. Maybe a week, maybe longer.”

“Tell me where.”

The dwarf stared into the Ogre's rheumy yellow eyes, and those bloodshot orbs stared back into his. Garlo turned his head around. The few morning patrons of the sleepy inn ate breakfast with sedated conversation. No one was alone, no one looked to be watching them. There were no kender or gnolls. Garlo leaned over the table and spoke in a hushed voice, something between talking and whispering. “You know the snakemen?”

“I have never met one. I have seen them, but they do not speak.”

“Nay, they can speak. An old friend of mine introduced me to one.”

Saul arched an eyebrow. It was the first emotion Garlo had seen the ogre express. “Who was this friend?”

“Never you mind. So, my friend helped me talk to this snakeman. I just wanted to talk, just curious. I didn't expect to learn what I did.”

“Which was?”

“I'm 'gettin to it!” In his peripheral vision, Garlo thought he saw the two men at the other end of the tavern staring at him. He darted his head to them, but the men were relaxed, talking normally, hunched over their food. Garlo turned back to Saul. “The snakeman was named Tsseek. He was a merchant of sorts himself. Mind, they don't call 'em merchants, but that's the only word I know for 'em. Anyhow, he was there to look for some things to buy, and learn how to speak our language. He said he came from a city called S-thar-tiss-un. Hope I'm pronouncing that right.”

“And you wish to go to this place to trade?”

“Aye. Tsseek agreed to guide me to the city under the conditions that he keeps a third of my product, that the journey be secret, and that I do whatever he says.”

“You trust this snake-man?”

Garlo shook his head.

“You do not trust him, yet you place your life and wealth in his hands?”

“I'm old, and desperate. Beggars can nay be choosers.”

“I will not risk my men or myself without the right compensation.”

“And look who knows the desert so well. My coin is good as any. Tsseek will meet us outside the city gates, near the caravansary. If you're going to keep belly-achin, keep your arse warm on that chair. Otherwise, be there at sunset. That's all.”

The old dwarf grunted as he hoisted a backpack over his shoulder, and lept off the tavern chair, waltzing out into Babel's scorching morning sun.

~ * ~

0830, the Harbor, Port Babel, Babel

The light blue water sloshed against the docks of port. Ogres and men moved crates from a nearby warehouse onto a caravel. The ship was ornately decorated, with a bow sculpted into the shape of a mermaid. Its flag was purple, with a large black paw taking up its center.

A gnoll stood overlooking the scene. He was hunchbacked, fidgeting with his criss-crossed paws. He was not dressed like most gnolls: he wore a long, navy blue velvet robe, with gold-and-silver-colored trim that gleaned in the sunlight. Large jewel earrings, some hoops, others solid stones, dangled from his large ears, which twitched involuntarily.

“Hey, jackal face!” cried a dockworker. The gnoll turned to the man. “It is two more ships like this that need filling, yes?”

“Yes, yes, two ships, like this one, down two docks, need ready quick, very quick.” The gnoll spoke quickly and panted equally fast. “Name not jackalface,” he added, “name Velvetpaws.”

“Hah, you gnolls all have face of jackal. We will call you jackalface.” The man left, laughing at his own joke.

The gnoll did not look like a jackal. He resembled a hyena, like most of his people. But Velvetpaws did not reply or give chase. He looked over to a nearby crate.

It was a simple wooden crate, marked with a black paw on the side. It was filled with hay to protect the merchandise. Inside were heart-shaped vials of dark pink liquid. Velvetpaws picked up a vial, and cradled it in his hand, twisting it, turning it, spraying it into the air, spraying it across his body. He inhaled deeply of the misty cloud that formed, and let out a hacking cough mixed with the characteristic, heckling laugh of his people before pocketing the vial and looking out to the sea.

The waters beyond were dotted with dozens of tiny islands. Swaying palm trees and shifting sand covered them. Ships manoeuvred around them skillfully, against crashing waves, thick with white salt, heading forward toward the rising sun.

Velvetpaws gazed wide-eyed into the ocean beyond, fidgeting, licking his lips, panting.

~ * ~

1900, Port Babel Caravansary, Babel

Tsseek hissed and growled. Mukad stood nearby, bobbing his head to the gibberish.

“The journey's length will depend on weather,” Mukad said, without moving his eyes away from Tsseek, who continued hissing, “but it will be dangerous no matter what.”

Mukad was a coastborn dwarf, native to Babel. He was strong, dark-eyed, tan-skinned and brown-bearded. He wore a loose purple velvet vest over his bare, muscular chest, and baggy cotton pants with worn sandals. A steel scimitar, sharpened to needle's edge, dangled from his hip, reflecting a blinding glare. Mukad was an old friend, but far younger than Garlo.

“If those bodyguards I hired don't lose their nerve, we can depart tonight, aye?”

“Aye. You did not tell them where we are going, did you?”

“He refused to escort us unless I told him.”

“No one shall escort us unless you do not tell them where it is we are going.”

“Cut me a break, I can'nee-” Garlo stopped when he saw Ogres approaching him. It was Saul. His men were on the backs of massive camels. Several camels carried nothing but crates and bags. “Speak of the devil.” Garlo walked up to Saul. “I thought this was too risky for you?” he said to him.

“As you said, dwarf; I am old and desperate. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

They chuckled, and smiled with bared teeth and furrowed brows.

~ * ~

2300, the Harbor, Port Babel, Babel

The three purple-flagged ships were set to sail on the eve hour of midnight, under the Tower of Babel's guiding light.

At night, few pirates roamed the ends of the harbor. Some crews had been known to set anchor on inconspicuous islands close to shore, then assail merchant ships leaving fresh from port, but this was difficult and inconvenient to do in the dark.

Velvetpaws sat in the captain's cabin of his main ship: Brave Lucy. It was an old ship purchased on the credit of his bank loan, but it was the biggest of the three he had, and it would be enough to last the trip ahead.

The gnoll sat at a desk, illuminated by a half dozen candles, tracing lines over a map. The map displayed the whole land of Babel, including all its political boundaries and terrains, but more importantly it showed the coast, and all the islands and ocean currently known. Velvetpaws was diligently crossing lines on the map with a quill attached to a compass, when three knocks rapped on the cabin's closed oak door.

“Me busy. Important?”

“Ah, yes, sir it is very important.” Velvetpaws did not recognize the voice.

“Wait, I open!” The gnoll opened the cabinet under his desk, containing a dagger in a small scabbard. He quickly tied the scabbard under his robes, making sure it was covered, before walking over to the door, and peeking through its miniature port window.

A stone-faced desert ogre in a fine black robe, stood next to a young man, dressed in patterned silk, furs, and jewels. The man tapped his feet, left hand clutching his right wrist, and the the ogre stood straight. Velvetpaws cautiously opened the ajar, and peeked his head around.

“Yes? Who you two?”

The two looked down. The man arched an eyebrow. “Velvetpaws?” he said.

“Yes.”

“The merchant?”

“Yes-s-s.”

The man darted his head around the ship, quickly appraising it. He turned back to the gnoll, pointing an index finger to the deck. “And this is your ship?”

The gnoll heckled. “What you want?”

“Ah, well, I apologize. May we come in?” he gestured inside the cabin. Velvetpaws hesitated, but opened the door fully, and beckoned them inside as he stepped back over to his desk. The man and the ogre stepped in after him, closing the door behind them. They pulled up two chairs in front of the gnoll's desk. Velvepaws continued to draw on his map, not making eye contact with his two visitors.

“I apologize, it's just, we were expecting someone fitting a different description.”

“Name Velvetpaws. What you expect?” he heckled, “I not care. Say what you need.”

“Right. Well, sir, we represent the administration of Baron Black. I myself am a diplomat, and my friend here represents the Bank of the Despot.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, we've come here under information that you're mounting an expedition.”

“Yes, yes, I have three ships. Trade my wares to farther lands. Two ships go away from each other, on the coast. This ship go out to ocean. We leave soon, less than an hour, me drawing final things, important things.”

“It is fortunate, then, that we have caught you in time. Baron Black has asked your permission for us to accompany you on this voyage, and allow our other emissaries to travel your other two ships.”

“I cheeks burn red. Why? What Black want? He can't have my things. I bought them, he not steal them, I paid bodyguards.”

“Oh, no-no-no! You see, Black himself is taking an interest in exploring as well. I realize this is short notice, but he is quite avid to find new markets, for both his businesses, and private ones. To this end, he is willing to pay handsomely.”

“I not exploring. There other nations out there. More than in here. Nations in trees, in cold, under dirt.”

“We share your confidence and enthusiasm, which is why we wish to accompany you. Baron Black wishes to make diplomatic connections with any new peoples you may encounter. We, of course, expect most of the them to be primitives, but-”

Velvetpaws made a wheezy chortle. “Primitives not worth meeting. Kingdoms, big kingdoms, huge empires, bigger than us, better than us, they buy what I have.”

The ogre and man looked at each other for a moment, then turned back to the gnoll. “We do not discount the idea of, ah, a great nation beyond the seas, but you must be realistic in your predictions. What is it you are planning to trade, exactly?”

“Perfume, from the very bestest stills. Fine clothes, beautiful man robes and lady dresses. Salt, pepper, nutmeg. Velvet, silk, cotton. Ivory pendants, off the tusk of great elephants.”

The man chuckled. “And suppose we meet these great nations. You believe they will want all these things? That they will even like them?”

“They are great things. Anyone would want them.”

“Well, gnoll, if you believe so. We only mean to accompany you on your passage. We are allowed to pay you,” the man drew a small purse of coins, and laid them on the table. “This amount for the permission of our emissaries to accompany you on your voyage. Expenditures for their nourishment are to be taken up by yourself, however.”

Velvetpaws looked at the small bag of coins, and undid the drawstring tying the bag together with a sharp claw. A handful of shillies laid inside.

“Need better.”

“This is all we are authorized to pay, the price is non-negotiable.”

“Make things yes-negotiable. You not come if not.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Sir, negotiable means-”

“I know negotiable.”

The man looked about ready to speak, but before he could make a remark, the ogre spoke up.

“We will pay you a larger sum of coins for the purchase of our passage of our emissaries on your ships. We will pay for our own nourishment. This is not authorized: I am willing to pay these expenses of my own volition. I apologize for my companion's remarks; you must be aware of the animosity between your two peoples out in the deserts. This man is a Beybarid turned burgher, named Fara. I am Soke, and I wish only to represent the interests of my employers. We mean no ill-will to you, and wish for the greatest success on your journey. It is clear this is no half-baked voyage, which is what the original authorized amount perhaps had in mind.”

The gnoll nodded. “I like this deal better. Maybe that plan? Low ball, then make real deal? Familiar with the trick. Maybe employers to you set it up? I no care, not important, purse of gold guineas enough to come with me. No notes, not work all places. This all?” The ogre nodded. “Be all ready in half hour, or I leave without you.”

The man looked about ready to make another remark, as his eyes were wide and his hands poised in the sign to stop, but the ogre glared at the man, and grabbed his arm to drag him away.

Later that night, all three ships departed into the unknown.

Ssussun wun Oloth, the Council's Chambers

Councillor Varrin looked out of the window of the grand stalactite that served as headquarters of the Council of Ten, from here he had a good view on the grand coliseum down in the pleasure district, he could not make out the individual shapes but he did see a horde of figures darting across the coliseum grounds and heard the chanting and cheering of the crowds. The volume rising in pitch when a crowd favorite was either victorious or was dealt a deadly blow in the arena. He looked over the rest of the city, their home, their place of rule and dominance in this underground realm of theirs that had been carved out with the blood of their people, and he had to grudgingly admit, the thrall races in their service. They had grown lax however and content to keep the status quo and now their people were restless, blades were being sharpened and drills were executed by the various household and slave regiments in service to the various houses, but was it to keep themselves alert and ready for the dangers out there? Or would there be a clan war soon, he would like to avoid that, there were great terrors in the darkness and he would slit his own throat rather than to see his people get exterminated or enslaved by a enemy who would take advantage of their weakness.

He turned around when a voice called out to him, "Councillor Varrin, if you would be so kind to stop looking out of the window and once again pay attention to the meeting?" Looking at the one who addressed him, matron Xanna of house Baenre looked at him directly with her golden eyes and gestured to the empty seat, the other seats around the circular dais already occupied by the other councilors, all save two, Varrin's and the one seat reserved at all times for a particular member of Infriet Oloth who hardly showed at these meetings.

He took his seat and bowed his head curtly, "My apologies my mind was elsewhere." He leaned back in his chair, shadows obscuring his face, he always wondered why the council at the time had designed these chairs to have their occupant's face be obscured in the shadows when not speaking. Councilor Xanna was still leaning forward her face revealed in the light of the torches lit in the council chambers, as she looked at each chair.

"Now that we are all here... and are paying attention." She began, a disapproving frown on her face when she looked at the empty seat as she spoke, "We all know why we are here... accusations have been brought before us that Houses Lo and Uss have been raising troops to take the caves of Salk, containing mushroom and grox farms belonging to house Van'Ra by force." She looked at the seats of the three councilors whose houses she just had named, only councilor Pertark of house Van'Ra leaned forward, the angry scowl on his face clear to all to see as he glared daggers at the seats of the councilors whose houses were raising troops. "The great Conclave of 236AC clearly states that only minor houses may be attacked, the great houses who have members in the Council of Ten may not be targeted by any of the great houses except by the minor houses who may wish to take over a seat on the council." Xanna continued. "What have houses Lo and Uss to say for themselves?"

The councilor of house Lo shifted in his seat and did not reveal his face, taking this as his cue Crazja, matron of house Uss leaned forward with a sly smirk on her face, "Neither my house or house Lo are in violation of the treaty discussed at the Conclave of 236AC matron mother Xanna, we merely are strengthening our borders, because we in fact heard through our agents it was house Van'Ra who was going to attack us, we merely-"

"That is a lie!" Pertark snarled slamming his balled fist down on the armrest of his chair and gestured to matron Crazja. "Most of my troops are on their rotation patrolling the passages to out outlying settlements and you and that house Lo bitch conspired to use this situation to marshal your combined forces to attack my house's land and I will not stand for that!"

"Patriarch Pertark control yourself." Xanna said, her voice low and sharp as she bore her eyes into the councilor until he bowed his head and leaned back in his chair, she looked back towards the smirking Crazja, "Continue... and wipe that smirk of your face Craz, it does not suit you to gloat so obviously."

The smirk was replaced by a small, thin smile and a narrowing of her eyes, "As you wish." She adjusted her clothes and armour and then shrugged lazily, "As I was saying, while our dear patriarch Pertark claims his troops are out patrolling the passages, we in fact gathered he is having his troops disguise themselves with weapons and armour of a minor house to invade caverns belonging to house Uss and Lo and then claim his troops 'defeated' the troops belonging to the minor house and claim the caverns to his holdings." She shrugged again, "We merely took steps to defend ourselves, nothing less, nothing more."

Xanna turned to the seat of Pertark, "Your evidence to the contrary?"

The patriarch shuffled in his seat uncomfortably and grunted, "We caught one of their spies and he revealed the plans... but died during interrogation, he however had a bran of house Lo and I have several witnesses who heard the confession before he died."

"I object, your witnesses all belong to your house no doubt and therefore only owe allegiance to you so we cannot trust any of them to speak the truth, not that any would expect that from anyone belonging to house Van'Ra." Crazja said, cleaning her nails with a small dagger as if she was bored.

The Van'Ra councilor exploded raising up from his chair with a shout and balled fists, "You take that back bitch! I will not suffer such insults to my house, if you and Lo want war then war you will get! You can count on that!" He snarled.

She twirled the dagger between her fingertips and yawned, "As if your house would last a single week, but fine I think my house and house Lo are more than happy to answer your war mongering and face you in battle and exterminate your pathetic house."

Other councilors started to speak and murmur and while Xanna opened her mouth, her face a mask of rage at the actions of both these councilors it was someone else's voice who spoke up, a dry voice which sounded unnatural and made everyone present feel a shiver down their spine. "There will be no war, I will not allow it when other options are available." As one ten faces turned to the seat which had been empty a moment before and now it was occupied, a skeletal figure with glowing eyes was sitting in it rigidly, "My great granddaughter is far too eager to go to war with her own kind." The glowing eyes of the skull turned to councilor Crazja and she let out a whimper and seemed to retreat back in her chair as if she wanted to flee. "My apologies, normally I send word I would be attending a council meeting but it seems my messenger was delayed while I was visiting the caves of Salk and ordered no more than five small armies whose loyalties lie with members of this council to return to their clan homes and stand down. It seems they were mistaken with some orders that were given to them, how fortunate I was there to correct the mistake."

He clasped his skeletal hands together, while no facial expression could be read from the skull it seemed he was very amused right now before he continued, "I think our people can do better things than slaughter each other." He let out a dry chuckle and turned to matron Xanna. "But my apologies I am speaking out of turn at this council, may I continue dear Xanna?"

Of all the councilors Xanna seemed relieved, though wary, than afraid at the presence among them and she nodded. "You have the council's attention Ze'zhuanth Uss, speak and we shall listen."

"Why thank you, how kind." He replied and stood up from the chair to walk in a circle before each seat before he stopped in the middle. "For several decades we have sit here, in our realm and secured our borders... and when they were secured... we did nothing." His eyes bored accusingly into each seat. "It is time to change that, time to stop sitting in chairs and do something. What I am proposing is twofold." He raised a bony finger, "There is a whole world above... send out emissaries, perhaps we can foster relations and rent out our services and fight something else instead of ourselves, it also keeps our troops on edge and not have them risk getting lazy and inexperienced."

He raised a second finger, "Second... I propose we send out troops to secure caverns beyond our current borders and start slowly expanding our realm and grow somewhat." He shrugged and it seems his bones rattled as he did so. "That seems like a much... simpler idea than killing our own people, but that is just my humble opinion I am certain this council consisting of the most worthy and powerful among our kind could think of something better if my suggestions do not suit the interests of our realm." With that he returned to his seat and sat back down, again a vague sense could be felt that the figure was just radiating amusement as his glowing eyes studied each seat.

It was Crazja who broke the silence after a moment, "House Uss... agrees with what the... venerable Ze'zhuanth Uss has proposed, this scion of my house clearly speaks with wisdom and therefore I offer my apologies to councilor Pertark and his house, clearly myself and house Lo were falsely informed that his house was about to attack us, to make amends I am willing to be the first house to offer its troops and resources to expand our realm and send out emissaries or traders to the world above." She quickly said, looking anywhere but the seat occupied by the skeletal figure.

"House Van'Ra... accepts the apology and offers one in return, clearly we acted too hastily and had not investigated these... rumors of a impending attack against us properly. "Pertark began and gulped, "We too offer our resources to this effort, in the hopes that it may avoid conflict among our people."

One by one each other councilor agreed with the proposal, almost reluctantly and some with clear fear in the end a uncomfortable silence came over them all and matron mother Xanna spoke up, "I think, that all has been discussed that we had to, we have all voted in favor of the proposal, I suggest that we end this meeting and all return to their respective houses to make preparations."

After this one by one councilors began to leave the chamber, after the eight member had left, three people were left.

Xanna stood up and groaned, "Sometimes I think these seats are so uncomfortable to force us to make quick decisions so we won't be stuck here for hours or days." She said with a snort and then turned to the skeletal figure who had not moved. "That matron mother of your house was creating trouble... again." The figure shrugged and she turned to the other person remaining in the room, councilor Varrin. "That was your spy house Van'Ra caught, wasn't? You learned of the scheme house Uss and Lo were up to and you forced this meeting to happen by letting that spy of yours, branded with house Lo's mark be captured by Pertark and his people."

Varrin tilted his head and rose a eyebrow, "Matron mother Xanna, I feel obligated to tell you that I or any of my house did no such thing, but if we did, better to have it happened otherwise this meeting wouldn't have taken place and three... or five... of the major houses would have been at war with each other." He sighed and pinched his nose, "I have to agree however that matron Crazja is going to be trouble, this was what... her fifth attempt of creating conflict between major houses?"

The skeletal figure scratched over his skull, the sound it produced uncomfortable for the ears of the two living council members. "Yes... I think her daughter, my great-great granddaughter, might be a better candidate to sit on her mother's seat. Such a shame that accidents happen in our realm." He cackled and stood up, "However, with my proposal that might not be necessary, now if you both would excuse me, I have to return to my experiments." He bowed and as both remaining council members blinked the most powerful individual in Infriet Oloth had vanished as if he had never been present.

Xanna shook her head and muttered, "I hate it when he does that..."

A Grand Day

Holy City of Angelia

Tarkaras ran his hands along the soft, smooth skin of his sister's quite pregnant belly with a smile on his lips and awe in his eyes. He caressed her slowly, lovingly, tenderly. Then he felt it. A little bump. He held his hand over it and felt it again.

“He's kicking” Monzcarro whispered as she placed her hand over her brother's scarred one. “He is well, strong, I can feel it”. She was exited, grinning with one side of her jaw.

Tarkaras looked up at her, blue eyes meeting green behind which spoke much more than simple sibling affection. He could not deny his excitement and joy but nor could he deny the fear that was more than trepidation or nervousness at being a new father.

She sensed the fear in him and tightened her hold in response. “He is strong” She repeated with utter conviction “I am not mother, he will live, Great Angela will see to that”

Tarkaras lifted her left hand and kissed the top of it, then trailed kisses up her left arm until he sealed his lips with hers. They enveloped themselves with their white feathered wings and for a brief time they let themselves be overcome with the feeling of the moment, with the love they had for each other, with the dual excitement and fear of a child oncoming. The world was leagues away, unimportant and insignificant compared to the new life within Monzcarro. For now they simply were going to be a proper family.

The moment was ended by a loud knock on the door. “Your Holiness, the expeditions await your address”

The siblings pulled away from each other, Tarkaras stopping to give one last kiss on his wife's belly. “Be quick” Monzcarro said to him as he began to get himself dressed in his Holy garments. A soft white cotton shirt that fitted around his wings and white trousers both embroidered with gold thread, over this went a silver vest embroidered in gold. Then went on a long cloak, the hem of which just grazed the floor. Monzcarro took the role of an aide in helping her brother dress, buttoning up the shirt and vest on his back and setting the cloak around his wings.

The cloak was dyed silver and more thoroughly embroidered with threads of gold, orange and red in vine-like patterns with roses branching off. Next came socks and soft silver leather boots that reached just under the knee which also had golden embroidery around it's edges. Then came embroidered cotton elbow gloves, the same hue of silver and embroidering of gold as the rest of the clothing.

With the ensemble nearly complete there was only one last remaining object. Tarkaras scanned the luxurious room until he found it in his sister's hands. He smiled. She held the golden winged crown, worn by St.Angela herself. Monzacarro raised herself to the edge of the wide bed, the sheets which covered her now cascading away to reveal her in all her naked glory. Her deep red hair fell over her shoulders, over skin of pasty complexion scarred with wounds of duels past, over a body both enfeebled and strong.

Tarkaras loved every bit of her he thought as he approached to kneel before her. She placed the winged crown upon his head and as she did so he made a quick peck on her right hand.

“Eugh..” She pulled the twisted, talon-like appendage away. “Stop it, do not ruin this moment”

Tarkaras rose and adjusted his clothing, giving her one last kiss on the lips. “I love you”

She pushed him on towards the door “Go now, waste no time”

Tarkaras opened the door to the private chambers and shifted to the side as a midwife and her apprentice and aides excused themselves past him. Also waiting outside was the Grand Cardinal of the Church of St.Angela, Virgillian Brash. He was a rotund and cheery fellow, his weight preventing him from achieving any sort of flight with the feathered wings on his back. However he was one who also knew the weight of responsibility.

“Ready my lord?” He asked as Tarkaras lead the way.

“It will be a grand day” The King replied.

---

The crowd gathered en mass in the paved open square in front of the Grand Temple of Angela. It was a building that suited it's name Mizani thought as he gazed upon the brilliant, awe inspiring symbol of this land's faith. It was wide and tall, made of stone so white that it gleamed in the sunlight. There were a total of ten steeples at the front spaced in singles and doubles, between them and nestled into the face of the building were large, beautiful panes of coloured glass that depicted the Great Saint in many forms from the warrior that vanquished the dreaded dragon Rothdargar to the shepherd who lead her flock to salvation. They were beautifully coloured with yellow-golds for the saints' hair, silvery-whites for her dress and armour, greens and blues for the plains and sky in the background along with a multitude of other colours. The glass was beautiful and spotlessly cleaned so that they too caught the rays of light and shined brilliantly.

Then the crowd began to cheer, waving banners and throwing flowers into the air. Mizani could even see that a flock of white doves had chosen that time to fly over the grand building just as the Holy Son emerged into the balcony from which he would make his address. Like the building he stood on he too shone like a light in the midday sun. His wings unfurled behind him spreading sparkling dust and feathers in a theatrical display which produced more cheers from the crowd.

“Children of Angela!” He began, voice booming over the crowd. Mizani was fortunate to be at the front of the crowd so he, and his fellow expedition members, were able to hear clearly.

“Today is a grand day! Today we who gather here bear witness to the departure of our beloved brothers and sisters”

Mizani scanned the people beside him, their heads held high and pride in their hearts much like him.

“For they have been chosen to undertake a great and noble task! They, the best and brightest, shall travel far beyond our borders, far beyond our neighbours' borders. They shall travel far indeed all to carry the Holy Word to those who do not know”

Another cheer erupted and Tarkaras paused, waving and smiling at the crowd until the voices died down to a manageable murmur. “They shall travel to places unmapped and unmarked, to places unseen and untold of. They shall carry with them their faith and zeal and the goods of our nation so that the whole world may know the generosity of Great Saint Angela!”

He looked down at them, directly at the gathered expedition. There were many of them, men and high men who had volunteered to do the journey. Merchants and missionaries, adventurers and fortune seekers, even some knights and their squires. When Tarkaras' gaze went his direction Mizani could not control himself and spontaneously yelled “Angela wills it!” while holding his arm high, fist clamped on the golden winged pendant that was the symbol of the faith.

Tarkaras smirked and reciprocated the gesture “So she does! Angela wills it!”

“Angela wills it! Angela wills it! Angella wills it” The crowd began to chant in one united chorus.

The chanting followed Mizani as the expedition made it's way towards Grand Station for the first leg of their journey. He revelled in the excitement of it all, shaking all over as the full weight of his mission was felt on his shoulders. They walked down the wide cobble paved roads of the capital, past lines and endless lines of people who shouted praises and prayers for them. Some threw flowers and some even threw coins. From all over the city they came, nobles and knights, merchants and traders, commoners and even the poor came out of their workhouses and poorhouses all to wave them well.

Mizani looked up ahead at Grand Station, a behemoth construct in itself built as a hub to handle the locomotives that criss-crossed the lands. Two whole, fully loaded locomotives awaited in the station, reserved just for the two expeditions. Their belongings and necessities as well as the goods they had brought as trade and gifts; everything they needed was already loaded in the various compartments. One would go to Talins for the sea expedition, the other to the border of the country for the land expedition. Mizani joined the one in front of the latter train, the leaders of their expedition addressing them.

One was Armen Dor, a rather rotund man but a well versed merchant who lead many a caravan and, most importantly of all, had many connections that could make their journey that much easier. The other was the lead missionary, Mizani's main boss, Alexander Anderson. In contrast with Armen he was a High Man, tall, pale and though the humble robes might hide it Mizani knew well that this man was a fighter, a very good fighter. He was the one who trained him after all.

Alexander caught his eye and smiled a toothy smile, golden tooth sparkling “We shall depart very soon, best get ready”

Mizani nodded, his throat aching from chanting but his still heart beating with pride.

---

Angelian Theological Academy

Therese looked out a window in her office within the academy, the colours reflected in her bright silver eyes as she watched the crowd gradually, slowly dispersing to go back to their daily tasks. There was a great bellow of steam accompanied by a loud 'choo' coming from Grand Station, something not uncommon in the city, as the two locomotives departed to their respective destinations.

“A grand day is it not Therese dear?” her sister said to her, watching the same scene. “Those brave, brave adventurers, striking out into the unknown to bring the worship of Angela to all the world's four corners, facing dangers unseen and sufferings undue....”. Jean's voice was whimsical, speaking as if she was some awe-struck maiden.

“A brave venture to be sure” Therese commented as she poured a bottle of Wine-Liquor and added a splash of Celestine Rum, bringing the glass to her sister's lips who appreciated the gesture. She took only a sip and enjoyed the feeling of the sweetened liquid travelling down her throat, so sweet she took another sip and would have went for another if Therese had not intervened.

“That's quite enough” Therese pushed the glass and bottles out of arms reach.

“Hmph!” Jean crossed her arms and turned up her nose. “Spoilsport”

It was quiet for a little while after, the only noise in the room being Therese writing notes and turning pages as she studied the old tome. Eventually the scratch, scratch, scratch of the quill and ruffle of paper turning got to the impatient sister as she let out a loud sigh.

“So...” Jean began then paused, trying to think of a topic for conversation that Therese wouldn't simply ignore “...how goes the soulfyre research?”

Therese turned another page, her eyes dancing through the old script, through a speech only just recognizable. To her though it might as well have been modern Angelian what with how much she had experience on the language.

“It goes” She replied after some time.

Jean was not deterred “Oh come now, this is something you and the other Cardinals have been working on for a long while. There must have been something interesting you have found”

Therese sighed knowing ignoring her sister was pointless “You already know much of what we do. It is difficult to find ways to sever the connection between the soul and body of an undead-”

“Uh-hm” Jean interjected taking a bite of an apple “So you explored what could be done when the cleansing properties of fire and methods of holy banishment were combined. Yes, ive heard of this before”. Her tone was clear, 'get on to the interesting stuff'.

Therese shook her head letting out another sigh, rolling her eyes at her sister “Well, without live subjects to test upon we could only work on theory and what practical knowledge we had about combining magicks”

“Go ooon....” 'Please say something interesting'

“Well, a few days ago Elain contacted the Witchunters to see if they could bring us a live subject”

“Oh!” 'Ooh!'

“Yes but they refused saying that all undead were to be exterminated on sight. Blind fools that they are, they could not see the benefits of what we are working on”

“Oh...”

“However, Maveran has taken it upon himself to contact some adventurers who would find us a live subject. I was told at least one of them would be a trained missionary”

“Oh! We are getting our own ghoul? How exiting!” Therese thought Jean was far too exited by the prospect of an undead prisoner. She herself was hoping the group would bring up results.

There was a knock on the office door that silenced Jean's babbling about what she would do with a 'ghoulie pet' that Therese had, almost naturally, blocked out.

“Come in”

A young brown haired man entered bowing his way in, wearing the blue robes of a third year. “Ms Voerman, your next lecture is nearing, students are already gathering in the Green Hall”

Therese silently cursed, annoyed that she had lost track of time. She nodded to the student “Very well, thank you for reminding me Peter”. As the student nodded and left she put her quill into the inkwell and put away the tome she was reading before gathering up her lecturing tools and leaving. She closed the door on a silent, empty room.

Goawy di’yora, in the city of Ss’thar’tiss’ssun

Zornesk reclined in his high seat chair and matching desk, both crafted from fine sycamore wood that grew in surprising abundance along the river Styx. On the desk before him was strewn numerous scrolls and tomes. He sighed contently before cracking his fingers and picking up one thick volume as he started to sort through them, categorizing each. It was a weighty book this one, an age old magnum opus of a long dead kobold scholar, named Harkail Lethscale. She was an oddity among kobolds to be sure, especially if compared to the ilk born of the many kingdoms outside Stygia, a learned and famed historian in her age. Zornesk liked to think himself too, something of a novelty of his kind for Zornesk was a kobold that had achieved much in his life. Indeed, even now he sat in one of the world’s largest libraries of the modern era. A true athenaeum, Goawy di’yora, or ‘Place of Learned Ones’ in the common tongue, was indeed deserving of its title as “Mind of the Realms.” The Stygians would certainly like to think of it as a place unrivalled in the entire known world.

Ah yes, and Zornesk himself of course, for he and he alone held the title of Grand Keeper of this most impressive reservoirs of knowledge. Like all Kobolds Zornesk had been born but a slave in Stygia. Yet here unlike in many other nations, slaves were given many chances to rise above their low born status. Stygia in all was a place where ones achievements often spoke for themselves. Too be given any respect, one must first earn it. Such was a fact that was sadly lost on some of his brethren. They carried much malcontent against the Yuan-ti and Yuan-ga, who they say as oppressors. For it would seem their lot was easier, born in their great estates and seemingly given everything they could ever want. Admittedly Zornesk once thought so himself for a time. That was until he had managed to rise above the lower cast of peasantry that Zornesk found a world much more unforgiving then even the slave life he had known before. The middle and upper classes of Stygia played daily in the dangerous games of court politics. Every day one needed to justify their place in such a society where they were endlessly pushed to preform beyond high expectations. Some times Zornesk found himself missing the simple life of a low caste born. Though he would never surrender the position and power he held now. Well-earned as it was.

It was still early morning in the great mountaintop city Ss’thar’tiss’ssun, capital of Stygia and the seat of power for the priesthood of Sseth, thus Zornesk was still in the midst of organizing various documents when the telltale sound of the great stone-like doors leading into the library creaked as they were easily pushed open. Zornesk blinked and looked up from his desk down the great expense that led to the large double doors. His desk and chair positioned atop a slight pillar of stairs, and thus afforded him excellent view of anyone who entered. The mostly cloaked figure that entered wore no cowl as most of the priest of Sseth did. He did however wear light sandy brown leather robes, a suit of flexible leather armor in fact with a voluminous set of concealing black robes that hide most of the wearer’s body. His most noticeable piece of gear however was the large gourd strapped to the figures back, almost as large as its wearer. It was not until he fully took notice of the distinct cobra like head that Zornesk realized it was a Serpentesine, for indeed it was a yuan-ti, but just not any mere yuant-ti. That was for certain, for this could be none other than Shiisthel of House Hss’tafi himself! The Red Sand of Stygia.

Kobold swallowed, remembering the many tales that ran rampant of this, one of the Coiled Cabals three sages. A powerful mage no doubt and highly regarded scholar. Zornesk sat straighter, though Shiisthel was still a well 30 feet away. He went back to his scrolls, idly wondering what the master arcanist could possibly want in here at this hour. He shook his head at the thought, best not to know actually. It was not that odd for one of the sages, or any of the other members of the Cabal or even those among the priesthood to come here. After a moment Zornesk realized that the yuan-ti was slithering toward him, easily gliding across the four steps toward Zornesk’s desk with uncanny ease and grace.

“Ava'yorn Brother.” Shiisthel said in a voice both deep with a remarkably eloquent tone.

Zornesk looked up sharply from his work, a little surprised at how quickly and silently the Yuan-ti had reached him. He recovered quickly however and bowed his head respectively, as best as he could considering his sitting position and responded. “Ava'yorn, Master Shiisthel of House Hss’tafi.” Then looking up with carefully. “To what do I owe the honor?” He asked genuinely interested.

Shiisthel fixed him with a smile, or it looked more like a scowl on his visage, though his tone was friendly. “Ah, yesss.. Zornessk is it not? There iss indeed a ssslight tassk you may ad me in.” He said easily, his gritting and distinct speech running smoothly from his lips like silk

“Of course Master Shiisthel, how might I aid you?”

“I require any tomes you may possesss on the old ruinss and cryptsss of the belonging to the sarrukh within Sstygia.”

“S- sarrukh? What would even need with such scripts? Most of them date back so far it is likely many of them are out of date, considering how quickly the sands tend to bury ruins of their like…”

Shiisthel only continued to grin at the kobold, a gaze that reminded him of a predator idly watching his prey forelock unaware. It sent a shiver through his spine. “Trouble yoursself not with why, doess the library hold what I want or not?”

Zornesk bobbed his head up and down quickly in response, huffing out his chest a little as he responded. “O-of course! Goawy di’yora holds any knowledge worth penning to paper! Many of the old scrolls and books are still well preserved in the libraries storage chambers. They are very old however, so I fear I cannot say for certain how up to date some of them will be… Time corrodes all knowledge after all...”

Shiisthel only nodded knowingly. “Why of coursssse. I will sssend for them once you have gathered all the tomessss you can find, and be ssure to collect any mapssss ass well.”

With that he turned to leave, leaving a confused and blinking Zornesk in his wake. However as he reached the bottom of the steps he turned his head back to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and do keep thiss to yoursssself Zornesssk. None need know of it, or that I wasss even here. Undersstood?”

The Kobold was wise enough to know what that meant, as well as hear the underlying threat of what would happen if he did not keep silence on the subject. He swallowed again.

---

The lower chamber of the temple rang with the distant cries and screams of numerous voices from uncountable sources. Most belonging to those unfortunate heretics or infidels rooted out by the inquisition, the priesthoods first line of defence against those who would undermine both his name and Stygia as a whole. Salethar of House Se’Sehen seemed not to even notice the distant cries for his part. So enthralled was he in his work he had forgotten the echoes long ago. Besides which, any priest of Sseth who worked long within the Grand Temple of Ss’thar’tiss’ssun became soon accustomed to the sounds.

Besides which the task at hand required all his attention and effort. A large table was set before him, upon it sat his alchemy alembic with various other vials, potions, and vessels. Taking one vial in hand, he deliberately yet carefully poured its liquid ebony black contents into a larger beaker. He then took another glass vial and did the same, this one a dull brownish mixture that smelled of ash and clay. Stirring with a large wooden ladle until the liquids properly mixed. Satisfied he poured the beaker into a larger glass vessel that sat atop an iron like cage, a small flame trapped within it. Soon enough it began bubbling, at which point Salethar sprinkled the dust of dried bones that once belonged to a carrion horror.

The smallest spark suddenly came alight before the mixture turned a dark amethyst purple. Salethar nodded, apparently pleased with how the compounds had arranged themselves. He straightened himself on his coils, and cracked the joints of his fingers. These experiments were taking longer than anticipated. However, Sseth willing, it would be ready for testing soon enough….

Then at last Salethar would be one step closer to discovering the energies of life itself. It would create possibilities for numerous other breakthroughs. Not just in Alchemy, but the science of magic as well. Yet before he could proceed he would need a worthy candidate for testing. At the very least there were no shortage of those…

Blood Freedom; Capital City of Shadowreach; The Palace of Screams.

---

The Capital was in a riot of celebration, though the Anoredhel were cowering ever deeper. A great child had been born to an anoredhel couple, worse, it was born with skin of fairest white and fairly radiating innocence, a girl child of great beauty despite its young age. The child had been treasured for all of thirty seconds before the Inquisitors had located them, and her. The child was plucked from her parents arms and they were taken by the Inquisitors.

The scion of the high sacrifice.

And now the great arena of the Palace was packed to capacity. A hundred couples from various species. The Centigors, the Dragon Ogres and the Giants. Though there were only three such couples, Ogres were not a prolific species, but todays ritual was beyond special. The high sacrifice.

Two wicker giants stood. Within them the parents of the almost magically innocent child were bound in their own giant wicker creature. Between them the two Liches daubed the child in runes so thickly her white skin could not be seen any more than the red blood ink. Rune, Blood and other magics hung thick in the air as the high sacrifice. The four Zombie Giants surrounded them as Regar the Indomitable mounted his throne.

"Welcome to the High Sacrifice!" His voice boomed.

The cheering was loud beyond simple voices. It was a unified roar.

Kaleth and Zzevallen began to chant in a deep resonant voice and the Zombie Giants reached down into sacrificial zone with one arm. Each began to lift and the crowd in the stands roared in approval as all those couples within the arena knelt down prostrating themselves completely on the sands. Within each of the Zombie Giant's hands was held one limb of the child sacrifice, the babe not even three days old, being lifted gently beyond the expectations of any who did not know the ritual.

"Upon this high sacrifice a herd of the Anoredhel have been gathered and prepared for the feasts. But a child was born! A child of innocence. Her parents traitors to the regime. Within the Wicker they are now entombed awaiting the justice we bring." Regar boomed as the chanting raised and finally the Zombie Giants were standing level with one another.

And then they pulled.

It was a barest fraction of their strength and still the child came apart like it had never existed its flesh being ripped apart by strength far beyond its small body's ability to withstand. And yet... it's blood hung in the air, growing and then bursting outwards to shower the couples below and the wicker. "Be blessed by this sacrifice for you are now married in the eyes of blood and death. Forever and beyond."

With those words the Wicker Giants ignited with the bloods touch. The Wicker Giants beginning to cavort and celebrate the high sacrifice, the sacrifices within burning and cavorting as the burning giants mimicked the art of intercourse.

And moments later. A horde of Anoredhel began their precession out, with their cooked kind carried between them tears running down their faces.

It was a time of bloody celebration for the Dragon Ogres, Centigors and Giants of the realm. And the highlight of mourning for their Anoredhel slaves. Their greatest possible hope in life to be attractive enough for one of their masters to keep as a slave to rape whenever they felt the need. Nothing else was safety from becoming their masters next meal.

The Avatar of the Goddess, The Daughter of the Avatar, The Right Hand, The Left Hand
Coastal Capital City, Verde Parla

---

It wasn't her throne room, but her own private library on top of the tower. Even so, her being displeased was readily apparent as the Avatar of the Goddess flicked through a few books, pointedly ignoring her daughter for the moment. The Daughter looked rather nervous, her hands shaking as she fidgeted with her staff. She was wearing the red cloak of a Forhor Nacth, one of those who carries out the handling of heretics and the likes. They were also the ones who reached her first, and helped her in her predicament, which undoubtedly why she was called to her mother right now. The two Hands on either side were the only ones kneeling, their heads down in respect. Even if the Left Hand's hood was staring intently at the Daughter.

"Daughter...."

The Daughter gave a visible twitch at hearing her mother's voice.

"You know, I heard there was a massive gale in town today." The Avatar turned to face her daughter. While she still had the same benign expression, her smile did not reach her eyes. "I wonder if it could be related to a rumor I heard going around."

"R..rumors? Whatever are yo-"

The Avatar threw a piece of paper in her daughter's face, cutting her short. She turned beet red when she saw what was on the paper. It was a drawing of her likeness, sitting peacefully asleep and perfectly nude. Whoever drew the picture was a talented artist, paying special attention to how her hair fell across her face, her expression of content and that small smile she had. Even right down to the bead of drool dripping down her mouth.

"This... this was circulating around town."

"I-"

"SILENCE!" The Daughter snapped her mouth shut immediately, and simply stood there cowering. Satisfied, the Avatar continued. "You fell asleep on the way to the public bath, and had your sacred vestments taken from you. To make things worse, you now have this.. this thing all around the city! YOU STUPID STUPID-" the Avatar took a deep breath,"- CHILD!"

"Avatar.... may we be dismissed?" The Left Hand's hood shifted its gaze towards the Avatar, though the Left Hand herself didn't move a muscle.

"Hold. Ensure this... event blows over. No, that does not mean the Right Hand may execute anyone with possession of the drawing."

The Left Hand frowned as she heard a small 'tch' coming from the Right Hand. "As you wish Avatar."

"Good." With a wave of her hand, the Daughter floated right into the her embrace, the Daughter's hand gripping her staff tightly out of fear. "Now leave us."

With a nod, the Left Hand melted into a puddle of shadow, evaporating quickly as she left. The Right Hand however, simply stood up and left using the door, catching a glimpse of the Avatar's punishment to her Daughter as she closed the door. She felt a bit warm as she descended down the stairs.

The Avatar can do some spectacular stuff with her shadows after all.

---

The Ordinary Fisherman
Outskirts of the Capital City, Fishing Village north.

---

Holfnir stood poised on the bow of the small ship, his muscles tense as he raised the harpoon up, tracking the shadow in the water. Using his rippling muscles to good effect, he threw the spear true to his target, hitting the giant fish square on its side.

"Got the little grubber!"

The 'little grubber' however, wasn't quite ready to roll over and die however, and dashed through the water,the line tied to the harpoon straining the mast, as the fish dragged the small boat along, with the crew of 5 holding on for dear life. The line snapped, slowing the boat down to a crawl, leaving them in the water gently bobbing about in the waves.

With normal fishes, one would expect at this point, the fish is lost and that it was time to find something easier elsewhere. But with the great mawed devilfish, it was almost certain that it would retaliate.

And retaliate it did.

With a mighty leap, it flew straight out of the water, as big as it was, with its giant maw lined with several rows of teeth heading straight for Holfnir. Until he introduced an oar to its face.

*CRACK*

After receiving such a blow that popped out one of its eyes, the great mawed devilfish floated along listlessly, stunned by the blow to its head.

With a cheer from his men, they hauled the fish into the boat, gave it a few more solid knocks to the head and started to cut it up to pieces, preserving it with layers of salt. Some parts of it will be preserved for the next winter, and some will be grounded and stuffed into sausages, to be sold for a good price when the merchants come. This particular fish also has the toughest skin out of all the fishes here, as well as being as rough as sandpaper, valued by some artisans.

Holfnir however was not content with this life. He had caught most of the fishes in this sea, but there was only one he had his eye on.

"Oi, Holfnir, come ere and help willya? This blighted fish won't carve itself you know."

He nodded and moved towards them, but a movement under the water caught his eye. However, when he turned to examine it more closely, the shadow was gone. Shaking his head, he picked up his carving knife to help his crew ready the fish for storage. Even if he didn't see it clearly, Holfnir already knew what it was.

Old Grettel herself, the legendary immortal fish that had stumped fishermen even from before his grandfather's time.

And like his father before him, Holfnir had sworn to catch the fish, gaining glory for himself and his crew, earning right to be entombed in the Hall of the Great once his time to meet the Goddess came.

---

Gretchen Vim
Kallstad, The Big City in the Tundras

---

Gretchen Vim waited patiently in the Captain's office, silently appraising the value of the objects scattered around this rather dark and smoky room. A black orc sat behind a large mahogany table on one end of the room, carefully unwrapping the protective cloth she had wrapped around the battle axe she had brought.

"This... this is the mark of Finjred Mol. How... how on earth did you get your hands on this?"

The black orc, the Captain of the Guards in Kallstad, ran his hand on the exquisitely made battle axe, a double swirl mark etched in gold on both side of it's blade. Weapons made by Finjred were extremely rare even in the Forge, but known for it's quality. Though there were others who disagreed and said Hunjar made better weapons, or even Killijre, which Gretchen hated with all her heart as his weapons were too much on the bulky side for her taste. She herself prefered Kanis, though he was relatively unknown, for his creation was lightweight, sharp, and has a simple but effective design. Probably why most people overlook his weapons.

The Captain eyed Gretchen, who looked extremely pleased with herself.

"Alright, how much do ya want for this?"

"Five hundred talons."

He splutted out his mead at that. "Are you mad?! I can start up my own forge, and get a farm to boot with that amount of talons!"

"Too bad. We had a deal. You asked for the best weapon I can find, so here it is. One made by Finjred himself. Finjred, himself" She gave a wide smile. "Well, if you feel that way, perhaps I can sell it in the market place later. I'm sure somebody would want to buy such a rare and powerful axe."

Gretchen could already see the Captain wants the axe badly, so she went in for the coup de grace.

"Tell you what, I'll give you a special discount. Just this once. Four hundred talons just for you, and you get this nice Finjred axe."

"Deal!"

***

She made her way through the crowded marketplace, weaving through the crowds, her pet barghest Viska chuffing impatiently at her back. It wasn't quite the season for hunting, but she could already see a few people with fine pelts, meats and a small mound of candied tits. Those tits costs a fine bit of money here, but even more in Verde Parla. The tiny birds seemed to live only in this particular area, and could only be caught during specific times of the year.

After a while of walking, she found the tavern she sought and entered. Her barghest wisely chose to stay outside and wait, curling up near the door. A barghest in town was nothing special for most, though those who passed near one kept their hands on their weapons.

"Gretchen! Mhirnae di bessi! So what can I do for you today?"

Almost as soon as she stepped inside, the potbellied man greeted her, enveloping her with a bearhug. If bears had the strength of ogres.

"Mhirnae di bessi, Jorick. I'm gathering up people for an expedition today." She squeezed out of his hug, and handed him a piece of paper.

"Oh expedition, I can recommend a few people. Nar du ict veint?"

She smiled at the question.

"Bitewind plains."

The tavern grew quiet at the mention of that name, as Jorick himself grew pale.

"But no one has ever-"

"I know. But, I have this feeling we can make quite a profit if we sought out Bitewind's heart."

Jorick sighed, and got her a mug of Verde mead. An expedition to Bitewind plains. Not just a few people traveling together, but a real expedition.

Lothmor
Visiloth, Viridian Manor

Anca struggled to keep her smile polite, to not laugh at the man kneeling before her. His singing voice was pretty enough, but he seemed to think the little harp he held was in fact a lute by the way he strummed the sorely abused instrument, and his improvised lyrics praising her beauty were embarrassingly juvenile to say the least. Even so, she did not stop the fellow, she simply listened and kept control of her outward expressions whilst internally cackling at the ridiculousness. When this new suitor finished his piece, he stood and bowed. Anca faintly shook her head, the cue for her herald, the role filled by a Wood Elf named Saris today, to relay her decision; though capable of iron-willed control over her expressions, Anca knew full well that speaking after these sorts of performances would let loose the flow of her thoughts, thus the use of a herald for these occasions.

"Lady Cillois appreciates your efforts and thanks you for coming, fair sir, but you have failed to pierce the veil round her heart." Rather than showing any disappointment or anger, the Forest Dwarf performer grinned and bowed, flourishing his harp in an amusingly parodic imitation of courtiers with their intricate waving of hats and cloaks in their own bows. The herald took no notice of this and continued on as he saw Anca lift a hand briefly from her lap. "That will be the last for today. Those gentlemen who did not get a chance to make their case today shall be given priority when next the Lady Cillois deigns to receive suitors." As the men filed out, some ribbing each other for their performances and others bemoaning the need to wait for another try, Saris turned and gave a proper bow, though without flourishes. The Wood Elf fellow kept his eyes locked with Anca's through the bow, perhaps imagining the move to be intense and smouldering where instead it simply made the bow look awkward. Heralds were selected at random for suitor days, and some seemed to think the position a preferable path to the Lady's heart for some reason she couldn't fathom.

"Thank you, Saris, that will be all for today." The look of disappointment on the man's face was quickly masked, and he gave another brief bow. "Speak to one of the clerks if you wish payment for your services this day." Saris smiled and shot Anca a wink before making his way out the same door the suitors had used, which led out of the manor and down to the docks. This was another of the amusing intricacies the men dreamed up for these so-called suitor days, that if they refused payment for acting as herald then surely the Lady Cillois would look upon them favorably and it would perhaps even plant the seeds of love. In truth, she simply felt that doing a job deserved payment, thus it was offered, and she found the arrogance of those who rejected compensation to be somewhat annoying.

The whole thing was a farce, as far as she was concerned, just as was her supposed ruling over the city of Visiloth. The people wished her to lead them, she wanted nothing to do with leadership, and so she compromised by being a leader who left the important work to those who would do best by the city and its people; they wanted to call her any number of foolish titles, like Queen and Her Reverence, but Anca had managed to successfully argue that Lady was the appropriate title given that she was in fact not a queen by any definition, since she had sworn the pledge of fealty to their true leader of Lothmor, Arch-Mage Skarx Foulclaw. The people wished for her to be happy and find love of the kind known only in fairy tales, she was perfectly content to live without romantic interests, and so she compromised by allowing suitors to attempt to woo her. They attempted all sorts of feats, from music and poetry to shows of strength and martial prowess, and it seemed that everyone was perfectly happy with this illusion of progress in Lady Cillois's pursuit of love. She could not foresee any performance, no matter how impressive, setting her heart aflutter as the suitors hoped, but if playing the act out made her people happy then Anca was willing to see it through. Truth be told, these acts had initially pained her by dredging up memories of love and family lost, long ago in the Unification when Tek Foulclaw, ancestor to Arch-Mage Skarx, brought a ten year long war to Visiloth in order to bring it under the banner of his rule. It was a fleeting pain, almost a nostalgic reminiscence of sorrow long past than a fresh wound, and she worked through it with the suitors none the wiser. Nowadays those memories were laid fully back to rest, giving not even the faintest echo of a whimper during the suitor days, and that was fine by her reckoning.

Anca rose from her throne (though in truth it was just a finely crafted wooden chair, carved in fine patterns but lacking in gilding or ornamentation, and she thought of it as a throne simply because that was what those around her had been calling it for some hundred years or so) and made her way to the wide double door that had been used by the suitors and heralds. They were kept open permanently by her order (despite the grumblings of her advisors that a throne room shouldn't be made so casual) for the simple reason that she enjoyed the breeze and sounds of the city and ocean drifting in; the chamber had previously been a simple sitting room when the building had been known simply as the Cillois Manor (before folks had managed to pester Anca into renaming it into something more suitable for the abode of a ruler, after they'd failed to convince her to approve the construction of a grand palace for her to live in), so she found their complaints just as silly as the fact that they called it a throne room in the first place. Her so-called throne was not raised on a dais, there was no grand entryway, and it could only comfortably hold about thirty people. Anca had put her foot down about altering the room, and the rarity of her actually taking a firm and uncompromising stance had apparently been enough of a shock that in the five years since there hadn't been even a single suggestion of replacing the few chairs in the room that dared to have higher backs than her throne (which all suitors and most guests refused to sit in anyway). The sitting room was something of an escape from the silliness of the world, despite the fact that the suitor performances were the silliest of all and were held in this room, a place she could relax and listen to the multitude of sounds drifting in from people going about their day to day lives.

Those sounds grew all the more clear as Anca stepped out into the small courtyard outside the doorway, strains of unintelligible words and the clatter of cargo being loaded and unloaded down at the docks. Once, long ago, this had been a modest yard that gave a clear view of the ocean; now there was a wall closing the area off, a relic of the centuries old Unification War when the estates of the wealthier residents of Visiloth had been turned into miniature forts in case the wall around the city had been breached. Luckily it hadn't come to that, but the casualties had been great nonetheless. Anca had chosen to let the wall stand as something of a monument to both what has lost and what was gained in joining into the nation of Lothmor, though the privacy it afforded was also a part of that decision. Her eyes slid closed as she walked slowly down the path toward the wall, smiling faintly as the noise of life flowing through her helped to paint the image of the happy city beyond. Soon the trading season would pick up and the sounds from the docks would overwhelm almost everything else, but for now she should hear hawkers calling their wares and some children running and playing nearby, with a constant murmuring undertone of the waves crashing on the shore. Visitors from the smaller villages throughout the nation tended to find this level of noise overwhelming, but it had grown soothing to Anca over the years. Simply hearing that people were living their happy lives out there was enough to set her worries melting away, though today she had none in need of such soothing.

A repetitive thudding sound became apparent after a few minutes, and as it drew closer there were a couple audible screams from the same direction. Anca sighed and hurried back inside, grabbing a stool from inside the sitting room and bringing it outside. She placed it just outside the doors and sat down, taking a moment to wipe away her minor annoyance at the screams. There were always a few when he came to visit, of course, but she still couldn't understand why giants so terrified people. They weren't monsters, after all, so what was there to be fearful of? The heavy steps stopped just outside the courtyard wall and their source was easily visible towering over the structure, his bearded and gnarled face turned downward to see Lady Anca with his customary broad smile of greeting.

"Welcome, Oaksmasher. Please make yourself at home." The giant dipped his head at her words, meant as a mix of acknowledgement and a sort of bow, and stepped easily over the wall. He sat down slowly, taking care not to smash any of the manor to pieces with a carelessly swung limb, and propped his humongous wooden axe against the stone wall he'd just stepped over. Oaksmasher's loincloth did little to protect his dignity as he maneuvered into a cross-legged position, but then the Forest Giants of Lothmor only bothered with clothing because the small folk of the nation found public nudity improper, so it came as little surprise to most folks that they were careless about actually staying covered; Anca politely averted her eyes, simply to save herself from the potential embarrassment. When the giant was finally settled down and properly covered once more, she looked up at him, having to crane her neck a bit even though he was sitting, and continued with the formalities; giants were sticklers for formality, and though Anca had no fear of this fellow reacting violently to a lack of it, she also had no desire to insult him. "What brings you so far from your home and into mine, Oaksmasher?"

There was no reply for a long stretch of seconds, which some mistook as a slackness of wit in the giants, but Anca had long ago concluded that it was in truth a matter of deliberation and not wanting to say anything incorrectly. Oaksmasher's voice came much quieter than one would expect from a giant, only barely rattling the windows of the manor, due to him politely keeping his voice down to a level more bearable for the fragile ears of the smaller races; his first ever visit to the manor had necessitated the replacement of most of the windows, as he'd still been getting used to speaking with small folk at that time. "Nothing pressing, Lady Cillois, so let formality sleep for now." Oaksmasher's rumbling voice took on a lighter tone now that the formal greetings were out of the way. "You call it rude with every saying, but I tire of the fleeting folk sometimes. They are birds, flitting through the branches, and spinning round and round to keep them in sight is tiresome. You are a tree, Anca, that the little birds fly round and perch upon, and sometimes it pleases me to speak to the tree. Have they built a nest in you yet?"

"I call it rude because it is rude, Oaksmasher." Anca couldn't help but smile when talking to the fellow in front of her, the giant she proudly called friend, as if her mouth was trying to match the broad grin her visitor always brought with him. "People don't like to be compared to animals, and you make them sound like their shorter lives are the product of some kind of pitiful disease. But never mind that, we both know you're too stubborn to change your thoughts." The giant's brief chuckle of amusement was like the rumble of thunder, and Anca wouldn't be surprised if it caused some folks nearby to look up at the clear sky in confusion. "I think I'm more like a boulder, being worn down by the elements no matter how much I fight it, but that would break your lovely metaphor. My branches remain free of unwelcome nests, despite the persistence of prospective builders. I had a few of them here not long ago, but I sent them away disappointed yet again. Do you think they'll ever give up and let me alone, or shall I be fighting off suitors until I'm returned to the earth?"

"Hmmm..." Oaksmasher ran a massive hand through his beard, considering her words before replying. "Give them my words and they will scatter to the winds to bother you no more. Tell them the only worthy man is he who can fight Oaksmasher and win. No man will take that challenge." He paused once more, but Anca waited rather than interjecting, as she knew the giant well enough to see that he had more to say in his own time. "You are no boulder, Anca. Rock stays solid, no bending, hard and stubborn. Rock." He thumped a fist against his chest to punctuate the word and indicate himself. "Trees move with the wind, they grow greater with time. Once you were a sapling, afraid of the world. Now you tower high, roots sunk deep, protecting forest animals from storms. Wind and water make you grow stronger, they do not break you down like stone. The tree is life, the boulder is death. You are life. It is obvious."

Anca rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her amusement from Oaksmasher as she had with the suitors earlier. His simultaneous flattery and self-deprecation was a common component of their conversations, and she'd poked fun at him for it many times before. He was a rather humble giant, which led him to make himself sound simple, but his flattery was no affectation; he had once said that if Anca was a giant he would have made her his wife long ago, and she had been shocked to find that he had such sentiments to match her own that she had held secret for many years, but in the handful of decades since then they had both come to the unspoken understanding that they could only ever be good friends, thus it was best to let those thoughts lie dormant and say no more of them. Even so, their conversations often had a strangely flirtatious nature to them that they were both happy enough to follow along with, though outside listeners probably wouldn't be able to hear the flirtation in the heavily metaphorical and often philosophical back and forth.

"That would be far too cruel, I'm afraid. The point of allowing the suitors a chance is to shelter my people from the unwelcome rain of reality, and letting a big oaf run around swinging his absurdly large axe would chase them out into that rain despite my efforts." Anca crossed her arms and cocked a brow up at the giant. "Besides, we both know some would be foolhardy enough to take up the challenge anyway, and what then? I would rather not see some fool get hurt trying to win my approval. That wouldn't make me a very protective tree, now would it?" Oaksmasher shrugged, dipping his head in acknowledgement of her sound point. "Anyway, enough about my small woes and complaints. How has the life of the rock been treating you? It's been almost a year since we last spoke."

Oaksmasher began to relay something of a military report, mixed with his own opinions on events (whch he wouldn't have given to a superior officer asking for such a report) that made for a rather interesting telling. Their conversation carried on through the day and into the evening, and nobody attempted to intrude to pull Anca away for any of the frivolous business that filled most of her days. Everyone knew that the Lady Cillois was a close friend of the great hero Oaksmasher, and it was something of a point of pride for the people of Visiloth that she could lay claim to that while even the great Arch-Mage was just another short-lived ruler to the giant, and so they let her have these relatively rare days with the giant as something of an impromptu holiday. Anca always took full advantage of such occasions, though it was simply for the pleasure of Oaksmasher's company rather than to avoid irksome responsibilities, and as usual it was fully dark out when she finally made it to bed and fell asleep before the thudding of the giant's steps had passed out of hearing range.

---

Tekis, The Maw

Fitful flames filled the large stone chamber with a shivering orange light. The whole castle, called The Maw after the fact that its many towers looked like a set of jagged teeth, was made of a dark and almost greasy looking stone. It seemed the place should be damp and dank to suit its looks, but it was well constructed and dry as a bone, though drafty as evidenced by the flickering torches. The side walls of the throne room were lined with Skaven and Night Goblins wielding bows, and a compliment of Draconians and Forest Dwarves wielding axes guarded the bottom of the dais, which was itself somewhat crowded. A Draconian and a Forest Dwarf stood out among the four smaller folks standing near the throne, which Lord General Orix the Cleaver and General Hirol Elfheart were well used to. The four were the mages of Lothmor, whose positions as advisors or perhaps friends to the Arch-Mage were ambiguous at best, but all knew they answered to him alone despite formally being part of the military and thus supposedly under the command of the Lord General. Skarx Foulclaw himself was the centerpiece of the arrangement, the hairless and scarred Skaven easily drawing eyes away from the prestigious figures around him.

Facing this intimidating array was a lone Night Goblin, kneeling alone in the center of the room with dozens of arrows trained on him in case he were to try to do anything stupid. Normally petitioners to the throne were only tracked by a few arrows as a precaution, and in truth this one should have been afforded the respect of weapons being put away completely, but even the Arch-Mage was wary enough of the fellow that he let the impertinence stand; the petitioner didn't seem to even notice the arrows trained on him. Normally, General Zarex Giantbiter would be standing on the dais (with Orix and Hirol remaining conspicuously between him and the throne at all times) to give advice should it be requested (which it almost never was, not from him) or should he feel like butting in with it despite the lack of request. Instead he knelt like a commoner and looked up at the throne with his customary manic grin in place.

The clicking of claws on bone was the predominant sound in the chamber following Zarex's request. Skarx often drummed his claws on whatever surface was handy when he was thinking, and the throne's armrests combined with the natural acoustics of the chamber made for a satisfyingly loud clacking. The Bone Throne, always said with enough gravity to make the proper noun obvious, was rumored among the common folks to be made from the bones or those who the great Tek Foulclaw slew to forge the nation of Lothmor; in truth it was made from the bones of early rulers of Lothmor, and the yellowed Skaven skull currently being assaulted by the claws of Skarx's right hand was supposedly that of Tek himself, but this fact was dismissed by the people as nonsense, because apparently they couldn't imagine that anyone would show such disrespect to their ancestors. In the long gone days of shamanism among the people of Lothmor, ancestor worship had taken the form of using the bones of deceased loved ones in various ways to honor them, to make the spirits pleased that they were not forgotten and were still of some use to their descendants. Elves who had lived through that time confirmed such practices, and Lady Cillois had told Skarx that the bit about Tek's skull was indeed true (and that various other bones of the nation's founder made up the seat), but of course the common people would believe whatever suited them over the actual truth.

The Arch-Mage laughed at his thoughts, which flowed into speech without a pause. "You are mad, true to your name as always, Giantbiter. I approved of your crazed plan to put archers on the backs of Hydras, and now you want mages up there too?" He laughed again, though this one edged into cackling territory. "Madness. Are the Hydra Riders not deadly enough already? Are they not dangerous enough for your liking? Not crazy enough?"

Zarex answered the almost-cackle with a true cackle, one that would turn a witch green with envy, the kind of cackle that only one who was intimately acquainted with madness could pull off. "No such thiiiiiing!" The Night Goblin spoke in a broken sing-song, monotone speech on some words and a warbling singing on others, elongating various words for reasons grasped only by his strange mind. "Deadly enough? Nooooo, no such thing. Can't be toooooo dangerous. More dangerous, beeeeeetter, never too much. Enough-" he broke off into a giggle before continuing, "crazy, couldn't be, caaaaaaan't be, aaaaaaaaalways more crazy." Zarex coughed and stood up. The arrows already pointed his way were lifted upward to stay aimed at his chest, and a few more archers pulled and readied arrows. When the lone Night Goblin in the center of the room spoke again, it was utterly normal and conversational. "Archers are good, and you gave me some of the best for the Hydra Riders, no doubt about that. Mages would be better though. It's simple: hydras plus archers are terrifying, mages are scarier than archers, so hydras plus mages would be an unmatched horror." He lifted a gloved hand and pointed a finger at Lord General Orix; a few more arrows left quivers. "You said once that fear is demoralizing, and demoralizing the enemy means you win. I'm just being logical about it."

An outside observer might have found Zarex claiming the grounds of logic to be utterly absurd. As it so happened, so did those in the room with him, though only one made it apparent. Skarx Foulclaw laughed long and hard, which Zarex stood and watched without any sign of being offended by the response; he truly was not offended by it, but then he also didn't get offended by people saying he was a rabid maniac who should be put down for the good of the world. He was a rather special Night Goblin, after all.

"I almost want to grant your request just because it's so absurdly amusing." Skarx drummed his claws on Tek's skull for a few seconds before turning to address one of those standing atop the dais. "Orix, what do you think? Should I ride a Hydra and set my mages to the same?"

The Draconian answered immediately, having anticipated the question and already formulated an answer. "It would be a dangerous waste of resources. The archers have an advantage from the backs of the beasts due to the elevation, but mages aren't under the same constraints as someone using a bow. The only thing to be gained from such efforts would be slightly greater sight, but for that I would rather see mages standing atop the shoulders of giants, which would make for greater height and reliability than riding a Hydra. The risk of the monsters going berserk and turning on their riders is too great, the cost too high if we were to lose a mage. Even though they are some of our best, the Hydra Rider archers are far more expendable than our mages, especially you Arch-Mage."

"Hm, I suppose you're right." Skarx turned back to give his ruling to Zarex, but the goblin was muttering and gibbering to himself excitedly. He sung the word 'giants' loudly enough that those on the dais could hear it, and Orix's sigh was loud enough to be heard by those guards nearest the doors. "Zarex." The goblin looked up, a bit of spittle shining on his chin. "There will be no mages riding Hydras. Feel free to go talk to the giants though, if you think you can keep yourself from biting them." Zarex gave another cackle and skittered out of the room, running hunched over and occasionally using his hands on the floor to keep himself from falling on his face. The sound of bowstrings relaxing and archers letting out held breaths held a relieved tone that was shared by most everyone in the room.

"He's so cute when he gets worked up." Skinripple, a Murioanthrope mage, was known to have a soft spot for the crazed little goblin. Nobody bothered commenting anymore, as she tended to get defensive about it. Skinripple was known to have a rather aggressive defense, and only the suicidally foolish were dumb enough to antagonize a mage of her skill.

"Is that all? Any more petitions?" Skarx looked round at his advisors, then drummed his claws quickly on the armrest once more, a quick series of four taps. "Scratch that, no more petitions, we're done for the day. Tell them all to come back tomorrow."

"Arch-Mage, if I may?" The seated Skaven nodded, and Orix stepped round to be in better view, but remained on the dais. "There are two more matters of importance that ought to be dealt with today. The others can be delayed with no ill effect." The Arch-Mage considered for a moment, accompanied by more drumming claws, before growling and waving for the Lord General to continue. "Thank you. The first is an apprehended criminal, a Skaven currently in training to join the Arachnid Host." Most would have given them their casual moniker, the Spider Cavalry, but the Lord General always referred to the military regiments by their proper titles. "He stands accused of theft and assault. Shall I have him brought up from the dungeon?"

Skarx grunted a noncommittal response to the question. "Witnesses? How many and how reliable?"

"One for the theft, the blacksmith he assaulted, indeterminable reliability. He said the Skaven stole a dagger, but when he was apprehended he had three daggers on his person and none of them bore a maker's mark. The blacksmith claims his display samples go unmarked because they aren't intended for sale, which we confirmed." Skarx nodded, drumming his claws again, and Orix took that as a sign to continue. "Dozens of witnesses saw the assault, many of them were from the Skaven's own cadre of trainees for the Host and others were passing by in the street. All of them were questioned separately and agree that the blacksmith yelled something, then was attacked with no true provocation. He's fine, by the way, a few bruises and a cut on his arm that required no stitching."

"Did he claim any excuse or defense?" Skarx asked it more as an afterthought than anything else, which was clear to everyone else since his drumming claws had stopped; they all knew he'd made up his mind, and given the laws of the land the verdict was obvious.

Orix shook his head. "He wouldn't say anything when questioned."

The Arch-Mage shrugged. "Probably knew it was pointless. Let's see if he dies silent and stoic. Execute him for his crimes, then give all three daggers the Skaven had to the smith he attacked. Tell him to keep or sell the extras as he wishes, and to consider them as payment for the pain and the loss of business caused by the ruckus."

One of the Skaven mages, she who was called Dreadfang the Shadowbinder, had perked up at the mention of execution. She moved closer as the Arch-Mage spoke, until she was right by the arm of the throne and leaning forward slightly, as if intending to whisper in his ear. She didn't get the chance, however, as he noticed her looming presence and waved her away. "I told you to stop that, damn it. Yes, you can carry out the execution and do whatever it is you do with the bodies. Just make the death clean and quick this time." Dreadfang scurried off without saying anything, heading for the side door of the throne room that gave the quickest path down to the dungeons. Skarx watched her go, wondering for what must be the hundredth time if the mage was attempting necromancy or if she had some other purposes for playing with the corpses. As he always had in the past, he brushed the thought away as unimportant and turned his attention back to Orix. "What was the second thing? Is that damned Cult of Light causing problems again?"

"Probably, but that's not relevant to this issue." The Draconian pulled a sheet of parchment out of a pouch hanging from his belt, then read over it with a frown before explaining himself. "There have been numerous stories coming from southern Lothmor, near Korvan. They speak of a spirit of some kind taking in the fearful and wounded, all brought to a particular region of the forest, then being healed or soothed. All of the stories share the same core details, so it seems there must be some truth to them."

"Fine, fine, a helpful spirit. Why is this important again?"

Orix looked down at the paper again. "That's the issue: I don't know if it's actually important or not, but I felt you should be informed and make a decision just in case. This spirit has apparently told those it helped that it wishes to speak to the leaders of Lothmor," at this the Lord General looked up from his paper to meet the Arch-Mage's eyes, "and that it cannot leave its home forest lest it die. I have no advice or suggestion to offer on the matter, as magical spirits are not my domain of expertise."

The familiar clack of claw on bone started up yet again, this time at a vigorous pace. General Hirol Elfheart took this opportunity to speak up for the first time this day. "It said leaders? Could mean it wants to talk to Lady Cillois as well." The mood of the others standing on the dais grew palpably tense, as they often did when the Forest Dwarf mentioned the elven woman who many saw as a potential threat to the Arch-Mage; Skarx himself showed no sign of being perturbed, he just kept on with his claw tapping. The tension dissipated quickly enough though, as the amiable dwarf spoke onward. "Of course, maybe it said 'leaders' just in case. Some places have those group things, councils, that run everything. If it wants to talk to whoever's in charge, can't get any more in charge than the Arch-Mage. Could make for a fun trek through the forest, at least."

"Fun?" Skarx spoke the word as if deliberating on its meaning. "Yes, fun, maybe. Might be nonsense, might be lies, might be fun." The hairless Skaven pushed himself forward and moved quickly, already halfway down the dais steps before the others started moving. "Orix and Hirol, gather whatever soldiers you deem fit for safety. Send someone to make sure Zarex is occupied and doesn't tag along. Oh, and send a runner to the dungeons to see if Dreadfang wants to come along." The three other mages of the cadre, including the Night Goblin Draz Darkrant and the Skaven Moz Earthwhisker who had both remained customarily silent during the morning's events in the throne room, stayed near the Arch-Mage without need for any orders. They were granted a high level of autonomy, such that they could have left and gone about their own business if they chose, but all of them were suitably intrigued by the spirit and wished to see it for themselves. Skinripple was already chattering away at them, speaking of what it could possibly be and what they might learn from it.

By the time they were heading out the front gate of The Maw, called The Teeth by most, Dreadfang had rejoined them with some conspicuous drops of blood marring her fur. Orix and Hirol had gathered a full six regiments for the excursion, taking the full troops of the four that had represented the on duty guards of the throne room and adding to that the two Arachnid Host regiments stationed at The Maw, all looking pristine and ready for war atop their giant spider mounts. It all made for quite a procession through the city of Tekis, though the citizens were mostly used to seeing troops heading through the city. Hordes still came out and cheered, as if they were some heroic party setting out to vanquish evil, simply because word spread that Arch-Mage Skarx Foulclaw was there. There were plenty of negative things one could say about the leader of Lothmor, but he most definitely had the support of the people.

***

They arrived in the area of the forest said to be home to the spirit, after getting some local guidance, while there were still a couple hours of light left in the day. Skarx and his mages set about combing the area for the spirit or anything nasty lying in wait, with compliments of soldiers going with each of them just in case of such a surprise. The Arch-Mage called out his identity and intent to speak with the spirit at regular intervals as he moved through the woods, impatiently awaiting the appearance of the spirit or whatever it was that was the source of the tales.

Dragon City Ornuel - College of Ornuel



"And finally, On the Subject of Arctic Golemns and Their Properties," stated a tall young man of fiery red hair and dreary air. The man placed a partially shredded book atop an already intimidating tower of paper, further stressing the arms of its carrier. Carinna Rogald stood behind the wall of literature, brown hair peeking out from its pages and up to the man who had laid them in her possession. His tired expression and look of annoyance silenced Carinna before she could even complain; he certainly looked as if he greatly despised having to venture through the immense library, and so further pleading for him to help her transport the books to a place she could rest seemed too much to ask for.

Pathetically, Carinna struggled to give thanks before Macky Smolg turned face, his black coat catching the air, and walked off into the dimness of the Ornuel College library. Without aid, Carinna took step by careful step towards the nearest table, and set the books down with a world-ending thump. Catching her breath, she slid herself into a seat on wobbling legs and rolled her shoulders. The task laid out before her was off-putting, but a quick glance to the open-air window had reminded her of why she had set out to do it. Crackles and dances of fire upon the ridge of the window were reminiscent of the many festivals she had attended, and so Carinna could recall that her master, the one and only Arch-Mage Helen of Raphae, had herself gone out to participate in such festivities, leaving Carinna on her own. All too often, she was left with the aggravating reminder that her master was a child at heart -even younger than she- and so failed to properly educate her in the ways of magic. Thus, she was left to study on her own as best she could, utilizing what resources she could to facilitate the long journey towards mastery.

But if Helen could only have achieved such control with time on her side, how could she, when her life was just as fleeting as any other man's? Scanning over the archaic words upon the books before her, Carinna sighed and let her head fall into her crossed arms on the table. Her eyes traced over the candle that flickered at the corner, suddenly entranced and mindless by its properties. For a time, she was so focused that not even the beating of heavy wings in the libraries endless floors could distract her.

"Something seems to be troubling you, child," called out a gruff, elderly, but undeniably powerful voice. The whole floor shook as the speaker's body caught the stone edges of the floor above Carinna. Looking up, the apprentice found herself faced with the enormity of a lithe draconic body holding itself high above. The elder dragon gripped wooden railings on the second floor with its hind legs, and kept its upper body held aloft across the open air, hanging onto the other end of the floor's rails. With a serpentine neck, Molkrath weaved his head down to Carinna's side, staring at her tiny body with faded emerald eyes. Patches of white in them reflected the age that he sported, but Carinna remained no less in awe. "Tired, perhaps?"

Carinna returned her head back to the comfort of her arms, burying her chin down into the cloth of her robes till her nose disappeared. "No, I'm just..." she paused, feeling slightly that her plight would only pass off as a worthless triviality to Molkrath, "I'm just feeling a bit disconnected."

"From?" he replied inquisitively.

Carinna reared her head up and began to speak accusingly, as if her opinion suddenly were all the more strongly held. "From Helen! She is always dismissing me, going off and making a mockery of magic and herself! If she didn't want to take up an apprentice...!" she yelled. Molkrath let go of his grip from the upper floor and slinked down to the floor with a thump. resting upon his soft underbelly, he grumbled something as if to clear his throat and began,

"I am partially to blame for that, I suppose," he chuckled low, audibly dislodging some fluid from his throat. Carinna looked up to his eyes worriedly, as if she had indirectly complained about Molkrath himself. "I put her up to the task, knowing well that my time here is diminishing. If we lose our most powerful source of magic before the appearance of another, we may not be able to claim such pride any longer."

"Then she is irresponsible towards her country!" Carinna proclaimed.

"I believe her reasons are far more complicated than that, young one," Molkrath attempted to calm her.

"What do you mean?"

"Mmm," he mumbled, turning towards the largest window in the room, large enough for him to beat his wings through, "I do not believe I am at liberty to say. Her life is for her to lead, ultimately, and I do not blame her for her decisions, though I dearly hope every night that she change her ways." Carinna grunted and returned her face to the table's surface. Molkrath tightened his lips and coughed a few times, his eyes trained on Carinna's depressing form. Leaning his head down to her side, but a few feet from her ears, he spoke in whispers.

"If I explain to you, you must not tell anyone else. This is from me to you, and for your ears alone," Molkrath conspired. Carinna's eyes lit up and grinned, as if hearing a dragon gossip was the most laughable thing in Raphae. Carinna nodded her head and looked about the library, checking to see of Macky had entered again at any point. Molkrath inched his body closer to Carinna so his neck wasn't so extended, and let loose. "Helen is a tragic character, and I fear for her sanity in coming days. Before her experiments, she was just like you, Carinna. Hopeful, bright-eyed, and still very unskilled," Carinna would have glared, but she knew that it was the truth, "she too felt she was not progressing at a proper pace, but for entirely different reasons. Many a times she had come to me, worrying over every little spell she could not replicate, cursing me for having the time to do anything I wanted. I can't tell you how many times she said that she had given up." Molkrath's voice became soft, nostalgic, reflective.

"She resolved to change that, of course, and you see the results today," Carinna nodded, "and still she regrets it." Carinna looked at Molkrath with a look of suspicion, as if he were trying to deceive her. "It is true, without a doubt. She has confided in me this, with plain language and teary eyes. I know for certain that you do not understand the gravity of immortality, especially upon being stuck at such an age as hers. Being a child for so many years, one never seems to garner that respect that adults always expect. Her expectations for changes in her life are never met."

"And as the years pass, things grow more and more bleak. Friends passing, times changing with a slowed ability to adapt to them. I am simply left to assume that Helen spends her days hedonistically, trying to siphon as much joy from life as she can before..." Molkrath trailed off. Carinna had since become much more solemn and subdued, no longer emanating that spiteful air she had earlier.

"Before what?" she pressed. Molkrath shook his head grumbled a bit, lifting his body from the ground. Stretching his wings, he clearly conveyed a desire to leave, prompting Carinna to rise from her seat, as if she could run to his trunk-like legs and hold him in place.

"Mmm, I must be on my young one. Much to do, I believe, if my old memory serves me properly," without further word, Molkrath nodded dismissively to Carinna and thrust his wings towards the ground, lifting his massive body up and through the titanic window built specifically for him. Carinna shook her fist as the books around her fluttered past countless pages in the gust. Dejectedly, she spoke to herself.

"This still doesn't solve any problems!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tamruel - Central Market
Festival of Archaes

A host of armored bodies drifted effortlessly through the market crowd, as their immense numbers instinctively stepped aside for them to pass. The scene was a chaotic wave of human and celestine bodies huddled about a central area, obscured by their sheer numbers. Whispers weaved through the spaces in between, and the military figures easily caught a mass of them with their metallic grip.

Human snakes!

All the way from the desert?

What is a desert of bones, anyways?

They forge such beautiful wares!

Closer and closer the guards made their way to the center, quelling but a fraction of the commotion they walked upon. At the helm, a celestine walked with arms crossed at his back, commanding an air of honor and service that the people could not stand before. Three others walked just behind him, equally as armored in extravagant and grandiose metal plate armor, faces obscured by helms bearing the trademark platinum wings of high-ranking military officials. All at once, the reason behind the gathering had become clear when the guards found themselves at the inner circle of the market.

A pair of unfamiliar creatures sat in chairs at the edge of an outdoors tavern, striking up conversation with a large swathe of curious Raphae citizens. The barmaids showered drink and food upon the serpentine entities, as if they were gods in the flesh. Truly though, it was understandable; guests from outside the country were always treated with a profound respect, especially during any particularly notable festival.

Emrir Sahan, General of the Raphae army, happened upon the coastal city of Tamruel as a participant and peace-keeper of the annual Festival of Archaes, and when he and his closest men had heard that strange visitors from far off lands had made their way into the city, he was instantly intrigued. From the books he had read in his youth, the beings instantly reminded him of so-called Naga; snake-like intelligent entities with arms and legs just like man and celestine. He approached the two Naga at their tables proudly, and it appeared as though they noticed his approach, and reacted with caution. He was left to assume they thought him a policeman there to arrest him simply on the basis of racism.

Instead, Emrir extended a hand to shake and greeted the Nagas. "Welcome travellers, to the city of Tamruel. I see you both are enjoying yourselves. From whence have you come to our beautiful nation?" The Nagas shook his hand in turn slowly, surprised by his hospitality. One responded after drinking down a gulp of wine. Their accents were clear, and featured a distinct hiss that made them altogether snake-like.

"Yes sir, your foods and drink are of particular worth, we must say. How readily your people have welcomed us in comes as a surprise as well. Few other nations would treat us with such respect," he happily claimed, "I and my partner here are part of a trading caravan from the south, as far as the sands of the Desert of Bones can go. For many days we have walked along the coast of the Great Land, meeting other nations. Yours is the furthest north we shall have gone."

"I have heard that your kind has brought many interesting things to our market," Emrir noted, "but one object in particular we have heard of is a fantastic map detailing a number of other nations along the Great Land's western coast. Perchance, do you have such a map in your possession?" The Naga nodded after another drink, though his partner spoke up in place.

"That we do, many copies in fact. Our people pride themselves in how expediently we can procure maps of other lands beyond our own," the Naga fished around in a pocket of his, then in one of the many tied satchels sitting beside him. Bringing out a parchment, he revealed it to Emrir openly, who promptly received it and began to survey the detail fervently. A guard behind him responded with his own trade, bringing out a large coin purse that singled heavily. Without a word, he placed it upon the Naga's table, who looked at it surprisingly. "You are quite generous," the Naga stated, weighing the purse.

"It is not often that we have access to such important things, traveler. Consider this a gift for you to use during our festival, and enjoy yourselves," Emrir stated, still looking over the map. The Naga nodded and returned to the crowd, recalling fantastic tales to their intrigued listeners. Emrir and his entourage turned back and walked from the crowd with haste.

"A certain Namare and Lothmor are listed upon this map, all along the coast to the south. The Queen will surely wish to send invitations for them."

Infriet Oloth,
Underdark Passages.

Orders had been handed out and various house guards, looking with hate and holding hands on their weapons looked at rival houseguard warriors, but grudgingly released their grip and went on to carry out the tasks assigned to them. Border patrols and Underdark patrols were halved to make room for expeditions beyond the borders of Infriet Oloth, to map out more of the underground realm and scout for suitable caverns to set up new settlements or find places of note, veins of valuable ore for smithing, forging or other resources that could be used by the houses and nation.

These scouting forces were being equipped as if going to war, it was necessary for dark things lurk in the darkness of the underground realm they inhabited, from Hook Horrors, to Umber Hulks, Hydras and even the rare Dragon inhabiting a cavern under the surface, not to mention other... civilizations lurking underneath much like the Drow of Infriet Oloth. Captain Jahkan of house Kazir was leading his band in the deep tunnels a territory far from any settlement of Infriet Oloth and he and his band were unnerved, they had not encountered a single thing in these tunnels, no monsters, no sign of any presence, animal or otherwise and that fact made each and every warrior, himself included, feel a shiver down their spines and a urge to return the way they came. But they couldn't, orders were orders, even if they brought them to places that were unnatural. Besides what is a little fear now and again, kept the senses sharp.

He had lost count of the days spend in these tunnels when the scout up ahead had halted and upon his captain's approach turned around and gestured to a opening in the tunnel ahead, "That isn't on the maps we have, the wall must have given way."

Jahkan looked on and frowned, nodding slowly, "Well then we better add it to the map after we explored it." With a gesture to the troop behind them they started moving once more to the collapsed section to see what it revealed, upon the sigh everyone halted, genuine fear and worry on their faces as they looked on what lay beyond.



One of the soldiers dryly summed up what everyone was thinking, "That... is a lot of water."

Some of the men snorted and backed away, "You don't say smartass, well that's that, big cavern with lots and lots of water, nothing to see there." One said and spat on the rocky surface of the tunnel, "Water is always a bad omen."

"Can't live without it though." Jahkan said and looked at the cavern in front of them, it was massive, a entire underground lake was present here and he pondered, "Might be worth to the house, if we can drain the water and have it add to the aqueducts already in place, can double the water supply with this amount of water..." He pondered out loud.

That silence was broken by a cry, some of the men had steeled their resolve and had gotten closer and were pointing at something on the shores of the lake, "That glint, is that gold down there?"

At that sound several of the men who had backed away disgust and fear sharply turned around and approached to see what their fellow warriors had seen. More cried seeing a glint that might be gold and greed settled in their eyes, if there was a gold vein here and they reported it back their reward would be quite the take, more than their pay and the benefits as a household guard would grant them.

Then someone else cried out, but in fear, pointing at the middle of lake. "There's something in there!" At that several felt their resolve vanishing again and stepped back at the sudden cry, others looked, frowning and muttering when they saw nothing for the soldier to man up and stop shouting about something that wasn't there. "I swear there's something in there and it was massive! That gold is just a lure for something dark to snatch us!" He shouted and backed away from the water, looking at his comrades and the captain.

Jahkan looked on but did not see what the man meant, he saw nothing in the waters, except the glimmer of gold, but he stepped back wit ha sigh, one of his men had said it, a large amount of water, while both a blessing was also a curse, a bad omen. He took a deep breath and addressed the band, "This is what we are going to do... mark this location on the map and we report back to the house leadership that we found this lake... with possible gold... and a possible creature inhabiting it." Some scowled at this, feeling their hopes for a big reward slipping through their fingers. "I know what some of you are thinking, but if we didn't report this... and there really is some big creature in there... then we all would be executed, can't spend your reward if you are dead. Now mark it on the map and let's move on, plenty of tunnel to explore still."

The band headed out, Jahkan lingering behind taking one last look at the lake, for a second he could have sworn he saw something moving under the surface but then it was gone, shaking his head he followed after the warriors.

___________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________
Ssussun wun Oloth

The lich arch mage, Ze'zhuanth Uss, was in his study placed in the house Uss compound in the capital, muttering in a arcana tongue that sounded disturbing to any who would hear it, weaving his hands around as energies cackled around his bony fingertips and suddenly darkness erupted from his fingertips and hovered above him, he let out a shout, almost one of glee but then it seems the magic shifted and then died as the energies evaporated with a dry crack as if a whip was being wielded by someone. With a shout of rage the lich smashed his fist down and send a crystal goblet crashing on the ground where it shattered in a dozen pieces, glaring with his glowing eyes at the spot where the darkness had been a moment before. "So close... and yet so far... much more experimentation needed... much more..." He muttered darkly.

He looked at the mess on the floor and clenched his skeletal hand, picking up a orb on his table, peering at it with dark purpose. "One day I will achieve it... one day..."

Calliope looked around Grand Station, mind still in slight awe at visiting the beautiful capital for the first time. She came for the departure celebrations some time ago but her stay seemed so short in such a large city. She only managed to visit one of the three grand libraries that the city held, spending really all of that day there just wandering through it's vast halls looking through pages and pages of books, texts and scripts of all things from the religious, from plays and performances and even a few rather...indecent collections that got a blush from her, though she did hold on to those for a little while.

Then there were the four grand temples that served the different quarters of the city, these she could only get a cursory view of the outside and a hurried glance in the inside. However even that small time was enough to awe the town-born woman at the sheer size and majesty of the structures; their gilded decorations, vast inner structures and beautiful artworks making a mark on her especially since she came from a Sacrificum practising area where wealth was kept at a bare minimum, anything was was not considered as a necessity for survival was given as tithe and tax. Now she saw where all those tithes and tributes went towards and couldn't help but feel pride in the thought that her town had contributed to something that grand, had been in some small way an important part of it's creation.

“Are you ready, Cally?” A voice asked from behind her, tearing her from her inner thoughts.

She turned and saw Jerrick, her adventuring partner for the past two years. He was a tall man and well tanned, with a fit and slim body of wiry muscle and well cropped black hair. He was a good, strong and dependable friend, a potential legionnaire if he so wished to go down that path. In comparison Calliope was slimmer in frame with a dancer's agile body, slightly lighter of skin with long brown hair usually tied into a functional ponytail and eyes of golden amber. She was a singer and performer by trade with, in her mothers words, the voice of an angel who screamed herself hoarse. However she also considered herself a competent duellist, having attended classes sponsored by the Queen who was a well known practitioner of the sport and encouraged it's participation even amongst the less well-to-do of the populace.

“Yes, has everyone arrived?” She replied as she got up and dusted herself off.

He nodded and indicated to the small group behind him. Two men and one woman. One of the men wore recognizable tan brown robes with the emblem of the Missionaries, a gold on white colouration depicting an open book in the center within a white circle with green wreaths. He was around average height and had short brown hair with green eyes. He looked rather young, most likely an initiate of the Missionary order.

The other man was slightly taller with longer and had less kept hair with a light stubble forming around a hard set jaw. Compared to the rather young looking missionary this man seemed older and his brown eyes spoke of experience. He wore simple red linen garments with black crosses as decoration, a thick leather belt and by his leather booted feet lay a pile of bags.

The woman was around Calliope's height, though she looked older, with gold blonde hair tied into a braid that wrapped around her head like a crown, held in place by a small jewelled diadem that wrapped in and amongst her braids. Calliope thought she looked rather pretty especially with her light blue and white dress matching her aquamarine eyes. She also had a pack with her that lay on her feet.

“Hello” Calliope greeted the group “Im Calliope, you've already met Jerrick” She indicated to the man. “Im assuming we're all ready to board?”

They nodded and the missionary initiate spoke up “Hello, im Mardock of Colveran and behind me is Samel Sellsword”

“Of Angelia” Samel added.

The woman nodded her head in greeting, the green pendants hanging off of her diadem jingling “Hello, im Mariam Greenhand of Almostra. A pleasure to be part of this group”

Just then the platform bells rang followed by a bellow of steam from the locomotive. The doormen called out that it was the last chance for any passengers so the group picked up their belongings and boarded the train. Inside they found their compartment which was a comfortable fit for a group of their size and they took their seats, Miriam, Calliope and Jerrick on one side and Mardock and Samel on the other.

“So” Mardock began, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his entwined fingers. “Cardinal Maveran has offered a generous reward for this task but I need not tell you that capturing an undead still...alive, is no easy task. However you need not worry, I am trained in ways of handling the undead and I have been assured that Samel knows the ways of a sword quite well”

Said guard nodded. “'Been in the legion for half a term, 'supposed to be on leave but eh” He shrugged “I cant stay away from a good fight”

“Yes, well. That's good” Mardock continued “Ms Miriam is a healer I believe?”

She nodded “Yes, ive studied with the priests at Almostra and im certified with the Guild of Herbalists” She was smiling as she said this, proud of her achievements. Calliope liked her.

They finished off formal introductions after that, though Mardock gave Calliope an uncertain look when she mentioned her profession, a look which she largely ignored. They made small-talk after that, Calliope taking her chance to learn more about the older woman in their party.

---

“AUGHHHHAAA!!!!”

The scream was ear-breaking but Tarkaras could hardly feel anything but the crushing grip of his sister's left hand as she seemed hell bent on crippling his limb.

“Come on now my Queen, just push! Push!” The midwife urged as she waited between Monzcarro's legs, her apprentice and aids rushing about doing whatever task they were set to. Tarkaras attempted, once again, to soothe his wife with words but it seemed she was too preoccupied to listen.

“UAAAGGHH!!” Monzcarro shrieked, her death grip on her brother's hand tightening if that was even possible.

“Ahhhh!” Tarkaras cried as he felt his bones grinding together.

“Yes, yes my Queen. Push, harder, push!”

She did so and a long, drawn out scream ripped through her battered throat while Tarkaras let out a muffled groan. The process seemed to drag out for far too long and Tarkaras was increasingly worried with every second, with every scream but finally, after a long and frightful ordeal he heard a cry that made his heart melt and he let out an extremely relieved sigh.

The young King looked down. There he was. “A boy” The midwife said as she towel wiped the crying baby before handing him over to a very, very tired and happy looking mother.

“A boy” Monzacarro repeated with a wide smile on her droopy lips “A boy...”

Tarkaras hugged his sister closer to him and joined in the embrace of his son, their son. He looked, and sounded, healthy but experience had taught Tarkaras that Saint Angela would give him a challenge to overcome soon enough. He looked to his wife and kissed her on the cheek, his heart calming after the ordeal.

“What should he be named?” He asked.

Monzcarro stared into the eyes of their child while rocking him softly in her arms, bright green eyes looking up at her with curiosity as it slowly stopped crying. “Leo” She whispered. “Leo”

Tarkaras kissed her forehead “Leo it is. Our little lion”. The child gurgled and began to reach around and touch anything it could lay it's tiny little hands on. Tarkaras offered him a scarred finger which Leo could hardly get his hands around. The baby held onto it for only a brief moment before moving on to more interesting things.

“He seems such a little thing” Tarkaras muttered as Monzacarro brought the babe to her teat where he immediately began to suckle.

“He will grow into a man” Monzcarro said “A strong one, like his father and his better uncles”

They shared a chuckle at that.

“My lord” One of the midwife's aides approached them, bowing, speaking without lifting her head “The lord Grand Cardinal and lady Dracken ask for your presence”

Tarkaras raised his brows and looked over to his wife. She nodded “Go, he will be here when you return”

He gave them both a parting kiss and headed outside.

---

'Ughhh...' Tarkaras sighed internally, head resting on his hand as he swirled his wine inside a multi-coloured glass cup barely paying any attention to the two people across the desk.

Virgillian, his uncle and Grand Cardinal of the Church, and Trinicia his aunt and the Master of the Inquisition, were in a heated argument in his private office about a matter than apparently greatly interested them. So much so Trinicia seemed like she was ready to lunge for Virgillian's throat and he so very much wanted to reciprocate the action. Tarkaras could care less at this moment.

He slapped the table to get their attention, and to just stop them in general. “So as I understand this is an issue that cannot be sorted through normal procedure?”

Both glared at him. “No” His aunt stated with fervor, her eyes alight with fury. Literally alight, bright yellow orbs due to the magic coursing within her blood.

“Yes!” Virgiallian countered, Tarkaras sinking back on his quite comfy seat sighing as the two wailed at each other with words once again.

“Alright! Enough!” He slapped the table again, harder this time. “I will hold private council with you both and pass a writ on this matter. Auntie-” He looked at her “-Can you please leave us?”

She looked like she wanted to argue but in the end agreed, leaving Virgillian and Tarkaras alone in the room.

“Well” Virgiallian began “While this situation is certainly an interesting and noteworthy case, to simply override proper judicial procedure like she is saying is going too far. Mandaly is dead-”

Tarkaras palmed his face and groaned, his heart falling into a pit. It was a far more serious issue than he initially gave it credit for.

“-And while that is a great tragedy we cannot simply bypass established law. The inquisitors involved must be put to trial for manslaughter”

“Holy blood has been spilled uncle” He spoke into his hands as he looked at the larger man. “And without good reason. I cannot ignore such a matter”

Virgillian nodded in sympathy “I know, I know. I do not ask you to ignore it but simply do not interfere in the process. Let justice be administered as it has always been done”

Tarkaras could see the logic in that but it still hit hard when one of their own was killed. Their blood was sacred, it was their connection to their great Mother, to spill it was a grave sacrilege.

“Very well” He sighed “Leave now and call for my aunt”

He did so and a short while later Trinicia walked into the room. Looking at her Tarkaras couldn't help but note how she wore her dress like a second skin. It was soft cloth, tied at the shoulders in the colour of gold with black trim. A braided black belt secured it to her trim midriff as the fabric fell down to her sandalled feet and black painted nails.

Unlike many who met her Tarkaras was lucky to know the more gentle side to his aunt than the feared and ruthless Master of the Inquisition. She came here for the leaving ceremonies and for the expectant birth of his child. Being in the capital city she did not take to wearing her inquisitorial armour or uniform very often, as was her usual custom. Plus the occasion allowed for her to be more liberal in her attitude, to take a break as it were. 'If only this did not happen'

“Well auntie-” He began but was stopped mid sentence when she put her hand on the door and activated the magical lock. Tarkaras watched, confused as she slowly made her way towards him with a mischievous smile on her lips and her four wings fluttering. As she neared his desk she took flight and landed sitting in front of the young King. This close, he could smell the scented oils and incense that she most certainly did not have when she first stepped through the door and a baser instinct started to take over his thinking.

“It has been a while since we were alone my dear nephew” She said, smiling her black painted lips as she made a show of taking off her sandals, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal her smooth, recently oiled legs. This close he could see that both sets of her nails were painted in the same midnight black as her lips. She was one of the rare few who did not face a physical challenge but a mental one. Right now though that didnt matter.

Tarkaras' mouth was drying, remembering his previous private encounters with his dear auntie. “It has...” He whispered as he reached out and slowly ran his hands up his aunt's legs, right up her firm thighs and stopping on her even firmer buttocks. She felt hot, the scented oils making his fingers slippery. He ended up standing over her with her back on the desk.

She smiled up at him, hardened features softening as she began to undo the straps on her shoulders and pulling the top half of her dress down. “It has”

---

The two sat entangled in Tarkaras' luxurious chair, naked, clothes piled on the desk cleared of writing implements and books and whatever else happened to be in the way of their heated passion. Their wings wrapped around each other acting as a cushion and a blanket to lay on.

Trinicia stroked her nephew's hair as she whispered in his ear “Have I been assured my dear? You will allow me to deal with this?”

The young King leaned into her further and breathed a content sigh, her soothing and pleasant scents filling his nose “Yes, yes. Just as long as you deal with the Inquisitors in question of your own accord, do what you will with the mayor”

She turned his head gently to give him another kiss, their tongues tangling once more. After a while, they broke away, breathless “Thank you, my dear, dear nephew-king. And congratulations” She gave him a lighter kiss “I hope to see my grandnephew soon”

He nuzzled into her and planted kisses on her scented neck “How is Bessandra?”

“Doing well, though it seems her challenge has dawned on her”

He looked up at her amber eyes “Oh?”

“She struggles with words. Can barely get them out of her mouth most days”

He sighed “I will pray for her”

“She also wonders about her father. Sometimes it's all she can think about”

Tarkaras hugged his aunt closer “Auntie-”

“I know my dear” She stroked the back of his head as he began to rain kisses on her breasts “I know. It is best to leave it as it is, you know how Monza can get”

“I know” 'After all' He thought. 'You are not much different'

---

Virgillian was less than happy with the young King's ruling but in the end he gave up protest, assured that punishment would be handled. Later that day a messenger bird carried a letter to the local Inquisition headquarters of the town of Vilgrid;

Balian,

Enclosed is a writ of the king allowing for the instigators to be tried and punished within the organization. Further instructions are to implicate Mayor Baloran as part of the heresy recently rooted in the area and that he was the one who misdirected the Inquisitors, putting blame on Mandaly. He is to be arrested on these grounds and his home and office is to be searched thoroughly for 'evidence'. The integrity and aptitude of the organization cannot be questioned.

Glory to Angela,

Dracken

---

Jean hummed happily as she meandered her way through the beautiful marble halls of the Theologian Academy, taking advantage of her sister's need of sleep to wander freely. It was late in the afternoon with the sun setting, casting a dazzling orange glow in the sky which gave the massive glass windows of the academy a bright array of colours, different from the day.

“Ah, Ms Voerman, I was just looking for you” A man said just as Jean rounded the corner. She paused mid step and leaned back to take a look.

The man was a little short in stature with short, clean cut blonde hair and sea-blue eyes wearing the blood red robes of the Cardinals, much like the one Jean was wearing. His wings were thin, the base just spanning from the top to the bottom of his shoulder blades.

“Mr Rhoder. A pleasure, I was searching for you as well” she lied as he accompanied her, rather, she following him to whatever place they might end up in. “How did the day go for you?”

“Oh, it went very well” he replied as they made their way towards one of the research wings “Though I must say that the first year students are not being very inquisitive this year around. It seems the influence of the bureaucracy is being felt in earlier education. Also, I had met with the adventurers that answered my call and I believe I have selected the most capable of them, we should see some results in the following weeks”

“Mmh-Hmm” Jean said looking far more interested at her surroundings, the grand corridors of marble and coloured glass being familiar to the woman who almost exclusively lived here. As they walked Jean began to realise where they were going and, going by Therese's memory, what they were going to do.

They entered one of the rooms in the research wing filled with with materials and equipment for what looked like spiritual studies, but with a certain twist by Maveran himself, one of his many ways to compensate for his lacking magical power. Copies of tomes lay in neat shelves, texts written by people long dead yet who's voice seemed to carry on beyond their graves for some reason or another. There were what looked like musical instruments laying around, metal flutes and pipes which had different objects attached to them. Tuners and resonators, sound amplifiers and dampeners, all made to commune with the inner being of humanity.

Music, after all, gives soul to the universe. It affected man in a primeval way that was difficult to comprehend, going deep into their soul and inner being. 'Or something like that' Jean thought as she picked up a modified flute and twirled it on her fingers, waiting for Maveran to open the door to the practice area below the room. It was a sleek construction, all smooth dark wood carved with angelic designs. However unlike usual flutes this one had a metal attachment to the end, a magical transformer which transformed the sound into magical energy.

She blew a flat tune and a white light shot out, impacting the floor but leaving no mark. She flayed a softer tune this time and the light came out slower, less bright. It flowed rather than hit the floor, dissipating as it made contact.

“Ms Voerman, the door is open” Maveran let her know as he held said door open.

She gave a sheepish smile, placed the instrument back on the table and went through, down the lantern lit marble stairway into a large and spacious room. There were alcoves carved into the walls where lanterns were put and decorative glassworks covered the walls depicting the academy, scholars, classrooms and other similar things. More instruments were stored here but the most noticeable object that covered the majority of the room from the center was a chalk drawn circle within which were more chalk drawn patterns in geometric designs.

The lanterns were already lit as she went down, within were two people that Jean recognized. Cardinals Victoria Sanctum and Elain Brightwing.

Victoria was a tall, sleek woman with high cheekbones and an aristocratic face with long smooth black hair tied into a functional ponytail. She wore the red robes of the cardinals and had a wide gold and jewelled winged symbol that covered her collar, a chain of gold looping around her neck to secure it in place. Her wings were wide and curved to the side. She would have been fairly attractive Jean thought, if not for the fact that her eyes looked like a thunderbolt had passed through them and left a mark. Normally hidden by a piece of fabric, in the presence Victoria's eyes were stark white, the skin around it pale, wrinkly and scarred. She held a staff that was around two thirds of her height made of dark wood, beautifully decorated with gold inlay that doubled as a walking cane.

Elain was shorter, much shorter than Victoria or even Maveran. She was a pixie-faced thing with short blonde hair and though she was older than Jean and Therese' forty-eight she had the body of an eleven year old. An eleven year old mangled by a steam machine. And had leprosy.

Her left arm down from the elbow was missing, her right hand, usually forced into a glove was twisted, the fingers splaying in odd directions. Her robes covered most of her body and those bits that were exposed were wrapped in damp red cloth, but underneath Jean knew of the red rashes, the pustules and boils that marred the girl's skin. Her wings were noticeably small, even for her size and drooped downwards, never managing to lift themselves let alone the girl they were attached to. How Elain had managed to stay walking for all these years Jean, and all who knew about the girl, chalked it up to her very in depth knowledge of holy magic and other healing arts.

“Welcome...” Victoria started, pausing, sensing who was there “Jean. How have you been?”

“Well enough, Therese is a pain in the ass but hasnt she always?”

“And yet you love her as you always have” Elain commented, voice muffled by the red facemask she wore.

Jean turned up her nose in a dramatic fashion, giving an exaggerated huff and crossing her arms.

“Well, now that we are all here let us get to the task at hand” Maveran was always a to the point man. “Let us test Ms Voerman's theory”

They gathered around the circle but only Elain was within the chalk drawn barrier. That is, until Jean realised that she had somehow stepped in as well, standing next to the girl-woman. 'Huh' She thought curiously as she lifted her arms and began to summon the magic within her by instinct. Elain was doing so as well, a glowing light gathering in her hands as she muttered holy incantations while Jean was being more careful, gathering raw mana before applying the element of fire. Fire, after all, was a short lived element. It wouldn't do to burn out before the spells could join and even then it would have to be stoked to keep going and forced to go how you wanted it.

Jean blinked. Where did that come from? As realisation was dawning on her a bright light made her focus her attention to the task at hand. Elain had primed her spell. Looking down at her hands Jean saw that she too had done so. She looked at Elain, the latter nodded and the two unleashed their spells. Elain unleashed a lance of white light towards the center of the circle and barely a second later Jean followed, unleashing her fire towards the light. The magics crossed and it took Jean by surprise how much effort was required just to prevent her fire from fizzing out, from being overcome by the light or even just to keep it going. More effort was required to even try and merge the two together and both Elain and Jean were sweating with exertion in their attempts.

It seemed an eternity but in reality it was only a few seconds before the magics were beginning to fuse. For a fraction of a second Jean thought they had managed to do it. Then the magics untangled and they were blasted with white light and fire. The chalk rings glowed immediately, shifting, absorbing the unleashed magic and protecting the two in it's confines as well as those outside.

Jean found herself sitting on the floor having been knocked over, however there was hardly a mark on her or her clothing.

“Your not firm enough in your control” A familiar voice scolded her and Jean sighed, letting Therese pick her up and onto her feet.

“Last time I checked fire isnt one to be controlled” Was her excuse.

“Nevertheless” Victoria interjected before Therese could speak “Your theory holds promise Therese. It is something to work on”

Jean could feel Therese's' smug smile.

---

Telbaran Plains, Western Border

Mizani sat on his horse, eyes scanning over the truly vast caravan that was assembled for this task. Carts formed a long, long line down the cobble paved road accompanied by horse riders both light and heavy guarding their flanks. There were carts for goods, for supplies, for equipment, for people and every other thing that was brought along.

“Mizani” Someone called out behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Alexander trotting towards him on a black stallion.

“Master” He greeted “Where to we head?”

Alexander pointed to where Armen was parting ways with a rather rugged looking group of riders. Nomads that occupied the lands outside the borders of the Holy Lands. “Armen negotiated with an old friend of his, says it's the chief of a horse tribe. They will guide us to where the Val” He gestured to the wide river flowing to their right “branches off into the Arry. They know of a way to cross”

“Excellent” Mizani took a deep breath. “Most excellent”

“Indeed”

---

Grand City of Talins,

The great oars glided through the water and propelled the ships forward out of the harbour and into the wider expanse of coast. The city's inhabitants lined the harbour side cheering and waving at the departing ships, carrying one of the expeditions that would sail into the unknown lands farther north than anyone dared to to go.

Captain Frey stood on the deck of his ship waving at the crowds with a wide smile on his bearded face.

“A good day for sailing Captain?” Tervani asked.

Frey nodded “Aye, clear skies for now. Though a little prayer wouldnt go amiss”

The missionary nodded “I will do so once we leave harbour”

“Glory to Angela then”

“Glory to Angela”

The land passed by Cerannius; the trees blurred and the occasional bird thumped against the metal body of the locomotive, unused to the nature-shattering presence of the metal locomotive. Thick plumes of black smoke were ejected out of four grimy, soot-covered chimneys, polluting the land with clumps of unburned coal. The locomotive ride was certainly a lot more enjoyable than riding from Reverent Hall to the Capital; albeit there was always an uncomfortable ride over the river, something never quite seemed right to Cerannius about crossing the river on the train. Whilst He didn’t doubt the solidity of the Dwarven construction; it was a towering monstrosity of stone, metal and timber, seemingly built stronger than most city walls.

There was the sound of metal clanking on metal, the signal of the impending arrival of a soldier arriving through the door. This dragged Cerranius’ eyes from his portal to the outside world back inside the cabin of the train, his eyes skipping the plush interior of the cabin and its four inhabitants and to the door which was pushed open which was swiftly followed by the entrance of one of the soldiers that had accompanied him from Reverent Hall. The man was one of his most capable cavalry soldier; he was a light cavalry man which was not a bad lot in life for someone who was born as a prostitute’s son. The man bowed to the five people seated in the room, all rather important men in this little social world but Cerannius was the only one from the worth of actual worth in the kingdom.

The other four politely moved their attention away from the soldier when he made his way over to the Knight-Marshal who idly sipped on the last remnants on the wine left in his cup which he places down on the ornate wood table next to him. The soldier was dressed in a studded leather armour, the more casual armour used for a light cavalry man, he had a sword casually slung from his hip in a plain leather scabbard. The man held his fist over his heart and bowed again to the Knight-Marshal and said “Mi’lord, the King has requested you ride straight to the Palace, there is an urgent matter that needs to be resolved. He’s tasked some of the aerial cavalry to take you from the waystation the palace and we’ll will bring your gear with us when we ride there.”

Whilst it could be seen as odd for the Knight-Marshal to have his guard removed before a trip it barely crossed his mind as a worrying event. “Thank you Anear, I’ll await your presence at the palace; I have a nice bottle of wine packed away to celebrate my victory today and I’ll have one of the halls whip up a feast for all of us”

“Thank you mi’lord, your generosity is most king” he said with a final bow before he departed the room, closing the door with a soft thud, being careful to not disturb the men in the room. Cerannius showed little interest for the other men in the room; two were minor nobles, one a wealthy merchant and the last was a Dwarven ambassador; no doubt a representative of Rotar to see the king or some other obscenely rich noble in the land.

When the train began slowing into the station Cerannius rose and tugged on his plain grey tunic, desperately trying to pull the folds out of the garment before giving up with an exasperated sigh. He stood up, noticing how the men waited for him to leave before they rose themselves; clearly they were sticklers for formality. The train pulled into the station with a soft stop, barely disturbing Cerannius as he strode across the room and pressed the silver button located next to the reinforced door, popping it in with an audible click. The ornate door slid open with a pneumatic hiss and the sunlight which had previously been held at bay were unleashed through the cabin.

Once he stepped off onto the platform he became aware of a Gryphon waiting for him at the open end of the platform. It had a rather noticeable distance between it any anyone walking by; whilst the monsters were an integral part of the Arturian war machine it didn’t mean that people felt comfortable around beings capable of such death and destruction. The beastmaster of the Gryphon was still seated on the saddle, who dropped his head as a bow to the man before wordlessly offering his hand to the Knight-Marshal and aiding him to climb onto the back. The beastmasters were a notoriously silent lot; something about bonding and spending the majority of their time with beats removed their desire for human conversation. The Gryphon took off with a stomach-churning leap before it’s powerful wings thrashed the wind under it and soared into flight; riding the calm breeze which blew its way towards the Palace. It was a rather pleasant result for the Knight-Marshal, aerial travel became rather rough when the beasts had to fly into the wind.

The flight was a short but unpleasant nonetheless journey; being able to go as the crow flies allowed the group to quarter the time it would have taken to journey to the Palace. The chimera began to descend and with up Cerannius’ stomach rose to his mouth and that all-encompassing nausea exerted it’s authority of his body. He managed to survive the landing, stepping off onto the solid ground with a relieved sigh and a hawked spit removing the bile from his mouth. Two of the palace guard were awaiting his presence, their hands resting on the pommel of their swords; always alert, always ready to draw in a matter of seconds. The two guards wordlessly escorted him through the palace, past an endless myriad of servants, nobles and other guardsmen who greeted each other with silent, curd nods. It was customary for the palace guard to say nothing to each other whilst nobles or commanders of the land were around unless the conversation was initiated by their charge.

Cerannius had no mood for conversation; right now his mind was abuzz with trying to pre-empt what the King wanted him for. His own sources had here nothing of note recently, nothing more than rumours on the wind and mere heresay. The last time he’d been summoned like this was to war against a tribe of necromantic men who’d sought to take the Kingdom with an army of skeletons. That same army had been crushed under the hooves of the Arturian cavalry; swept away like young saplings caught in an avalanche. To receive a summons like this suggested a danger or a similar scale or the potential for it to escalate to that level.

By the time they reached one of the many war rooms contained within the palace, Cerannius had already created and solved twelve possible dangers facing the kingdom ranging from a rampant demon to a widespread civil war in the kingdom. The guardsman leading their trio pushed opened the door for Cerannius revealing the Council of Five Races, a few beastmaster and the King standing around a map of their solitary coastal province – a quiet fishing hamlet which naught else but seafood to the land. The avid discussion was interrupted when they heard the entrance of Cerannius who bowed to his King with a “My Lord” and greeted the assembled councilmen.

The council was made of the leader of each race and the King; it was assumed that when one took the crown they forswore their racial ties but it didn’t always work out that way though. The council was comprised of Ironfist, Turok the Clearsighted, Duke Signius, the Dwarven amabassador as Duke Rotar loathed to leave his subterranean citadel and finally Duke de Vries, the leader of the human races in lieu of King Eyrar. The human duke was a particularly unremarkable man; loyal to his king and diligent in his duties. Each had two of their own personal guard in the room; whilst it was unnecessary in this day and age, it was based in a tradition that stretched back to the day when the warring tribes would take the meetings as a chance to kill the leaders of the other tribes to weaken the other races standing in the land.

“Cerannius – come, enter. We’ve had a report from our coastal hamlet of Scaleshire; apparently they’re having their ships taken and sailors killed by what appears to be a wild Sea Serpent is terrorizing their fishing fleets. We can’t allow this to continue; this village is under our kingdom’s rule and we cannot let them be slaughtered” uttered King Eyrar, informing his commander of the situation.

Cerannius nodded thoughtfully, chewing his lip as his mind processed and deciphered the information that was provided to him. “Well naval warfare is not our forte but that doesn’t mean we have no options albeit a Sea Serpent will prove a tough adversary. What plans to we have so far?”

“Is the simple solution not to send the Krakens after the beast? Surely they’ll be able to take them out?” asked Duke de Vries; he was a rather simple man, he was a good fighter but the finer nuances of strategy didn’t come to him. For de Vries, the key to winning battles was brute force and sheer numbers hence why he didn’t rank as one of the most dangerous men in the land.

“My Lords, The concern is how many we send; if we send too many the Kraken will be hampered by each other and likely slaughtered by the Sea Serpent and we don’t send enough, well the result would be the same. The tip is to find the right number of Kraken and keeping them ordered; I’d suggest tasking some of our Gryphon Cavalry too, they can signals to the beasts and control their movements. Plus a bit of aerial firepower won’t go astray” piped up Beastmaster Hurin. He was the unofficial leader of the beastmasters of the kingdom; he was a wizened man of some 70-odd summers with thinning grey hair and a face wrinkled by a hard life. Whilst he was somewhat beyond the capability of being able ride into war, his use was more in an advisory role being the most knowledgeable person in the land about monsters in combat.

“We have the logistics in place already for this sort of operation; last report I saw is that ten of our Kraken are in a battle-ready state and there’s a squad of Gryphon cavalry at Stablesvale who can make it to the fishing village in a day’s flight. We don’t have any proven leaders that are experienced in monster combat in the area though, we can easily send someone from here, and the locomotive can take them as far as Stablesvale then a gryphon ride from there. The question is who do we decide the send?” Turok contributed his piece to the discussion; logistics and supply trains were his area of knowledge which provided a major boon to the nation’s military.
Cerannius offered his opinion with “Well I’d suggest sending five Kraken with one of the Beast Captains, they’d have the experience to manage both Gryphon and Krakens in an assault. Whoever does it will have to have an intricate knowledge of the two albeit the Kraken side would be harder to manage. Unfortunately our Krakenmaster died two weeks ago and there was no clear successor; who would you suggest sending Hurin? I suppose it’ll provide a perfect application for the job, wouldn’t it?”

“Beast Captain Romar would be the best pick I’d say; he’s our most learned member with Krakens albeit he is slightly lacking in field experience. I’m sure the captain of the Gryphon Cavalry squad will be able to help in that field, he’s a veteran of many battles and knows how to lead a squad” offered Hurin.

“Agreed, we send five Kraken and Beas Captain Romar to Stableswood, meet up with the Gryphon cavalry and then head to Scaleshire. Does any of the council disagree with this?” asked Eyrar, addressing the assembled councilmen. There was merely nods of agreement from the other councilmen and advisors; some like the dwarven ambassador and Ironfist had little to offer in this sort of field but their agreement was more of a ceremonial gesture. It demonstrated unity and co-operation between the various traces in the land.

“Give Romar his orders and have him dispatched immediately; we cannot allow this sort of death and destruction to continue any longer else we face losing our influence on the outer provinces.”

---

The salty, sea breeze caressed Romar’s face as he crouched over the furred back of the gryphon he rode; they were an elegant race of flying animalistic hybrids. They were minacious creatures; capable of tearing a man asunder in a number of ways and before they’d been tamed by the Arturian Beastmaster they’d slaughtered the Arturians like rats. However now that they were domesticated they provided an excellent mount for the Arturian Aerial Cavalry; capable of swooping down from the thermals to harry and extinguish their prey. Whilst the Gryphon was the more common mount of choice for the Air Cavalry, some of his more unhinged comrades tamed the far rare and more dangerous Chimera. Where a gryphon was noble and elegant; a chimera was foul and unholy – an abomination of lion, dragon and goat species that repelled just about all that see it.

Dragging his mind away from the nuances of beast physiology, Romar refocused his mind to the task at hand and the reason for why he was flying over the ocean in the first place. Shifting his gaze ahead, he saw three of the squad members in front of him; the lieutenant and the two draconians took the point of the formation. To his left there were three men flying to his left and to his right was another three men and rather curiously a dwarf, clearly dissatisfied with the reclusive life provided at Refuge Rock. A slight smile danced across Romar’s lips as he noticed how the dwarf’s beard flapped comically about in the wind; whipping across his face and causing a small measure of discomfort. To suggest attempting to contain or remove the beard would be to court becoming headless so he kept his joviality as inward as he could and his opinion silent.

The lieutenant help up his hand; it was the prearranged signal for having spotted something on their long and wearisome search. It was their third day of flying out over the ocean because as with suiting their luck as they arrived in Scaleshire there’d been no sightings of the beast for nearly a week. Their mounts were beginning to tire from the constant exertion and they had maybe an hour’s worth of light left in the day and limited control over the beasts which swam hundreds of metres below them. The two draconians plummeted from the group, swooping down to investigate what Romar could now discern as the shattered remains of a fishing boat which contained a distinct lack of bodies.

He turned his head rather nervously, there was still blood trailing through the water meaning this kill was rather fresh and therefore their prey would be nearby. He guided his mount nearer to the soldier directly on his left, a grizzled veteran whose beast carried a rather important package with him; a set of war drums tuned to the right frequency for their beasts below. “Summon the Kraken, soldier. They should be able to rustle up the beast we hunt.” A nod was all the reply before the veteran began playing; soon a stream of low booms filled the air.

Boom.

Romar’s heart began to beat faster in anticipation of what was to come; soon a battle of gargantuan proportions would be underway and its result would be dependent on how well Romar managed the situation.

Boom.

The two draconians heard the noise and turned their beasts back towards the group, they knew to remove themselves from the air, re-joining their companions who held javelins in white-knuckled grips. Whilst these men were mainly veterans of countless conflicts this was nothing like what they’d ever managed before.

Boom.

With the distinct lack of anything on the surface of the mildly choppy, deep blue water stretching out below them, Romar’s mind began to wander with concern. Had the krakens been attacked already? Do they fear this creature enough to refuse the summons on their masters?

Boom.

Suddenly the water burst asunder with a tremendous crash as dozen of thick, oozing tentacles flailed out of the deep and soon the grotesquely fearsome body of the kraken surfaced. The beast was visibly distressed, the tentacles bunched up and shot out; it spun on the spot as it sensed the presence of something else out there. Something was hunting it, stalking it and it could feel the gaze of some unseen foe nearby. It submerged itself back into the writhing, boiling water stirred up by its own activity; clearly deciding that it was better off in the murky depths against whatever stalked him.

Romar’s heart began hammering even harder in his chest; whilst the Kraken were massive, powerful creatures, according to the reports the thing they hunted was even greater. His gaze frantically flashed around the ocean, willing their prey to show itself albeit by now he was starting to feel like the prey in the situation. Suddenly the surface broke with an almighty disturbance as a sight quite like anything else unfolded before them; a kraken flew through the air, thrown as if it was a mere rag doll. The thirty something foot long squid landed with a splash that threw spray hundreds of metres away and a plume of turbulent water that pierced the sapphire blue sky.

Romar almost missed the horrific head which emerged some distance from the kraken, it was a pale grey in colour with chunks of ragged flesh hanging off its head. A number of spiked frills adorned the crown of its head; shaking violently as the creature emitted a hiss which cut through Romar’s courage and instilled him with an unimaginable sense of dread. He could smell the breath of the beast even at the range he was at; out of the gaping may containing an infinitesimal number of teeth came the putrid stench of death and decay. The head began to sway from side to side, entrancing the onlooking soldiers flying above who were overwhelmed by the incomparable scene of horror so great all they could do was watch on helplessly. The kraken thrashed its tentacles around once again, bellowing with a roar as it issued a challenge to the fearsome beast in front of it.

The kraken was confused but aggressive, its shoal were the rulers of the waves around the area; it would defend its territory even against a monstrosity such as this. The rest of the serpent’s body rose to the surface revealing a tubular creature of some ninety foot. The long, circular body was broken only by some twenty pairs of fins spaced relatively even apart and a teen-odd foot long arrowhead-shaped tail. The beast raised its tail out of the water, water droplets tumbling off the hard, dark bone and swung it menacingly akin to a scorpion brandishes its stinger. The kraken issued another bellow as it faced a creature thrice its size; albeit this challenge was far less authoritative then the first. Fear was crawling into the creature’s brain, wrapping its shadowy tendrils around its courage like some all-enveloping darkness.

The monster opposite raised its head further out of the water, revealing yet more ragged grey flesh to the afternoon as it’s fins bunched ready to launch itself at the kraken in front of it. Dwarfed and cowed by the size of the creature in front of it, still it stood strong, spreading its tentacles out in order to make itself look larger and more menacing. It was a last ditch attempt to dissuade the larger being from attacking; one that was destined to fail.

Viewing the entire spectacle on the thermals above the, Romar was instilled with a gargantuan mixture of awe and dread as his mind lacked the comprehension to distinguish between the two. Even their Gryphon mounts below them; usually a picture of calm and grace were as jittery as a stallion in the face of such. These men spent their lives breeding, raising and riding monsters yet here, now, they were handed a spectacle unlike anything ever recorded in their history. The men looked at each other in utter bemusement; even the lieutenant was clueless as to what they could to but Romar raised a trembling hand to the men, feeling as feeble as an old man. Whilst he knew the kraken stood no chance against the beast, committing the troop of Gryphons to the fray would have little impact with the scales so disproportionality weighed. Suddenly his heart fell as he heard the whoosh of forty fins violently thrusting through the water and the great creature flew towards its prey in front of it.

The small kraken stood down the launching creature, steadfastly holding its position which utterly bemused Romar; the creatures weren’t idiotic yet the beast remained there. Did its survival instinct fail in the face of such fear? Would it be carelessly slaughtered by this creature of brutal violence?

Another two whooshes filled the noise and Romar’s eyes lit up when he heard the noise and saw the two brown blurs launch out of the water and cut through the air like arrows flying true to the creature. As it was about to come down on the small kraken in front of it, the serpent was hit with two sickening crunches as twin forty foot krakens thudded in its body, knocking it over and away from the first kraken. The two kraken, somehow not dazed by their brazen assault on the beast reacted faster, wrapping their tentacles around the creature and clamping their razor-sharp beaks, hidden by masses of writhing tentacles, into the creatures body. The serpent violently thrashed it’s body, dislodging on of the creatures which tore a great chunk of flesh from the creature but the other kraken manage to cling on, tearing and gnashing at the flesh presented. A chilling shriek was emitted from the serpent, a noise of anger and pain. Its meal had been interrupted and now something would pay for it.

Turning to the kraken that’d been flung away it’s launched itself once again, taking an aggressive approach against the new foes. The kraken stirred slightly but moved too slowly as the jaws of the beast came clamping down on some of its tentacles, ripping them apart and injuring the beast. A pained cry from the kraken was followed by a deafening bellow. The deep throaty noise echoed through the sky, bringing hope to Romar’s heart as he recognised the sound of the Bull. The Bull Kraken rose from the depths, all 60 foot of power and destruction. This was the alpha of the group, the toughest and meanest.

By now the serpent managed to dislodge the other kraken on its back, flinging it off once again leaving a jagged chunk of torn flesh. A thick, black blood oozed out of the wound, running in a gelatinous flood down the body of the creature. The Bull launched a torrent of ink from its body, nailing the creature square in the eyes blocking its vision. A tail was blindly and wildly thrust at the kraken, missing the first two times but on the third, the Bull grabbed the tail and sheared the bony part off at the fleshy join with its beak. The plated bone spike sunk to the depths leaving a weeping stump that oozed yet more blood.

The other krakens had reattached themselves in the meanwhile; tentacles wrapped and beaks chomping down on the body of the beast. The last kraken had also joined the fray, another 40 footer of a black-bespeckled brown complexion taking the count to five kraken attacking the one severely wounded serpent. The creature was now paying the price for its size; its death was a relatively slow matter, the krakens tore at its flesh with all their might but they weren’t delivering much major damage. The bull managed to work its way up to the head of the beast, despite its frantic thrashing and rolling; doing all it could to remove the parasitic-like krakens attacking it. Wrapping the thickest of its tentacles around the neck of the beast, it began to crush the neck of the beast, all the while using its beak to weaken and tear the flesh.

The thrashes became weaker and weaker; eventually ceasing when the Bull managed to completely crush the neck of the creature, severing it too as its tentacles ripped it apart. The triumphant cries of the kraken filled the air as the shoal announced their victory over the beast, daring another to try and challenge their authority. Romar nodded thoughtfully from the skies as he saw the end of the beast, they’d done well; only a slight injury to one kraken and the beast had been killed. He looked across to the other gryphon riders, they were still wearing faces of utter shock, awe and dread at the scene they’d witnessed. He couldn’t resist a cheeky smile crossing his face at the thought of the stories he could tell at the whorehouses when he got home.

Divisions of faith in the worship of Solarion had caused burnings, tortures and war almost from the beginning. The doctrine and liturgy of the sun god, emerging from the ancient pagan pantheon of the Caermelorite tribes and Namarese cities during the early years of expansion and the road to Empire, had not evolved without their share of schisms and heresies… and the frequently savage responses to these.

The god was in the sun or behind the sun, or was the sun. The world had been born from darkness, or light, or fallen from holy light. At one point in Namarese history, it was believed Solarion died in winter and was reborn in spring. However, this particular heresy had been quickly eliminated by quartering the cleric who had expounded such sacrilegious ideas. For a brief time the moon had been included as a related deity in the worship of Solarion the Radiant. This fallacy, unfortunately, had also required some painful deaths to extirpate.

The varying forms of belief in Acahirus the Charioteer –as mortal son, as half-mortal child, as god or demi-god– were only the most obdurate and enduring of these conflicts waged in the holy, bright name of Solarion. Kings, Emperors, clerics and priests wavered and grew firm and then reversed their positions and tolerance. Thereby moving Acahirus the Charioteer in and out of acceptance and fashion, much as the sun moved in and out of clouds on a windy day.

In a similar way, amongst all these religious wars, fought with words and iron and flame, the rendered image of Solarion himself had become a line of demarcation over the years. It had become a battlefield of art and belief, of ways of imagining the sun god who sent life-bringing light to the mortal world and battled darkness and ice beneath the world with nightfall.

When Cahir took the throne, the Solarion’s son was brought back into the fashion of the faith. There were many reasons to promote and support the worship of the Charioteer, though firstly he had the Council of Caermelor organised – a conference for the clergy and academics to ascertain the nature of Acahirus and forever remove all possibilities of conflict concerning the son of the sun. Naturally, as head of the Church, Cahir’s influence over the meetings had been crushing and it was largely his own vision that had defined Acahirus’ state and position within the faith.

The first reason why he had brought the Charioteer back, was the fact they shared the same name. The King-Emperor already enjoyed divine status, but this would add considerably to that. Secondly, Acahirus was a figure of courage, much like his godly father, who had brought light to the world, stealing fire from the sun. It was from this particular hero that the King-Emperors of Namare claimed descent. For Acahirus had been cast out by Solarion and forced to walk the earth, where he had many sons. These in turn were the seed of the Caermelorites. Thirdly, the people loved watching the chariot races, and re-introducing this demi-god into the realm of acceptance would assuage some of the more radical populace.

And so it was that the dome of the Grand Temple in Caermelor was being renovated. The mosaics that had been there for centuries were –meticulously- scraped off to move them to a trio of smaller temples throughout the city. The old masters, the old craftsmen and their art were not being removed and cast into oblivion; a fact which pleased both the general public and the clergy alike. Instead of the ancient tesserae, a huge fresco would be painted by the best artists brought to Caermelor from the corners of the Empire, and sometimes beyond. The centre would be dominated by a rendering of holy Solarion, his eyes blue gemstones and his hair painted with gold. A crown of silver laurels would be fixed around his head. However, Cahir had moved away from the antiquated, gentle rendering of the God, instead emphasising the battle-worn aspects of the deity.

Solarion’s skin would be white, pale scars clearly visible wherever his regal purple robe would not obstruct vision. His eyes would look down on his worshippers with sadness and determination, instilling in them the realisation the god was sacrificing himself for their safety when he travelled through the underworld each night. His hands would be reaching out, one clenched in a fist, the other with open palm where a broken finger would be visible –crooked and swollen.

Then to one side there would be a splendid image of the sun, illuminating the whole with divine light. To the other there would be Acahirus, standing tall in his chariot, holding a torch proudly with red flame. His face… would be that of Cahir ap Valerian ap Dunaver, King-Emperor of Namare.

The latter was just posing for a sketch by the distinguished painter Arvagio, standing on a dais in the centre of the dome so he could scrutinise the work being done by the labourers and artisans while dictating missives to governors, officials and dignitaries. Cahir was not a man to allow time to be wasted.

The messenger found him thus: standing on a podium, face turned to the heavens, scribes and scriveners at his feet, with gnomes and dwarves suspended from ropes and wooden constructions around them, beavering away on the dome and walls. Indeed, it was not hard to see the divinity of Solarion’s representative on earth, the messenger thought.

“Speak,” the voice echoed through the vast space.

“Most divine lord, your Majesty,” the messenger stammered, regaining his voice and recalling his message. It was not one that would cause joy. To the right he saw Cahir’s aging chancellor nodding reassuringly. “I have travelled as quickly as I could, my horse dropped dead halfway so I had to procure a new one.”

Cahir’s blazing gaze alighted on the messenger. “Yes, of course you have. Losing your mount in the pursuit of duty is not a capital offence. Wasting Our time, however, is.” The tone was bland, but with an undercurrent of power.

Randuin, the Chancellor, fiddled with the silver cufflinks on his black uniform and tugged at the white lace collar to allow for better breathing. Something was not right and he willed the messenger to spit it out already. Cahir was not a man to be kept waiting.

“There has been an accident in Jonalun, your Splendidness,” the man said, prostrating himself on the floor. “The school there experienced a major accident due to a boiler-failure. A new steam-engine was being presented to the students there when a cataclysm happened. The machine caused an explosion. Then, a fire broke out and chaos ensued. Not long after the people decided to lynch not only the teacher responsible for the accident, who had been brought to the hospice for treatment, but the staff of the entire school.”

Cahir remained silent, but descended from the dais thereby dismissing Arvagio to tend to other matters that would profit of his artistic genius. The White Flame nodded to continue. Randuin swallowed and tried not to sweat.

“The class was lynched as well.”

“The local militia?” Cahir asked, one brow raised slightly as an indication of annoyed curiosity.

“Provided the rope for the hangings, your Radiance.”

Cahir was quiet again, consumed by his thoughts on the matter. Randuin relaxed slightly, the situation might still be salvageable. If only that dumb messenger had kept his mouth shut…

“Yes?” The King-Emperor asked when the bringer of bad news cleared his throat.

“On my way over here from the stables, I ran into one of your Majesty’s grooms. He was carrying a letter from the people of Jonalun.” Fortunately the messenger had found courage enough, or his wits, to simply say what the contents were. “They sent your Grace a letter, stating they were in the right and will not accept any efforts to rebuild the school.” He handed over the letter with a bow that brought his nose to his knees.

“It says they will kill anyone trying to rebuild the school, or anyone who even touches a brick of the ruin.” Cahir was entirely calm, yet the fear was clearly written on Randuin’s face. Then the lieutenant of holy Solarion on earth smiled, ever so faintly but it was terrifying.

Oh lord, Randuin thought, desperately fighting back the lump he felt coming up in his throat, this is terrible. Heads will fall. By the Great Sun, heads will fall. He almost didn’t realise the King-Emperor addressing him, but years of service to the Sun Throne had made him develop keen hearing and social reflexes. Meanwhile the scribes were already recording what Cahir was saying.

“Randuin, you will send them a reply with Our seal and that of the Secretary of War. Make sure both Erathain and Daifridi sign the correspondence as well. Perhaps they will realise with what kind of fire they are playing.” Cahir took a breath and ran a finger along his jaw. “Pay attention, I will not repeat myself. Beloved subjects, inhabitants of Jonalun. It grieves Us deeply to hear what transpired within your town walls, but it is eclipsed by far to hear what happened to Our appointed servants who were working to further the goals of the Empire. Sorrow grips Our heart to hear about their deaths at the hands of their fellow townsfolk. Their deaths were unnecessary, without justice and shameful on those responsible for them. Innocents died without fairness and their blood is on all your hands. What if the baker’s oven catches fire and burns an entire street? Would you put his head, and that of his family, on spikes to decorate your proud walls saying ‘We will not suffer the baker to live’?” Cahir paused there for a moment, allowing the scribes to catch up.

When he continued his tone had changed, taken on a more severe and ominous flavour. “Yet grieve struck, it is not too late to make amends to Us, your magnanimous Sovereign. We trust that in your wisdom, people of Jonalun, you will know what course to take. Respectfully but with determination, We urge you to hand over those responsible for the death of innocents –starting with the captain of the local militia and the burgomaster-, reimburse the grieving families and –as an act of goodwill- finance the construction of a new school with better equipment and a larger focus on safety. Eagerly and with confidence in your loyalty, We await your reply.”

For a moment the scratching of quills on paper was the only thing audible in the side chapel where they had moved to. “Sign it with the customary titles. That is all,” with a swift gesture Cahir dismissed the scribes and servants from the chapel, as well as the messenger. Then he turned to the sweating chancellor.

“Marshal three regiments, one mounted. Just orders to assemble, nothing more, Randuin.”

“Yes, your Grace. We are hoping for a peaceful solution then?”

Cahir, the White Flame, nodded softly his mind already wandering off down other paths of thought. “Indeed. I would hate to set another example.”

Randuin had bowed and was halfway out of the room, leaving his monarch alone with his thoughts and prayers.
“Oh and Randuin.”

“My liege?”

“Send missives to all schools to double their efforts but with greater care. Ask Proudshaft to draft and publish safety guidelines. Accidents tend to lead to… other accidents. Go.”

Randuin hurried from the temple and to his office, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

Gretchen Vim
Outside the walls of Kallstad, Northen Gate.

---

She pulled her cloak closer to her, the cold of the winds blowing from the frozen north biting through even her thick layers of clothing. Bitter winds and biting cold was the norm for Kallstad. Summer brought nothing but a mild change of temperature and a slight lessening of the winds that blew.

Which was probably why she was rather surprised an Abyssal had joined her party. While they were superb hunters, unmatched in agility and maneuverability as well as their skill in the bow, their wings were rather susceptible to the cold, and the unpredictable winds were rather hard to fly in. Or so she heard. Gretchen did not have a pair of leathery wings to put that to the test.

"Tell me, Fyarlfyre, what are your reasons to join my modest expedition in to the cold heart of the Bitewind plains? Would not your wings freeze and break should you try to fly? Or yourself hampered should you decide to walk like the rest of us?"

The Abyssal smiled at the word, Farflyer it meant, an old word for their kind. He himself had already covered himself in warm pelts, especially around his wings.

"I may not be able to fly though the bitter winds, but I assure you my skill with the bow, and my experience as a tracker and guide would be invaluable to your cause. As long as we hit the treasure as you had promised us. And call me Victor."

Treasure.... Gretchen smiled at that word. The only treasure she had promised them was the discovery of new lands, and that was written as well in the contract, witnessed by one of the Goddess' priestess, signed in blood, and copied a few times over to make sure eveyone has one for referrence.

And so with about twenty men, five barghests to pull the five wagons, and her own pet, Gretchen muttered a quiet prayer to the Goddess, and took the first steps in her journey across the Bitewind plains.

---

The Left Hand of the Goddess
Verde Parla

---

The Daughter.... the Avatar... and her old friend the Right Hand and herself as the Left. Their names were cast away as the responsibility of being the Goddess' four Pillars was put upon them.

But that doesn't mean she cannot still remember her own name, or her friend's name for that matter. Millia of the Silverbeard would give her that scathing look whenever she refered to her in her own name instead of her title of the Right Hand.

She sighed, her hood drooping as she did so.

Millia never called her Gwenyvir anymore; it was always Left Hand this or Left Hand that. Not that she didn't understand, for true names have power one would not usually expect, but still... it would be nice if the Right Hand, Millia, would refer to her as Gwen like they used to.

But now was not the time to reminisce about the good ol' days...

***

"Ah, Merdyr, Mhirnae di bessi!"

A fat lady was waving to her from a stall.

The Left Hand was all but recognizable in her disguise. No more was the dark hooded jacket, with its large pair of eyes on the top and three slightly smaller ones on the tail flaps, no more was the close fitting thread she had made herself. In its place she wore a simple maiden's garment of white and green, her hair done up in a ponytail, and her face markings were washed off.

In short, she looked like a normal pretty girl getting the groceries instead of one of the Pillars responsible for managing, manipulating and acting on information.

"Mhirnae di bessi, Yolda. How are the farm today?"

"Oh, just so you know, it was perfectly fine until that wretched fellow-" The Left Hand maintained her look of interest, nodding and exclaiming in all the right places. "Oh did you know? Someone managed to strip-" a slight pause as the lady leaned in closer"- our very own Daughter. You know, the Avatar's Daughter? Well apparently they even managed to get a drawing done of her. "

"Oh! That rumour! Well, I heard from someone else, that it was a fake." The Left Hand leaned in closer. "Probably some lonely fellow out there lusting after her."

Rumors can be countered with another rumor. Have enough people talking about it, and even lies become truth.

If only it was less boring and less listening to women like this talk their butts off...

The Left Hand caught the eye of a man wearing a small rose like brooch on his left sleeve. He gave a discreet nod and a smile. That meant those in the housing area was doing their work as well, spreading the lies as truth to cover up the Daughter's blunder. If all goes well, she might even catch the culprit behind it. The Forhor Natchs under her beck and call was convenient.

"Are you smiling, Merdyr?"

"Oh, I..."

"Oh, tis no shame in a bit of mirth. His was really nothing compared to his boasts I can tell you that."

She only hoped she can solve this to the Avatar's satisfaction before the Forhor Nacths were called upon for their original purpose.

Rooting out heresy.

Akeholm City; Gutbuster Stadium

The provincial qualifying tournament had been one highlight after another and this was no exception as the two Orc teams brawled for their score. "Ooh, see that hit, he'll feel it into next week!" Berobson, one of the commentators remarked with an audible wince. The weather was fair and everyone in the stadium heard the sound of the helmet connecting with its owners jaw after being ripped off his head and used as an improvised club. "Skullkrakka is continuing to live up to his name, this has to be the fourth jaw this match."

"And it's not likely to stop anytime soon Berobson." Rourke replied, "The refs have tried to check Skullkrakka for the blade they think is made into his gauntlets that he uses to slice the chin-strap, but most of the ones daring enough to try that are in the Hospital for Itinerant Referees. As Captain of the Lonelywood Ravagers team he seems to think the rules don't apply to him."

"And judging by how the ref is ignoring such a blatant foul, maybe he's right Rourke." Berobson offered.

Suddenly there was a cracking sound.

"Rourke, you didn't have that extra rat-on-a-stick did you?" Berobson asked. A question that went unanswered when on the opposite side of the stadium the supports collapsed and hundreds of fans were sent crashing down, then another section of the stands went and the crowd charged the field to get away from the collapsing stadium. Dozens of people were killed in the collapsing structure and several more score were wounded badly. Worse, each of the respective crowds was blaming the opposing team and soon there was a general brawl on the field that soon spread into rioting.

---

Akeholm City

Toldan stood firm as his regiments began arraying. The rioting had spilled out into the streets and it was his duty to clean it up. "It is unnatural! See what happens when you force our kinds to work together soon our better natures come out and there is blood and rioting! BLOOD AND RIOTING!" A cultist of the order had commanded a box and stood in a street crossing and was commanding attention. Most people ignored them and went about their business, which was either getting away from the rioting or joining in.

"Arrest that man, roughly." Toldan snapped at the Orc to his right. The Orc came from one of his Warg Rider regiments and spurred his mount forwards to take down the cultist, also an Orc, there was nothing gentle about it as the Warg ripped at the cultists flesh until he gave up. Turning to his men he commanded the runners to step forwards. "Orders are to establish a security cordon and tighten it around the riot zone. Rioters are to be arrested, if they resist feel free to bruise them up, if they surrender on sight, manacle them with the rest but no extra harm is to come to them. Any more Cultists of the Order, arrest roughly, I don't care if they get bled a bit. Fuckers doing this for provincial qualifiers is just not on."

For the next twelve hours the military cordon around the area tighened in towards the arena, burning buildings were swiftly put out and the rioters arrested en-masse. By the time it was done nearly thirty people had died, another two hundred needed medical aid of some sort and nearly a thousand had been arrested. But finally the riots were put to rest and all of the arrested were forced onto the playing pitch where Toldan took a podium that had been erected for him, the surviving hedge-mages and commentators were behind him. The mages now boosting his voice.

"Today, a tragedy has happened. And the reactions of you, the people, were unacceptable." His gaze passed over them and most couldn't meet his gaze, the exceptions mostly being the cultists who were already segregated from the rest. "For most of you, the sentence for your crime is one of labour. You will be required, by law, to directly aid in the reconstruction of all damaged properties, if you're incapable of providing manual labour you will provide other aid for the reconstruction efforts. Any one of you who it is found was responsible for the death or severe injury of another, though intent or neglect, will have properties sold to a value that will suffice as renumeration for the wounded or the families of those killed."

Toldan turned towards the cluster of arrested cultists. "As for the Cultists of the Order, your sentence is much easier. You are all sentenced to the Hydra Pens for manual labour and cleaning out of the beasts for one year. If you survive for the sentence of one year your sentence will be downgraded to twenty years in the Salt Mines of the Thur'abis Plateau." Most of the cultists began to weep.

"The rest of you should be ashamed of yourselves. For I am, and so would the great Imperator Sarkasian be." Toldan turned to his first aid, a High Elf woman named Cariel. "Begin processing them. I shall be on the next train to the capital to make a report to the Imperator."

---

Sarkansa City; Imperial Palace; Throneroom

The Imperator looked down at the Dwarf General with something approaching concern. For something this terrible to happen.... "You dealt with it fairly as can be given the situation." Turning to a cluster of couriers and messengers Sarkasian spoke. "You, Lolt, go to the Sunder immediately, inform Lady Elliania that she is required here as soon as possible." The woman, a Lycanthrope, bowed deeply and ran from the room on all fours taking the wolf-form for its speed. She'd be on the next train to the Sunder if she had anything to say about it. "Return to Akeholm, take control of the reconstruction and supervision, but keep them away from the arena for now. I'm going to send Lady Elliania and some Delatores to investigate what happened there and I don't want them contaminating the scene any more than they already have."

"Yes my Lord. Shall I go now?" Toldan asked with ashen face and yet feeling grateful they had such a moderate leader. Well, moderate when he chose to be anyway.

"Yes, do, I want this mystery unravelled sooner than later. While the Cult of the Natural Order are my guess for who's responsible, I want to know for certain." Sarkasian responded waving his hand in dismissal.

As that crisis abated Sarkasian began to wonder if others might not be responsible. "Lord Commander Orvus, I want you to send our airships west and north-west, explore the are and see if they can find any other nations close, I have heard of one amongst the forests and some along the coast, send a trio of windjammers to follow the coast northwards, and tell those exploratory expeditions that they're free to explore our surrounds in expectation of possible settlement."

"Yes my lord." The High Orc Lord Commander answered with a bow so deep his brow nearly touched the floor. "Your will be done, for your will is our will and the will of the people."

"So shall it be." Sarkasian responded to the ritual phrase reminding himself that Orvus was still an uptight git.

Imperial Palace, Kinthar City, Kinthari Imperium

Bel’adir looked down over the throne room, seated as he was on the Obsidian Throne, raised on a dais of thirty steps, the room was filled with nobles petitioning for some action or another, or funds for some trade endeavour, but these people could wait, it was the raggedly robed elf standing between four Swordmasters that drew his attention at this time. Some hours ago, at first light, this elf appeared at the city gates, demanding a meeting with him, the Emperor of the Imperium, and now here he stood, in the centre of the Imperial Palace, surrounded by nobles and the greatest warriors within the Imperium, an honour few managed to attain in the state this elf currently stood, he was unshaven and unkept, a complete disgrace to the average elf of Kinthar, and by the smell the elf hadn’t bathed in a long time either. The elf was silent, but Bel’adir couldn’t help but notice the smirk barely hidden beneath the mess of hair that covered his face.

“You have received your audience, elf, now tell me who you are, and why you feel entitled to demanding an audience?” said Bel’adir, looking down over the filled throne room.

“Very well, I am Rada’garh, formerly of the Mages Tower, and I offer my services to the Imperium once more,” said the elf, with a slight bow.

His next words were caught in his throat, as he opened his eyes he saw the blades of the Swordmasters raised and held at the ready, two were even inches from his neck, their keen blades throwing off cold magic that were different from what the other Swordmasters in the room current gave off. He smiled as he realised what had happened, Cyrene knew he had returned, and instead of assigning Swordmasters, as their attire suggested, she had put Sigil Guard in their place, the runes on their weapons could kill magic rather easily, they were what made the Sigil Guard so deadly to mages, but Rada’garh knew the truth of those runes, they didn’t work all the time, but with two of the blades so close to his neck he didn’t wish to test the theory. Even as he realised what his former friend had done, he saw her step from the shadows, she was as beautiful as the day he courted her, but he saw the momentary flicker from one of the Swordmasters standing behind the Obsidian Throne.

“Lady Ravenhair, I believe you are to blame for my new friends here,” said Rada’garh, his discomfort hidden behind his façade of emotionless that had served him well in the wilds.

“Indeed,” was all she said, standing next to the Emperor.

“Should we trust this elf, Lady Cyrene?” asked Bel’adir, uneasy with the easy words the elf had spoken to the Archmage of the Imperium.

“Honestly? No, my Emperor, this elf betrayed many of the Mages Tower some sixty years ago, and the Sigil Guard have hunted him for some time in hopes of capturing him,” said Cyrene quietly.

“What do you suggest? Magic is your area of expertise,”

“I believe the Lord Draugithar’nuin should decide his fate, I’m too involved on the matter, as are many of the Tower, Rada’garh is a powerful mage, and his time in the wilds may have made him stronger, but I have little trust an elf who will betray his kin for foolish ideas,”

“Very well,” said Bel’adir, standing from the throne. “Guards, take this elf to the Sun Tower, and see to it he is bathed, and dressed appropriately for meeting our comrade Draugithar’nuin, ensure he has food and water, but he is to receive no visitors, and no items other than the clothes in which we grant him, take him away,”

Rada’garh looked set to argue, his facade falling and the burning energy of the Fire Mage of old appeared in his eyes once more. Cyrene expected the elf to start casting spells that that moment, but to her surprise, he simply bowed again, and allowed himself to be guided from the throne room, albeit at sword-point, his eyes met Cyrene’s once more, but she saw so fire in those eyes, just determination. It would be some time before Draugithar’nuin returned from his common flights through the countryside, his eyes would account for the next phase of Imperial expansion, and there were many rumours of pushing south and creating the Sea Gate, a dream to secure the southern water approaches to the Imperium.

“Bring forth the next petitioner,” spoke Tyrion from behind the Throne when Bel’adir seated himself once more.

“Anar’thruin, of House Vilea, my Emperor,” said an elf in robes of the purest white.

“Speak your petition, Anar’thruin,” declared Tyrion, his face emotionless, but Cyrene knew better, he was hiding his annoyance at this duty.

“My House recently learned of a great nation within the Sea of Sand, or the Desert of Bones as it is more commonly known, the words spoken tell of master glass workers, masters of their craft, rivals of even our own. I wish to raise a caravan to travel to this nation, and open relations with the people within,” said Anar’thruin, Cyrene noticed the gold hidden just below the robes, and the rocks on his fingers.

“Last I heard, Anar’thruin, House Vilea is rich enough to mount such an expedition on its own, why do you need the funding of the Imperial Court?” demanded Lord Ashena, the Voice of the Court, the Treasurer of the Kinthari Imperium.

“Indeed, my House can fund this expedition, but I cannot bring the best warriors of the land to protect the caravan through such unknown territory, I am asking the Court for the aid in arms and cartographers, the last time the Sea of Sand was mapped was nearly four centuries ago, and the reports I have say the land has changed dramatically in that time,”

“You make an interesting point, Master Anar’thruin, the mapping of the Sea of Sand would provide tactical advantage from any advance from the north, and to find new trade partners would be a grand change from the standard we have set,” said Bel’adir, already favouring the idea.

“Indeed, my Emperor, should such an endeavour succeed, it is no secret that previous attempts to cross the Sea of Sand have resulted in much loss, in both life and material. I believe we should not provide the majority of the funds for this task, my Emperor, although the possibilities provided by success on this endeavour would be profitable by far,” said the Voice, Lord Ashena.

“True, my friend,” said Bel’adir, “Master Anar’thruin, I will grant you this request, fifty Iron Guard Infantry, as well as twenty-five Iron Guard Archers to attend the caravan. Be warned however, I expect these warriors to return, and will have orders to return home with or without the caravan. And as an act of your faith in this endeavour, you shall accompany it, refusal shall see your assets and properties seized by the state, and distributed as seen fit,”

Anar’thruin’s mouth opened and closed in shock, and the mutterings of the nobles of the Court grew in noise as the lord of one of the most influential Houses within the Imperium was spoken to like a commoner. Ashena kept his face neutral as he saw the gambit Anar’thruin had played backfire in a most unexpected way, due to his wealth and influence he often played a part in Imperial politics, but due to his cunning ways he often made use of proxies and stand-ins. This endeavour however offered too much for Anar’thruin to risk using a proxy, and it had been a long time since the Court had a reason to threaten him.

“I have little experience in these matters, my Emperor, surely one of my sons who has travelled with the caravans in the past can lead in my stead?”

“Master Anar’thruin, I have made my decision, you shall accompany the caravan, whether you lead it or not is not the matter in question,” stated Bel’adir, his tone brokering no argument. “You had best preparations for your journey Master Anar’thruin, now go,”

Anar’thruin bowed lightly, almost struggling as he fought off the shock of the Emperor’s orders, and made his way out of the Throne Room while the crowd of nobles whispered after him.

Sun Tower, Imperial Palace, Kinthar City
Three Days Later

Cyrene sat in silence as she watched the great dragon converse with Rada’garh, she still felt as though Rada’garh was hiding something, but the great dragon who ended the Unity War with his kin was a master at unveiling lies, and seeing into the very soul of those he spoke with. She would have ordered the Sigil Guard to slay Rada’garh on the spot, had it not been for Draugithar’nuin, who commanded the Sigil Guard when he was within the city limits, magic was one of the few things the great dragon disliked, and the Sigil Guard were ever wary when a mage appeared on the field of battle while the great dragon was around. The great dragon had been speaking with Rada’garh for the past several hours, and no one, not even the silent Sigil Guard were allowed close enough to listen in. The sun was setting now, and the great dragon looked up from the cell, before motioning for one of the Sigil Guard to approach.

“I see no evil within this mage, see that he is released from this Tower and given to the Mages Tower,” said Draugithar’nuin, before turning to face Cyrene Ravenhair.

“Are you certain, Great One?” she asked.

“His tale holds no deceit, Lady Cyrene, and I sense he has much to offer the Imperium, if given the chance. Fear not, Lady Cyrene, his desire for you hasn’t faded, but his respect of you has grown, you shall have no more trouble with him in that regard. Nor shall your consort, Blademaster Tyrion,”

“Very well, Lord, I shall see that he has quarters and fresh clothes waiting for him,” said Cyrene, stepping into the shadow behind her, her form melting away.

Mages Tower, Kinthar City,
Moments Later

“See to it that he has restricted access to the Library, and set a watch on both ends of his floor. The Great One may believe him, but I will take no chances, he is only to explore the Tower while escorted, and not to be alone unless within his quarters. See to it, Captain Xilan.

“Yes, my Lady,” said the Captain of the Sigil Guard, before turning on the spot, his red cloak swirling around, the runes embroidered in it glowed lightly in her presence, and she felt her powers strengthening as the Captain left.

“I won’t allow him free rein again, and despite the Great One’s believe, a Black Lion cannot become a White Tiger,” she said to herself, lowering herself into the high-backed oaken chair, the desk before her was piled with ancient tomes, and maps to ancient cities.

The time would soon be at hand when the Imperium expanded its borders, and the ancient ruins of a previous age would need to be excavated and catalogued, and Cyrene hoped that the lore and relics gained from such ruins would speed up her plan for Tyrion, many tomes she had spoke of a device, one fashioned from solid gold and set with Blood Rubies, a device that could cheat death. She wouldn’t lose Tyrion to war, not while there was a chance he could survive.