They say we are in an era of peace.

Though the years have certainly not been tranquil, there has been a relative lull in hostilities across the known world in recent years. The orcs of the Golden Horde and their innumerable vassals, while a looming threat over the so-called civilized nations it borders, have deigned fit not to shatter the walls of their neighbors. Trade has flourished all across the western world, the two halves of the continent connected by trade along the Golden Road, the river route that courses through the center of the Golden Horde's vast territory. Exotic product flows out into the seas and out east, reaching the most distant of nations as such trade empires as the Kingdom of Zhodul and the Republic of Vuts work their mercantile magic.

The people from the apple lands send out their emissaries as ever, peaceably learning of the outside world. The Thangoradrim and the Clans of the Kashar rejoice in their good relations with one another, finding common ground upon which to stand. Even the Order of Anvill and the Crown of Virith, truly bitter enemies, have made peace with one another. The optimistic suggest that the world is in a golden age, and there is hope that peace will last.

But this could not be farther from the truth. Many nations prepare for inevitable war. The leaders in the Isles of Drejur fortify themselves, fearing that raiders or perhaps even invaders will strike them yet again. The City-States of Brescia are embroiled in a bitter civil war, the rulers of those avian people vying to fill a power vacuum caused by their war with Anvill. That the Golden Horde grows hungry for even more land is doubtless, and some wager that the tribes of the Blacklands feel the same thirst for battle. The beastmasters of Fenea command vast numbers of terrible creatures of war, and if they leave their isle it will be to find peoples to enslave. It is possible, too, that the Bailish may look to conquer once again, as they have in the past. And there is no doubt in any sane soul's mind that the Order of Anvill must inevitably clash with their neighbors once again, either directly or through their agents in foreign lands.

Strange forces are at work as well, magical ones. The mists surrounding the isles of Myrstrost have given way, revealing an ancient and enchanted realm in which the dead walk amongst the living. The dragons of Ardonia, long having abandoned the Kings of that land, have returned to serve as protectors once more. And might the distant Thabossians, the strange peoples who call the far south-eastern isles home, have some cause to bring their mystical powers to bear?

Magic, however, will not remain uncontested. A new power has entered the arena: that of black powder. The musketeer, the arquebusier, the grenadier and cannoneer: these are a new breed of soldier, wielders of new era weapons that possess a deadliness like none ordinary folk have wielded before. Will these weapons that belch smoke make extinct the powers of the past? Will the vaunted traditions of magic be squashed by the coming tide of fire and steel?

There is but one certainty: there shall soon be peace no more.

---

"...and as he were keeper of the earth," spoke the Draoi, the old woman sprinkling some dirt over the body. "So now will the earth keep him. Old Father Oak and the Honest Stone will see his rest be restful. They'll see his soul return to the soil, where it were born in the times o' yore."

Brendan stared at his father. There he lay, the old Sheriff, wearing the clothes he always wore on holy days: a white shirt, a green vest, and his brown pants that always seemed to make his gut seem an inch wider. He had a smile on his face - the same smile he'd worn when his broken heart finally stopped fighting. Brendan remembered the words of his father so clearly:

"Keep them safe," he'd told his son with that sad smile. "Keep them all safe. They need you."

But I still need you, thought the young halfling as he stood there, leaning on his walking stick. He still could not believe that his father was gone. He still wasn't sure how he'd cope.

Brendan had cried enough to salt a field already. The whole of the Heartvale had mourned with him. But standing before his father once more, surrounded only by family, friends, and the highest officials of the province, he found himself unable to cry. His tears were gone. So why did he still feel so hollow?

"Master Brendan," came a gentle voice. Brendan looked up and saw the robed halfling matron offering him a soft and encouraging smile. "Would you care to say a few words?"

The young man took a deep breath. He stepped closer to the stone upon which his father lay. The High Sheriff held a sheaf of wheat in one hand, as befit the harvest season. Bringing the Good Grain with him into the earth would please the spirits, so it was said in the Old Faith. In his other hand was a short staff carved with a number of runes: a record of his deeds and a wish for him to be restful and remembered.

Brendan turned away from his father and looked at the gathered company. His sister was there, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His uncle was there, too, and so were his twin friends, Candor and Keane. There were two dozen others, some of whom he did not recognize. Toward the back were six knights of Ardonia, each of them reverent in their stance, quiet and respectful. A great many folk had known Keegan Brandywell. The High Sheriff had been well loved for his generosity and wisdom.

Words trickled out from Brendan at first, but slowly his words became more clearer and more confident. His father was a good man, he said. He had always cared for his family; he had ever been a beacon of hope to the people of the Vale and took great joy in watching the fields grow. His father loved the land dearly, stayed true to the Old Faith, and had always told Brendan that good friends were worth more than all the gold in the world. He had loved Ardonia, and had ever made good on his promise to be the caretaker of the land.

"And now," Brendan said as he set a flower upon his father's chest, "the earth will take her child back into her arms."

Brendan didn't know what else to say for a long moment. He stood there in silence, his father's corpse seeming so peaceful with his eyes closed. Finally, he placed his hand upon those of his old man and patted the fellow gently.

"Goodbye, father," he whispered down to the High Sheriff.

They spent the rest of the morning burying the old halfling. They spent the evening feasting and toasting his memory.

---

"You could run to be a Sheriff, you know," suggested his sister for the upteenth time. "Father would have liked that."

In answer, Brendan shot his sister a glare for the upteenth time. "I already told you," he said squarely, "I'm going to join the New Army."

"Oh, and you'll be wearing yourself a fancy suit like all the other soldiers?" Kathleen turned away from the bubbling pot and shook her ladle at Brendan. "You know, that's just like you; going off to get yourself kill't before second breakfast's even been had! I swear, you haven't changed a bit in twelve years."

Brendan groaned and ran his hand through his curly red hair, then stood up from the dining table and waved his hand about the room. "Why do you always do this whenever we talk?" he demanded. "We can't even have porridge without you butting in with your 'Oh, you shouldn't do this' and your 'Oh, you should do that!'"

"I'm just suggesting that you mightn't want to get yourself kill't, you hairy toad!" Kathleen rapped the ladle loudly upon the table, then pointed it at him again. "And don't try to huff and puff your way out of this one. I'm still your older sister, even if you'd rather t'weren't the case."

Brendan grumbled, then slowly slid back down into his seat. He took a deep breath. "I don't care for politics," he explained, smacking one hand into the air. "I can't stand those long meetings, and I'd like to see the world, anyway! Cor, Kathy: I'm bored stiff of the Vale! I want to travel; I want to see places!"

"Cousin Gammel got bored stiff of the Vale, too," remarked his sister with a derisive snort. She whipped long, red braided hair back, returning to her spot by the fireplace. She stirred in silence, then asked quite sharply, "You remember what happened to him, don't you?"

"Yes," groaned Brendan. "Vividly."

"Drowned at sea, he did. That's what happens when you get wanderlust."

"Yes, but Gammel was a dunce, Kathleen."

"And you're not?" Kathleen turned and gave Brendan an angry look.

The two of them were silent for a time. Kathleen finished cooking the porridge. They sat down at opposite sides of the table and ate, still silent. It was Brendan who finally broke it.

"Please, Kathleen," he began, setting his spoon down and looking over at his sister with a sincere expression. "Please understand - I'm going to do this. I'm going to join the New Army and become a Manticore. The decision's made. I just don't want you to... I want you to respect that, and I want to know I can still visit. You're still my sister."

The silence fell again. Kathleen set her spoon down, cleared her throat, and looked Brendan in the eyes.

"Alright," she said.

---

"How long 'til we reach Lowbank, Mr. Burlock?" called out the rotund halfling to the fellow at the wheel.

"Well, we're bobbing at about five knots," answered the halfling by the wheel, pausing to take a drink from his flask of brandy. "Could reach six knots should the wind get fairer. Given the num-"

"Time, Burlock, time!" pleaded the fatter halfling.

"We'll be there by morning," answered Mr. Burlock with a huff, muttering something under his breath.

Whatever it was wouldn't get in the way of Marl Moorfallow's good cheer. "Excellent work!" he called over to the navigator. "Steady with that wheel, and don't drink all the brandy! God knows we've got to make it last 'til the morrow, boy!"

Of course, Marl knew it wouldn't help to say that. Brandy and beer had a habit of sprouting legs and walking away aboard the Sweet Sheilah. Such was the nature of the business.

The afternoon turned to evening, and Marl spent it well, double checking the wares he brought with him from Vuts. Furs, acorn bread, some clockwork wares and some gunpowder as well: it was all worth a fair price back in Ardonia. He could sell the acorn bread and some of the furs in Lowbank, where the farmers would make good use of those wars, then pick up some vegetables and beer to sell with the rest of his goods in the capital of Dragongarde. Then, Marl surmised, he could spend the remaining months of fall and the whole of winter relaxing in his warm home in the hilly town of Barrows, there to scald his toes near the fire and tell stories about his travels to his grandchildren. One couldn't ask for a better way to spend the winter.

And all the goods were in order, though it seemed the crew had "borrowed" some of the acorn bread. Ah, well. That couldn't be helped.

Marl took to bed, retreating to the captain's quarters. Truth be told, he didn't know altogether much about sailing, though he knew a considerable lot about business. But he had good sailors working for him, halfling and human alike, and Moorfallow's ventures grew more and more profitable by the year as he got a better understanding of foreign markets. He wondered if, perhaps, he might try dealing with the lizard people of Kush. Though they were a queer folk, they certainly must have some interesting goods to sell...

When he awoke the next morning, Marl found himself in the port city of Lowbank. It was a busy day for sure, as farmers from the hamlets and townships surrounding Lowbank and the Sweetwater River came to sell their wares. Harvest season was a great time to visit the city if you were a merchant.

But there was a certain sombre talk that was being had. Marl asked about it, and learned that the High Sheriff, dear old Keegan Brandywell, had died in bed of heart pains. It was a terrible thing to hear: the old boy had always been good for the Heartvale, and he'd helped make the little folk respected throughout Ardonia. He would be dearly missed.

And, of course, the best way to miss the dead was with a round or six of beer.

Marl didn't remember much about that night, though he did remember declaring that he'd try and run for High Sheriff himself. He couldn't remember why he did that; someone's dare, he figured. And then he remembered nailing several pieces of paper with his name on them upon some notice boards, calls for folk to vote for him at the next meeting of the Grand Moot.

It all seemed a dream, really. But, Marl thought as he prepared himself for that next morning, he could at least be sure nobody would take the brash antics of a drunken merchant seriously. Nobody would vote for him.

Certainly not.

"Mornin' Genovefa," said Bradán as he made his way down the rickety stairs from the second floor of the Backalley Inn. "Is that bacon I smell?"

He was a tall man, was Bradán, but skinny. He had short bright red hair and the typical freckles and green eyes that went along with it. His face was what you would call long, but had an honest look about it. Bradán was anything but honest, though, as most people who knew him could testify. His friends had in fact given him the nickname 'Fish', which was part a play on his actual name, but mostly on account of him being slippery as one.

Genovefa was like his exact opposite. Short and stout, with coal black hair and more than a little muscle on her. She eyed him evenly as he descended the steps.

"That big nose of yours ain't lying, Fish. There's bacon, bread, and even a little bit of butter." She gave him a stern look and added, "You'll have to pay for it, though. Up front."

Bradán raised his hands in defence and gave the innkeeper a hurt look. "A bit early for hard words, don't you think? I've barely got out of bed and already you're harassing me with accusations! When have I ever not compensated you for your hospitality?"

She turned towards him and crossed her arms over her chest. "I could name a few times, as could you. And to be fair I haven't accused you of anything. Yet. But I could start with reminding you that you haven't paid for lodging yet, you mingy bastard!"

Standing on the bottom of the stairs, it was Bradáns turn to look cross. "Mingy, me? Since when does old friends charge eachother for a roof to sleep under? Does your greed know no bounds, woman?" He waved an accusing finger at her, and then pointed it up towards his room. "And I can't see why anyone should pay you anything for those filthy beds of yours! I swear, your sheets are riddled with lice!"

She snorted at that. "If there are any lice in that bed, it's only because you brought them! Now, are you going to squeeze any coins out of that dried up purse of yours, or am I going to have to call the guard?"

"Maybe you should!" He shouted, "They could rescue me from this robbery!"

They stood there for a a few moments, glaring at eachother over the counter.

"Ten pieces." She said, with a finality that could have stopped a racing horse in it's tracks. "Ten pieces and not a coin less."

"Ten? Hah! I'll give you five!"

"Eight, and that's the end of it." Her gaze forbade defiance.

"Fine, then," he said and approached while opening his purse. He slapped a handfull of coins on the counter and looked her in the eye. "Seven, and next time I'll give you a couple extra for the trouble."

She met his gaze, a mix of anger and disgust on her face. "You truly are a slippery, slimy old fish, Fish." She pocketed the coins and went pack to the pan on the stove.

"And you, my dear, are a true philantropist. Now, you mentioned bacon earlier..."

---

An hour later, Bradán was getting ready to leave. Genovefa was doing the dishes and eyed her customer from behind the counter. "So," she said, "Where are you going this time, then?"

"East and then south, along the old Gold Road" he replied, "Got me some swords out of Loch Dubh to sell, and some elvish glass out of Mun Geata, and I've heard there's a market for them down in Thangoradrim."

She raised her eyebrows. "That's quite a journey. How are you travelling?"

"Not by my lonesome self, I can tell you that!" He scoffed before continuing, "Might be we haven't fought with those Uruk bastards in a long time, but that doesn't make me trust them any more than I have to. Barbarians are what they are, Gold Road or no. There's a caravan leaving town today, led by a fellow I know by the name of Lóegaire."

"Aye, I've heard about him. A tough old bastard, they say. He'll keep you safe."

Brádan looked up at her then, all surprise. "Why, Genovefva! Are you worried about me? Sad to see me go?"

She snorted again, louder this time. "As if."

---

---

The air was filled with the sound of bells, from small to large. It marked the passing of noon, and the ending of the gathering of the Sect of Insight. There were other religions, of course. But the Sect of Insight was by far the most prevalent. Haiki and Meileki walked down the halls of the In Basilica Dominae, Tivoli's largest and most central cathedral. The massive interior was largely empty, leaving the two alone as they strode across the enormous space presented before them. A quite echo reached their ears as the sound of their footsteps pinged across the walls.

Melieki could be best described as lanky. He, as the rest of the Resomi were, was covered utterly in a thick layer of feathers. His were a dull shade of gray, trimmed by what could be best described as a dull, watered out cyan. Standing at a height of 2' 9", he was one of the, if not the tallest person in the clergy. At least for a Resomi. He, as the archbishop of Tivoli, was preparing to open the floodgates of the originally all-Resomi clergy to the other races; stating that it would be a sin against the Lady if he were not to do so. "Well? Out with it!" snapped Meileki.
"I wanted to talk about--" Haiki was cut off.
"If this is about Mystrost again, everyone knows. Our Lady knows. And you know it is a sin to hate them for it. If the Lady is displeased by them, then She will make it known." Meileki heatedly responded.

With that, Haiki broke off and began to forge his own path through the massive cathedral. The cacophony of bells, just then, reached a crescendo as the In Basilica Dominae's bell went off. It was an incredibly overpowering, ring, that flooded out the rest of the bells. The now-departed pair both flicked their ears downwards, careful not to let the ear-shattering rings deafen them. Some would say that the sound was majestic and beautiful, but to the Resomi it was taken to the extremes.

After all, the extremes of art and culture was what the Lady wanted. But nevertheless, the present was the most important of times. Meileki stormed towards the steps that lead to the top of the cathedral, to his quarters. The other members of the clergy moved out of his way, fearful of invoking his wrath. He had a famously short fuse, and sharpened a furious temper. One would be unlucky to be on the wrong side, to be beholden to his abusive words and phrases.

From the top of the In Basilica Dominae, the true power of the Sect of Insight was centered there. All of the bishops of the city states, and even some abroad, answered to the fiery and famously verbally brutal Archbishop. Even through the wars. Even through the long distances involved, and the blizzards, seas, and mountains. The Sect of Insight was a centralized religion, and was ever powerful.

After all, they were funded by wealthy banking families and merchants. Tithes paid for their great monuments to the gods. An overabundance of donations was considered the norm. Thus, the cities of Brescia were filled to the brim with truly beautiful architecture, and the Resomi art schools were world-renowned. Even if a city state were to be pillaged by another, the religious wards would never be touched. To destroy them was to evoke the ire of a rich and oversized church who could go to any means for revenge.

Meileki always found Mystrost a curious place. They placed the credit of the creation of their citadel ward to the organization known as the Church of Insight. But somehow, they considered the Sect of Insight a separate religion. Not only that, but they had committed what could be best described as blasphemy by naming the Patron of the Arts. But yet, it was his duty not to sin. There was no precedent for punishing blasphemy. Instead, if it furthered the arts, architecture, and culture, it was to be accepted.

His hands were shaky. They were always shaky. He felt like scolding somebody. With a short few glances around the cathedral, he scared away the rest of the Clergy. They all excused themselves, rapidly bringing themselves to cover. Meileki continued on to the stairs with a huff.

---

The day was cold, but clear. A crisp breeze blew through the air, the sun shining brightly upon the sheet of snow covering the landscape. It, too, illuminated the work of Resomi soldiers and mercenaries of other races as they prepared bombardes. First, they cleared away the snow. This was an arduous task, the crew taking a shovel to the thick layer of snow that covered the hilltop. It would have to be cleared all the way to the slope.

It was very much clear that a battle was soon to take place. It was a perfect day for it, after all. Once the work was done, and the snow was cleared, the bombardes were ready to be set up. They were large and heavy enough that they likely wouldn't move during the battle. Meanwhile, across on the other side of the battlefield, the enemy's artillery operators did the same. It was just a small drop in a larger war, but to the soldiers there it meant life and death.

First they unhitched the bombardes from the sled they used to haul them around. With a heave, they rolled it off of said sled. Next, they moved it into position, four of the auxiliaries picking it up. They were humans, and proved to be much stronger than the Resomi operators. Of course, unlike the other city states, these auxiliaries were not mercenaries. Instead, they were people who lived in Tivoli and became part of the Tivoli militia. They were as loyal as could be.

Next they removed the cartridge cases. Within each one was a set of heavy, cast iron cannonballs. Along with them was a plentiful amount of gunpowder charges. While they wouldn't load the bombardes right away, they certainly prepared to do so. The Resomi operators would handle the mathematics, while the human operators would load and fire the weapons.

It was a perfect day outside. The sun was shining, when it was normally covered up by clouds. There was a light breeze in the air, sending small tufts of snow tumbling about beautifully. It was such a perfect day as the sound of marching boots filled the air. Yes, it was very clear that a battle was soon to happen.

The two sides would soon meet each other, as artillery batteries prepared their bombardments. The two sides were going to reap what they had sown, and soon the battle outside of the husk of the city that was Siasa would be on. Each side was looking to advance their power, and the best way to do that was to take the city. Therefore, on the fields outside the city, each side looked to achieve victory and occupy the burned halls.

The banners of war flew in the breeze, as the Tivolians and the Sicialians made their fateful march towards each other. The two sides were equally matched, both having brought arquebusiers, pikemen, and bombardes. The bombardes themselves began their duty, shelling the enemy liberally as the march continued. Ever onward the soldiers marched as both sides were slammed by the cast iron balls.

Soon enough, they met in the middle of the field. The Sicialians stopped dead, their arquebusiers locking their shields into the ground, attaching the guns to a hook on the top. After doing so, they opened fire on the Tivolian Militia. The militia stood in place but a brief moment, several Resomi dropping to the ground as they were shot.

Suddenly, the Tivolian militia spurred into action. With a synchronized battle cry, they launched their attack. The hundreds of bodies charged full scale at the waiting Sicialians. Their pikes held out, the two masses collided. The Sicalian soldiers met the charge with their own pikes, however their line collapsed backwards. The arquebusiers were exposed.

To meet this opportunity, the Tivolian arquebusiers hooked their guns to hooks built into the shoulder guards of the pikemen, and fired. The close-range bullets slammed home with ease, the inaccuracy of them not mattering at such close range. Dozens of enemy soldiers fell.

The artillery batteries zoned in, creating a bombardment zone. This forced the two sides to disengage, and with a few parting shots, they kept a careful retreat as errant artillery balls slammed into their positions with questionable results. The zone that had been so carefully established had been broken apart by the retreat.

On both sides, there were dozens of casualties, and soon enough both sides would send out men to retrieve the wounded. It was one of the unspoken rules of Brescian warfare. You didn't stop the other side from retrieving their wounded. However, there too laid many dead. Ultimately a loss for the Sicialian soldiers.

---

Micisha mourned the loss of Nostras. She mourned her city. She mourned the dead, and the lost. The city had been burnt by the Order, and while at first the combined forces of Brescia arrived to assist, soon they were fighting to fill the power vacuum. The sad husk of the city was her new home.

From Bishop of the Sect of Insight, below only the Archbishop, to a lonely survivor of the Order in a ruined city. Ironic. She doubted she'd ever be returned to her seat of power. At one time, she controlled large swathes of the city. Now, she simply hid from scavengers and wild creatures as she kept herself fed with what food remained in the ruins.

Her robes used to be white, Meicisha thought. White at one time, maybe. She couldn't remember. They were a dark gray now. Soot and dirt had left their mark. She rolled in snow daily, but there was only so much the snow could do. Today, she was on her way towards the central cathedral. Cathedralis Sancti Caerishi, she thought. Was that it's name? She had no use for the name anymore. Her memory was slipping. It'd been so long since she'd talked to anyone.

Loneliness was all she could think of as she picked through the ruins of the city, every once and a while coming across a skeleton from a slaughtered resident. The city was in a sad state, and it only furthered her despair when the din of another battle filled the air. The fools were fighting over a worthless city. There was nothing there but the dead.

Weakness. Too weak. She knew full well that she wasn't as strong as she used to be. Her coughs had been bloody for a while now. Trouble breathing, and trouble keeping awake. Her eyesight was dimming. What was happening to her? That much, Mecisha did not know. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the Lady's scorn, maybe it was pure lack of luck, or perhaps it was just the malnutrition getting to her. Food was getting rarer and rarer to find, yet she couldn't bring herself to leave.

It was her city, damn it. If she were to die, she would die in it. It was her duty. Perhaps misguided, perhaps not. Her legs wavered as she climbed through a burnt-out ruin of a house. She was so close to the cathedral. If this was her last day on the world, she wanted to spend it in the center of the faith she so believed in.

Her breathing got labored. So close, just a block off. She'd make it yet. It was her goal, Micisha had to. The entrance of the cathedral came into view. Slowly stumbling towards it, she reached the steps. And then she collapsed. So close, yet so far. She desperately tried to crawl. She had to die in the cathedral.

Her vision failed her as she slipped into unconsciousness, her hand mere inches from reaching the doorway of the blessed Cathedralis Sacti Caerishi. So close, yet so far. Micisha lived but a few more minutes after her loss of consciousness. But yet, the world had not released its grip on her. Perhaps it was the Lady, refusing her call to enter heaven. Maybe it was pure will. But her soul wasn't allowed to pass. It was blocked.

Micisha woke again a few hours later. No longer alive, however. The curse was upon her. But, then again, going west sounded like a great idea. The thought beckoned to her. It flooded her thoughts. With a few short moments before doing so, she decided this was her purpose. She'd go west, find what beckoned her. After that? The Patron of the Arts, the Lady, would reveal.

It was her duty. She was a bishop at one point. Her world was the Sect of Insight, even into undeath.

A long armed, silvery haired and dark eyed finefolk known as Cahakrii with his short, stumpy legs walks on the dirty beaches of the Calaro sea. He looks outward with complete and utter nervousness. Just looking at the endless horizons creeps him out, the dark seas of sunset giving only the most minor of comfort. There are all too many stories told by his fellow folk in the jungles and forts that go into elaborate detail of what exists out there. Giant flying birds that set entire towns on fire, monsters in the ocean that swallow entire ships whole for a snack, giant men who rule giant empires and whole civilizations of tiny people with little fear. These tales and more seep in from the other realms of the world all too often. The price of these tales are great, as is the price of goods from the western lands in their vastness.

Cahakrii suddenly is tapped on his back by Dusif, his superior.

Craning his long head towards Dusif in surprise, Cahakrii asks submissively “What is it you want me to do?”

Dusif in his towering figure and light purple hair looks down on Cahakrii and says “Tonight we are going to the seas. Chawa the fearless will lead us across these seas on the first trade mission to these outside kingdoms. The Great Alpha’s hand is upon us. We must go now. If you do not, you will be thrown into the ocean with rocks tethered to your feet.”

Cahakrii only has trepidation in his bleak eyes as he looks back out to the Calaro
sea before letting his long arms rest in the sandy beaches in dismay. Dusif immediately smacks Cahakrii’s head with the back of his right hand and tells Cahakrii “Do not show weakness. As your superior and as inferior to Chawa, that is mandatory. Weakness makes us all look weak; one weak branch can collapse the whole tree house. Do not be that branch Cahakrii, or I will personally be the one that throws you into the sea.”

“I will not be weak”, Cahakrii weakly says to Dusif before lifting his arms off the beach and wrapping them around his body. The winds from the sea roll in and Dusif looks back into the nearby forest. Dusif tells Cahakrii “Follow me back. The time is coming.”

Dusif walks back into the forests and Cahakrii follows. The dirt trails of the forest are all the guide them, but there is a sense of comfort these forests provide that those vast, open seas just do not. Cahakrii however, must hide his fear just like all the other finefolk who are Chawa’s inferiors must. Dusif heads towards his personal horse and pulls himself up onto it without much in the way of a saddle beyond a leathery wooden block with ropes. Cahakrii walks near this horse, but Dusif tells Cahakrii “You walk.”



On the horizon off the strait of Charo the sunken mountains are in full view. Chawa the fearless with his stripped, but lacking hair and large forehead tattooed with the right hand of god looks in awe at the Sunken mountains which are in full view from this trade ship. It is a fine ship named “The Woodthumb”. The Woodthumb has a covered top and three decks worth of oars and armed with dozens of bow men and a hull made from the best wood on the Jade Islands. Chawa walks under the top deck and looks at the conscripted men at work for him. They are studiously at work on the deck, carrying in the much needed share of armaments and trade goods for this trip to the large storage room in the frontal cavity of the ship while nets full of food and drink are tied into the roof of the top deck.

Chawa walks out to the back of the ship and views the somewhat mediocre port town of Patton. There are three ports on the strait of Charo and of those three this one has to be the least developed of them. It’s a Stoney town with little in the way of the vast wealth that outsiders keep claiming exists in the West, there is little activity outside the large workshop where this vessel and many others have been made. Many other small ships ranging from trireme-like vessels to small fishing boats are docked across the bay. None of them are as massive a craft as this ship the Great Alpha himself wanted to be built. Chawa fiddles a bit with the frontal ornament as he awaits the rise of the moon. He already misses his dozens of wives. Oh well, he shall find more on this grand trade mission.

Chawa notices a horse galloping in, riding none other than right-hand mate Dusif himself and one of his inferiors trailing behind him on his short, stumpy legs. Even by the standards of fine folk this silvery fellow's legs are short and stumpy. After stopping at the local stable to get rid of his horse, Dusif climbs onto the ship’s side from a ladder and Chawa is pleased to see his cohorts finally here. Cahakrii, fatigued from having to walk on his short, stumpy legs for hours now only can show relief on getting to the top of the deck and to the side of his superior. Chawa turns his attention from the ship ramparts to Dusif, who doesn’t seem to question Chawa’s behavior at all. Dusif and Chawa greet each other with a sway of hands and a double handshake. Chawa locks his eyes to Dustin’s before asking “The trip wasn’t too bad was it?”

Dusif replies “No, the only issue was making sure I had all my inferiors in line. They should all be here now, I rounded up the last one a couple hours ago all the way down at the beaches.”

“Good. The legends of wealth outside our empire are great. The Great Alpha in his old age is starting to finally humble and he sees this trade mission as a way to spread all the handyworks around the world before he dies. This trade mission will be a great opportunity for all of us, as by going to them instead of them coming to us we will be making wealth far beyond the norm. Not just in women, mind you, I have plenty of those, but also in bugs, silk & wax. The wealth of the west in our hands, imagine it. Our status in the empire will grow greatly, even the lowliest will be living in tree houses when this is over. The wealth of Fenea, Kashar and far more will be all ours when this is all over.”

Cahakrii smiles a bit.

Dusif however, shows some concern while nervously twiddling his large fingers at his side and says “The ones that survive anyways. This sort of ship hasn't been built for centuries, there is no telling what may happen out there. Your confidence of assured wealth worries me.”

“There is nothing to be worried about!" Chawa the fearless snaps. For he is amazed, simply amazed that a inferior would be worried in his prescence. For he is with Chawa the fearless, who has braved these seas before just fine multiple times before. Chawa than says "I have maps from outsiders that I have gained from my own personal journeys to the western continent. There is nothing to fear but your own delusions of what imaginary monsters exist out there. I expect all aboard to overcome their delusion of the great open and to not cower in the sight of the unknown simply because they would rather huddle about in a tree all night. You will not show weakness and not show any concerns that come from fear. There shall be no fear on the Woodthumb as long as even a few members of this ship live.”

Cahakrii’s smile starts to fade again as he is hurried into the lower decks by Dusif and the voyage begins.

“Ambition is something no lesser man should carry in their hearts. After all, it is what makes great empires fall to the actions of the foolish few”
-The black book. Chapter 1. Internal hierarchy and balanced division of power.

In the reclusive territory of the blackland, a fortress stood, carved from the black stone of a mountainside. Inside, the aged leader of the orc tribes held court. Tulida Blackclaw was reminiscing about his life. The adventuring, the conquest, the defeats... and the eventual discovery of this untamed paradise of an island.

Yes, he had achieved quite a lot in his life... But now, the ever present shadow of old age was finally starting to take its toll. He had first noticed it in the small things. Forgetfulness, a higher suspectibility to diseases, finding it that much harder to get out of bed every morning.

It wouldn't be that much longer. He could deny this or start preparing his fellow orcs for the end of his reign and the hopefully peaceful ascension of whoever fate decreed would be his succesor... well, fate and the vote of the various lesser orcish leaders in the realm. He had made his black book required reading for all orckind. The written word was a far more reliable means of teaching what was important to the next generation than the easily misinterpreted spoken word. Surely none would be as foolish as taking the wisdoms of the black book out of context.

“Khagn, the scribe has arrived.” Tulida heard the voice of his aide, a quick-witted goblin by the name of Ambaghai. “Yes... he can come in... This was for the letter to the golden horde was it? I think we also needed to write a letter to Great chieftain Olar about the flow of lumber from the ogre's forests.”

“Sir... that was yesterday.” Ambaghai said in his distinct patient tone. Tulida had saved the goblin's life once, and they had been good friends ever since. “Oh... well call the scribe inside then!”

The kobold scribe came in, parchment and inkwell at the ready and accompanied by a gnoll messenger ready to set out and deliver the letter as soon as it was sealed. “This letter is hereby aimed at whoever the current Khagn of the golen horde is. I send this letter with no obligation for response and purely aim to inquire with it.”

It might sound paranoid, but Tulida hadn't been keeping up with golden horde politics lately. For all he knew, some old clan bearing a grudge against his own had come into power in the interim. So it was better to be safe than sorry. The orc took a deep breath and started dictating “Hail, Khagn of the golden horde. To you speaks the scion of your dominion, Tulida of the blackclaw clan. I send this letter to inform you that the adventure I set out on so many years ago has ended with me creating a realm of my own. The black island of the northeastern coast of your territory is where we are. The land is not cursed contrary to what the people of the coasts there would tell you. It is in fact an untamed land abound with resources and, as far as we have determined at this point in time, no native peoples that lay claim to the land.

As you may have guessed, age has been catching up to me recently. This old dog of an Uruk would very much like to live out the last of his days in his ancestral homeland. I have found my ability to maintain my current office lacking and have decided I will abdicate as soon as a succesor for my position has been selected. Enclosed in this message is a gift to show my goodwill, a blade of the black iron in the mountains here, crafted by our finest smiths.”

“With sincere regards, Tulida Blackclaw, Khagn of the blackland Uruks.”

The scribe laborously wrote down every word, the gnoll was already readying his pack for the long trip to the distant port town of Tulida's landing. One of the few parts of the island's coast not made impassable by the jagged cliffs that gave the island its infamously uninviting appearance. The scribe inspected hhis work, nodded, and rolled the parchment up. Now all that remained was for the letter to be sealed and sent off.

“Will that be all my khagn?” The kobold asked as she offered the parchment to Tulida for the application of the reqesuite seal. The orc started heating an amount of wax as he thought. “I think it is... Ambhagai, do we have any other letters for today?” The goblin sighed. “Yes, we have to write a letter to all the Khagns to call them together for your official annoucement of abdication.” The orc furrowed his brow. “Yes... yes that sounds about right.” Tulida sighed... He really was getting too old for this.

---

Sometimes it is for the best to leave the wounded behind to save those still capable.
-The black blook. Chapter 3. On the subject of warfare.

In the port of Tulida's landing, a ship was finishing the last preperations for a voyage. Its crew a ragtag bunch of various races in stark contrast to the lizardfolk-dominated crews of the other ships in port. There were many on the ship, smiths, hunters, artisan, warriors. Of all races and connected by just one thing. A curse that affected not the flesh, not the mind, but the soul. It had been obvious what they were when death came from them... and then rejected them from their rest. The phenomenom of hallows was somewhat known in the blacklands. Those affected often banded together to travel to the mystical lost kingdom in group. One such group was departing today.

They were informally led and represented by a weathered lizardman hunter named t'chak. He had discovered his hallowing after a particularly terrifying encounter with a swamp alligator... It had been quite confusing to find himself wake up on a funeral boat. Both for himself and for his family. Still, they had been a great support, yet he couldn't stay amongst them.

He had talked about the matter at length with his tribe's shaman. He was told the curse would claim his mind sooner or later. He did not want to put his loved ones trough such a harrowing descent into madness, so he had said his goodbyes. All that remained of them now were the memories of past times and a hand-carved wooden figurine, depicting himself in his prime.

He had found a kinship amongst the other hallows, and a newfound sense of purpose besides. Having always been somewhat of a planner and leader it wasn't long before a group had formed around him. Together, they had rented an old boat with the intent of sailing to that fabled place that called to all of them... Mystrost.

A battle scarred orc walked up and gave a salute to the pondering lizardman. “Captain, the ship is fully loaded and ready. The crew is all there. We are ready to embark upon our voyage.” The lizardman simply nodded. “Good... We are off then.” He was a man of few words, still, half of these hallows wouldn't even have gotten to this port without his guidance, and most of them held quite a bit of respect for the lizardman. Quickly, they unfurled the dusty sails of the old trader vessel. A favorable wind catched into the sailcloth, and soon, the vessel cleared the mouth of the bayou. Into open sea, and on towards more dangerous lands;

Branimir Déorhidh held his broadsword aloft, stoic and grim faced against the overwhelming foes before him. These creatures not seen in any great numbers for generations. The Gundarogs. Perhaps they had hidden in caverns even further underground than their homes his ancestors had sacked years before. Perhaps they had found a forested home above ground in the dense leaves of Thangor. It mattered little to the warrior Thane. This small boar hunt was to be the last hunt he would go on before his son Wulfric came of age. Now he knew this would be his last hunt in this life. But what Thangor would not want to die this way? To fall upon the blood of his enemies, sword cracked from use and a roar on his lips.

For some reason now, however, he was silent. It was a quiet, inner rage that simmered in his broad chest. The heat of his righteous fury even dulled the two black arrows embedded in his torso. He had only donned light armor this day, but his chain mail hauberk was sturdy iron. Three arrows would be stuck within him if not for the strong iron, leaving the last arrow a mere glancing blow.

His entourage was dead now. Slain in an ambush, and as the Dragon Gods would have it, he was the last still breathing. Three he had cloven and felled, but more were approaching. Apparitions of death within the forest. Out of all of the unknown horrors this wood could produce, it would be a long forgotten foe that was to challenge Branimir. Now his life would end, he told himself. His dark eyes narrowed, and he breathed in through his nostrils. Not without a fight.

In the distance, a wolf howled. "No," he whispered, and smiled grimly. "Not without a fight."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ragex the Drabarian stood before the High Thane of all Thangoradrim, Beolfric Dormgrad. Both were dressed ornately. The Drabarian was brown scaled and towered over the tall man, wearing heavy plate armor of Baldr, with a red cape flowing behind him. In truth, they were both old friends from Beolfric's youth. The High Thane, whom other nations would most likely refer to as King, stood tall and powerful, despite the years that had turned a bit of hair grey. He wore a long coat of bear hide with his casual leather armor of fine make, his bronze crown atop Beolfric's golden head. Today would not be like the casual meetings that he and the Drabarian representative often had. Today was the day of judgement.

"So...after three centuries, it comes?" Beolfric asked his trusted friend. The huge Dragon warrior nodded, massive scaled arms crossed before his trunk-like chest. "It does, old friend. The Druids, and our Doomsayers, have all begun to agree. It is the time of war. The time of return." In the corner, next to the lit brazier, was Fenrir, Beolfric's Storm Wolf. He lay curled, lazing by the fire as the meeting commenced. As large as a draft horse and covered in violet fur, he'd been Beolfric's companion and mount for nearly three decades, and only now was he beginning to show a bit of grey, just as his master. As the talk of the End Times began, he lifted his big head, ears up attentatively. He yawned, large jaws opening up. The other two payed him no heed, other than a brief smile from the High Thane.

"It seems to have come at the right time. Dark have my been my dreams, of late." Beolfric said, sitting down upon his throne. "We have sent ships north to this forbidden Kingdom of the dead, as well as to distant lands we know of. Raids upon our home have become more frequent. Our Druids have told of dark whispers in the forest. A long forgotten enemy returning. And if Felgenhalst truly returns soon..." he could not quite finish the thought. He had hoped that trade would commence soon with new nations. Perhaps bring prosperity to his people. Perhaps some of the Druids like Valya were correct, and the End of Time was merely a new beginning for his people? Still, he let his words linger. Ragex let out a large breath, a sound like an engine revving. "We will face these times with bravery and strength, my friend. And to help you in leading your people, I have a gift from the Three Mountains."

Reaching into his pack, he produced something long wrapped in cloth. Beolfric looked to his old friend, and then to the item in his clawed hands. He held out his own hands, awaiting it. Ragex unwound the cloth to reveal a Great sword made of Baldr, WROUGHT with incredible craftsmanship, with a wyrdwood and bronze hilt. "I present you with Ekrundir, High Thane." Ragex spoke, formally.

"Ekrundir" Beolfric breathed. The word was from his old tongue. It meant 'Venerable Dragon.' He gripped the hilt, and held the weapon aloft, admiring the supreme craftsmanship. New strength began to flow into his old bones, and he suddenly could not help but stand up. Blue eyes held upon the blade for many moments, before he spoke again. "Thank you, old friend. With this sword, I will lead our people into the undoing of the world."

"Kraken!" The scream from the mainmast brought instant silence to those men who went about the ships daily routine, every head craning upwards as if they could see the lookout through the mass of sails.

"Kraken to larboard! Coming straight for us!"

In an instant Heinrich von Hohenlohe, CYNEBURG's Sailing Master, had leapt to the ships bell and began ringing it for all he was worth. Men looked at him for a second, their faces frozen in a mixture of fear, excitement, and trepidation, and then the deck exploded like an ants hill when you pour boiling water onto it.

Hohenlohe grabbed a nearby midshipman. "Ring it for it for all you're worth Hanz."

The young lad nodded and continued ringing the bell even as Hohenlohe crossed to the larboard side in three quick steps, eye straining to see the distant Kraken. A fine day for such a fight to be sure. He thought and found himself grinning. Not our first multi limbed enemy and certainly not the last.

The sound of gunports crashing open drew his attention away from the sea for a moment and he nodded in approval as the gun crews loaded their weapons with practiced speed and efficiency. Cost me some coin from my own pocket for the extra powder but it was worth every copper when I see them in action. Pity the Grand Elector cannot see past the end of his own coin purse some times...

The Kraken was visible now and Hohenlohe gave a quiet sigh of relief. It was only a small one, maybe sixty feet. Only the very young, or the largest of them all, would attack a Grand Caravel. The ships were vast and capable of ferocious amount of damage. Rarely did the young ones who attacked such a ship live to become elder Kraken. His crew was preparing for the worst as they had been taught. Every gun was run out, every crossbow loaded, and pikes prepared to stab into the tentacles of the beast as it tried to wrap itself around the ship. He noted that a crate of Granads had been brought up, fearsome little iron balls that, when their fuse reached their centre, would explode and send shrapnel in all directions. A couple of those thrown into the mouth of a Kraken would put an end to most of them.

"Steady lads!" A Gun Captain called out. The faces of the men around him were intent on their task, only a few glancing towards the approaching creature, the very top of its head travelling perhaps a foot below the surface.

"Number one battery, stand by!" Hohenlohe called out. He noted the disappointed look of the other gun crews. It was a well known fact that he would doll out an extra ration of wine or rum to anyone who delivered the killing blow to a beast like the Kraken. Number One battery meanwhile had begun to spin their slow matches, the powder sparking and burning, waiting to be touched to the vent.

"On you're own time, make them count, fire!"

The word was barely out of his mouth when Number Three gun fired. Always first, and always a bit high. He thought as the roundshot skipped across the water several metres behind the on-rushing animal, the other gun crews jeering the miss in friendly competition. Number five gun will fire next, should be close or a direct hit. The Kraken was plainly visible now, a pair of its tentacles rising above water to strike. To soon. It was almost a hundred yards away.

Number Five gun fired. At first everyone thought it had missed but then a cheer went up as one of the tentacles ripped free in a shower of blood that turned the water pink. The Kraken had slowed, it was not used to pain, and this was not something it would have counted on. You're as good as dead ole boy. Shouldn't have come at us in the first place, and certainly shouldn't have slowed down. Hohenlohe smiled grimly, he did't enjoy killing sea beasts but the Kraken were becoming a serious problem in recent years.

A roaring crash announced the firing of Number One gun. It did not miss. The roundshot slammed into the Krakens partially exposed head and a great mist of blood filled the air around the confused creature. In a rage it lifted itself from the water to charge the CYNEBURG. Two more culverins roared, the only two left in the battery that had not yet fired.

Hohenlohe did not watch their strikes. He turned away towards the quarterdeck, unwilling to watch the confused creature die as it gave a horrible piercing shriek and began to convulse violently in the sea, staining the water around it red. Within minutes sharks would arrive and it would be torn to pieces.

"Close up guns! All hands to stations." Hohenlohe called. Time to catch up to the convoy. I should be able to retire after a few more runs like this. Number One Battery began to reload and the gunports were pulled closed, the sailors hurrying back to their usual stations. Just another day on the trade routes.

The storm raged around the Fyrd fleet. Five war ships, massive and built like quick strike mobile fortresses. Hardy Thangor sailors hauled sails and tied ropes, running to and fro as the ships tilted from side to side violently. Logan Bryne stood tall, hands on the wheel, keeping the ship steady with cable like arms. His beard and hair were soaked with sea water, his storm blue eyes matching the mealstrom around them.

Their destination? North. And the waters have been increasingly violent the further they traveled. That was fortunate, for it meant they were supposedly on track. His ship was flanked by 4 more, all armed and clad for war both on and off the seas. The hardiest sailors of Clan's Bryne and Brimhald, as well as various other land clans who've given men as tribue for such an honorable venture. To find Nalthaggrasil and the ancient homeland of the Thangors.

The ships creaking and groaning were common sounds in calm waters, much less the huge waves that raged across the seas now. Lightning flashed, striking the surface of the ocean not 4 miles off and igniting the waters. The men who's eyes were upon the sea at that moment caught the glimpse of a sinewy body larger than any ship writhe from the strike. Suddenly, Logan's ship shuttered and groaned louder than ever before, and a huge monstrous serpent head rose out of the depths, great maw opening up in a hiss that could defean hearing.

"This leviathan is larger than any I have ever seen... maybe we are near Nal'thaggrasil" one Thangor marveled. "Perhaps it is true." said another. "These are the last years of this world." Logan Bryne's eyes narrowed, taking back his reserve at the sudden sight of the looming beast. "Perhaps...perhaps not." he spoke aloud, undaunted by the creature. Logan had always been pragmatic and to the point, as opposed to his superstitious kin. He drew his sword, the blade making an audible shing. "First things first!" he cried. "HONOR AND GLORY TO THE MAN WHO KILLS THIS THING!" His first mate raised his arm high. "AND ALL WHO DIE TRYING!"
"AHROO!" the Thangors roared in unison.

The savannahs were blissful this time of year. The gods were happy with the world and so the world would be happy, so long as their peace lasted of course. The Kashar people would be living out their lives in relative peace; no clans warring against one another, no outsiders to disturb them, no punishments from their gods. This was a time to rejoice.

"Oh, great council of the Kashar, we come to you with a proposition," a shaman from the Xan clan says, shamans from the other clans coming to request something that would help all the Kashar people. "We wish that a festival be held, one to honor the peace that our lands are seeing. We will honor the gods, make the clans have stronger ties, maybe trade with our allies."

The council looked amongst one another, all members having a different opinion on this matter. Though, they all did not want to deal with outsiders even if those outsiders were their allies. However, there was a different voice among the council. Thatcher looked down from her place at the center of the council, a smile as bright as day coming to her face. The Council already knew what the High Queen would have as her decision, the festival would happen. She could only see the positive side of this, for if the Kashar allies had stronger ties then that would mean less opportunities than conflict. The council let out not a single word.

"Yes!," Thatcher exclaimed, standing from her seat in a rather excited fashion. She walked over to the Xan shaman, and gave him a kind smile. "Organize this festival and invite anyone willing to come. This will only bring about good relations with the others!."

The Xan shaman gave a wide, toothy smile before nodding and departing along with the other shamans. They would send messengers to the Thangor in order to invite them to this festival, as well as spread the word of this gathering if they so wish. Many of the Kashar people looked forwards to a gathering of the clans, though they did would not feel as comfortable going if outsiders had the chance of coming onto their lands.

"Land!" the Thangor yelled, and echoes of the word followed across the ships. The waves were calm this day, and the Thangors well rested. Hardy men and women hauled sails and made ready to make berth. 5 ships made for war and speed began to slow, the typical size of a small Fyrd. They carried 500 men in all (not including the full time sailors), as well as 10,000 pounds of various kinds of ore and weapons to give their scaly and honorable friends from the land of Kashar!

Gerti Brimrad, heiress to the Thane of clan Brimrad, gazed upon this strange land. The wind of the sea swept through her thick auburn hair, storm blue eyes thoughtful and considering. Her father had always told her that the Lizardfolk of Kashar could be trusted, and she believed him. But She had never set foot there herself before. Old Grimbold, the Warden of the ship, stepped forward, putting a hand on the lass's shoulder. "Ye ready to meet our allies, girl?"

"Honored, of course." she said, stoic. Her face gave a smile she couldn't help when she looked at the man she had grown to know as something near to a grandfather.
"The men are too, for this is a sister land to ours, no matter how odd it might seem." Grimbold responded, smiling back.

The great ships were slowly beached upon the shores, ropes leading into the sea were ready to pull them back by a system of weights at a moments notice. The men began hauling the Ore and weapons onto the decks, and heralds were sent out to the gathering of the Kashar clans to give greetings and to make merry!
@Lauder

The final preparations for the festival were still underway by the time that the Thangor had landed, though their people were gladly accepted to make merry while everything was being set up. Many did not mind that the fact that these outsiders were here, mainly because of the alliance thing that they had. Soon, traders with clay pots and other goods, even some Askari chicks if the Thangor dared to take them on.

The council was at the festival, enjoying themselves like they were supposed to in a time like this. The Queen, at the time, was making her way to the Thandoram landing. She wanted to see their great ships and just stand in awe at the sight of them. She passed many Thangor headed to the festival, she greeted them accordingly and wished them all a good time at the festival. Thatcher was soon at the landing, gazing upon the ships with wanderlust. She felt that the Thangor got to live the good life with their constant adventures and the likes.

She would not let that get to her, this was going to be a time to make friends and nothing else. Though, she did long to stowaway on one of these ships and go on an adventure, but the Council would never forgive her if she left. The people came first and the people needed Thatcher to keep unity within the lands.
@POOHEAD189

The scream of seagulls as they wheeled and dove over the Grand Harbour barely cut through the mass of noise below. The birds were a menace to any food stuffs left on the quay. They were also incredibly stupid. One had spied what it thought to be food, dove, and slammed head first into a cage of thin mesh netting. Some exotic creature was now doing its best to tear the gulls head off, the white wings frantically beating at the cage as the gull tried to withdraw its head from the unseen trap. To late.

This was but one scene playing out on a massive scale all along the main Quay. Roads came from all directions, the huge marble stones that had been set generations before ended here, giving way to waterfront. Huge oaken planks as thick as a mans waist stretched out on countless piers, some hundreds of feet long, looking like so many teeth into the Grand Harbour. The largest and deepest harbour in the known world, totally surrounded on all sides by hills that had slowly been absorbed by Ordensburg as city had grown in size.

Spring had always been a busy time as merchants prepared to sail for the colder regions as the ice began to break up, but this Spring something was different. The huge number of Electorate Trade Caravels normally expected still sat anchored in deeper water, small packet boats swarming about them like insects. But there was no denying the incredible number of foreign ships present this year, hundreds of them, varying in size from small galleys to great leviathans, all drawn to the Electorate by the promise of gold. And not just ships, but soldiers, tens of thousands of them.

Every Port City of the Electorate played host to similar scenes as mercenaries, sell swords, seekers of fortune and fame, all hurried to answer the Grand Elector's call to arms. Any fool could see war was coming, the signs were everywhere, but none knew could say for certain where hammer blow would land. Rumours hinted that no greater force had been seen amassed since the days of the Adronian Empire.

At a nondescript jetty tucked quietly between two tall warehouses stood a red robed Inquisitor. A pair of keen green eyes gazed out from a face of flawless ivory skin, watching a small boat putting out from a nearby merchant ship, four sailors pulling strongly at the oars. Three figures, all hooded, sat quietly in the bow of the boat, their heads lowered to prevent recognition.

Behind the Inquisitor waited three carriages, no different from the hundreds of cabs that plied the streets of the Capital at first glance. The drivers even slouched in their seats, apparently uninterested in what was going on but each man was a highly trained Practical, the soldiers of the Inquisition. It was a simple ruse but one that had allowed the Inquisition move freely about the Electorate without anyone the wiser for a hundred years.

As the boat touched the jetty a sailor sprang forward to secure the vessel to the edge of the quay. In a moment the three figures had disembarked, hurrying up the stone towards the Inquisitor. The boat meanwhile shoved off and began to row back to sea. Just another ordinary looking cog in the secret war the Inquisition waged on behalf of the Electorate.

No words were exchanged between the Inquisitor and her visitors, rather she simply pointed to a carriage, and then to an individual, and each one bowed their head before climbing into the assigned cab. The Inquisitor glanced around once, the Practical’s who had been ensuring no curious eyes approached were already fading into the city, then she climbed into the nearest cab, banged the roof and they were off.

“Welcome back.” She said, her voice almost soothing to hear.

“Thank you.” A voice hissed out from under the hood and it was pulled back to reveal a reptilian face and unblinking eyes. “We are ready.”

“You have made your preparations then?” A pair of knee high white socks crossed themselves as the Inquisitor leaned back against the wall of the cab. She found this species interesting but was always mildly offended by how harsh their breath smelt.

“Yes. My comrades and I will rise as soon as your troops begin their landing. You must keep your word we will not be harmed and given our rightful place!” A long tongue flickered, tasting the air and the Inquisitor wondered idly how she smelt to him. Food for thought another time.

“You have the Grand Electors promise in writing. Your support, full support,” She stressed the last two words with a hiss to match the reptiles. “Will result in you getting everything you have asked for.”

A slow toothy grin crept across the reptiles face. “Excellent…” The word was a low hiss. “Vengeance is at hand.”

The Inquisitor smiled but there was no warmth in it, it was almost as sinister as the reptile’s own grimace.

Another fleet beached itself not too far from the thangor's landing site. This one had come from even farther. The ships flew the black banner of an isolated island nation. They carried in their holds a wide variety of gifts, all given as a sign by goodwill by the myriad of different tribes of the blackland alliance. An entire hardwood tree trunk, uprooted by ogrish hands and carefully decorated with a spiralling pattern going from the base to the top. To untrained eyes, it was just a simple art object, so an ogrish interpreter had come along to explain the thing was a carefully composed poem extolling the virtue of the leaders of kashar, and the peaceful intent of the ogres. Similiar artifacts had been made by the other tribes. Two almost indistinguishable plates of granite, made by respectively goblins and kobolds. An engraved belt of tanned leather from the finest livestock of the gnollish nomads. Another plate of wood, carrying an even more eloquent vocabulary of words from the lizardmen made in an experiment to see how similiar their own language and customs were to the kasharites. Curiously missing from this bounty of gifts was one made by orcish hands. The orcs had decided on a more personal gift.

Bleda Ironhand,an Orcish smith of grand talent and years of experience, stood on the bow of one of the ships. In the hold rested his personal tools and a load of the finest blackland iron, ready to be shaped into whatever form the kasharite leadership desired. Martial preference in these lands wasn't well known, so the usual orcish gift of a mastercrafted weapon had some complications. Bleda had volunteered to go along with the delegation as a compromise. He had always wanted to see the world for himself, his grandfather had always regaled him with grand tales of adventure from the days of Khagn Tulida's journey to the black island. Now, he himself was going on an adventure of sorts. He looked down to the lizardwoman standing besides him. K'lan was her name, and she was the smith's apprentice. Metalcrafting was a relatively new proffession for her kin, and Bleda had jumped at the oppurtunity to teach one of their kind the trade. After all, what better way was there for him to further the alliance's ideal of unity and cultural exchange. “I wonder how the kasharites will react to seeing their distant kin... From what I heard, they have yet to feast on the fruits of technology and civilization here.”

The smith looked at his apprentice. “Of course, isn't that part of the reason we are here? Our alliance offers to share what we can with any we deem in need of such help. That were the words my Khagn spoke when he organize this delegation.”

The lizardwoman thought of her own role in the coming talks. She had heard the delegation would arrive on the day a festival would take place. It would be a good chance to forge new ties. Perhaps she could even find a male here that wouldn't mind her adventurous personality. She had gotten quite the reputation as a roublemaker in the blacklands for refusing to bow down to suitors just because they happened to be of a different gender as her. To her, such differences were no excuse to act as if one was superior to the other.

“I hear these lands are ruled by a queen... You suppose she got her station on her own merit?” The lizardwoman's eyes sparkled at the idea. Bleda shrugged his shoulders. “It's as I told you before. An axe and a sword look different, but you can fight with them all the same.” He braced himself briefly as their ship made landfall. “Now stop yapping and start unloading, we ain't got all day here.”



@Lauder

There were different outsiders within the lands, arriving in such a fashion that was similar to their other allies except these ships were different in craftsmanship as well as the flags. The scouts made their way on Askari to the Council, which proved harder to find due to the whole festival. Nonetheless, the Council had been informed, but the High Queen had no idea what was truly going on which was something that the Council needed.

"Find Thatcher immediately!," West, Councilor of Aonghus ordered to the scouts. The entire Council found mounts and rode off to meet with these newcomers, granted they brought along a guard as well. The twenty man group did not need to go far in order to find where these strange people had come, though there was a sight that threw some of the others off. The group slowly began to walk down with their Askari, cautious about these people.

They seemed nonthreatening at the very least, though the Council were not overly trusting like Thatcher would be in times like this. The entirety of the Council did not particularly trust the outsiders of different lands, forced to go along with the positive outlook on life that Thatcher brought along.

As the Council closed in with the outsiders, Sel yelled a command that would indicate for the outsiders to not make any movements towards them. The Kashar of the Council rode up to where only a few meters were between them and outsiders. The guards narrowed their eyes and kept their stone spears in hand so that they may act if anything happened. The Council acted the same, flicking their eyes from person to person as if they were trying to read them.

"They look strange," West commented, observing the different races that were in front of him.

"All outsiders look strange," Ashor chuckled.

@Natsucooldude

Gerti Brimrad stepped off the ship, her furred boots making big impressions on the sand. Tall, beautiful, and strong, the auburn haired warrior gazed around with sea blue eyes. Old Grimbold followed her off, yelling for the men to be careful with the cargo. Gerti herself spotted the Queen Kashar approaching, and made her way over. She stopped merely a few feet from the Queen, her head high and proud like a stallions. "Greetings" she said humbly, and bowed. "I am the daughter of Thane Brimrad, here at his behest. It is our honor to bring gifts to our age long friends."
"Indeed, it is our honor." a voice said behind them. A man, just as tall as Gerti with grey eyes and dark hair strode over. "As the son of the High Thane Dormgard, it truly is an honor to be here." He knelt down before the Queen quickly, before standing up to his full height next to Gerti. If the Queen looked closely, she'd see there was some tension between them. Behind the man was a being that looked almost like a Kashar, only head and shoulders taller than even Gerti and the High Thane's heir. With Red scales, huge plate armor and a powerful tail, Kane the Drabarian gave a bow of respect to the Queen.
"I am Aldred Dormgard. We bring gifts. Both weapons and metal, to you and your people." the Heir said. "And to celebrate in fellowship!"
The men behind them, even the ones at work hauling, gave up a cheer. They then began to pass the leaders with weapons, metal, and cargo. @Lauder@Natsucooldude
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Branimir Déorhidh stumbled into his meadhall with two hearty warriors holding him aloft by his arms on either side. His trusty Storm Wolf loped beside him, caked in blood. His wife and sons ran to him, and after a few minutes of embrace and explanation, he called to gather the entire clan together outside of his hall to announce the return of an ancient enemy.

The blacklanders saw the approaching kashar. The leaders of the various delegations stepped forward to greet the natives as representatives of their respective tribe. None of them had weapons drawn and all of them were clothed in somewhat fanciful garments obviously unfit for fighting in.. The guards standing behind them were better equipped, but none of them took a particularly aggressive stance. Their orders were to defend against unforeseen aggression, nothing more than that.

There was a somewhat awkward silence, broken suddenly by a third party emerging from over a nearby sand dune… A group of humans. The blacklanders recognized them as the men of thangoradrim. Many within the delegation held some reservation towards humans. But such was not to be voiced. After all, this was to be a mission of peace and understanding, not of warmongering and intimidation. The worst done while the thangors presented their gifts were some jealous glances towards the drabarian from the kobold delegates. After all, their tribe was often compared to dragons, weak and furtive as they weren which made it all the more painful to see a creature that held more of the strengths of the winged lizards.

Finally, the thangors were done. The blacklanders waited briefly for the kashar to process the initial wave of the thangors gifts, and then cleared their throat. Bleda ironhand was first to speak. “ Like the thangors, we too have come with a message of peace .My companions all represent one of the myriad tribes of the distant blacklands. We stand here together as representatives of our grand alliance to offer an outstretched hand.” The orcish smith gestured, and servants brought forth the various declarations of peaceful intent. “What you see here is an official message from each of our tribes, all proclaiming peaceful intent. Of course, we have brought more gifts than just fancy letters. Say the word and we will being unloading those as well.”

Linking up seamlessly with bleda’s speech, The lizardfolk leader, Akan, added some thoughts of his own. “ You may have also noticed the similiarities in physical appearance your race has with both mine and the kobolds”. He stepped slightly forward along with the kobold foreman to call attention to this fact. “ We suspect this implies some shared history in ages past, therefore, I would like to request a permit for a group of our historians to roam your lands and compile the history of your people. Partially for posterity, and partially to see if our theory of shared history is correct” Akan inhaled deeply after the speech. Lizardfolk didn’t usually talk in such long sentences, and so they had the tendency to give long speeches in one breathless stream of words.

@Lauder@POOHEAD189

He was a big man, and not in a flattering way. Rolls of fat spilled down from his triple chins where they wobbled and jerked with every motion of his cannonball round head. At that moment he was jerking his head frantically from side to side, blood spilling down his cheeks from shattered eye sockets and onto his naked chest and belly. His breathing was short and sharp, desperate, frantic, punctured with terrified sobs.

"Please! I don't know, I don't know!" His words were desperate as he rocked back in forth in his chair. Both wrists and feet were secured to the heavy wooded frame with thick leather belts.

The chair was sitting alone in front of a window covered by heavy curtains, moonlight at the edges suggesting a beautiful evening beyond the horror of that room.. The desk that had once been in front of the chair, a symbol of the fat mans power and wealth, had been casually thrown against one wall where its drawers had come loose and scattered paper, ink, and numerous other items across the floor.

Another chair, much less opulent, faced the fat man. On it, his face shadowed by a hood, sat a second man. He was dressed in a long black coat, tall black leather boots, and a pair of black gloves that he was slowly cleaning blood off of. Between them on the floor lay a dead naked woman.

"Do you really expect me to believe that a man in your position doesn't know such a thing?" The man in black asked, his voice quiet and almost soothing.

The fat mans chins wobbled again as he tried to focus on the voice. His head cocked to one side like a dog listening to its master. He could not know it but his nightmare had only begun an hour ago. A candlelight dinner with his mistress, her fake laughter and smile while worth the money he paid her for the sexual prowess she used to rouse him to climax. She had been naked at the dinner, part of the purchase price. She had died badly, screaming at him to tell their uninvited guest everything. The man in black had sliced one of her achilles tendon when she tried to run for the third time and she had flopped about on the floor like some beautiful fish. In the end he had slit her throat to stop her screams.

"My dear Mr. Rews, all you need to do is answer my very simple questions and the pain will go away. I am running out of time and patience." The man in black continued to speak. A small table sat next to his chair, a bottle of wine and half filled glass sat next to parchment and pen. "All I can offer you now is an end to your torment, a quick one."

Fat danced as the head shook violently, a pathetic mewing sound escaping the bloodied lips. The man in black sighed and stood, taking a small clay container from his pocket and opening the lid. In two steps he was over the dead woman, had tilted the fat mans head back and dashed salt into the eye sockets.

The screams began again and the man in black returned to his chair, sipping at his wine as he waited for the screams to turn into sobs, sobs into gasps, and gasps in whimpers. When he was sure the fat man was listening again he put down the wine glass and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Mr. Rews, tell me."

There was a pathetic whimper of pain and then Rews began to talk. They all talked in the end.

These outsiders were offering many extravagant gifts, of course the council being the xenophobic kind they were, became very skeptical towards these specific outsiders. Many of them narrowed their eyes, though there was one council memeber who did not display such things towards these people who just wanted to be friends.

West looked over at the rest of the council memebers and said, "We all know what the High Queen would want. She would accept these gifts and go on some tangent about friendship being the greatest thing two nations could display for one another." His head turned towards the Blacklanders before responding to them by getting off of his Askari and walking over to the outsiders. "I feel that we speak for the others when I say that we will accept your hand of friendship, however, that is all I can say until the High Queen arrives. Feel free to follow us back to the festival so we may discuss this more."

With that West turned back to the Council memebers who all looked at him with silenced confusion. Though they accepted it and began to turn and head back to the festival without him, leaving him to lead the Blacklanders to the festival.

---

Thatcher smiled at the two who were among the first of the Thangor to talk her upon their arrival, in fact they were the first. Then the Drabarian showed himself, with the first response of a gulp before having to shake her head. "No, no, it is more of an honor to have people of such great adventurer's come to our festival." It was a great thing that these people were here as it made her feel a bit happier.

The High Queen's gaze continued to go towards the Drabarian, making it obvious that she was in awe by him. She was in awe on how tall and powerful he seemed.

"I hope that we can all make merry at the festival, it should be a time of great peace and friendship. After all, I do see that friendship between two people if the greatest thing to come to us mortals," Thatcher stated, a smile coming to her once more.

However, she would not be able to go along with them as the scout ordered to find from earlier had come.

"High Queen, there are outsiders that have landed in our lands! The Council wishes for your aid immediately! Thangor it may be well if you come along as well, just in case things become hostile!," the scout reported.

Thatcher gave a nod and hoppped on the Askari with the scout who then began headed to the Outsider landing point.

---

It had not taken long for the scout to regroup with Council who then told the High Queen what the Blacklanders wanted and what West had done. Another short ride to the group West was with.

Quickly the HIgh Queen got off the askari and ran up to the Blacklanders and bowed to them, proclaiming, "I am High Queen Thatcher of the Kashar Clans. The council has told me your offers and we graciously accept your gifts and request!" She came back up to her full height, which was not that tall, and gave a smile to the Blacklanders.

West handed the letters to the Thatcher. She began to look at the scribbles and cocked er head to the side and looked over at West who just gave a casual shrug.

"Ehh, we do know what this is."

It became apparent that the Kashar did not have a method of writing of their own.

@Natsucooldude@POOHEAD189

"They are coming!" The scream echoed down the stone staircase of the watchtower to bring an instant silence to the men who sat clustered around the small table, cards clutched in their hands, a pile of assorted coins before them on the table.

"Who is coming?" Demanded the officer of the day, his voice carrying back up the stairwell. His question was met with silence. The officer swore and stood, it was not uncommon for the garrison commander to do early morning inspections but they could hide the cards before he got there. "This had better be good." He muttered as he threw the cards down.

As if in reply to his words the alarm bell began to ring. Not the general tolling of a practice alarm but the frantic ringing of a someone who believes their lives depend on it. In an instant the cards were forgotten as men scrambled for weapons and armour, hurling themselves up the stairs as quickly as they could go.

The officer was first up the stairs, his sword clutched in one hand, helmet in the other. He burst onto the rampart and looked to see the sentry virtually hanging off the alarm bell as he pulled its cord for all he was worth. The mans terrified gaze was fixed over the wall and in the direction of the sea. Two steps took him to the edge of the stone and one look took his breath away.

The morning sun had risen just above the horizon and was nearly blinding to look at but against the brightness he could see ships. Thousands of ships. For a moment all he could was stand with his mouth hanging open. Where had it come from? Who were they?

"The Electorate." Breathed one of the guardsman who had joined him on the battlements. Other alarms were ringing now all down the wall. The guardsman pointed towards the centre of the fleet and it took the officer a moment to pick out the ship he was indicating but when he saw it, there could be not doubt. A mass of tall white canvas stood out above the mass of ships, great red crosses painted onto them. There was no mistaking a Grand Caravel of the Electorate when you saw one. And it wasn't just one. There were hundreds.

A sound like thunder rolled across the water and smoke blossomed from several smaller ships that they recognized as Ogre bombships, really little more than a huge mortar with Ogres pulling the oars.

"Incoming!" Screamed a voice and men scattered for cover as the first shells trundled overhead to explode in the streets of the city beyond the citadel. It was a ranging shot. There was a pause and then the next salvo slammed into the citadel and the dying began. Men screamed as the shells exploded, shredding flesh and armour like nothing. Other weapons, most likely purchased from Goblins, hurled smaller shells that smoked furiously and pumped out a purplish gas that could kill a man in minutes.

It had only been ten minutes since the enemy fleet had been seen and already the citadel was a blazing inferno, anything that wasn't stone had been engulfed in flame. The Grand Caravels, their massive shapes presenting themselves as they turned, added their huge broadsides to the bombardment. Culverins were dismounted from their seats, catapults smashed into kindling.

War had come to the Fenea Kingdom.