Erisbili was in a fine mood; he rarely received compliments and praises from the other deities. And Dormammus of all Gods had just complimented his abilities and powers, even stating how The Outsider managed to "best" him in certain areas of magic. This pleased The Outsider to the point where he momentarily forgot about The Serpent's minions' insolent behavior towards him. Erisbili even considered for a brief second of acting humble and returning the compliment to the God of Sorcery before a small whisper in his head stopped him from committing such atrocity. Yes, this was all immensely pleasing to The Laughing God. However, the last word spoken from the Great Conjurer ruined his train of warm thoughts. The Stranger's smile froze on his face as his eyes flashed into a pale golden color.

"Mischief...?"

The air was silent about Lord Madness now. His usual cacophony of noise gone like it never existed before. As if the lone candle in the dark room had been blown out by a cold gust of wind. The Stranger's voice tone changed to that of a deep, vibrating one. His cloak shook and trembled at every word, his once lush and comfortable chair was now resembling more of an empty pit of spiraling nothingness. Master of Illusions sat up straight and stared straight into Dormammus' eyes, as if he believed madness could be spread infectiously through mere eye contact. It was all too clear he was greatly offended. An empty sound of a clanging chalice dropped from his hand was all that decorated that background of his voice now.

"Now," he chuckled deeply, without a hint of amusement. "that's funny. Conjurer." He dragged out the last word, making it sound like a screeching noise of a hell-spawn.
"You dare think... that..." The Stranger contracted his body, like a coiled snake getting ready to spring out at its prey.



His voice rang across the room. It was not a scream, nor a shriek, nor a cry. It was madness incarnate. Madness that came from rage and anger. Of disgust and hate. The most fiery kind of all. The Outsider loved all forms of madness. And this particular one was one of his favorites. He thundered. He shook. He trembled. Insanity consumed him and his mind. His voice. His actions. His fate. His existence.

@NachoBachoPacho through the darkness of the hood of the death god red eyes glowed and gazed in the direction of all the gods. "Thu-mmmok, how goes the tomb." The Dark god asked with a evil chuckle behind it. He knew the tombs curse hasnt been lifted and he so enjoyed messing with the minds of the other gods. "Those poor souls, unable to rest. Shame no one can cause them to slumber outsids of our interference." His mockery of the ancient tomb and his defiling of it went beyond cruel. He turned his attention to the god of madness and like the Death god. Darkness clouds the heart of these two gods. But Kulorerstus was a being of screams of agony and fear where as The Outsider was a god of Insanity and Madness a ability power the the death god respected. And will gladly work along with. "By the way Outsider, nice job with helping me enduce fear in the mortal realm 2 weeks ago. The thing they fear most and they went mad trying to overcome it falling into madness. Beautiful work." The dark god chuckled and his cloak moved as he did unreflecting of any form of light. The DeathKnight by his side crossed arms and his glowing eyes moved through his DarkSteel armor a sword at his side and a skull spear in hand. The Deathknight looked like a menacing bodyguard to Kulorerstus. He paid mainly attention to the god of dragons. Ready to slay the beast if needed.

Kulorerstus leaned back in his throne with scythe in hand and began to ponder. Himself with questions. What could this calling possibly be about. Why would i even be called to these. Im not the most liked god around.

The meeting was calmer than expected.
Out of all the gods Ha expected Asivar to be the first to scream in anger, not the mad one and definitively not the mad one yelling at Dormammus.

That and Asivar had ignored his greeting it seemed.
It was what to be expected from the bastard, no honor, nor manners.

With a shifting of his grip, Ha slammed the tip of 'Ember' into the beautiful stone floor so it sprang into flames and settled. Now stuck about two inches in the enchanted rock. Mortal weapons, even some of the weapons of the gods had no hope of piercing the magical stone, but after all. This was the personal weapon of the forge lord.

With his now free hand Ha held out his hand to his right. The angels knew what this meant and presented him a goblet of Ambrosia. With a gulp, he drank from the goblet, how it was done through armour was something for the mad one and Del sombra to figure out.
Ha shook his head after the drink while setting the goblet down, waved his hand which formed streaks of silver. In his hand now a curved steel plate.

From his belt, Ha took forth a dragon tooth, tempered in liquid steel. With it he began to etch runes of magical defence into the plate.
Better do something productive with your time if you have to wait.

Kalla watched, her amber eyes shining with delight, as the silver-robed angel tried to force his way through a cluster of mallorn trees. The Forest Between Realms, more commonly known as Arborealus, was an overgrown tangle of thriving plantlife and not even an angel could pass through without difficulty. Fighting the urge to giggle as Cherubael, the poor angel who'd been tasked with finding her, tripped over a root, Kalla began climbing down the greenwood tree she'd been using to spy on the divine messenger. While it would be entertaining to spend the next few hours watching Cherubael stumble through her realm, she knew the angel wouldn't be here unless something important was happening. Besides, he'd served the Elder Gods for nearly twenty years and deserved to be treated with respect. The goddess' bare feet lightly touched the leaf-strewn forest floor, and she silently padded over to stand behind the angel.

"Wretched plants," Cherubael muttered to himself, angrily pulling burs off his samite robes. "I'd almost prefer to be in Nahargu'ul's Reef. At least there I'd-"

"Greetings, noble Cherubael," Kalla said, her voice warm and welcoming as she folded her arms across her chest. "Can I help you with something?"

The angel let out a startled cry and wheeled around, his long white beard whipping after him like a furry tail, though he managed to turn the clumsy movement into a graceful bow. Cherubael was old for an angel, but he still knew how to deal with the gods and goddesses of Valhalla. He was servile, knowledgeable, and willing to suffer any indignity as long as he completed his assigned task. Wiping sweat from his wrinkled brow, the angel reached into his right sleeve and pulled out a crisp sheet of white parchment. He offered it to Kalla and said, "Glory and praise to you, Everqueen. I was just ahhh...admiring how beautiful Arborealus has become over these last hundred years. Erhem, this is from your brother, Lord Kilgarrah. You have been asked to attend a gathering of your siblings in Olympus."

"Thank you, Cherubael," Kalla said as she took the letter from the angel and held it up, allowing the pinkish red light suffusing Arborealus to illuminate her brother's blocky handwriting. As she read, the goddess' eyes widened and a hopeful smile spread across her green-skinned face. Could it be true? Was the Silence finally over? Would the twisting, eternally changing tides of the Aether lead to Gaea once more? While Kalla enjoyed spending time in her own realm as much as the next goddess, it had been roughly five hundred years since she'd physically manifested in the mortal realm. The flourishing glades of Arborealus held countless distractions, and most of her siblings were a joy to talk to, but they paled in comparison to Gaea's beauty and unpredictability.

The grin slowly left Kalla's face, however, as she remembered what Bardolan the Watcher, the leader of her sylvan warriors, had said during their last meeting. The Silence ensured no god or goddess could travel the Aether, but Arborealus existed partially in the Aether and partially in Gaea. Kalla had been able to commune with her sylvan through the World Tree, though she'd been unable to leave its confines. Bardolan had informed Kalla that the mortal realm had changed a great deal since the Cataclysm and not for the better. In addition, there were vast stretches of land still seething with demonic corruption. Some even appeared to be growing. There would be a staggering amount of work to do if this letter meant what the Horned Goddess thought it did.

"I see," Kalla said and she walked over to a nearby spruce tree, staring intently at one of its roots. Glancing back at Cherubael, she said, "Care to walk the roots with me, old friend?"

The bearded angel inclined his head and said, his voice holding a note of weary amusement, "I'm afraid I must decline your generous offer, Everqueen. Walking the roots always leaves me feeling queasy for days afterwards. As I've told you at least five times before. I shall see you in Olympus."

Laughing, Kalla winked at Cherubael and stepped toward the protruding root, her foot sinking into the wood as if she was entering a pool of water. Before the bearded angel could blink, the Horned Goddess' entire body had vanished into the root.

"I'm getting too old for this nonsense," Cherubael mumbled as he began walking back the way he'd come.

Kalla's throne in the hall of the gods was made of polished greenwood, a yellowish green-colored wood covered in swirling red veins. A few thick, gnarled roots were connected to the chair's base, and the headrest had been lovingly carved to look like a pair of massive antlers. The seat of the throne was shaped like the Colossus' fearsome visage while the left armrest was supported by images of kobold supplicants and the right was held aloft by the twelve sylvan, the Hands of the Everqueen. Kalla had spent two hundred years working on her throne and it showed. Moments after Ha slammed his sword into the hall's marble floor, the ornate throne began to creak loudly and Kalla gradually emerged from it, surfacing like a swimmer coming up for air. Her antlers appeared first followed by her shaved green head and the rest of her body, which was clothed in a white linen dress with a length of vine tied around her waist.

Kalla looked around at her brothers and sisters, a joyful smile on her shapely face. She'd spent the last hundred years or so in Arborealus, and it warmed her heart to see everyone gathered in one place.

Settling back on her throne, she said, "Hello, everyone. I apologize for being late, but my messenger got a little lost in the Forest Between Realms. It's good to have the family together again, isn't it?" Kalla's eyes darted quickly from Thu-mmok to Kulorerstus to Yigzavath before settling on Kilgarrah. Holding up the letter she still clutched in her right hand, the First Mother said, "So, Kilgarrah, why have you called us, hm? Your letter mentioned that if we didn't attend this meeting we wouldn't be allowed to return to the world. I assume this means the Aether will open soon, allowing us to actually...well, return to Gaea?"

Thu-mmmok frowned, as Yiggzavath responded angrily, the Filthmonger had quite the temper, but it was admirable that he worked so hard, at least, in Thu-mmmok's eyes. Still, it was clear he wasn't in the mood for conversation, so Thu-mmmok withdrew the tendril of sand, just in time for Erisbili's outburst, followed by the god of death's tauntings, the two had never been on great terms, but there was no reason to bring up that dungeon again, and if that weren't enough, Kalla had arrived, the friendly air about her, and the way she glanced at him as if he were some sort of worry made the wonderful taste of ambrosia in his mouth turn sour. Thu-mmmok looked at his cup, then at the gods, and began to drink, slowly, but without pauses.

"Keep the drinks coming, if you wouldn't mind." The desert god requested to the angel nearest to him, the angel frowned, and then sighed, shuffling off to fulfill Thu-mmmok's request. He only had to get through this one meeting, then he'd be back in his deserts, creating, expanding, and with those who appreciated him. That is what he kept telling himself, as a sort of mantra. Why couldn't Kilgarrah hurry up? Surely Kalla was going to bring up Thu-mmmok's plans to expand his deserts, if Kilgarrah could simply get to the point, that might be avoided. Oh how he hoped it would be avoided.

It made no sense to keep fretting, Thu-mmmok decided, He was about to seek out conversation, before remembering his neutrality towards most gods, Yiggzavath clearly was not in the mood to talk, and Del Sombra was currently engaged in thought. No need to bother either of them, instead the desert god simply waited, staring at his empty cup, as if leering at it hard enough would cause it to produce ambrosia.

A massive reptilian tail would slam the tabletop, creating a hard and loud knock that would silence the court. "Alright settle down now my fellow Gods, your great and magnificent King shall speak." The dragon nodded to himself as he snapped his 'fingers' or claws rather. His wings would stretch, so much so that they would spread behind and somewhat embrace his fellow Primals, Iuppiter, Kalla, and well, squidface. The claws on his wings gently grabbing their shoulders.

"If you aren't aware, the silence is about to end, the gates will soon open to allow us to interact with the material world again. I understand many of you are impatiently waiting to return, but we must remember a few things. First of all, let the silence be a listen of humility, for even..." He paused as if admitting the next words pained him greatly "am not perfect, we all make mistakes sometimes, it is our duty to protect this world above all else. Politics and whatever fancy thing comes like the world being ruled be mermaids or, filthy insects, it is still our world nonetheless. That being said, we should never repeat the selfish mistakes we have made last time that likely caused the calamity to have ever happened." In response to his snap from earlier, a dozen of angels carried a massive golden goblet decorated with gems and the crest of a dragon, which was large enough for the Dragon God's hand. The cup was filled with Ambrosia. "Additionally, many of the mortals, namely humans, have become...independent, naturally so since we were forced to abandoned them for only 500 years. Of course that short amount of time means a lot to the short lived creatures, they have evolved without us and many of which, I fear, has taken an atheist approach to our existence." The dragon paused to sip his divine alchohal. "But fret not, we need not rush this, for if we try anything rash chaos will surely follow. Go along and do whatever be done to satisfy your domain, but as I warned ye lot, keep the politics as a..secondary means at best.

The angels would start to serve the gods Ambrosia and various luxurious foods. "You are all dismissed, you may stick around here for one last fast or go right ahead and leave, your all welcome to stay for this little 'celebration' of our freedom. Yes, even you insect bag."
The dragon would release his wings from his brethren, and would gulp down heavy amounts of ambrosia.

As soon as Kilgarrah’s rousing farewell speech came to an end, Yigzavath shot up from his position at the table and made his way towards the Hall’s exit, not even bothering to return an insult at the dragon god. No inclination to stick around, it would seem. No one was surprised by this.

Though Nahargu’ul, too, decided not to stay any longer. He turned to Iuppiter and said to him, “I, too, will take my leave. Let’s speak again when we are both away from here.” He stood up from his throne, and followed after Yigzavath at a distance.

---

Somewhere out in the ocean

Four hundred and ninety-three years.

Four hundred and ninety-three years of undisturbed slumber, deep down in the bedrock of the ocean. The mariner, Vorris, his name. He sleeps still, his body enveloped by the watery elements, encased in coral and various oceanic plantlife.

But his rest would not go on another year longer. In the recesses of his mind, Vorris heard the sounds of ripples in the ocean. Unnatural ripples, signalling not just any passing leviathan, but something commanding attention. His fingers twitched as the ripples intensified, more and more smaller ones joining in, until suddenly, he heard the voice of his god.

“Rise.”

His black, shielded eyes shot open, and his body began to break itself free of the coral bed. At his side, his chitin-encrusted, half-alive catch pole rests, and he promptly takes it in hand. Its pincers twitch slightly, as if it too is waking up. The last bits of coral float away from him, though some remnants cling to his body. Even after all this time, he is as alert as he’s ever been, as though his nearly five centuries of slumber were just a passing forty winks.

Then, he laid his eyes on what the rest of the ripples were coming from. Merfolk, leviathans, even a scarce few krakens, were all barreling past him, congregating around a barren clearing just ahead. Vorris swam forward, the waters propelling him at his whim. He pushed through the crowd of merfolk, who watched in veneration of their reawakened hero, gently placing their hands on his person as he went by. He emerged into the clearing, planting his feet down on the bedrock. The creatures around him continued to move and watch, as the rumbling began.

A great plume of rubble burst from the bedrock ahead, though Vorris kept his footing, watching as a massive, humanoid arm emerged. It reached for the thin lights hanging above the water’s surface. It came crashing down, pointed fingers digging into the rocks, pulling up the rest of the colossal figure. Blackened tentacles followed, rising from the depths, occupying the space around the swarming creatures. The glow of the behemoth’s six crimson eyes signalled its triumphant rise above the bedrock, standing prominently in the dim waters, as the creatures continued to clamor.

But Vorris, he simply dropped to one knee on the bedrock, head bowed before his god. Nahargu’ul, the one true sovereign of the great and vast oceans of Gaea, had finally returned to the mortal realm. He looked to his subjects, and unleashed a rallying bellow that shook the waters around them. Even with his divine status, it felt good to signal his return in such a way.

Nahargu’ul turned his gaze down towards the kneeling mariner.

“Vorris. My old champion.”

Vorris raised his head in response to the words. They sounded less as though they were coming from one source, and more as if the water around him itself was uttering them.

“The pleasure, to behold you again. After five centuries of that abhorrent Silence, obscuring my vision…”

He raised his arms, motioning to the expanses beyond.

“Ah… The waters are breached by my echo once again. I can feel the vessels… the riches... the wreckages… and…”

He paused for a moment.

“What… is this filth I sense? It is familiar… It… it is coming from…”

Vorris said nothing. He just listened. Nahargu’ul stared off in one direction, past the creatures who were just beginning to settle upon his return. He was… eerily silent. After a moment, he said to his champion, “Vorris... something… something is wrong. We must see to it. Come.”

There were no questions. Nahargu’ul’s very form vanished, becoming one with the waters around him. Vorris swam alongside him, clinging to a massive, eel-like creature’s nape. He commanded it to follow the invisible trail of his god. Off they went, in the direction of whatever disturbance the Sea-Fiend had sensed.

Something in the back of Vorris’ mind told him he already knew full well what it was.

---

The Infested Workshop

A mess of old candles placed about.

A heap of parchments and bindings, scattered on a wooden table, surrounded by the candles.

Isabella, simply clothed and out of her normal, orchid attire, was seated in a wooden chair before the desk, once again jotting down word after word, sentence after sentence, on some grand itinerary that went through a wave of revisions almost every week. They were plans on where to find one thing, what to combine it with another, annual inventory management, grocery lists that she’d failed to act on time after time…

This was the very definition of squalid.

It was like this most days, unfortunately. Just planning. Never taking action, simply planning. Compulsively taking notes to break the monotony of living in a cave. Isabella was always putting the consequences before the results, an unpleasant habit she’d inadvertently adopted during her stay within the Infested Workshop. She always came back to the thoughts of, what can I really do on my own? What if I’m caught in the act, taken away or, burned at the stake? What if they find me?

Quite the unfavorable mindset. She resented herself for it. She sighed, putting down her pen after finalizing an addendum on how she’d have to go searching for more bovine excrement to sate some of the Workshop’s smaller inhabitants. She wiped her hand on her face in defeat, drooping some… until she heard a noise.

She never hears a noise.

She lifted her head up, looking off in the distance past her desk, towards the multitude of coarse glass jars containing innumerable insects, separated from dead to very much alive, illuminated by hanging lanterns she’d put up herself. Nothing was there, no change in the norm - the little creatures were still scurrying in their hovels. She kept her vision peeled for a moment more, before deigning to look in the opposite direction - only to come face to face with a hulking figure’s stark, misshapen mask.

_{“Yigzavath…”} Isabella said under her breath, after a moment of pregnant silence.

“What. Are you doing here.” The Filthmonger said, in his horrible, clicking voice that most mortals would detest. Isabella did not respond. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. This suddenness of the encounter left her at a loss for words.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE.” The God shouted angrily, lurching forward, causing Isabella to stumble back into her desk, knocking over a few candles onto the cavern floor. Yigzavath reached forward with one of his gangly, human-esque arms, grabbing the woman by her torso, wrapping his fingers around to her back, and hoisting her up before his vision. “WHO ARE YOU.” He said aloud, pressuring her. “I-I’m…” Isabella stammered, struggling to get her words out, “An… A-Acolyte!”

Yigzavath’s arachnid appendages reeled back, refraining from burrowing into the woman’s head. He dropped her onto the floor. Isabella landed on her fours, gasping for breath. The Filthmonger simply watched her, waiting for her to get back on her feet. As she began to recollect herself, she went on to say between breaths, “I… I’m your last… Acolyte… I’ve been… tending to the Workshop… in your absence…”

Yigzavath did not respond. He simply turned his attention towards the glass jars, full of his long abandoned work. Still sitting there, after five centuries of nothing. He moved towards them, his centipede-like lower half skittering along the ground behind him. He paused, slowly grabbing a jar of dead locusts from a shelf, staring at it. A moment passed, with Isabella still watching him intently. She was still in awe that her God had just… appeared, out of nowhere, at such a random time. No grand entrance, no welcoming swarm of insects. As she always thought it would be, though she’d always been uncertain if it would be in her lifetime. Yet, here stood the Filthmonger himself. Yigzavath returned the jar to its spot on the shelf and looked back at Isabella. “You... are the last?” He questioned.

“The last... that I know of.” Isabella replied calmly, but with confidence, almost as if she was a troop commander’s confidant.

“What is your name?”

“Isabella. Loyce.”

Silence, after her answer. The pestilent deity turned his head back towards the jars, his arachnid appendages tapping a few of them gently. After another bout of silence, he said to his Acolyte, “Leave me. I will call upon you later.”

“Yes…” Isabella replied, bowing her head, and stepping away from the Filthmonger. She returned to her desk, quickly picking up the toppled candles, dousing the lot of them. She picked up her papers, and retreated into another section of the Workshop. Yigzavath hovered his hand over the shelves, finding a small stack of parchments resting beside a jar on the lowest level. He picked it up, flipping through it. A log of… all his past creations, with notes of which ones were long dead, recently dead, and still alive to this very recorded day. Feeding preferences and appropriate times, with little in the way of errors. Fine work, for a mortal in his place.

He took the papers with him. Saved him some busywork.

@dragonmancer Kulorerstus smiled at the words of the Dragon. "If that is the case lightbreather. Stay out of my errands of the mortal realm. Some of us actually enjoy our tasks and i do so enjoy personally collecting the souls of the dead. 500 years i sit and 'rot' of boredom waiting. I had been away from my task...for far to long." He stood from his throne and floated over to the orderves "hmmm....and besides. You have food for the living here. Where is the tender youth souls or essence of darkness?"

As soon as he had said that a wraith flowed into the room and began to whisper in his ear. "Ahh he is alive then. Very well i shall be there soon," he gazed at his fellow gods and goddesses, "well i must be off a old servant of mine has been found." The dreaded God of the Underworld laughed and vanished like in a shroud of pure darkness and it oozed into the ground like water does to soil.

Walking out of the shadows toward a stone sarcophagus. The death gods presence alone could make a warm room cold. He raised his hands and the lid to this stone coffin lifted up and he threw it to the side. He miled as he saw the dry bloodless body of his champion the Vampire of Mortival.

He summoned for a wraith to bring him the essence of pure darkness with mixed with fresh mortal blood and he poured the wine barrels filled with this into the stone tomb and covered the vampires body in it.

Flesh started to swell with fresh new blood and skin started to moisten up a once dry hand started to rise up out of the blood as did another. This dark warrior was imprisoned here 200 years ago and without food he dried up like a raisen. He inhaled breathing the dank air and looked around with glowing red eyes. And he saw the manifestation of the Death God out of darkness and he climbed out of the replenishing sarcophagus and knelt before Kulorerstus

@ShyDot
Del Sombra nodded to the Queen of temptation as a way to confirm her observation. Indeed she had been occupied. Observing the world for the past four hundred something years like she always had. Only this time she had found quite an interesting subject. A female whom had completed one of her dungeons that she had created long before the silence began. And only recently had it been completed. The wizard who acted as the island’s master was viciously slain by a large Sergal. Quite crafty at that, she noted.

Her gifts were to be bestowed immediately after completion. Even if the silence hadn’t come, the recipient would never have known their purpose. She would not have granted them immortality. She would not speak to them in person unless necessary. And she did not grant feats so spectacular that it makes up for the lack of skill. No… her methods were quite subtle. And frankly… she planned to keep it such a way.

Let her enjoy herself, and continue to do so. But a small nudge in the right direction can always lead to great things.

The feline blinked slowly as she watched the Sergal do battle with the fiend. She had slightly altered her course with the aid of her children. But she had not intervened much. The mortal gathered her own information, the mortal learned the children’s secrets for dealing with nightmares. And employed them.
The goddess watched her hide, cover her eyes, count, crawl, and more to deal with everything the boogey man could throw at her. But eventually, the Sergal got close enough and rammed a large nail of silver into it’s chest. And repeatedly stabbed it till it grew still. For good measure… she took it’s head. Wonderful. Perhaps she should contemplate having Reeva investigate the disturbances involving some parasitic worm creatures. Such things could possibly be Yig’s work… but she had her doubts. He’s been cooped up with her. But… if they were… she’ll just have to back off. For now… the young Sergal, whom was now on her way to a major city of some sort, deserved her break.

The spectacle was over in time for the King of Dragons to give his farewell address. Though… the statement of humility did cause the feline to raise a brow questioningly to the King. He was the last god that Del Sombra would ever expect to give a lecture on humility. The king of fire has done many things in the past that would deny him the right to such a thing under normal circumstance.

But once the speech was drawn to an end, Sombra slipped out of the snake’s lap. Her front paws struck the ground first, and quickly flickered to something more humanoid. Her body went over her head, and curled over. Like her hands it morphed from feline to a humanoid shape rather quickly.

Once her feet touched the ground, she lifted herself up with grace.

@dragonmancer
Her new form was an old favorite of hers. A female catfolk monk, though half dressed in some cultures, really felt natural to her. Perhaps it was because some of the stories they had told her while she spent some time learning in a monastery. Reguardless… her covered eyes stared into space for a few seconds. Then her entire body turned to face Kilgarrah.

She clicked her heels, and brought two fingers up to her brow, then pointed them outwards to the sky in the form of a sword man’s salute. The gesture implied that her fingers were the blade. It was a long running gesture she used to signal to the god when the next Festival featuring combat of knights would be held.

And judging by her next gesture, sequentially counting up to five – starting with the thumb and ending with the pinkie- then closing the hand for just a moment…. There was about five or six hours till then.

Asivar wasted no time. Lifting up Avenger from the table it rested on, he strode towards the opened door his squid-brother left open. But standing in the opening, he first turned around and looked Ha square in the eyes. “I look forward meeting you again, down there, brother.” Before he walked out. It was as he thought. The mortal realm was open to them once more. How long before Ha would try to establish his wretched dominion again? Alas, it did not matter. No matter how advanced and unbelieving humans had become, there were always wild places. Areas spread over the world where no wall, fort or man clad in armor could stand. Where stout men stood in fur. Fighting not for something luxurious as chivalry but for survival of them and their next of kin. Their home was not a mansion, but a simple tent.

---

Far up in the north there were still wild tribes. That never bowed towards the civilized world. Nor could the main Capital ever touch them. In the frozen, wooden wastes only so few could survive. But the Tribes here managed to live here for generations. And now a man is honoring his ancestors. Packed in furs and holding his bow close to him he made his way towards the woods. A storm had just buried their home in but now that was over. Yet now he had to get food and a new fur for his third child. The newborn baby was a fighter, they all were. His blood never brought forth weaklings.

With the warmless sun shining high above, Ludgar was nearly blind as it reflected off the snow. Only when he neared the edge of the forest did he see the figure, sitting before the ancient monolith.

Asivar had arrived near the place he loved most. The Godswood he called it. He wondered if the local tribes still named it that. It was here he loved to hunt the most. The largest forest on the planet. Humans could get lost in here for months. Some never make it out at all. It was here he made his Dire Wolves. It was here Ashevelen made them Shadow Wolves. His creatures of sinew and shadows still howled in the forests. The had survived the Silence, despite the absence of both of their gods. But here now he knelt. Before the moss overgrown monolith. It was a simple stone pulled from the ground. It go a bow and arrow firing upwards etched into it. Asivar never cared much how they depicted his symbol on material like stone. Yet there were exceptions. Like this monolith. It was one of the first “shrines” made for him. Hunters from the nearby tribes would gather here first, to pray for him. It was a simple thing. Nothing grand, nothing might. Not carved by masons so capable in their art. It was crude, but it held importance. People believed in it and it made the simple stone so much more than any of the grand walls Ha built.

“Excuse, sir!” the god suddenly heard from behind him. It was spoken in the bastardization of an old language he once knew. The dialect of the tribes must have taken over their initial language. “How can I help you?” asked Asivar. In his disguised form he still looked like a formidable man. Dressed in bearskins and wolf pelts. Wielding a dark, ornate bow and a very sharp knife on his hip. “You speak the old tongue!” said Ludgar surprised. “Tell me, what is a stranger such as yourself searching in such a barren place like this?” the hunter inquired. “The monolith.” Asivar answered.

“Ah, only a handful still stand up in this world. Moss-covered and weathered. Down south they… destroyed them all. Saying we could live without the gods and without prayer.” Ludgar’s words were not without doubtful sentiment.

“You do not agree with this notion?” asked Asivar. Hoping not to arouse too much suspicion yet. He could hardly just arrive among the people he was forced to abandon and tell them he was their god.

“No. Only fools with an assured warm belly every night can assume they no longer need the gods.” There was venom in Ludgar’s words. “Up here in the north, we must fight for our survival. Fields barely grow here. We must live on what the Mother of the Woods gives us and the Father of the Hunts let us have.”

“A wise notion. Is that why you are here?”

“Aye. The snowstorm has passed and my family needs bone, pelt and meat. Do you care to join me? If we are successful in killing some prey, well there is always room around my fire.”

Asivar accepted the invitation, and thus the mortal and the god marched into the forest. Asivar toned down his divine senses, so both men could hunt as equals. So long did Asivar have to miss this, a mortal hunt. Only on the dusk of the second day did they find their game. Asivar, for the first time, experienced things like hunger again. He realized how sweet water from a creek could taste, or how it felt to face down a mad hog. But his divine influence was everywhere. At night they heard shadow wolves running about to hunt deer. At day arrows killed immediately. After a week both men appeared once more out of the forest. Asivar carrying a massive deer while Ludgar pulled a wild boar behind him. They were jolly, yet scrapped and covered in small wounds. Such was the way of the hunter. Kalla, lady of the forest, made her places dangerously rough.

“Papa!” It came from a new voice. One that came from the village. Before he knew it, Ludgar next to him was hugging a child. His child, Asivar presumed. After the long embrace he put the boy back down, asking: “You’ve been good to mama?” The boy whirled a little on his heels. “A little.” But Ludgar could only smile. “That’s my boy! Here, help me with the hog.”

That night, Asivar was indeed welcome around the campfire. After a week living off berries, nothing on the table of the gods could rival the taste of a meat stew. “So tell me, where do you come from?” asked Ludgar next to him.

“I come from a faraway land, many leagues from here. It is probably a land you are not familiar with.”

“Then what is your business here? So far in the north. There is so little here. Only fur, blood and snow. We are hardened people, sir. But not a very interesting one. We only sing songs around the fire. That is the only art we practice. We don’t have gold, only stories. We make no pottery, only tools out of stone and wood.”

“You underestimate yourself, Ludgar. Your people are artists of blood. Look at this deer, or the wild boar. You are the makers of the heart. With courage and ferocity you stand against the land itself. And I recon, you do not pray for and easier life. But-“

“-for the strength and courage to survive a difficult one. Old words. Words since before the… the great Silence.” There was a clear sadness in Ludgar’s voice. “I still pray, you know. I still hope our gods return. Kalla, lady of the forest. And Asivar, Lord of the Hunt.” He looked up, at his people around the fire. “We are dying without them. Our elders do not want to admit it, but the gods gave us reason to live. They helped us, even in war we flourished.”

“You want to relive the times of the Gods?” asked Asivar.

“Aye, I do. But they left us, and now we must fend for ourselves.”

“What if I told you that there is a way. Not to connect again with your gods, but to experience the traditions your kind had in the Era of Gods.”

Ludgar looked up amazed. From his pack, Asivar pulled a needle and a small vial of ink. Ludgar, with a nod, allowed it. He gave Asivar his arm, and on the lower part of it Asivar began to tattoo Ludgar. Who never once called out in pain. As ink mixed with blood on his arm, a figure gained shape. Of an arrow pointing down upon his palm. “A long time ago, this was the first Mark of the Hunter.” Asivar told Ludgar, as he constantily prodded the skin. “It was given to the hunters who first killed something in the woods. Be it a deer, a rabbit or a wolf. It is said that by sacrificing the blood of an animal to Asivar, that they could come in touch with the Divine Huntsman. So he would bless the hunters.”

The next morning, the tattoo artist was gone. The tribe roused from its sleep and went on its way. Until an elder caught sight of the arrow tattoo of Ludgar. The old woman, with wide eyes rushed over to the man. “Where! Where have you gotten that! Where have you received such a mark!?” she demanded. “I… A friend. He came with me from the hunt. He gave it to me last night.”

The elder lady, still strong for her age, pulled Ludgar with her into her tent. “I have seen such a bearing only once more. I was a youngling.” She said. “Barely five. I saw it on my great-grandfather’s arm. The mark… is the sign of Asivar.” Ludgar nodded. He knew it was, his friend told him so.

“You are not listening! Ludgar! It is the sign of Asivar! The last who could ever give such a sign perished more than a century and a half ago! Listen to me, Ludgar! The art of the Shenhun is one given by our god.. Ludgar. No-one has carried a Shenhun in over a century… It is impossible that you received one.”

“Then how did I get this!?” Demanded Ludgar. “Was he some imposter? Someone making fun of our belief!”

“No… Not even that is possible. The art of Shenhun was kept secret among the Elders. During the God Wars… it elevated us, mere mortals. Ludgar… We… have been visited by someone who has not been among us for over five hundred years!”

@Ashevelendar
Nahash's focus turned to Ashevelen for the first time in years, a very small amount of time for a deity, and the genuine mirth upon her features only grew. It was another welcome face among the interesting company she kept, her brothers and sisters. The hug was welcomed with an open arm, though the other remained upon Sombra's head, the talon-like ring upon her index finger delicately lifted to avoid giving the lady of shadows a cut from the strange jewelry. It was hardly deadly to a deity, but it was rude to hurt the ones you cared for, as Nahash understood it.

"It pleases me to see you, Lady Luck," Nahash spoke earnestly, her fangs showing from behind her red lips as her grin intensified, "And though we shall have to wait to hear why we have not yet descended again, you need not worry for the world." Her other hand gestured down to Del Sombra, her lips twisting into a wry smirk. "If the other Lady present can find things interesting still, then surely all is not lost."

Truthfully, Nahash shared some of Ashevelen's unspoken concerns. What would be left of her faith, her followers? Doubtlessly the myths surrounding her would have changed with every retelling, but what of those that held true belief in her freedom?

Thankfully, a distraction was provided. Not only was the local drama already amusing--thank you, o Wizard and Mad God- but it seemed that Kilgarrah had finally chosen to speak up, with the arrival of the last of Nahash's cadre of companions. And what a riveting speech it was.

Naturally, Nahash didn't care for it, save for the insight it provided into the dragon god himself. A dose of humility from one such as him was as good as gold, after all, and his words held some merit. She had no interest in seeing the world burn or--Ragnarok forbid- become some boring void.

Rather than depart immediately, Nahash settled into her coils, and quelled her restlessness with a single, small cup of the heavenly drink. Schemes flitted through her mind. She had not expected to be returning yet, and so most of her ideas were half-formed and trite, in her sincere opinion, but...

But her return would not be a small one; the Temptress had already decided upon that much. Her domain demanded that her influence was felt, even with her preference for some degree of subtlety. She would have to make something quake before she could settle into her own lesser schemes once again.

Mortals placed great pride in their foundations, their traditions, but this was the false image of longevity. To refute the idea of stagnation and leave her mark upon the world once more, she would have to disabuse them of the notion that longevity was immortality, indestructibility.

Idly, Nahash wondered if any new totalitarian society had sprung forth in her absence. Sipping from her small cup, she observed Del Sombra's actions--and a few departures- while her mind remained adrift. Multitasking was an easy feat.

Somewhere out in the ocean

They had traveled a ways. For them, it was not too long a swim at all. But they had stopped seemingly out in the open. Nagargu’ul, still quite formless, had been halted. In the water. Vorris and his new colossal mount simply idled by his presence, waiting for him to speak. The feeling in the air, it could be sensed he was… thinking.

“Hagers…” Nahargu’ul finally spoke. Vorris simply listened, staring into the watery expanse. Something was different from this point onwards. The water, shifting into a putrid green… rejected them. Ahead, they could see the wilted corpses of all sorts of sea life. Merfolk, leviathans, even a handful of human sailors, some freshly dead… many more, now but heaps of water-warped bones. No wounds, no signs of simple old age… they had been poisoned, by the water. And this water, it was not made by Nahargu’ul’s will. It, in and of itself, was a transgression against him, spread in his absence.

And it was coming from the old, violated fishing village of Hagers.

“I expected pollution only from mortals… I should have known better. She is still alive. She is awake once again.”

She? Vorris didn’t know whom his god spoke of.

“She has strayed her accursed, ethereal hands too far.” Said Nahargu’ul, shifting into his physical form behind Vorris, who turned to face him. He simply waited for the order he knew he would receive. “Vorris…” The Sea-Fiend began, “The waters we behold here are no longer mine. They have been seized by… by an abomination, risen from the past. From before the Silence, before the Cataclysm. You, not even I, may tread further beyond here. Thus, even so soon after your awakening… I must task you this most crucial of ventures.”

Vorris made no remarks or refusals. He was ready for whatever his god commanded of him.

“Hagers is nestled into a far-strung cliff ridge, and the waters around it are too virulent to cross. You must plant your feet on the mainland. You must find your way there, and quell she who would so infect my domain.”

Vorris nodded. Yes, he would do this, but still… who was this ‘she’ he spoke of? All this death and decay looked the work of Yigzavath, or even Kulorerstus… but they had both been just as absent as Nahargu’ul. It was someone else entirely. Someone who would dare transgress against the Sea-Fiend with this terrible aquatic blight. And whoever was causing it, Vorris would put an end to her.

“Once again, I would have you as my arbiter amidst the mainland.” Nahargu’ul said, “Do this for your god. Go to Hagers. Kill everything you see there. Stop this.”

And Vorris would.

---

She stands on gray sands, littered with the corpses of her loved ones.

She runs her hand on the rough, crimson surface of her hooked spear.

She stares out into the vast, open waters, still beneath the fog she herself has breathed into existence.

And she speaks.

“I will be ready.”

Thu-mmmok leaned in his chair, as he listened to every word Kilgarrah said, it felt like an eternity until he was done speaking, but eventually he did. And Thu-mmmok gracefully rose out of his chair, ready to say goodbyes, sadly, his good friend Yiggzavath ran out before he was able to, oh well, he was always a workaholic. "As much as I would love to stay for feasting, I miss my deserts far too much to say, I do hope you'll all forgive me." The earth blight bowed, and then crumpled into sand, each grain dragging itself away from the room at a quick pace. He could not wait to return to his deserts, where he was loved, where he felt at home, he knew there was change, but that was fine, deserts were eternal, and he could rebuild. Perhaps his old friend, Al Sabbath had chosen a hero too.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several djinn, some gnoll, and even the more beast-like creatures of the desert, were all waiting in the deserts of K'num, a large statue of a nomad on a camel in the center of the gathering, this was because Al Sabbath, the wisest, oldest, and least friendly djinn, predicted that Thu-mmmok, their lord and master, would return here. So they waited, and waited, for an entire day...Nothing.

"Good job, you senile git." A gnoll said, before taking a swig from his flask. "Your predictions were true, IF the desert god was real, i'm sure he would return 'ere, but clearly he's not." The gnolls, and younger djinns all agreed with murmurs, the earth blight had been gone for so long, very few believed he was real, a relic of the past at best, but most believed him to be a simple story. but Al Sabbath simply glared at them, and continued to wait. "He will be here, but perhaps he is taking his time, returning to be greeted by an old fool, and a pack of oafs, might not be the greatest welcome." the old djinn said in a voice rough as the sands, before continuing to wait.

After cursing Al Sabbath for wasting their time, most left, only a few Scorpions and Hyaenodons stayed with Al Sabbath, he didn't mind though, this was much better company than what he was used to, peaceful, quiet, and not skeptical.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Toth, the sleeping city, an abandoned ancient civilization, that rests within the deserts of Sirus. Here only one thing was alive, a creature that's name was spread as far as the trade cities in the ocean, a monster, with ruthless power, and hidden depths, a creature that only went by one name: Louis. Here the camel waited, it had no real idea why, but it felt drawn to this area, as if it belonged here, perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was a camel's urges, but Louis believed he needed to be here.

Suddenly, the camel felt as if it were being watched, it whirled around, or really, took its time in turning around, and saw something no man, or djinn, or gnoll, ever expected to see, Louis wasn't really surprised though.

"I'm going to kill that old fool." The large mass of twisting sands, that appeared behind the camel, said with a sigh. "I traveled the deserts, commanding them to send me towards the hero that had been chosen, by my most trusted servant, and I find that my hero, the hero that will bring back the glory of the deserts, spread influence across the world, and save my religion... Is a FUCKING CAMEL! Louis stared at the god, his master, and snorted.

The Infested Workshop

“...and the last two official Acolytes, my mother Amelia, and my father Delardt… they both died during the razing of Pecher’s Valley.” Isabella said to her god. She was recounting the recorded events of the last several hundred years, through a small stack of papers. All that had befallen the Acolytes, down to the very last one, seated before Yigzavath.

“This… Healers Guild, was responsible?” Yigzavath questioned.

“Yes. Other parties were involved but, it was primarily their doing.”

“And nothing is left?”

“Well now, they call it Pecher’s Grave. Burnt rubble and refuse that goes on for miles. Bones still crumbling into dust…” She paused for a moment as she recalled the image in her head. “It’s no longer suitable for any form of life. Not… not even your creations.”

Yigzavath groaned, shaking his head, his limbs twitching. “So much has been wiped away… we will have to start from the ground up. And this Healers Guild must be dealt with.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Isabella replied, “I already have a list of all their dominant locations, a proper plan for which to attack in what order-”

“Enough.”

Isabella shut her mouth.

“We must first see to the rebuilding of the Acolytes. And such a task falls upon you.”

“I…” Isabella replied, “I don’t think it will be that easy. Times have… changed, since your absence. The idea of sick-spreading is looked down upon even in the lowest-rung societies, and-”

“Stop.” Yigzavath interrupted, “I will not just have you go about merely offering allegiance through words. You will find the sick, the downtrodden, and you will offer them relief from their ills.”

“And how will I… provide them, said relief?”

“Give me your arm.”

Isabella hesitated for only a moment before standing up and raising her left hand, extending her arm, which the Filthmonger promptly took hold of with his own. Isabella watched, shaking a bit as from the hives on Yigzavath’s arm, centipede-like creatures began to emerge, traveling down towards Isabella’s hand, biting at her flesh and burrowing into the wounds. She grunted, trying to bear through the pain. Yigzavath held her arm firmly, as more and more varied insects flew out of his flesh to hers, both flying and crawling. The skin on Isabella’s arm began to turn a fetid shade of brown, bursting with nests and hives identical to the Filthmonger’s.

Yigzavath let go of her arm. She stumbled backwards, and watched her arm swarm with centipedes, locusts, and a selection of other insects. She panted a bit, though thankfully, the pain began to dull itself - one of the creatures’ doing, most likely. She got back up on her feet, and Yigzavath spoke again.

“Razor moths for offense. Torch flies for utility. Basic creatures, those and more. And the placebo worms, they will be your bargaining tool. They will alleviate any symptoms of any blight from one’s person, making them carriers… and they will hear its voice, prodding their brain, directing their thoughts towards one clear action - becoming an Acolyte.”

“Against their will?” Isabella questioned.

“It will mold their will until that is all they desire. Even when the worm expires, it is all they will think of. Until we have a sizeable force, we must not take chances with potential exposure.” He paused for a moment and asked, “Do you object to these methods?”

“No.” Isabella replied, without hesitation. “No, I do not.”

“Good.”

As god after god left the meeting room, Ha felt something at the back of his mind he hadn't felt for ages.
500 years to be precise.
It had to be it, he was needed, a mortal had lost hope and begged with a true prayer to the divines as their only salvation. A hardship they can not face themselves, thus asking the gods for help. Asking Ha for help.

Shortly after Asivar had left the hall, the divine smith finished his decorative gorget of antimagic and tossed it on the table in front of him and stood up.
-"Kilgarrah... i am needed... and i shall answer!" Ha held his left fist in front of him, with a burst of embers and black soot swirling, the form of the black steel clad knight was gone, the dust swirled into the furnace of the forge-gods throne and with a short hissing of red heat, it went dark.

On a field, outside a village.
It was no use, he had like the others turned to despair. How could men face such evil? Deamonic beings, frothing blood-stained spittle and tearing those who could not get away apart with their impossibly sharp talons? Dark skin that could deflect iron swords and speed that rivaled that of wolves?
Hakon Smith had watched the soldiers in the company give up, who could blame them? They were ill equipped and ill trained, scraped together from the survivors of the raided villages in the area. Clad in padded cloth and a helmet at best, those with the best weapons had old spears, most had pitchforks or clubs.
The deamons while few outclassed them in every way. The last two pitched battles had ended in severe casualties for the ragtag militia. They now were trying to make use of the earth mounds designed to halt the advance of rams from closing with the palisades. Not that the palisades were ever completed, barely half of it stood and even a third of that was burnt.

The commander was trying his best to rally the men, but alas, they had basically given up. Some wandered aimlessly, some tried to work but barely bothered and some just sat and stared blankly at nothing.
But Jekyll Hymes, the commander, would not stand idly by! He was going to defend this village, until deamon filth chewed on his bones, then he'd behead two more!

Hakon saw his resolve, it was admirable but foolish. Only a miracle could save them, that was why he had sat himself in front of the small furnace of the camp, knelt with both his knees to the ground and prayed to the only god he remembered the name of, Ha. The lord of the forge.
He knew the gods had abandoned them, he knew it was lost, but if so was the case at least he could try to ask for a miracle to happen? It would raise their already poor odds? From nil to a bit more than nil...
He didn't even know what to say, only reason he knew of the forge god was because his old master had told him the hammer was named after him, plus the old saying of the nicked anvil.
-"Please lord of the forge, we are doomed..." He said while clasping his hands, shaking in the cold foggy evening. He had tried different 'prayers', some of the others had mocked him. The gods of old were dead, they do not listen.

Then it started to rain, a light drizzle, but something caught Hakons eye and he looked up.
Clouds had started to swirl, within them red lightning began to crackle, it looked like a cloud of fire. He despaired, the deamons were using some sort of magic on their camp, this time they were doomed!
With a massive crack, a lightning bolt struck the furnace and had the smith apprentice scramble backwards on his ass.
The air echoed with a deep drawn out voice.

The furnace was destroyed by the force escaping from within, a massive black steel clad arm was clawing its way out from the inside of the dying flames and from the ashes a massive knight of blackened steel rose, as tall as a pine.
The people was at awe, too panicked to move. Ha took a step and pointed 'Ember' at Hakon, standing like a statue.

-"You have summoned me, what ill has you pleading for aid from the such as me?" Ha spoke, his voice echoed over the area.
He was dumbstruck, was it a deamon? Could it be? No! Impossible.
-"Who... who are you?!?" Hakon managed to say while some of the militia gathered behind Hymes, who neared the god in front of them.
-"So you truly have forgotten, such miserable short existence you must have!" Ha said, and then raised his left hand to his heart and kept on.
-"I am Ha! lord of the forge, master of arms, steel personified, chivalry's father, your GOD!!!" With a booming voice that echoed through the village Ha presented himself, he kept going.
-"What would you ask of me?"
Hakon and the others was silent, too terrified to move, but Hymes stepped forth and gathered the courage to speak.
-"We need armour... and weapons!" Thunder and lightning coloured the area red, the entire area now bathed in a red glow and rain.

With a sweeping gesture, Ha conjured a drawn out pile of plate cuirasses, swords and shields of the finest gleaming steel and crossbows with bolts and quivers.
-"Such a meek request, is that what you ask of a GOD!!!" The last word Ha yelled with anger, he continued.
-"You need no artifact to protect your homes? No sword that can slay your foes with divine hatred? No armour that withstands all blows?! You ask for mere simple trinkets from ME!?" Hymes fell to his knees, his eyes tearing up and his mouth grimacing with regret.
-"Forgive me lord! I... I know not what i want..." Hymes said before clasping his hands and lowering his head.

-"Muhahaha! No you don't." Ha laughed and then informed.
He then stepped back, stabbed 'Ember' into a rock which partially melted the blade stuck as it flared up with flames.
With a motion in the air, he seemingly ripped something from the ground, it began to shake as a massive six hundred kilo anvil emblazoned with the faces of smiths in gold rose from beneath the soil.
-"I.. am HA!" The forge lord yelled out.
The anvil came to a stop, in his left hand a piece of steel materialized in silver swirls and Ha held it upon the anvil as he raised his right hand.
-"The one who creates!" A lightning bolt struck his outstretched hand, Ha clenched it like a writhing eel and pressed it into the steel upon the anvil.
-"The one who strikes with the Ha'mmer!" With that he held Ha'mmer towards the heavens, then struck the steel so fiercely it shook the ground for a mile. All mortals present not already kneeling were now knocked to the ground.
-"The one who forges the metal!" With three strikes, he had somehow formed a complete blade, writhing with electricity.
-"He who tempers the steel!" He dipped the blade into a water bucket in the small smithing station nearby. The water basically exploded from the massive heat and electrical discharges.
-"He who realizes the forms of war!" With his right handHa held the crackling blade, small arcs danced upon his gauntlet. With his left he dropped the guard, the handle and lastly the pommel which materialized in his hand as he needed them.
-"The one who keeps the blade sharp!" Gripping the sword by the handle, he swiped his right hand along the blade and with a penetrating sching the blade was now sharpened.
-"I am the forge lord, i am... HA!" With a few earth shaking footsteps he walked up to Hymes and presented the sword.
Awestruck he stared at the massive knight who knelt before him to present the blade in both his hands.

-"This blade will strike as fast as lightning, no flesh can hope to resist its bite, it is light and durable, perfectly balanced." Hymes, Hakon and several soldiers closed in to gaze upon the artifact sword, created in front of their eyes in mere seconds. Something master smiths sometimes needed a lifetime to perform.
-"Take it... and with it act in the way of chivalry! That is my decree!" Ha said to Hymes, who carefully took the sword with wonder in his eyes.
The forge god then stood up.

-"Now, dress in the steel and wield the metal, face your opponents without fear!" Ha boomed out while pointing 'Ember' at the horizon. The men hastily began to put on the armour, and toss aside their weapons to grab hold of some of the literal smorgasbord of armaments strewn in front of them.
The men had gained a vigor unthinkable of a few minutes ago, and Hymes mimicked the statuesque visage of pointing the sword against the same horizon.
-"Men! We are blessed! We now hold the means to fight our foe!" Jekyll Hymes triumphantly yelled to his dozen or so men who now formed a line, suitably in time for the half dozen black hided deamons to charge in the distance. Drawn near by the commotion.

The battle was short and intense, the deamonic beasts slammed into the shields of the soldiers with a clang. With sword and shield Hymes then hacked his way into the wiry black hided beasts, it took seconds to hack them down. All the while Ha not moving a muscle.

While the militia was trying to fathom their victory, Ha asked Hakon.
-"What is thy name?"
Firstly he had to forcefully withhold soiling himself after Ha addressed him. But then told.
-"Ugh! Um... Hakon... Hakon smith... sir... lord." He was barely able to speak.
-"I shall remember that name." Ha said with a calm demeanour before walking back to the small furnace.
With a flick of the wrist, silver and soot swirls with embers rebuilt the small furnace, then Ha held out the fist in the air and from the one moment to the next, he was gone, a swirl of black soot entering the ever reddening furnace before stopping and the entire scene turned normal and the heat died down.
Were it not for the weapons and armour still strewn on the ground, the massive anvil or the divine artifact blade, there was no proof the forge god had even been there.
Dumbfounded the ones present ambled around in disbelief.

The divine foundry.
Ha stepped out from the furnace in his workstation, large enough for him to stand tall in his "human" form. He began strolling through the divine forge.
Far too long ago did he have such fun, the dumbstruck awe, the glory of combat, the creation of another artifact.
Sure, it was a pathetic artifact when compared to something fit for a god, a simple blade for a simple task. He shook his head slightly at the thought the mortals would probably oogle over it like some sort of relic for years, but quickly dismissed the thought.

Ha stroke his chin, the deamonic servants were a bother. Some of them were actually in the world. Surely the ones he saw were pathetic vermin, but it was enough of a problem that even such weak ones was found close to civilization.
But this whole ordeal had tired him, he needed to think as well.
With that a human confusedly looked around while ambling along in the foundry. Ha shook his head. So the hidden ways have begun to open as well. It was only a matter of time of course, he didn't expect anyone so soon though.
He just let the poor sod wander around, the rules of the foundry was carved into a wall decorated to look like a scroll, it could be understood in any language.
If the poor sod misbehaved he'd have to punish him. But right now Ha prioritized a rest.

Talpike fishing village, on the southern coast

Talpike was a simple village. Small, relatively unguarded, rested by the beach overlooking the Palidari Sea. The folk there were - for lack of any better word - survivors, through dull times at the least. The occasional bandit party, or stray demonic vermin, as managed to be dealt with, if only with a little hassle involved. They made their business out of catching whatever floated by, oftentimes going out on small vessels to try and bring in the bigger catches. The recent season had been withstandable, but not resplendent. All in all, dull times.

Until today.

The waters before Talpike rumbled at the coming of Vorris and his leviathan mount. Villagers stopped their walking about to look towards the docks, watching as from the waters ahead, the colossal eel rose up, with Vorris astride on its cranium. It did not roar, that would frighten the villagers even more than they already were, what with its mere presence. The leviathan’s head hung over the outwardmost pier, and Vorris leapt from it, making a landing on the water-soaked wood. He did not turn back towards the creature as it turned away, and returned to the ocean depths.

The villagers looked on - some in awe, some in fear - as the mariner made his way across the pier, towards the village itself. The villagers began to crowd, stepping away from him. Several men, wearing shabby armor and wielding spears, breached the crowd. “Hold it right there!” One of them called out, raising his spear towards Vorris, who did not falter.

“I said stop!”

He didn’t stop.

The guard lurched forward with his spear in stabbing-position, only for it to be promptly grabbed and broken by the mariner, who then shoved the guard aside half-gently. He reared back and said to his comrades, “G-get him!”

But they didn’t. They just kept their spears raised and watched as he continued forth, the crowd parting a way for him. He turned his head towards a shop, and made a turn for it. He opened the door and stepped through, the guards standing by, watching. Some of them seemed to ease up a bit, however. Vorris stood and scanned the shop’s interior for a bit, the aged shopkeeper and his son standing alert behind the counter. They all waited for him to make a move.

Vorris singled out his vision on a stack of folded parchments. ‘Map of the Realm, Revision 14, 15 copper’ was written on a sign by it. He walked over, picked up a map copy, and unfolded it. He looked it over briefly, before taking it over to the counter. He gently placed the map down, reached into his cloak, and pulled out a few coins. Coins that had been sitting on his person for more than five centuries. Coins taken from the sunken wreckages of the ocean, for a ‘maybe one day’ scenario. And such a day turned out to be this one indeed.

Vorris held the coins forward, but then paused for a minute, wiping off the watery brine that covered them. They quickly turned from dull greens and whites to brilliant golds with the muck gone. He placed them on the table, and the shopkeeper’s son carefully stepped forward to take them. The shopkeeper himself looked at them in surprise. “Th-those are datalins… from the old Ermio Kingdom's last decade…”

“These are worth a small fortune!” The son said, in disbelief. They both looked as Vorris nodded, took the map, and turned to exit the shop. The guards stood in his way, but this time, the mariner simply waited. “Let him go, he’s not hurting anyone!” The shopkeeper’s son called out. Hesitantly, the guards complied, and let the mariner through. Vorris exited the shop, tipped his hat as a polite gesture towards the surrounding townsfolk, and headed for the town’s exit. No one bothered him any further.

He looked at the map along the way. Hagers wasn’t marked, as expected, but he knew where it was on the southwest coast. He found his current location on the map, Talpike, and deigned to make his way northwestward.

Been a long while since he saw the mainland. He’d get to see what all had changed in five centuries.

Probably a lot.

Village of Mumue

Nicolas stood on the makeshift watchtower. His father was too sick to even stand, so the defense of the village rested on the young boy’s shoulders. Barely old enough to marry, Nicolas now lived in constant fear. Raiders from the North were sighted. The village, Mumue, was relatively wealthy. The Village Council refused to believe the Northerners would ever be a problem. So instead of building a palisade, they blew the money on bigger houses. Houses that now stood empty or smeared with blood. Only half of the village survived the previous attack. Nicolas, by fate’s twisted humor, managed to be one of those who lived on. Probably only to be slaughtered the next morning.

With the sun rising in the distance, he began to see black figures on the shadow. The raiders had returned to finish their job. All the courage the young boy had mustered over the course of half a night slipped him through the fingers like sand. “Oh heavens…” he whimpered, as he dropped on his knees. Realizing fully well that he was very much a dead man walking. Defeated he sobbed and cried. While murmuring: “Oh gods.. Oh heavens. I-I know you have abandoned us. Just, if you are still somehow listening. Please… Please I’m begging you. Help me.”

“How much do you desire that wish?” asked a voice from behind Nicolas. Who immediately turned around. Towering over the kneeling boy stood Asivar. Still in his human form. Dressed in fur with a bow on his back. For a moment Nicolas was silent, expecting the person, whom he thought was a raider, to strike him down. But nothing happened. So the young boy spoke. “I… Who…”

“I am Asivar. True God of Battle. You desire your survival, do you not?” Nicolas nodded, and added: “And the survival of my family. My mom, my dad, my sister. They cannot fall in the hands of those filthy raiders! I.. I can’t imagine what they’d do to my sister.” Asivar walked up next to him, looking over at the horizon at the horde approaching. He pondered over the wish of the young boy, and then looked down at him. “How much… are you willing to give for that wish? Would you pray for me? Would you become a Follower?” Nicolas could only nod. Though he barely understood what Asivar meant. The god turned his gaze back at the approaching horde. They were smaller than the hordes he ones saw. Not even 100 men were in the approaching dust cloud. Oh how things have changed. Where was the time the Northerners raised entire tribes to come down south? Hordes of men, women, children and beasts came pouring down. A tidal wave breaking fortresses and mighty cities. Setting fire to all they couldn’t carry.

“I will grant you your wish. But to do so, you must forgive me for this.” Asivar stretched out his arm at the young boy. First a painful sting could be felt, but then another, and another. After a while Nicolas screamed out in pain as his entire back lit up with fire. The pain was so bad that he fell unconscious. Much to the disdain of Asivar. “You will learn how to respect the pain, in the future. I hope. For it will be the fire that forges greatness.”

When Nicolas got up again, Asivar was gone. Instead he was getting yelled at from below the watch tower: “Get your sorry ass down here, you fool! The raiders are nearly here! Bloody hell! You could have slept through the god damn battle.” Careful he crawled down the ladder, only to get an axe pushed in his hands. “Get ready. And for the love of the gods, kill something this time.” The veteran snapped to Nicolas, who was still very unsure on what to do. He held the axe tight in his hand, and awaited near the corner of a house.

In the distance he heard the rumble of horses approaching. The cracking of torches was suddenly very clear to him. The slight vibrations of the earth spoke to him. Telling him exactly how far the enemy was. But most importantly, he started smelling the dried blood on their furs. Which started to play with his head. Like he was getting high.

“NOW!” Yelled the veteran, and everyone jumped off the low roofs or from behind the corners to cut down the enemy. A horse rider just passed Nicolas and in a fit of madness he jumped at the rider. Pulling him off the horse. With one savage strike of his axe Nicolas ripped open the chest of the surprised raider. But Nicolas needed more. He needed the blood. He craved the coppery smell. So he slashed and cut again and again. Until the dead raider was in a puddle of blood. Nicolas grabbed his weapon, a sword. No doubt stolen during previous raids. But Nicolas couldn’t care less. Instead he rushed towards the infantry skirmish at the entrance of the village.

Like a wild animal he jumped in between his comrades into the fray. Slashing wildly around him. With savage strikes he cut off entire limbs. Blunting his weapons. But there were always new ones to pick up. In the heat of battle, the blood was like a drug to Nicolas. The little farmer’s boy was now chopping away at any fur-clad raider he noticed. Whom began to avoid the mad idiot they couldn’t kill. Every strike seemed to be just too little. They could cut his shirt, but never his skin.

In the meantime Nicolas was screaming like a beast. Blood covered his body and scarlet mud caked his boots. Suddenly a rider got near, trying to stab him. The horse moved too slow and that was the horseman’s demise. Having just blunted his weapons on bone again, Nicolas could do nothing but to grab the horse’s neck and pull it down on the ground. Breaking the leg of the rider and well as that of the horse. In a maddening thirst for blood Nicolas jumped the rider, took off his helmet and bashed his enemy’s skull in with it.

The battle was over, with a surprising lack of casualties on the side of the village. On the other side though, the raiders were bloody and beaten. Broken and afraid. They ran from the battlefield, while the mad beast that was Nicolas chased him. Eventually his berserker rage cooled down. With the dusk he returned to the village. Covered in dried but also wet blood. His shirt was nothing but rags barely covering him anymore. When he walked into the village, they first cheered, and then gasped. Much to the confusion of Nicolas, who could not even grasp what he just went through.

River Deep was a near desolute Elven town. If there was anything that told the story of this smaller city, was the blood that applied a fresh coat of paint to the walls of it’s residences. It happened to be unfortunate that this city did not bare any sort of protective wall. And instead relied heavily on rangers roaming it’s forests and nearby jungle to keep many attackers at bay.

The recent war between the Sergals and Elves had brought a massacre to this gem, and severely reduced it’s population. Reeva, whom looked on to the ruined city thoughtfully, was riding with an air of caution. She remembered this city well. She had been among the “savages” that had slained many of it’s town folk and the soldiers stationed there in the war. Burned a good deal of the city to the ground as well. But she didn’t recall seeing the complete aftermath.

The splendid city was only a shell of what it used to be. Graves lined the outskirts of town honoring all those who had fallen. But something had been digging up the graves. The air smelt faintly of rotting flesh. Ghouls most likely. But there were also boddies lineing the fields as well. Reeva frowned.

The city was already crippled enough, now more recent demonic assaults had basically rendered this city under the threat of total failure. Still… it was not her problem. And most likely any effort of approaching the city would likely end with her having to kill what remains. She’s made quite a name for herself here. But… that was a different time and a different girl all together. She was far less blood thirsty now, and a retired soldier at that.

--

The large sergal continued to bob gently while she kept her eyes on the shrinking city in the horizon. Memories crossed her head. Each kill, each spray of blood on the walls. How she pounced on her enemies after taking advantage of the city’s verticality. The sergal empire’s Mistings and Hazekillers systematically working their way through the chaos, killing the Elven snipers and mages.

Oh how interesting of specialty units they were. Mostly imprisoned but professional criminals who committed grand heists, and assassinations. Hazekillers were for the mages, trained to disrupt and kill those pesky bastards. And Mistings for the sneaky elves. They were mostly thieves and a few assassins, and rarely ever do their poor victims see them coming.

She began to contemplate what Leon and Thadlyn were up to now. Both were mistings, and both were guild thieves convicted of high crimes. But both proved to be surprisingly loyal, and stated in the war long after their sentence was up. She’d grown to be friends with them… laughing and telling jokes before the fighting….

Something approachs.

Once again… Reeva felt a strange tug on her body. She’d grown accustomed to his strange instinct, and quickly learned that it was often attributed with something near her. She can’t quite understand why… but she always knows exactly what it was… be it a man, a child, or a rabbit. And this… were many men.

The sergal sighed and lifted her two handed sword out of the cradle on the side of the horse. A moment later she hopped off, and gave the mare’s rear a hard smack to send her dashing off to safety.

She slowly strolled forward as a man gracefully slid out of the underbrush. He was a tall handsome elf. Who knows how young he was, as they tend to live much longer than most sentient creatures. But if there was ever one thing that was common among Elves, were the pedastools they placed themselves on.

“You’re a long way from home, Tribune Pewterarm,” He spoke calmly in common. Each word pronounced perfectly. Each word made with malice. His eyes already speaking a world of stories about what he intends to do to her.

“Sorry… do Reeva do not know you,” The sergal sighed. She hefted the two handed sword up and rested the blade on her shoulder. “Also. It is just Reeva. Reeva’s no longer soldier.”

The elf raised a brow and spoke dryly.

“Fascinating” he waved a hand. And he was joined by several more men who stepped out in unison. They displayed their discipline with each marching step they made as they surrounded her. All of whom were dressed in armor with their weapons drawn. “Let me remind you whom I am then.”

Reeva adjusted her footing, and then lazily gestured to the man to continue.

“I am Lord Gormar Rovalur,” The elf began. Though he soon stopped when Reeva showed a gesture of apprehension. “I see you’re starting to remember.”

“Yes. Yes. Reeva knows this one. You are child of dead man.”

“My father whom you personally beheaded.”

“Yes, and he was given chance to fight – he would have been prisoner of war if he lost. He was coward. He ran and bleated like goat. So he was cut down like a coward should be. Stabbed in the back and head removed.”

If the lordling was agitated by Reeva’s words he did not show it. The sergal studied his reaction and then looked to the armed men. “Now what is this about?”

“I am sure you’re already aware,” Gormar quipped. His hand now slowly moving to the long sword at his side.

Reeva chuckled softly. “Sweetie. Two things will happen. You send more men to die, or you go home. Because when Reeva kills living nightmare,” She now dropped down to a fighting stance. She wielded the great sword high in a defensive ward. She gave it a bit of a wave, letting it roll in the air in a metronome manner.

“She is only getting started.”

Hakon had enough of this, massive steel armoured men showing up from nowhere and magically making things pop up? To help fight against bloodthirsters?
It made no sense, it was obvious it claimed to be Ha, but he was not so sure it really was him.
After all, it could just be some deamon trying to trick them to follow it, deamons do that.... probably...

Hakon didn't actually know a lot about deamons, except that they were evil and tempted people. Well, he was sure they were at least evil and powerful.

Hakon smith had given up on his former home and rented a seat on a carriage going to the legendary city of Ha'zufel. It was legendary for many reasons, it had never fallen to an attacker, its foundries were the most impressive on Gaea.
His old master had always told him that Ha'zufel was the best place to become a promising smith, seeing how he was killed by the bloodthirsters Hakon didn't know any other place he could learn smithing apart from the legendary citadel.

The cart ride had been long and arduous, the travelling trader also was a gruffy non-talkative fellow with a massive crossbow. Constantly chewing on a cigar, most of the time it wasn't even lit, probably to save money on cigars.
Hakon didn't care too much, he was too scared to talk to him anyway. He also wanted to rest as much as possible.

He had brought everything he owned, the small crappy anvil he got from his old master, his leather apron, tools and all the coins he owned.
It wasn't much, but he hoped it would be enough to pay for his education.

-"We're gettin' close!" The coachman suddenly yelled, Hakon almost flipped over in the cart out of surprise.
-"O...ok." The young man said while peeking out from one of the window flaps on the right side of the cloth overhang.

In the distance, the massive outer walls of Ha'zufel could be seen, inside those the second wall slightly higher, repeating until the massively tall innermost citadel loomed over the entire landscape.
Made from charred stones, the entire city was a dark bastion just oozing with might. Five sets of walls, each one several times taller than the tallest house of his home village. It was ridiculous!

Hakon was awed, he had never seen the mighty fortress, and now he would live there.

After reaching the gate he payed the toll and was figuratively thrown off the wagon by his travelling 'companion'. Not far from practically thrown off either.
With difficulty, he managed to ask people for help, drag his belongings around, not get mugged nor get any of his things pilfered and get to the smithing school his master had told Hakon that he went to.

It was rather easy to miss, the much larger and more impressive school was in the middle of a fine street, it's massive signs showing 'Meisters foundry & school'. Far too impressive to let anyone of his status enter, he even saw men with far finer clothing than his old villages merchant being denied entry to Meisters by their guards.
No, the school he would be going to, was 'Hubbons', actually in an alleyway next to Meisters.
After dragging his things into the dank dark alleyway, he knocked on the door which had the Hubbons sign above it, simply carved into wood.
He could hear some people starting to move about, but couldn't see anyone. He was starting to panic, without thinking when the door opened Hakon simply barged the door open and ran inside and started to breathe heavily on the floor.

-"Now what kind of rude manners is that?" The white haired and bearded man said to Hakon.
He was wearing a heavily patched leather apron with several tools hanging from it in leather loops, sturdy boots with metal slag stuck to them. No shirt, his long beard, hair and apron covering most of his form. His hair was braided and on his back a large tubular brass decor was used to hold it in place.
He kept going.
-"I assume you want to be schooled here, sorry, we're full. Already got two students." Hakon looked up and gaped, before speaking.
-"But.. i left my home, I... I brought money!" With that he franticly went through his pack to find his coin purse, which broke, he shakingly held up his collection of copper and odd silver coins, a nervous smile on his face.
The old smith shaked his head, picked up a silver coin and bent it.
-"This one isn't even real silver, I am sorry, i can't take you..." It was obvious he was kind, he didn't want to reject the boy.

Hakon wasn't even able to form words, he simply started to gather his things while silently sobbing.
Until the old smith had enough.
-"Oh... damn you and my sentiments. Stop sobbing you little fool! I can't stand it. Alright, you can become my apprentice! But i'm taking ALL of those coins, and you have to do the housework. There are no rooms left either, so fix up the storage room with some space on the floor." Hakon shone up, gathered his coins and the broken purse and bowed on the floor.
-"Thank you! You won't regret this!" He yelled, tried to kiss his new masters boots but was pushed away with a stern footfall.

-"And STOP grovellin'! I can't stand it, you are starting to make me doubt this decision!" He gruffed, before speaking up once more.
-"I am Robert Hubbons, call me Hubbons, 8th generation of Hubbons. I am the master of this house. You will listen to my orders, understood?!"
Hakon stood up and tried to do a salute, it was pathetic, but at least an honest one. Robert Hubbons just crooked his lips in a grimace and shook his head slightly.
What had he gotten himself into he thought.

While Kalla waited for her brother to answer her, her gaze wandered around the octagonal chamber where the Pantheon had assembled. Towering columns of blue and white marble supported the hall's domed roof, a roof that appeared to be made of solid gold and had detailed images of angels, mortals, and deities etched into it. The angels supposedly built Olympus several years after the birth of the Primal Gods, and they knew more about the holy city than most of its inhabitants. Both the city and the hall were breath-taking testaments to angelic craftsmanship, but the Horned Goddess found their creations cold and lifeless. In truth, she derived more pleasure from the sounds Bahamut was making as he gulped down the ham steaks being set before him then she did from her surroundings. Those delighted grunts could only come from the throat of a vital, living predator satisfying his appetite for meat.

Frowning down at the beast, Kalla squirmed on her greenwood throne before placing Kilgarrah's letter on her lap and leaning back. She suddenly felt anxious for some reason, though she didn't know why. Was it her desire to return to Gaea? It didn't feel that way, though the First Mother immediately sat up when Kilgarrah slammed his tail on the polished oak table dominating the center of the hall. This abrupt gesture nearly dislodged Asivar's dread weapon, the axe called Avenger, from the table and sent it tumbling to the floor.

Kalla grinned and shook her head, some of her disquiet fading away. Her siblings could be so dramatic sometimes.

The Father of Dragons snapped his claws and gently laid his wings on the shoulders of the other Primal Gods as he said, "Alright, settle down now, my fellow gods, your great and magnificent king shall speak. If you aren't aware, the Silence is about to end, the gates will soon open to allow us to interact with the material world again. I understand many of you are impatiently waiting to return, but we must remember a few things. First of all, let the Silence be a lesson of humility, for even...I am not perfect, we all make mistakes sometimes. It is our duty to protect this world above all else. Politics and whatever fancy things come like the world being ruled by mermaids or filthy insects it is still our world nonetheless. That being said, we should never repeat the selfish mistakes we have made last time that likely caused the calamity to have ever happened."

Kalla was impressed. Well, more surprised than impressed, but she couldn't remember the last time Kilgarrah had openly admitted he wasn't perfect. The Dragon King was proud, almost too proud, yet this speech was a clear sign of personal growth. Perhaps the Silence had been good for something after all? Even this thought couldn't dislodge the nervous feeling in the Everqueen's belly, however, and she considered asking one of the angels to bring her a platter of food from the tables scattered around the hall. Pursing her lips, Kalla looked at Kilgarrah as he took a long swig of ambrosia from his goblet and said, "Additionally, many of the mortals, namely humans, have become...independent, naturally so since we were forced to abandon them for only five hundred years. Of course, that short amount of times means alot to the short lived creatures, they have evolved without us and many of which, I fear, have taken an atheist approach to our existence. But fret not, we need not rush this, for if we try anything rash chaos will surely follow. Go along and do whatever be done to satisfy your domain, but as I warned ye lot, keep the politics as a...secondary means at best."

Apparently, today was a day of miracles. Kilgarrah had caused many conflicts in the past, and Kalla still shuddered whenever she remembered the carnage left behind by the Maw of the Earth. Dragons were not creatures of peace, though many attempted to fight their destructive impulses. Now, their creator was asking his brothers and sisters to avoid harming Gaea further. Unbelievable.

Marveling at how much Kilgarrah had changed, Kalla found her eyes straying towards Ember, the mighty sword of Ha, which was still protruding from the floor like some bizarre metallic growth. She couldn't look away from the weapon. Was there something different about the blade, something the Lord of the Forge had changed during the past one hundred years? No, it wasn't Ember itself. It was the way it had cracked the white marble floor of the hall. Thanks to Ha's sword, the floor was no longer flawless and pristine. It was less than what it once was. What could that possibly mean? Narrowing her eyes, Kalla nearly jumped out of her skin when Kilgarrah said, "You are all dismissed, you may stick around here for one last feast or go right ahead and leave, you're all welcome to stay for this little 'celebration' of our freedom. Yes, even you, insect bag."

Without even realizing she'd moved, Kalla found herself on her feet and watching as both Yigzavath and Nahargu'ul left the hall without so much as a backward glance. They valued their privacy and were probably just as eager as the First Mother to see how Gaea had changed during the Silence. And yet the sight of Ha's sword embedded in the floor kept the Horned Goddess rooted in place. Why did it bother her so much? It wasn't exactly uncommon for Ha to stick his sword into things.

As Kulorerstus, Asivar, and Thu-mmok faded into the Aether, Kalla decided enough was enough. Waiting for Ha to take his leave, the Everqueen inclined her head respectfully to her remaining kindred and inhaled slowly, opening herself to the Aether. A sigh of relief slipped through her lips as the familiar tingling sensation began in her forehead and spread throughout her physical form. Faster than even Nahash could blink, the Horned Goddess was gone. As she hurtled through the infinite sea of roiling blue energy that was the Aether, Kalla wondered if some of her more sensitive siblings would take her abrupt departure as an insult. She hoped not, but it couldn't be helped. Something on Gaea was terribly wrong, and Kalla felt herself being drawn to one particular region on the great continent of Erathel.

The Highlands.

Greatmother Hegva couldn't hold back a weary groan as she led the remnants of Tribe Pardra to the top of a grassy ridge overlooking the Highlands. Two hundred and fifty. Only two hundred and fifty kobolds had survived the madness of the last three weeks, and the elderly beastwoman now understood why her father, Jogan the Mighty, always used to say the burden of leadership is heavier than mountains. The tribe had been preparing for the winter months in their seasonal home of Valshara when an unexpected visitor arrived. Darondis the Provider, one of the twelve sylvan, had entered Tribe Pardra's encampment and told the greatmother a period of great change was about to begin. The gods had finally returned to Gaea. The Silence was over.

Overjoyed by this news, Hegva had asked what Tribe Pardra could do for the First Mother, and Darondis told them to make their way to Wyrmclaw Jungle, a lush rainforest many miles to the south. A tribesmeet, a gathering of all seven tribes, would be held there so the kobolds could discuss what needed to be done to survive the coming chaos. The greatmother had bowed before the Provider, and he'd handed her a weathered piece of parchment with a hastily drawn map of Erathel on it. Darondis had also promised the tribe they would find plenty of food and water in Wyrmclaw Jungle, though they needed to hurry. The other tribes were already traveling south.

Tribe Pardra had left Valshara the next morning.

Now, three weeks of vicious rainstorms, bandit attacks, and rotten food had cut the tribe's numbers in half. And they were at least three days from Wyrmclaw Jungle if Darondis' map was anything to go by. The sight that greeted the greatmother's blue eyes as she crested the ridge only made her feel worse.

Hegva had always loved this part of Erathel. During the Silence, the kobold tribes had spent years exploring the vast green fields and bubbling swamps collectively known as the Highlands. They'd discovered numerous freshwater rivers, sources of food, and defensible places amongst the rolling hills. Hegva's father, who'd led Tribe Pardra before her, once told her you could still find the ruins of settlements belonging to the fallen kobold nation of Barindur throughout the Highlands. Jogan had also taught his daughter which plants in the area were safe to eat and how to pick the fragile petals of the sky blossom flowers that grew by the water's edge. Whenever Hegva's stomach was upset, Jogan had used these petals to make a special tea that always made her feel better. She also remembered her father telling her about the mysterious basalt pillars, known as waystones, erected by ancient kobolds to show travelers how close they were to the city of Agamand.

What had happened to this place? What had happened to the land where her father had taught her what she needed to know to become an effective leader?

Miles and miles of once fertile meadows had turned gray, and the repulsive odors of heated metal and rotten eggs filled the air. Greatmother Hegva wrinkled her black button nose as she saw several places where the dry, lifeless soil had cracked and a thick red sludge was bubbling up. A yellowish haze hung over the entire region, obscuring its outer limits and lending an ominous air to the scene. Even the grass beneath her paws was brown and limp.

"What has become of the Highlands, greatmother?" a voice said from behind her, and the leader of the tribe's greenblood warriors, a young kobold named Grezbill, walked up to stand beside Hegva. His four-fingered right hand was clutching the handle of his stone sword as he said, "I do not...what is your will? Should we keep moving south as Darondis commanded? The Highlands are vast, and I fear there is no safe way around them. We may not have a choice."

The rest of Tribe Pardra began to line up atop the ridge, and Greatmother Hegva winced as she heard the fearful whispers and despairing moans of her fellow tribesmen. They hadn't expected this, and whatever hopes they'd harbored about an easy end to their journey were shattered. One of them, a heavily pregnant and red-furred kobold with the same black nose as Hegva, looked down the line at the greatmother, her blue eyes wide with fear and dismay. Hegva's daughter, Agga, had three runts in her belly that were almost ready to be born. The greatmother feared what would happen to her only child and grandchildren if she forced the tribe to march through this tainted place.

Shaking her head, Hegva's eyes searched in vain for a safe path through the foulness as she said, "Open your eyes, Grezbill. This entire area has been corrupted by something or someone. If we try to cross we'll be putting what's left of the tribe in danger. It might be wiser to find a way around." The venerable beastwoman ran a hand through the grayish white fur on her head and said, her voice low and throaty, "And I'm not sure my daughter will survive the journey if we continue down this path."

Grezbill bared his teeth and looked at the gray-furred kobold standing to his left. Yambul was another greenblood, another elite warrior, but a brigand had cut him across the face during the last attack. Although his red eyes were alert, he desperately needed food and rest so he could continue serving the tribe. If what Darondis had told them was true, the sooner Tribe Pardra reached Wyrmclaw Jungle the sooner they'd be able to get plenty of both. Tightening his grip on the wooden handle of his blade and trying to keep his voice level, Grezbill said, "Greatmother, if we try to go around the Highlands none of us will survive. You know as well as I what horrors lurk to the north and south. Nersulheim, the kingdom where the dead walk, is to the south of us, and the monstrous fortress-city of Ha'zufel, a place where our kind are treated like vermin, squats like a bloated toad to the northeast. I know you're concerned about Agga. I am as well. She is my wife and-"

"I know who and what my daughter is, young greenblood!" Hegva snapped, the harshness of her voice making Grezbill take a step backwards. The greatmother spoke the wild tongue and her power was undeniable. "I also know the perils we would face if we tried to circle around the Highlands, but what choice do we have? Who knows what will become of us if we walk these tainted lands? What will happen to your children, hm? They could be stillborn or worse! I just want to...what is happening?"

Instead of reacting to the argument between the greatmother and the greenblood, the rest of Tribe Pardra had fallen to its knees and was reaching out to Agga as she walked towards her mother. The pregnant kobold girl's blue eyes were now a brilliant shade of amber and a pulsating green light surrounded her furry body. A smell like a warm field during a lazy summer afternoon fought to overcome the disgusting stench hanging over the Highlands. Smiling at the two astonished kobolds, Agga said, her low-range alto voice merging harmoniously with someone else's gentle tones, "Do not fear, my little ones. It is I, Kalla, and I have sensed the torment of the land. What Darondis and the other sylvan have told you is true. The gods have returned, and we are here to survey what has changed during the Silence." Reaching out and laying one clawed hand on Grezbill's shoulder and another on Hegva's, Kalla said, "I will provide you with a path of tindergrass to follow through the Highlands. As long as you remain on this path, no harm shall befall you. I promise."

Bringing her hands together in a loud clap, Kalla knelt down, the act made somewhat cumbersome by Agga's protruding belly, and pressed her borrowed palms against the ground. Closing her eyes, the First Mother began to speak, the words tumbling out of her mouth like the tiny stones that heralded the coming of an avalanche. "Amin sinta lle nwalma," Kalla said as sweat dripped down Agga's red-furred face and her body began to tremble. "Amin sinta lle nwalma. Amin tyava lle nwalma. Amin rangwa lle nwalma. Lava amin, oth sedruc ndor, fallan! Lle rathir lle rather ikotane i' palurin lotesse bizan tuulo lle vanim econ au!"

A slight tremor shook the Highlands, and the Horned Goddess was stunned to feel the region actively resisting her attempts to cure it. No living entity, mortal or otherwise, could deny the First Mother's healing touch. And yet, even as she felt tindergrass beginning to grow beneath her feet, Kalla heard the wind whispering a name over and over again. Azmodan. Azmodan. Azmodan. The stinking, piss-colored haze shrouding the Highlands gradually faded away, revealing the starry sky and the full moon hanging overhead. Opening her eyes and looking at the vivid red path of tindergrass now winding through the area, Kalla stood up and said, her voice breathy, "Go now. The path will last just long enough for all of you to cross the Highlands. Continue your journey south as Darondis commanded. Hurry and do not stray from the path. Grezbill, I'm sure your wife would appreciate you helping her with the crossing."

The greenblood bowed low and Hegva, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief and joy, threw her arms around her daughter's body. "Thank you, Everqueen, thank you," the elderly kobold said, and Kalla smiled as she held the greatmother tightly.

"Lead your people, Greatmother Hegva. I believe in you," the Horned Goddess said even as the green aura surrounding Agga faded. Grezbill caught his wife before she hit the ground while the rest of Tribe Pardra set off down the path of crimson tindergrass. Kalla allowed her spirit form, which looked like a ghostly image of the World Tree, to drift out of Agga's body, and she watched as the kobolds scampered away into the darkness. The Everqueen had little doubt they would reach Wyrmclaw Jungle in time for the tribesmeet. Tribe Pardra, just like every other kobold tribe, needed to reach a consensus about what role they would play in Gaea's future.

A frown crossed her ethereal face, however, as she willed herself to float higher and took in the full scope of the Highlands' corruption. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen. This region certainly hadn't been polluted by mortals, not even the Acolytes of Yigzavath could cause this kind of damage. It had to be demons. The gray land, the red sludge, and the unspeakable odors were all signs of demonblight. But it had been nearly five hundred years since the Cataclysm, and surely any demon with this kind of power would've conquered Gaea during the Silence. It didn't make sense. Halting her upward momentum, Kalla said, "Come, oh winged messenger, for a child of Valhalla calls."

After a few moments, a man-sized rectangle of white light opened in front of the First Mother, and an angel wearing a black samite robe flew out. Smoothing down the front of his fine garments, the divine servant said, "What is your bidding, Everqueen?"

"Greetings, Gavrael," Kalla said as she moved closer to the effeminate-looking angel. "I have a message for you to deliver to my brothers and sisters. Tell them I spoke to my sylvan during the Silence, and they warned me that foulness had seeped into the very soil of Erathel. I didn't want to believe them, but now I've seen it for myself. This land still bears the scars of the Cataclysm, and I fear a powerful demon, possibly a demon lord, has entrenched itself in the mortal realm. How else could this taint have lasted for six hundred years? If any of them wish to aid me in removing the demonblight, they can meet me at the Sweetwater River delta in the northern Highlands. The Sweetwater provides fresh water for all the creatures living in this area. I believe it's as good a place as any to start undoing whatever malevolent power has tainted the Highlands."

"As you command, Everqueen," Gavrael said, his bald head shining in the light of the full moon as he bowed and wrapped his feathery wings around himself. There was a dazzling flash of white light, and the angel disappeared, his thoughts already focused on his assignment. Kalla, feeling better but still wondering how she was going to reverse the damage done to the heart of Erathel, allowed her spirit form to drift in the direction of the Sweetwater River delta.

Unfortunately, the hopeful kobolds of Tribe Pardra weren't the only ones that watched Kalla leave.

A six foot tall monster with broad shoulders, ram's horns the color of blood protruding from his forehead, black skin and a massive under-bite watched with terrified yellow eyes as the First Mother moved north. So it was true. The Pantheon had returned to Gaea. Wringing his large, five-fingered hands and wondering what his master would do with this information, the vaguely humanoid brute walked down the hill he'd been using to watch Kalla's interaction with the kobolds. Once he reached the base of the hill, he wrapped one black-skinned hand around a blue gemstone dangling from a silver chain around his neck. Closing his eyes and sitting down, the monster pressed the pendant against his forehead, feeling the warmth of the black liquid sloshing around inside the jewel.

"My lord? Lord Azmodan, can you hear my thoughts?"

"Who dares to disturb Azmodan, Demon Lord of the South and the Bane of Ermio?!"

"It is I, Jadaxes, my lord, one of your loyal bloodthirsters. I have urgent news. I...I believe the gods and goddesses have returned to Gaea!"

There was a brief pause followed by a response so loud it made the bloodthirster's pointed ears bleed. "Impossible! What proof could you possibly have, fool?!"

"One of my battle-brothers, Iskar, was slain by someone that looked like Ha, God of the Forge, earlier today. Iskar often led raids against the human villages in the south, taking whatever flesh and blood sacrifices we needed to maintain the spells corrupting the Highlands. Just like you commanded, oh glorious Azmodan. But I felt my mental link with him end just before sunset so I know he has been forced to return to the Abyss. Also, I just watched the Horned Goddess' spirit form move towards the Sweetwater River delta. What should I do, my lord?"

There was another pause, much longer and filled with uncertainty, before the Demon Lord of the South's thoughts crashed back into Padaxes' head. "I see. I will assume Baalrog, Ralthalac, and Xavius know nothing about this. Otherwise, they'd be mustering their forces for an attack of some kind. Hmmm...perhaps we could use the return of the Pantheon to our advantage? Yes, yes, I believe we can. Jadaxes, I want you to rally your remaining battle-brothers and send them to all the major settlements in southern Erathel. Perhaps I have been idle for too long, hm? Perhaps it is time we learned the strength of our enemies."

"I hear and obey, Lord Azmodan. The Void will be victorious."

"The Void will always be victorious, Jadaxes."