______________________________________

Three Days prior, Spring Wind Keep.
13th Day of the Summer.

The walls of Spring Wind Keep was said to once have been gleaming white. These days the once white stone was cracked and whittled and grey. Where unbroken and flawless facade once had stood like a challenge to invaders, there was now large carvings made by inhuman claws. Where once there was a great oaken gate, there was now a massive iron one, courtesy of the dwarves. Spring Wind, one of the closest rallying points to Nubina, and the furthest you got on the sacred border. Spring Wind where they had lay low a Lich and his massive horde of shambling abominations.

Now the keep was alive with movement. Outside it camped the combined might of the Cardinals Call. The army of mercenaries, displaced knights, zealot paladins and begrudging priests. Lady Ailida Stormsparrow glared down at the seething mass of soldiers and camp women, of peddlers and would be merchants. A voice broke her trough her reverie.

"For there to be merchants this far out and so close to the enemy. Nothing motivates the people of Nual Rahn like the clinking noise of gold" Her brother, Elithan spoke gently as he leaned out over the wall.

"Hopefully, by the end of this war, traders will traverse this place by foot and horse once more." She responded, brushing a lock errant stray hairs out of her eyes. "The Shield of Ebelia, The Grave Knights. Every Melfic Lord who ever had lands beyond the sacred border. They are all on board.. Even survivors from the before the closing of the gates are answering the call. If father saw us no..."

"If he seen you ride infront this army he would likely start dreaming of a empire." Elithan laughed and put a hand on her shoulders. "Our Father, bless his soul, was not for want of ambition. Never forget that." He said and she nodded solemly. He was many things their father. A hero of Naul Rahn, a stern but loving father, an ambitious and shrewd commander. Their uncle was the politician, yet it was he who had the least desire to expand their influence.

"I will make sure the support runs high and that you are informed of everything that happens here and elsewhere. You have the daunting task to prove to the still cumbersome and cowardly that this will work." He said and she shot him a smirk. That was that spark of confidence that the two seemed to fan into flames within others. The mark of true leaders.

"We will take back what was taken from us all. With fire and with sword." She said, her voice steady as the mountain, as clear as ice. He smiled back with the same confidence as she had shown, he repeated her words.

"With Fire and with sword."

______________________________________

Greater Cardinal Camp, three days later.

The Camp of Cardinals Call was a massive pit of mud at this point. The rain had begun to fall late last night, and it would seemingly keep that way for a while still. The air is thick and cloying with the smell of soldiers doing their business, of food both spoiled and fine and many other smells you better not think to hard about. There was nothing particularly glamorous about camp life. It was a lot of scuffles, much drinking and worrying. And this was no different.

But the Duchess army was a different story. Several of the militant orders had a presence. Paladins and Clerics were seemingly drawn to the woman who spoke of crusade rather then war. Who spoke of reclamation rather then vengeance. And her coin drew mercenaries from all over the world. Here were women and men from the Jade Isles, wearing exotic armor, swinging expertly forged swords. There were the Bahmen: 7 foot, bronze skinned men with bows the size of themselves and arrows as large as a mans arm. There were mages, sifting trough tomes and scrolls, and alchemists brewing concoctions and remedies.

Of course, Duchess was not along in her war. On the other side. In Melfic, The council prepped their armies under various lords. The Operathians had their call to arms heard from each mountain top. The alliance would bring to bare, the entire might of three powerfull kingdoms. And they would need every man.

The camplife kept churning. Kept grinding as men and women of importance wrote and inscribed, discussed and planned. And then there was the decision made. A courier ran as fast as he could and set off on his horse. Another man ran to speak with the camp heralds, the ones with the horns and the great voices.

Suddenly, said horns sounded all across the camp, picking up from the center and spreading. And then the Bellowing began.

"THE DOUCHESS WILL SPEAK! YOU WILL LISTEN! IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!"

The Time was here. The Duchess would speak, and they would move.

______________________________________

Fifth Hour, 15th Day of Summer, Belias Shield Encampment, Greater Cardinal War Camp.

The large tent smelled of incense, which spoke volumes of how expensive it had to be becouse most a armby camp of this size smelled was offal, shit and mud. Yet, the tent smelled strongly of the incence. Kneeling on the floor that was made up of a carefully placed straw mat, was several men and women in armor. The Shield of Elbia. Clasping his pendant in both hands, Theowald recited the First Prayer of Elbia.

"I vow this day to you, so you may guide my path. I owe this day to you, for you have protected me. I will do your bidding, in life and in death, it will be the shield of your people and I will let nothing break me. Elbia vos irnun."

"Elbia vos irnun" The other four knights let out in unison, their conviction like steel in their voice. As they all rose to their feet they turned to await the last of their number currently in camp. A small shrine was put up before him, and its single candle flickered unsteadily from a breeze as the tent flap was opened and a elderly man with only one eye entered. He wore the shield same everyone else present. He had a aura of command about him.

"Chapel Master Atham" Theowald spoke with reverence as he rose to his feet. "Belia be with you." He touched his hand to his arm, where his shield would have been. The Chapel master touched his shield, which he actually wore on his arm at the moment. His sword was also in his sheath, meaning that the time had come. It was time to march on the enemy.

"The Duchess is making her speech in a few. It is time we link up with the others." The man said with a small nod to the others who silently gestured in greeting. "Today is the day." He left as quickly as he appeared, to go talk with other commanders no doubt.

"Yo' nervous lad?" Alexus, a Rahnian of dark complexion spoke. He was almsot as big as Theodor, but had opted for a bigger shield rather then a massive sword like the one Theowald wielded. Alexus was just shy over 50 and only got away with calling the 43 year old lad because he had beaten Theowald many a time while sparring, even at his age.

"Nay o' friend o' mine." Theowald said as he slipped on his shoulder plate and arm protectors. Flexing his arm to see it fit him smoothly, he did the same with his other arm and grieves.

"Ya' sure. You look a lil green to me." On Theos other side stood a woman with a sharp angular face, pale skin and shockingly green eyes.Her red hair was cropped to the extreme. Mathea was a Melfician who only survived becosue she had traveled south for the initiation ritual. Her entire family, down to the remotest known relative was dead. She had been on Melans Tears wall during Perseverance. It showed with the way her red hair had patches of white from stress and the scar that ran across her forehead drove the point home. She was a warrior now. War was what she knew.

"I blame that on your cooking Lea." He smirked at her as she raised an eyebrow.

"Aye? IT was ye' 'ho cooked last time Theowald." She shot back with a shrug. Her belt had a very nasty looking warhammer hanging from it. He had seen it used. He would not argue with her.

"Let us go see what our Commander has to say then, shall we." Theowald deflected the comment as he shouldered the massive blade he wielded with such ferocity on any other day. The three left in a strangely uplifted mood. There was something bewilderingly exhilarating when it came to marching into the Unknown.

----------

Short Summary:

The Douchess is addressing her troops shortly. Make your way to the center of the cap, there you will find a massive wooden stage of sorts. This is where she will speak. The camp is like a small city worth of tents, stake out your own place and make your way from there.

If it wasn’t for the outskirts of the camp being unsafe, one could clearly believe the woman whose tent at the far side of the camp belonged to wanted to live in seclusion from the rest of the people who have united in this huge camp. The elven druid, despite all of her years spent sharing battlefields with all sort of people, still haven’t got used to living so close to other people. Living as a forest hermit for nearly a hundred years in solitude would surely do that to anyone doing so. However, the fact Mynn was standing among so many souls proved that the situation was dire, even though “peace” had returned after the War of Perseverance was over. Who knew when the third wave would hit the Three Kingdom, and how massive will it be? Much like a lot of people who had gathered here, the Wild Elf was not about to just wait until it was too late. She wanted to be part of a force that would deal with the creatures that had plagued the land for far too long.

Being about the size of a small town, it was no wonder the camp was so lively and busy. However, today seemed busier than normal. People were running all around the place, shouting in a hurry words that Mynn could barely understand. While it had been nearly 15 years the druidic woman had joined Humans, Elves and Dwarves to fight off the Undying, the savage Elf never really took time to fully learn the common language spoken by all. She had begun to grasp the meanings, and even speaking the language, albeit in a crude fashion, well enough to be understood.

Sitting quite still in front of her tent on a small chair that Mynn had crafted out of some wood planks thanks to her magic, the stoic druid watched passively as men and women began rushing towards the center of the camp. She tilted her head slightly, both interested and curious as to what was currently happening in the camp for everyone to be so seemingly excited. With growing interest, Mynn slowly got up from her stool, using her quarterstaff as leverage to step up. Just as the same time, someone would stop in front of the haughty-looking druid clad in a brown cloak to protect from the rain and a white mask covering her face.

“Hail lady! You should make haste to the center of the camp, else you might miss Duchess Stormsparrow’s speech!” the young man said, barely out of his teenage years.

Mynn recognized the young human as being his tent neighbourhood. Although she wanted to be as far as possible from the most of the camp’s action, the wild elven daughter of nature was bound to have people still living not far from her due to how big and packed the camp was. Every time they crossed path, the young lad would be so excited and social to Mynn, only to be greeted silently by a simple hand gesture.

Agreeing to the young man’s suggestion, Mynn only slightly nodded affirmatively before walking slowly towards the center of the camp. Already, the boy was out of her sight, surely running towards the meeting point by now. Despite being muddy everywhere because of the downpour, this condition didn’t seem to be affecting much the Druid. If one would pay attention down towards her feet, they could notice Mynn was walking bare-footed. Not even once the slippery mud would make her lose balance.

Eventually, the cloaked Elf reached the center of the camp. Wooden stages had been erected, as if it was in preparation for some big announcement, putting those who would be standing there in importance. Surely this was the place where everyone was gathering to hear the Duchess speech. Even though she had taken her time to walk here, she didn’t seem to have missed the rallying speech, judging from the people still arriving and the empty stage. Already, there were so many people who had converged in this area. Still feeling uneasy being around this big of a crowd, Mynn was staying at the back of the lot. She trusted enough her senses to pick up the Duchess’ words and looks even if the druidic lass was this far from the stage. At the very least, she wouldn’t feel suffocated by the stench of hundreds of warriors surrounding her.

At last, now was the time to know if Mynn was betting on the right horse, if her instincts were right to bring her here.

Greater Cardinal War Camp

In the shadow of war, death followed.

Or so went the saying, Hild mused with a small sliver of private amusement. In reality, death's followers went in the shadow of war's smell.

Hild Zuversicht heaved a heavy sigh to dispel some of the foulness clogging her nostrils, as thick and suffocating as mud to her sharply honed senses. It was offset somewhat by the smell of her candle, but her nose was far too sharp to ever fail at catching the foul scents of war and the human body upon the wind, whether she wished to smell such things or not. The camp of Lady Stormsparrow was better than most, as heavy as it was with those who kept themselves (literally) religiously clean, but her nose was keen indeed.

These were familiar smells to the inquisitorial priest; her work was steeped in blood, death, and the foul aftermath of said death; she would be a poor servant of Nethelin if she could not handle offal and other... Camp scents. And she was anything but a poor priest.

By now, the stench was comforting in its familiarity, though no less foul for that bittersweet recognition.

Hild shook off the intrusive thoughts, deftly dipping two fingers into the basin that she knew lay beside her, to the right of her mat upon which she knelt. Her fingers found the flame, and snuffed it out. It was a treasured part of her prayer ritual, for all that she could not admire the flame as most others did. There was still something admirable to found about it, after all.

The smell of burning.

And thus, Hild's preparations were almost complete: Her various metal pieces were thoroughly examined by hand and cleaned as appropriate, including her staff, her clothes were as neat as they could be in the midst of a war camp, and the subtle smell of the candle that would cling to her for awhile longer would remind those around her of the flame -and keep their stench away. Were she traveling with other priests of the Dead Man, lengthier rituals and recitations would have followed. Alas, she had traveled here alone, though those of Nethelin's faith were still highly prominent.

With a twitch of her lips, Hild dragged the comforting band of black cloth back over her sightless eyes, and quickly scooped up her staff from its resting position. Almost as pristine as the day she had first held it. Firm and familiar in her grasp, protection against gnashing things that were in need of her attentions.

A few short steps carried the priest of Nethelin out of her favored tent, though the world remained as blackened as it ever had been for the grim woman. The scent hit her like a flying fist, but it remained a familiar strike against her senses, and was weathered with all of the grace befitting a priest of death. The rain was less welcome. Hild's resting grimace became a cold frown as she centered herself, and considered the sudden rush of noise that had overtaken the camp. The downpour was... Comforting, but the mud would be hell upon her shoes if she did not move fast.

If only I had a horse. It was no matter. With or without a mount which had functioning eyes, Hild had navigated the winding confusion of war camps thousands of times before. The trick to it was to move with the flow of the chaos; the noise had come from a particular direction, and according to the message most should be heading in that direction. Ergo, the simple trick was to follow the paths with the most traffic, judging by the level of noise. It was made somewhat more difficult by the noise of rain, but easier as well; a constant sound by which to judge distances had its applications.

Graceful and assured of her stride, the priest of Nethelin's trip to the center of the camp was made with only minimal snags; many years of practice within camps and one's entire early lifetime within the bustle of a town made blind navigation more of a chore than a challenge, and the sucking of the mud at her shoes was fought against with as much easy grace as ever. Her grip upon her staff remained firm as it became slick with rainwater.

And then, she was there, listening closely as men and women gathered in massive numbers. Distances were weighed, and numbers considered. Finally, she navigated herself to what seemed to be the edge of the center with an intensifying grimace. While her own antipathy was partially to blame, it was also a matter of simple pragmatism; the Duchess was an inspiring figure by all accounts, which meant many energized men and women, which meant much screaming and hollering and an almost solid wall of noise against her ears would follow soon.

It was sure to be interesting, at the least; Hild could say that she did not hate the Duchess. Her words were to be listened to, and respected for the weight they carried with them. And so, she lingered and listened, her ears trained and her mind vigilant for that ringing that forever followed her sworn enemies.

These were fascinating times.

Selene Silverblood - Cardinal War Camp

The bull is dancing.

That’s how the priests of Kartoll describe rain. When Kartoll danced with mad joy, the heavens would open up and shower the lands. Through the open flaps of her tent, Selene could see the effects of the bull’s dance as rain pattered on outside.

This is a good sign, she thought. This is a good start. Rain can only mean growth. Rain reclaims life from death. Rain coaxes new stalks to grow.

She realized she was trying to cling desperately to anything that might promise hope, however faint. It rained during the Ruin too. Stupid woman.

“My lady, you can’t be possibly thinking of going out there without a cloak, can you? You will catch a cold!” exclaimed Chesa, her maid. Well, Chesa was maid, surrogate mother, stern drillmaster all rolled into one. She was standing behind Selene, hands on her hips and her cracked lips making a thin line. In public Chesa would bend and bow like a humble servant, but in private she only saw a 12-year-old and not a lady.

“No Chesa. I most certainly wasn’t thinking of that,” Selene replied. It was hard for Chesa to see her as anything but a little girl. The old crone had changed her swaddling when Selene was just a babe. And spanked her a number of times for stealing sweets or skipping lessons. “Honestly, woman, the Undead are out there; the largest army the world has ever seen is preparing to meet them, our entire future could be destroyed in one stroke; and if by chance or miracle we make it through and actually manage to reclaim our lands I could very well find a dagger in my back courtesy of one of my dear cousins who would just love to be High Seat of Silverblood, and you worry about me catching a cold?”

“Someone has to,” Chesa retorted acidly. “Here.” She held out a waxed leather cloak. “This will keep the rain out.”

Suddenly Selene grinned and pinched Chesa on her cheek. “You are the sweetest rude person I’ve ever had the fortune to meet, Chesa. We should just give you command of the army.”

“No thank you, my lady,” Chesa replied, visibly softened. “I am sure the Duchess is more than capable.”

“Let’s hope she is, Chesa,” Selene said as she put on the cloak. “For the sake of the whole world, let’s hope she is.”

Selene slipped out of the tent and her nostrils immediately flared with the assault of so many scents: sweat, blood, rain, dirt, decay, death, dung, mead, meat, the fine perfumes of the lords and ladies, and underneath it all, the smell of fear.

Fear is good, she told herself. Fear is the precursor to courage. Not its antithesis.

She looked around to get her bearings. The horn had sounded when she was in the room, and the heralds were still shouting about the Duchess’s call. She started walking with the crowd. Nowhere had she seen such a gathering of humans, dwarves and elves. There were people from every land, known and unknown. This war was going to change many things, even in victory. Worlds were being thrown open, cultures were being forcefully mixed. It was a wonder the camp hadn’t erupted in chaos so far.

Selene was camped in the better part of the camp, where the tents were arranged in a grid pattern. Most of the lords and ladies stayed on this side. As she moved closer to the center of the camp, the crowd thickened and so did the tents. She had to be very careful not to trip over the peglines as she weaved her way.

People did try to give her way when they could. Her bearing reeked nobility - not something easily challenged. Some men jerked a bow and mumbled an apology when they jostled her. She had seen war camps before, had served in a few of them. She was accustomed to brushing with the commoners and the soldiers, used to the occasional rude comment or suggestive stare. She didn’t mind the crowd as she slowly made her way to the platform.

It was a large wooden platform, raised and constructed like a stage. Someone had had the good sense to attach a makeshift set of steps. The Duchess was not yet present and the crowd around her was buzzing with people wondering about the Duchess’s plan and the state of the war.

Selene was aware of a buzz in the pit of her stomach as well as she unconsciously adjusted her cloak and smoothed her skirt. It was really beginning. Suddenly, even the largest army of the world seemed small compared to the might of the Undead world beyond the Sacred border. She hoped the Duchess felt braver than she.

---

---

You must reconsider your stance on the damned and the undying, for there is no one I know more fit to show the world that the survivors of New Anur are prepared to reveal their unwavering courage to confront the spectres of our forebears. For if we leave the problem exclusively to humankind and others we would be committing treason against our moral and ethical responsibility to not the world but ourselves. You are one of the last members of our generation’s Saethydd— I implore you to begin showing that you have not forgotten what the word Saethydd means.

A wry smile formed on the side of the grey elf’s face, her cool cerulean eyes looking over the parchment that contained her brother’s letter; a letter that she had re-read an amount of times that had by this point been lost to her memory. Afarene Taranau felt the unease in the camp, ‘the calm before the storm’ as the human expression went and looking over her brother’s correspondence had just been an additional remainder about the sheer amount of weight that she was about to willingly take on. The damned and undying, eternally forsaken, and that of which posed a threat beyond the trappings of race, class, or faith; a threat that everyone had spent almost forty years fighting and one that Afarene had tried the hardest to ignore and avoid due to its connection with the death of not only thousands upon thousands of innocent elven people, but especially so for the loss of her mother, whom there was no individual she idolized more. But her brother was eloquent, charismatic, and most of all correct in his assertions. As far as she thought about it, she actually hated how right he was; for if he wasn’t then she could’ve accepted the world’s fate until the undying would consume them all.

So here she was, at the Greater Cardinal War Camp on the eve of an effort that was as foolish as it was hopeless attempting to ignore that fact— but her brother had convinced her of its worth so maybe it wasn’t as hopeless and foolish as she believed.

I doubt it, but there is little point to turning back now.

From her placement in her tent in the back row of the north-side of the encampment, Afarene took a heavy breath as she made sure her equipment was all on-hand. She wasn’t sure why she was being so meticulous about it when she knew that everything was as it had been the previous night and the night before it; but perilous anxiety was rarely sensible and this was no exception. Her hand moved forward to the trinket that hung from her neck, holding it between her fingers to give some sort of ease to the anxious alacrity that she felt; an old affect made of elven craftsmanship that her mother had given her when she graduated to the role of a Saethydd a few years before the Fall of New Anur. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her at ease— it was one of the few items that could. As she did such she could feel her emotions dull for a moment and released it as she grabbed a nearby cloak in a rucksack on the ground and threw it over her armor and clothes that were on her back, pulling the hood up to obscure herself. With her quiver, bow, swords, and pack all sorted upon her person it was time to leave her tent and get to her commanding agent of this whole “blessed crusade”, Duchess Aina Stormsparrow.

“O deued dydd pan fo awelon, Duw yn chwytu eto dros ein herwau gwyw.” She muttered underneath her breath, a passage of words from the elven language and more specifically the spoken word of faith— a prayer.

‘Bring the day when God's breeze blows again over our withering acres.’

“So this is Spring Wind, eh?” The voice of the young man trudging through the rugged terrain scoffed with a very real hint of derision.

“Would you prefer to be sleeping with the enemy?” Olivaster quipped.

The Wrathmont family had been traveling with the army from most northern reaches of Aithun picking up bands of militiamen and mercenaries along the way. It had not been a terrible perilous journey for the roads were well worn and that far north fairly well defended. Then again no band of undead small enough to be that far north would be lead by someone stupid enough to attack the continually growing forces that were sent to reinforce the troops already gathered at Spring Wind Keep. While it had not afforded Olivaster any of the particular pleasantries he would have preferred it certainly was not a bad way to travel. The worst part had the unsolicited companions that had chosen to accompany him.

“Oli, be nice to your cousin!” A shout erupted some distance in front of him.

Olivaster rolled his eyes. He had not been able to see the look on his cousin’s face that accompanied his Aunt Atella’s reprimand. Nor had he cared. Along with the plethora of faces that Olivaster had never seen before, he was haunted by more than a dozen faces from his past. To his dismay the Wrathmont wagons which contained a large number of weapons, armor, and arrows to help supply the masses, were accompanied by two of his uncles, one aunt, seven of his cousins to some degree, his sister Wini and his older brother Lewin. Currently, his cousin Eamil had decided to be the bane of this journey with little Olivaster could do to hide the overt confrontation. It was anyone’s guess what Eamil had even been permitted to accompany them. He was only fourteen and was struggling to properly smith arrowheads let alone anything of any real use.

“One day you Mother will not be around to protect you Eamil. And on that day, I will watch the dead ravage you.” Olivaster cooed before dropping towards the back of the wagon as they drew closer to the large opened gate allowing admittance to the Keep.

“Most ya always poke little brother?” Lewin questioned as he wrapped his thick, tree limb sized arm around his brother’s shoulder. “You’ve followed your own way and I can’t hold that against ya. But you know you’re the black sheep why make it any worse?”

Olivaster took a few steps, his staff clinking against the path as it turned from dirt to cobblestone the closer to the keep they had gotten. His head hung low, the hood of his robes concealing any emotion that may have shown on his face. He did not want to answer, believing what he had known but the anger that began to seeth around his collar was more than he could silence.

“Because when we arrive at this war, you and the family will be busy counting coin while I and many others are the ones actually fighting. Are you okay with someone dying because you failed in your trade brother?”

Lewin’s grip tightened. It brought a wince of pain that was exemplified in a stifled whelp from the mage. “You wouldn’t know Olivaster. You’ll be just as responsible when those silly mumblings of yours do nothing but waste breath.”

Lewin released his little brother as they passed between the portcullis that marked the entranceway into the keep and further to the camp. Olivaster watched as Lewin quickly pressed forward to join their sister leading one of the horses that pulled the wagons containing their contribution. He shrugged his shoulders, rolling them back and forth. He tried to mask the pain that his brother had elicited from him but it was difficult. He kept his face low, enshrouded by the shadow of his hood. He would never feel like a Wrathmont nor would he truly ever be treated like one. Day by day he was beginning to approve of that more and more.

Greater Cardinal Camp, three days later.

“Do you think I am scared Winifred?” Olivaster sighed fumbling around with a few bundles of arrows that she had asked him to move from ground to cart.

She grimaced at the sound of her full name, “You’d be a fool not to be Oli.” She turned to face him holding up a rather delicate looking shiny shirt. It was crafted from what appeared to be iron, glistening with moisture in the damp air illuminated by the flickering dance of the forge’s fire. “By Belia’s braid… Just take the armor! It could save your life.”

Olivaster put the last bundle of arrows on the back of the cart. He looked down at his feet, the bottom of his wizard’s robes terribly soiled. He took a few steps dancing about in the puddles that had come to gather around the impressions that his boots had made in the mud. “The Weeping Mother will protect me.”

“No Oli, the only weeping you’ll remember is Mother’s as she cries over a corpse. Only you won’t remember because you’ll be dead.”

“You pray to your gods and you believe them to answer your prayers in one manner or another.” Olivaster turned around to look his sister in the face. But he could not bring himself to stare for too long. There had been too much of their father in her and that was enough to bring his anger bubbling to the surface. He quickly turned away stepping towards what might be deemed the doorway of the strange set up. “You will not be so haughty once you see her power unleashed.”

“Olivaster, wait!” Wini shouted as she watched him trod off into the crowds.

It made him so angry. He tarnished the Wrathmont family name to such an extent that even after they shipped him off and he had carried out their wishes, they still were not happy. If it was not for his parents sending him off to join the clergy he would not have discovered the true word of Enathrae. He would not be the magician he was today. And he would not have been cursed as he was… today.

As the day began to warm Olivaster took note of checking their armor, and sharpening their blades. Men studying tomes and searching through parchment. Some clung to various religious symbols. Others were sparring, loosening up their muscles for the battle that was still to come. Alchemists mixing potions, lighting fires beneath glass fixtures. Everyone was getting ready for a war that Olivaster cared only enough about that it allowed him the opportunity to carry out his life’s pursuit. The fact that civilization might survive was a plus but he wholeheartedly believed that the Weeping Mother would protect him from the undead hordes.

“THE DUCHESS WILL YOU SPEAK! YOU WILL LISTEN! IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!”

His attention was drawn. These criers were slightly more obnoxious than he was accustomed to. Of course, spending his days in the depths of dank catacombs sifting through musty tomes and old scrolls allowed him little constitution against such annoyances. Before he could even appreciate the message, individuals began to push by him. At first it was only a couple but then it was everyone - tens, hundreds and what seemed like thousands of fighters, knights, smiths, clerics, priests. Everyone was pushing passed him looking for a premium location at the stage.

Olivaster was no different if only slightly less enthusiastic. Soon he too would be carried off by the crowd.

Fifth Hour, 15th Day of Summer, Belias Shield Encampment, Greater Cardinal War Camp.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Olivaster snarled as his gripped tightened around the wrist of some young rogue looking to make a quick coin or two.

“H-hey….c’mon mister… I was just messin’.... Let me..” The young boys pleading was swiftly silenced when Olivaster’s grip tightened into a violent tremor.

“We are fighting a war to save the sorry wretches of the world like yourself,” He scowled pulling to boy close, his amber eyes seemingly tearing through the very flesh of the young boys face. “Perhaps you’d prefer to sleep with the undying tonight?”

“Look mister, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it…. Honest…” The young boy pleaded as he released the grip around the small bag that he had liberated from Olivaster’s possession.

Olivaster desired to hold on. He wanted to teach this insolent little whelp a lesson. He wanted to teach this boy as he was taught when he did not conform with the wishes of the masses. In his case, his own family. He wanted to humiliate the young boy. Olivaster wanted to take the boy to the frontlines and deposit him as a human sacrifice to the undying. His grip tightened. His grin turned more sinister. The world had dealt him a poor hand or so he felt. Why shouldn’t everyone else suffer as much? Why should he alone feel like a burden, an outcast?

This child would rue the day. Then the child was gone. He had writhed and slipped his way from the grasp. The rain had provided the young boy with the lubrication he required to slip free and make his escape between the gathering crowd that were all headed in the same direction. Perhaps he would meet the boy again too. For where the army was going it was sure the boy would be foolish enough to follow if he had been ridiculous enough to try and steal from the army.

The rain had made everything much more intolerable. It was bad enough really. The smells of the camp site between the horses and the unbathed masses. Olivaster had been quite spoiled in his life dealing most often with people of a more civilized persuasion. Meager living quarters were acceptable. At least the clergy managed to clean themselves on a regular basis. Of course, now there was little concern for personal hygiene.

They were moving now. All of them. But for Olivaster time still seemed to stand still. It was all very surreal for him. He was not a stranger to combat. In fact he had been fighting for more than a decade, at least with magic. But he had failed to participate in the last battle some twenty years prior. He was not accustomed to gathers for war on such a large scale where his older family members had been more experienced. The collective consciousness present was enough to dull the senses to the commonalities of existence.

“C’mon little brother, what are you waiting for?” Lewin shouted grabbing his little brother by the shoulders. He shoved him forward slightly to jump start his movement. “Shouldn’t keep the Duchess waiting.”

The two of them trudged through the massive town of tents. Its appearance was more like a displaced refugee camp. That was also a common sight in these times as more and more members of the kingdom were pushed further north while the undying crept onward like a plague. It was not difficult to navigate the makeshift streets as everyone was headed in the same direction. Keep your head up. Step lightly. Watch the tent lines keeping everything together. Keep note of your belongings, that blasted kid probably wasn’t the only one looking to make a quick coin. Move.

“I suppose we should not,” muttered Olivaster more than annoyed by the aggressive crowd.

Before too long they had been smashed in with the rest of the masses. There were people from all walks of life, all shapes and sizes. He could not help but take not a specific few. Such as Gunnar Hogworth, one of the most intelligent men he had ever come across and a high priest of Kartoll. He also took note of Virgil and Valeska Valoryn, cousins and two of the best sell-swords across the land with a great deal of experience fighting back the undying. But most of the spectators were unknown to Olivaster. This of course was not due to a lack of fame for those who showed particular promise. It happened to be that Olivaster was not quite concerned with the presence of others in this world around him. His concern was only for the dreams he was set out to accomplish.

“Ready little brother?” Wini laughed as she popped up between him and his older brother. “They say the Duchess can make a man beg with just a wink of her eye. Or maybe make his cock weep with a touch of her hand.”

Banaari

15th Day of Summer, Belias Shield Encampment, Greater Cardinal War Camp

“Fucker!”

The dishevelled remnants of a once quite fine leather boot came flying out of the sagging entrance of a rather lopsided tent, narrowly missing a young squire’s head, soon after that guttural curse. The squire yelped and ducked as the unorthodox projectile sailed past him and splattered into the mud of the thoroughfare, where it was quickly consumed by muck and dragged down into the depths. The boy, one of three squires to the Lord Dakuris of Melfic, decided it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out who had thrown the boot so carelessly, as they likely had a spare to launch at him if he mouthed off and they might not miss a second time. He skittered off, just in time to miss the oddly mixed sight (both sad and comical) of a proud, aged, Grey Elf with one boot missing and his holey sock on display. The Elf in question shook one gnarled and warped fist at the sunken shoe and turned away, closing the sleepy entrance to his tent as he went, and the camp moved on without him.

“Fuck it arl wear odd’uns then.” The Elf muttered to himself, spitting out a clump of his messy long grey hair as it got stuck in his teeth in the excitement. He stooped over to an old and quite clearly different boot to his brown leather one and pulled it on, wincing slightly as it pinched his toe. It was inferior to the brown boot in every way, shame he couldn’t fix the other, but that was life. It was getting harder to fix things with those shaky hands of his, and he was forgetting all the tricks he’d picked up. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to do handy-man things, seeing as how he was getting less and less handy. Then he’d be worthless, might as well go off into the wilderness to die like the Wild Ones used to. He grunted, stooped to pick up his sword mostly out of habit, and shrugged it sheath and all onto his back. It wouldn’t do him much good back there, he’d have to whip the sheath off just to pull the sword out, but he didn’t do that these days anyway. Better to leave it to the young’uns, this was their show now, he’d had his time.

The old Elf, who was named Banaari by his Father nearly three centuries ago, left his tent and followed the crowd. It was best in places like this to let oneself get swept up in the wave of bodies, carried to wherever it was one needs to go. Better than to fight the tide and find yourself battered and bruised, tired beyond belief, and swept up in it regardless. Or so he thought, anyway. This time, it seemed he was to be led to the speaking stand, where all the fine orators made their speeches and instilled honour and courage in their men. He couldn’t wait to be inspired.

"THE DUCHESS WILL SPEAK! YOU WILL LISTEN! IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!"

The herald roared, and Banaari winced as his large sensitive ears flinched at the noise and it brought back memories. He shrugged off his discomfort with a sarcastic little quip.

“Not thar we ‘ave a choice in thar matter when ye be shouting at the top of ye lungs though is it?” He said in his more common accent, loud enough for the people next to him to get a chuckle out of it. Most of them did, and the others smiled and nodded. Elf or Man, most dog’s bodies could appreciate a good joke at the expense of the top dogs. Though when one turned around and noticed an old as dirt Grey Elf dressed in rough brown homespun behind him, he did a comical double take. Unsurprising, Grey Elves were uncommon enough but old ones were almost unheard of. They’d all died in the wars.

Never had this happened before.

Not the marshalling of men and the sharpening of blades, the last night of unblemished calm before a great bloodletting - that had happened many a time. For as long as living beings had walked the world, there had been war, and war would go on for as long as men were alive to wage it. Something about this one was different, though, and as Dorian Ad-Elyan trudged through the encampment he tried to put a finger on what it was. It wasn't the camp itself that was different, although it was by far the largest Dorian had ever seen. The characters assembled here were of an eclectic sort, but that wasn't unusual in itself. To march wide-eyed into a land ruled by godless terrors bound neither to life nor death required a certain eccentricity, and this unconventional bunch certainly fit the description.

Dorian passed a disgruntled dwarf, cooking what smelled like bacon in a small pan over an open flame. Several other dwarfs in similar attire had formed a circle around him and were holding a large shield over his head to keep their meal from being cut short by the weather. Seeing this, it suddenly occurred to Dorian how lacklustre his preparations had been. All he had done before leaving the inn was sharpen his sword and fill his water flask. He hadn't even brought a tent, though he saw no need for one. He had slept many nights under the stars.

He even began to doubt his very presence here - when he answered the Duchess' call he had pictured a swift incursion into Undying territory, perhaps to support a larger force, or strike quickly at a key stronghold before reinforcements could be called to defend it, but the number and quality of soldiers gathered around him was enough to fight a war or spearhead a full scale invasion. Would they be fighting pitched battles? The men Dorian could see were certainly prepared for it - some of them were so thickly armoured they looked as though they could charge down a rampaging bull and win. Clad only in sturdy leather and a thick, emerald cloak, Dorian felt almost naked by comparison.

He stopped when he reached the hastily-erected stage, and the answer finally struck him. These men and women were not gathering to defend their territory, they were gathering to reclaim it. Now that he had identified it, he could feel it; even hear it, crackling through the air like thunder. It was hope. The only hope the people of the three kingdoms had ever had was that of survival - the faintest, most desperate hope that their city wouldn't be the next to fall to the Undying hordes. Dorian looked around at the nearby tents again and this time he could see it, too. That's what had never happened before - the real, tangible hope that for once, the living could turn the tide against the dead.

In a secluded portion of the army’s camp, rows of black tents sat unmolested by the bustle of traffic and press of bodies. They were just as mud-slicked as the rest, thanks to the rainfall, but the nearest lodgings were set up a good number of yards away. Seemingly, others chose to avoid the cluster of black canvas, and that suited its occupants just fine. Any who did venture close enough, however, might catch a strong whiff of pine and lemon and hear the low hum of Nethelinic chanting from within. Wisps of burning frankincense danced from the entrances, shrouding the tents in grey. Atop the tents fluttered pennants of bones, apples and skulls, and in the ground between each was planted tall icons, bearing the likeness of Nethelin.

Later in the morning, black-clad monks emerged from their tents, swinging braziers. Down the rows of tents of they trod, bringing with them the aroma of incense and a perpetual fog of smoke. Where they walked, the other souls of the army parted, giving the monks a wide berth, accompanied by looks of fear, disapproval, or a silent prayer. Welcome or not, they carried out the task of blessing the camp and all within it, entrusting them to Nethelin’s care. They were accompanied by handfuls of knights in darkened plate wearing tabards and robes to match. When the monks finished their task and returned to their tents, the soldiers of death remained, mustering at the head of the campsite to await the arrival of the Dutchess.

Aeron stood beside his brothers, their armor iconography a panoply of death, in contrast to the bright heraldry of the assembled army. Like the position of their campsite, they stood some distance from the others, askew. Nethelin was an important deity, for everyone would pass eventually, and funerals would see the deceased cross over into His realm. However, death was not as welcome a domain as harvests, or commerce, or healing. To many, it was taboo to call on Nethelin when not at funerary mass, and they way His clergy openly revered Him was unsettling.

The Order of the Grave knew better. While the rest of the world was sleeping in the comfort of their homes, Nethelin’s warriors were crusading against the undead, against the heresy of necromancy. They fought a shadow war to keep the world safe as the lines of life and death blurred. Only when hell itself opened in Aith Anur, did everyone else become involved in that war, too.

Aeron, however, did not let the nature of his work perturb him. Death could come at any time; the devout of Nethelin knew that better than anyone. It was far better to enjoy one's time while they had it, and Aeron did his best not to waste it being grim.
A short distance away stood a woman, at least it seemed like a woman, clad in a black mantle. Silver rings adorned her fingers, and from her hood trailed locks of fiery hair. Like himself, she was adorned in Nethelinic iconography, but he could tell she was not a member of the Order. It put him in high spirits to see others of the calling join the crusade.

"Hail, sister," he said, stepping forward.
"I see you stand alone. You're welcome to stand among the Order of the Grave." Aeron gestured to the assembled knights nearby.
"It'd be best for those of our calling to stick together in this campaign. What convent do you come from?"

Hild smelled them long before she heard them.

Kin. Hild's lips twitched as fond memories made themselves known. Of men whose steps were heavy, their bodies clad in hard plate and their faith as sure as the iron of their arms, upon her own arms. Grim folk, reliable folk, and frequent companions in her hunt for all things unsavory and dark and defiling.

They carried with them certain scents. An underlining of their namesake, but that grave soil freshness was distant. The smell of corpses was a closer relative, unsurprising with the nature of their work, but overpowering it all was incense that cut through the foulness and diversified scent portfolio of the basic rabble from which she was distanced, and the touches of pine and lemon. Welcome relief to her nose, and a sign that perhaps she wasn't the only one who wished to scour away the unclean air.

Or, Hild noted with an upwards tilt of her head, her ear turned to the noise of a procession, perhaps it was just the usual procession. The metal march was a poor choice in the soaking downpour, but Hild was willing to admit that they were all rather caught in ceremony. Her iconographic mantle repelled water surprisingly nicely, but even it was beginning to soak.

Despite the darkness of the world around her, Hild felt no surprise when one of those men of iron approached her; her ears tracked his metal sounds, the few short steps he had to take to close the distance, and her nose tracked his lemon scent. Know your manners. Hild turned her head in the general direction of the Knight of the Grave; that she could not and would never be able to see him did not matter. She tilted her head somewhat downwards, accounting for the lower area in which his voice originated. Not the tallest man, but she was not the shortest woman either.

"Hail, good sir." she greeted, nodding her head softly. His voice was kind, whilst hers was... Neither cold nor heated. Simple and courteous, as she preferred with those not deserving of her ire. "Your presence is welcome in this endeavor." As is your scent, she did not say. She was given to understand such remarks were oftentimes unsettling.

Her hand tightened around her water-slicked staff as she tested it upon the ground beside her. It gave easily under the pressure, and so she prodded once, twice more, and slowly followed in its movement. The wet earth was a nightmare, but not insurmountable. In the midst of sidestepping closer to her kin-in-faith, she spoke. "I hail from no standing convent," The thought was as bitter as ever, "But serve our lord all the same. As do you, in your assemblage."

She planted her staff, and steadied herself with it once more, standing straight and with pride. The rain beat down on her, but she knew better than most the importance of posture.

Light, it pierced through the small holes of Sigvald's tent. The lit up the tent showing what seemed to be the leftovers of a party. As the entire tent was somewhat chaotic. The tent also showed wine stains of the previous evening. Equipment lay scattered across the tent thrown around in drunken blindness. In the middle of it, lay Sigvald Whitedragon. Lord of castle Whitewing, son of Alexander Whitedragon and lover of whores and drink. He was snoring like a walrus and the sound of the busy camp among his small frail tent did not wake him. However, the small beams of light did. As they landed on his eyes slowly waking him from his slumber. His eyes opened and immediately closed them as the light hurt his little red shot eyes. He groaned as he slowly pulled himself up from his sleeping bag. He was a little disappointed as he didn't feel a body sleeping against his own. The whores he had spent the night with had already left. A shame since it would be a while before he could spent a night with women again. Considering the hell he was about to traverse through. At least he still had the taste of alcohol though even that wouldn't last forever. But if he was able to get him home back. To retake the lost glory of his line. It would all be worth it in the end. It was the main reason it had brought him to the sacred border in the first place.

With that thought, he stood up and started cleaning up his tent. He took a drink of the wine that remained. Drinking it all in a few gulps. A few minutes later he had restored order to his tent. In his eyes at least as the wine stains had yet to be cleaned. He paid it no mind as he started to put on his heavy armor which was always the hardest part to do especially since he didn't have a squire to help him it made things difficult. So, after much cursing kicking and holding his breath his armor was finally on. He then opened his tent flap to be immediately met with the stench of the camp. Which penetrated his nostrils and almost made him vomit. However, it still smelled better than the muff stench that was the inside of his tent. Before he could set a single step he felt the force of a fully grown hawk landing on his shoulder. He scratched his companion on the head which it seemed to enjoy before flying off into the sky searching for its's next meal. He took a moment to enjoy the chaos that was the camp. A mixed bag of zealots, nobles, mercenaries, and thieves. After enjoying this, he decided to find a merchant selling food. Or at least something that resembled food. He walked through the mud and filth that was used as a road and quickly found himself haggling with a merchant about the cost of a stale loaf of bread. He had food himself of course but considering he still had some coins left and his personal supplies wouldn't last him forever. He decided that it was a good idea to spend that last money since it would offer little use in the hell they were about to enter. After haggling for a few minutes he was able to buy himself a mug of average beer, an apple that was starting to show signs of rot, and a stale loaf of bread. It wasn't a king's meal but it was decent enough. After finishing his meal he started to walk back to his tent seeing a boot fly as he did. As he approached his tent he saw his hawk enjoying his own meal as it seemed to be eating a rat. But before he could curse at the fact his hawk had returned with his catch a voice rumbled through the camp.

"THE DUCHESS WILL SPEAK! YOU WILL LISTEN! IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!"

"Time to hopefully not die horribly." He thought as he kicked away the rat corpse. He only saw this crusade as the means to an end. He would fight with all his might of course. He needed to if he was expected to survive this suicidal undertaking. But if he was able to reclaim his home. He might just leave the crusade to its fate. Unless there was a good reason to stay in the crusade that is. However, since the chance of dying horribly was high and would probably be painful as well. He had yet to see any. He shrugged as he put these thoughts in the back of his mind and made his way over to where the voice had come from. Axe in hand and hawk on shoulder. Would all this be worth it in the end? Would he even fulfill his oath? Would he even survive? Only time would tell.

What in fuck's name...

Rewan awoke caked in sweat and the sticky leavings of overturned wine. Light filtered through the rain-mottled canvas of his tent, casting uninvited beams into his eyes.

He had known that his actions were foolhardy; but seeing as he, along with uncounted thousands of others, were on the brink of a long march into the very precincts of Hell, and, more-than-possibly, a painful death at the tip of an undead blade, he thought that his sin would be, at the very least, understood. No matter their professed intent, no matter their piety or zeal, the assembled ranks here at Belias Shield Encampment were mercenaries. Thus, a little mercenary behavior would not be too harshly judged.

Rewan had always found it simple to find others like him. A certain look, a certain coarseness of tongue, a certain laugh. They drew one another with the magnetism of rogues. So it was that he found himself with a group of miscreants huddled over a low table out of the rain with dice, wine, and gleaming coin. It was a shame, he thought, that the Duchess had forbid camp followers in this most holy and righteous of crusades.

"Even the gods need their cocks licked, from time to time," a greasy and red-faced dwarf (whose name escaped him) japed, eliciting a raucous cackle from them all.

But, barring the absence of whores, they had passed a convivial and wine-soaked evening of debauchery and gluttony. At dice, of course, Rewan had cleaned them all out, had not even made use of his Illusion. A much-too-drunk Operath axeman had called foul play after a particularly embarrassing round, but the others had shrugged it off even as the man stumbled off into the humid night.

"Sore loser."

They themselves had not been too happy about their losses, but after a while, they were too drunk to much care. In the small hours of the night, they had, with confusion and barks of laughter, called it quits and traipsed back towards their own tents. In the end, Rewan had come away with the lion's share.

Then, he drank himself into a blind stupor, until sleep claimed him. He slept in fits and starts, and when morning came, it burnt him like holy fire on undead flesh.

He dressed slowly, fumbling about his increasingly hot tent, pausing here and there at the suggestion of rising bile in his throat, before cautiously continuing. He emerged into the sunlight with a grimace, ejected some unidentifiable particle from his dry mouth, and set off numbly towards the aroma of breakfast.

He grumbled something at the nearest cookfire he found, and weathered the tirade of some fat dwarf who had a stick up his arse. But, eventually, he was ladled a thin rye porridge and given a few strips of fatty bacon.

He sat in silence by a pair of Gray Elves, who talked quietly amongst themselves. The porridge was hot, and thick with butter and salt (as per the Dwarven custom to take it savory, not sweet), the bacon greasy and rich; soon, Rewan found himself to be revived.

He looked about the great war camp curiously. He had arrived two days before, at nightfall, and had to this point only been able to see the barest fraction of the city of tents laid out before him. But, even among the tents, you truly felt the great heaving organism all around you, how truly massive this assembled host was.

People of all stripes were streaming in one direction, towards what, well, he did not know. Warrior priests in their colorful liveries, armed with maces and grimiores of divine magecraft; ragged sellswords, like him, with rusted armor and notched swords and toothy grins; hedge mages, shamans, witch doctors, in their curious garments and with their curious ways; aristocrats and their retinues shimmering in gilded armor atop their barded destriers, pennants flailing in the breeze.

Every race, every nation, every caste, united by the potency of what...faith? Coin? Adventure? Some combination of the three?

In a way, it was fascinating. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and Rewan knew it. He had come to join the Duchess's crusade without quite realizing its consequences. He had come for the promised coin, of course, and he still thought that to be his prime motivator. But he knew, implicitly, despite himself, that that was not all there was to it.

Perhaps it was not adventure he sought, because he realized that this would be no romp that one might read in the knightly romances---it would be a war, a long, brutal, relentless struggle, into which "adventure" did not enter. More than anything, he thought that he wanted some alleviation of boredom, some sensation of being alive. And faith? Well, certainly he envied the faithful. He wanted desperately for something to move him like it moved others. He felt, in a way, jealous, in a way, scorned. What, he wondered, did they know that he didn't? What, he wondered, did they see? Or was it some mass impulse towards self-delusion?

His instincts told him that that, surely, was not the case.

Faith had merit. One need only look at this war camp to know that.

Rewan ate another two bowls of porridge, though the tyrannical dwarf swatted at him with a wooden ladle in protest. While he was downing his third bowl, the two elves rose and began to gather their kits.

Rewan looked at them, and asked, in decent Feoln, "What is happening? Where is everyone going?"

The two started at hearing their own tongue, and swallowed a grin, but replied courteously enough, "The Duchess herself is set to give a speech in a moment. You'd better eat quickly, friend." Without a further word, they joined the jostling crowd that streamed towards the heart of the encampment.

Rewan rose to their challenge, wolfing down the last dregs of his bowl and tossing a silver towards the dwarf. He gathered up his staff and meager belongings, and himself joined the press. A fresh waft of armpit and unwashed genitals assaulted his nose as he passed a group of Melfic mercenaries, who, he thought, had a look about them that suggested incest. That must mingled with the perfumes of the woodsmoke and the still bubbling cauldrons of porridge and roasting meat, and he thought it to be an unpleasant, although not altogether unfamiliar smell. Even the gods shat, or so the saying went.

Let's test the mettle of this Duchess, he thought, as sweat began to bead at his brow, and this "Undying Crusade".

Nikolai von Krähenvald:

T H E C A R D I N A L S C A M P

---

The sound of rain tapping its fingers lavishly against Nikolai von Krähenvald’s tent reminded him of those dreary days in his childhood when his mother would sit quietly and patiently during her worrisome wait ponder the return of Roch von Krähenvald, her husband and Nikolai’s father. The solemn look on her face was never pleasant during these idle hours when nothing but a stark and dying hope of clouded thoughts spread its silent breath into the atmosphere of their household. She was a strong woman, but she was not strong all the time. There was something about the flashes of lightning and the crackles of thunder accompanied by gray skies of rain that made her boldness pause for long, noticeable moments. At one point in time, Nikolai had pondered this repetitious thing about his mother, but as the hourglass continued trickling sand, the curiosity of his mother’s behavior became distant and eventually abandoned upon his father’s return. However, as memories sometimes do, the long forgotten thought resurfaced, but in this instance, it appeared merely as a fact of a situation with an explanation that needn’t bother with coherent words of articulation. There was now a mutual understanding in what his mind could vaguely conjure in mental visualization of his mother peering wistfully into the reality of the War of Perseverance, and it was comforting.

Nikolai did not consider rashness to be a strong motivator when deciding to partake in the Crusade. He was aware of his immaturity, though, but his actual cause for deciding to march in the war procession for reclamation of the three kingdoms was a much more honorable and noble one. It was an undying thought, which believed if he was to surpass this opportunity, his surname would have no means of resurrecting itself from the peasantry to which it had been slain by the cursed gift of his father’s embarrassing death. The Kingdom of Operath was the Holy House of the Queen of the Mountain, Belias. Cowardly laboring on a farm in order to escape the horrors of war was far from being an option to consider. In fact, he was actually quite aroused by the opportunity and devoted a pious gift and spirit to Belias. His thoughts of her maintained in a solid foundation of iron that not even the agonizing rain could disrupt. It was because of Belias that he was finding comfort in the watery sound.

And so, upon awaking in the muskiness of the tent propped almost randomly amongst the Cardinals Call, his body flexed and pushed itself forward, pushing the cloth for nightly cover from his body. A strong hand wiped his facial features, dragging a finger through the inner corners of his eyes to dispel any sleep lingering in physical form. His body, again, flexed and shifted into a kneeling position, and while he had no iconography to venerate or use as intercessions for the Queen of the Mountain, he had the blessed necklace his sister had gifted him. His hands cupped the purple gem hung around his neck as his head bowed in reverence to the most high Belias. His back inclined humbly, and his eyelids closed. Thoughts cleared the way for a procession of gallant vernacular that pressed formidably from his serious lips in a low tone. It was better to die in battle than to not have fought at all, and a part of him was dying to start the battle.

As the last of the prayers breathed from him, Nikolai opened his eyes and focused on the ground of the tent and tuned his ears for more precision and accuracy. The rummaging of other camp dwellers began to make more notice to him. His mind shifted gears, and his head twisted to the side, allowing his eyes to fall on his belongings. He was not entirely dressed in prospective gear for the occasion of leaving his tent to procure something edible to consume for breakfast. His body reached, arm stretched out, grabbing a dark cloth shirt to pull over his bare chest, tanned and freckled from many days of sun exposure. The garment was pulled over his head, and the rest of his gear methodically made its wear onto his body. The last detail was the brush of masculine fingers combed through his hair for composure and the retying of his braid.

Upon exiting his tent, the muskiness in the air quickly filled his nostrils with unpleasantry that reminded him of the horses’ stables and the shit that mounted and needed cleaning daily. Such a thankful thought as to how well the tent had shielded him from the now exposed stench. However, despite the foulness curling its fingers under the humidity rising from the rain’s persistency, his hunger was not dissuaded. The journey to The Greater Cardinal Camp was not the easiest of travels, and his appetite was plentifully awake. His body stretched itself upwards with booted feet planted into the muddied ground. The rain paraded further onto him, dampening his high-cheek bones and caressing into his neck and collar underneath his armor. The conditions were not ideal, but his imagination had not permitted him to fantasize with expectations of anything better. He knew not to believe the war as some fort of fairytale, and this, the camp, was only the polite prologue of what was to come. His eyes shifted around, squinting as the water fell, and the movement of the camp was re-advised into his mind.

Before Nikolai could make a definite walk towards any such area that would allow him the opportunity to rummage for food with what little coins he had, the horns sounded valiantly. His body paused as his attention turned towards the location from which they had been blared. A loud voice pierced through the rain and murk, echoing authority and commencement forewarning the need for salute presence to attentively hear the Duchess’s words. Nikolai’s jaw clenched with tightening of his lips before hastily making his way for some poor man’s soup. It was watered down, but the coolness from exposure to the air was oddly refreshing enough against the summer heat. His mouth and throat quickly drank the salted potion before any more rainfall could dilute its taste even more. He could not make any claim that his stomach was satisfied, but if he was honest—a trait recognized as honorable and pious—would tell him his hunger had not been fully satisfied since the death of his father. With the will of Belias, however, Nikolai was certain he could change that problem and even more, free the three kingdoms from the onslaught of the Undead.

His grip tightened around the staff of Kursiv, his beloved all-steel morning star, and with the light hit of his helmet thumping in attachment to his waist as a carry, he boldly proceeded towards the front of the camp. The slightest of a smirk pressed upwards on the side of his lip alongside a silent excitement contracted and restricted within his body, brightening his dark eyes. Nikolai focused forward as he tracked through the camp field and the many various temporary sleeping set-ups. His mind was more concentrated on the visionary commands to be spoken by the Duchess than his actual surroundings. He would let the blind eye see once in battle, but for now, the acute perception was hibernating in wait. There was no reason in his thoughts to be concerned for self-defense at this precise moment, and the entertainment of heard rumors about the Duchess had much cause to believe this. Even if these rumors were true or not, they were spread for a fair good reason. Whatever the case may be, Nikolai was truly only concerned for one thing: the honor from massacring the enemy.

There was a certain benefit to being a massive tower of a man, people weren't keen on standing in your way. As the shield of Belia made their way slowly but surely made their way to where the Duchess would speak, Theowald had admire the sheer diversity among their ranks. Nul Rahn was famous for their mercenaries, and he saw all manner of men and women. He passed a small group of redhatted, pike wielding dwarves that he knew were the "Uzhgut Kahzdu". Dwarves from Last Respite, the northernmost settlement in the entire world. They had heard the call of gold, and knowing the Uzhguts trophy hunting tendencies, the call of a unique opponent.

When they passed a group of men swathed in silk who each wielded large curved swords, Alexus leaned in. "Those are the Kahalemi, they are Pirate Hunters. They got a personal stake in this. Several of their numbers made Nubina their home and made good coin keeping the trade routes safe." The dark skinned paladin said as they themselves seemed to draw just as much attention as any other group. Many of the eyes he studied, studied him right back. One pair of eyes held his, or rather a single eye. It was elven and almost shone inside the darkness of a heavy red and blue cloak. For a second, he could swear that eye stared into his very soul. Then whoever that piercing eye belonged were lost in the crowd of people.

He shrugged as he caught up with his comrades, who were now starting to see the stage. Here, the noise was deafening to say the least. Now people didn't care to move aside. Some pushed and shoved their way, but there was a order to a chaos. A wish to not rock the boat when it was in such dark waters.

"’Ere she comes." Mathea said as she strained to look over the crowd. And just as she said, there she was.

The Duchess strode with confident steps onto the wooden ramp and up the stage. She was dressed in full battle regalia. The Stormsparrow emblazoned on her right pauldron. Her sword hung from her belt and those eyes of hers could give a tiger pause. There was a fierceness to her that could be felt even through all the shouting. As she made to the center of the stage, she raised her hand and it was like magic. People quieted down, the tension rose to palpable level in a single heartbeat. There were people on the stage with her Theowald suddenly realized. A dwarf wearing the red cloth of the Cardinals Call, but also an elderly human and an elf. The elf he soon realized, was the owner of the eye before. She wore an eyepatch, had long blonde hair and a gaze that seemed to flicker around, as if it was always looking for potential dangers.

The Dwarf looked calm and downright unimpressed by the throng of people that spread out before him. The elderly man looked nervous. With her face to the crows, Lady Aina spoke to her subordinates. And when the Douches spoke it seemed to reverberate across that sea of people like a ripple. Heads snapped to attention, soldier got out of their slouch and Theowald swore he saw someone remove their damn hat in respect. She sure had the presence of a leader allright.

"Friends and brothers of arms, hear me now!" She yelled. “Behind me stand representatives our allied Kingdoms. I trust them with my life, and so you must trust me. As we speak, the Operathian Kohort has begun to move in the South western mountains. They will have the daunting task to trekking through forest filled with gods know what only to besiege Castle Balth.. And further West, the Melfician ready themselves to take back what was once believed to be lost forever. A effort that is gonna hinge on us doing our part.” Her voice was steady. “And it falls on us, on me who offered my sword and my banner to lead this effort, to bring you to the Walls of Nubina. Where we shall vanquish the undying and once more restore Nul Rahns pride and joy. This is vital to our campaign, should we fail, the undying will have a stronghold from which they can assault our allies flank. And we will be without a vital trade route. The resistance will be fierce. The enemy will throw everything at us, and he will be dug in. We know that they adapt, that they adopt news strategies. That they create nww horrors to break our spirits with. We know this, because we faced it during the War of Perseverance.” At this there was some grunts and a whole lot of mumbling at that. Many here were veterans of the last war. They knew all to well.

"Friends!" Her voice rang like steel in his ears once more and silenced many of the voices. It was fascinating. She looked younger then him, yet she spoke like she had spearheaded this army for just as long as he had been a knight. Not a tremble in her tone, not a single outward twitch of nervousness. This was better than zeal, better than blind trust in gods and lords. This was confidence in one's own purpose.

”I will not lie to you, some of us will die.” There was a murmur in the crowd as she so bluntly stated what they all knew all to well. The three Shields of Belia looked at one another, a grin on each of their lips.

”Oi. She go' som' real fire ey?”

”You seen anyone like it?”

”Yes.” Theowald said as he stared up at the stage. ”In storybooks.”

”But I am sure nore of you, none of US will go willingly into the dark slumber!” Her voice rose, and it was like a storm was brewing. ”For each that fall on his difficult journey, we will carve another name into the foundations of Aith Anurs citadel. For each man or woman who fall, we shall raise a cup in their memory!”

”We'll be bleedin' drunk and dead o' drink befo' that” Alexus shouted over the din of the crowd, amused at the notion they'd drink for each dead person. But he was shushed by Mathea Her eyes were alight with inspiration and the zeal of someone who just seen a god in flesh.

”I swear on my sword” The Duchess drew her sword and held it aloft. ”I swear on my Banner. I swear on my own heart. May it be torn out of my chest before I give up or stop.” That elicited some stirring. The fire was being stoked. More and more were starting to seemingly limber up, gruff voices began to mumble in agreement rather then in doubt.

”And I swear to each and every one of you, that I shall drive this blade into the stone of Aith Anurs throne or die trying!” Now there was some tentative cheering. ”Some of Us will perish, yes. But not without a blade in hand. Not without a curse on our tongue. Not without a foot on blood soaked soil, on our soil! For this is not merely vengeance!” Now people were hanging onto every single word. Theos heart was beating. ”This is a crusade, A holy mission, A retribution!” She leaned in so hard of the stage that Theo feared she’d fall of the stage. She staring out of her with a fire in her eyes. Yelling at them like they were right at the walls, ready to scale them. ANd now swords were being drawn to mimic her own, lifted high above their heads, a fire burned in thousands of hearts. ”And Be you from across the sea, I swear to you we will fill your flagons twice over as we celebrate victory! Be it that you came for the Coin, we will fill your coffers.” That got roars of approval from a throng of different mercenaries. ”And are you Sons and Daughters of Melfic, Of Operath. Of Nul Rahn!? Then this is your soil, your lands. And you are merely collecting what is owed you!” Now people were screaming bloody murder. It was a sore spot, a great blot of shame. One she was now telling them to clean up. “Be you of the ol’ folk! We will put your nighmares down for you! You became our brethren the second your swords pointed towards the dead!” This made the elven woman with a eyepatch smirk.

She slammed her sword down so it sunk into the wood by her feet. ”We shall take back what is ours, we shall be fire that burns the rot away!” Now people were roaring, chanting along with her speech.

”BURN THEM! BURN THEM!”

”We are the Steel that do not bend or break!” Her voice was so full of vigor it shook Theodore to his core. Who was this woman. Where in all of Efratel did she come from. She was heading for Canonization in a dozen religions if she kept this up.

“We are the Steel!”

”And should you meet your god, and you are asked why you deserve rest and peace. You answer them this!” She lifted curled her fist, seemingly in anger. As it she was ready to punch a literal gods lights out. But a chain dangled from each side of her grip. She had torn her own Nethlin pendant off. “Because my life was true, and my life was not always good. But I died for the good of all life, and that is the TRUTH!” More cheers, the ground was shaking now. It was like a small earthquake under his feet. “And so, Take my Death and the hundred rotting bastards I brought with it!! BY FIRE AND STEEL. WE TAKE BACK WHAT IS OURS!”

”BY FIRE AND STEEL! BY FIRE AND STEEL! BY FIRE AND STEEL!” A massive, thunderous chanting came from the armed men and women who had been entirely sucked into this womans aura of confidence, zeal and almost divine sense of purpose.

”WE ARE THE KING CARDINAL; THE BLOOD RED BIRD; THE LIFEBLOOD OF THIS ALLIANCE BY FIRE AND STEEL!” She was waving around her closed fist at all of them. Growing more heated, more animated by the second. And the crowd ate it up. Screaming and cheering, shaking their weapons, banging their shields.

”Bloody 'ell....” Alexus mumbled as they stared, slackjawed. ”I think That feeling just now. I think it was hope.”

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


Duke Elithan Stormsparrow leaned back in his high backed, oaken chair. Before him was a long table with every participant of note when it came to their massive undertaking. Most notable of these was the Matriach of Operath, Lady Ironwill herself. The dwarf folded her arms over her chest and spoke with a tone and command that would give a mountain second thoughs wether to stay in her way or not.

“The Kohort has begun their advance. But us dwarves are not known for our quick marching. This is going to be a perilous trek.” She eyed the Duke who nodded in understanding. “But we have been makin’ good time. Earily enough, they have acted almost exactly like we thought they would. Our advance troops came under heavy fire from archers as they marched out of Elms Pass, but as soon as the first were through, the enemy retreated wholesale. ”

“Yes.” A man spoke. His name was Otto Von Weismarch and he was a Melfic Lord who ironicly enough came from Operathanian stock. Hence the name. He was almost as far away from Elithan as possible, his leaning slightly on his arm while idly watching the going ons. “We to encountered resistance almost down to the detail of our predictions. They hardly tried to hold Wilmire Keep.. But once we took it they threw nearly a thousand shambling corpses in what was basically a lost cause. We hardly sustained any casualties.”

“So then Lord Elithan” A old, crone like woman spoke. Her robes indicated her a High Priestess of Nethlin. “We can indeed predict the enemy before he strike. Up to a point.”

“Indeed.” Elithan nodded. “I fear we only seen the first of many such attacks. They are prodding us. What ever is behind them is no simple creature. Or what say you?”

“I’m afraid you are right. While I was to young to be at ground zero of the Undyings creation, it is clear that whaetever it is that came through is intelligent and malevolent. And powerful enough that it can escape The Grey Eye.”

“Ah yes. Your elven gods.” A dwarf with coppery hair and dark, sunken green eyes said. His name was Bathnan Copperhand and he was the Great Shield of Belia, a title bestowed on the de-facto leader of the entire order. He had remained entirely silent for the entire meeting up until now. “Do tell us where they come into this. Very few followed outside of you Grey Elves. And according to our texts, you were not keen on sharing.”

“You must not forget Ser Bathnan, that the Belia Shield backed Operath in wars with Aith Anur in the past. Far be it for someone to share their inner workings to a order that fights you on the field. Hm?”

“...Point taken.”

“I thought so. But do not fret.” The elven ambassador raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I will tell you what I know. I am not a follower of the Grey Eye myself, albeit all Grey Elves pray to him once.

“Before the Grey Sleep?” Bathnan asked, leaning against the table.

“Aye. Before the state we know as Grey Sleep. As his name entail, The Grey Eye watches over us as we transcend toward the other side. He guide our spirits as all we are and all we known is laid bare before the veil. So we pray to him to take the madness away, to let us rest.”

“And…” The Dwarf raised his eyebrows

“And Whatever it is that now rests inside my city, Great Shield Bathan.” He leaned onto table. “It has likely been held back by the Lord of Tranquility and our gods. What we can tell from what documents and rumors that escaped the city. Is that our queen managed to suspend the grey sleep in an attempt come back from it.”

“Necromancy?.” The Nethlin crone spoke in a almost accusatory tone.”

“No. Necromancy animate and bind spirits, it can only destroy a soul.. This was different. Our archives tell of Soul Casting..”

“I do not recognize the term. What does it entail?” The Duke said.

“We are still trying to find an answer to that. You see, apparently our ancestors though it so dangerous and foolish, that they burned any records of it.”

“Lovely..”
-----


The had begun to move in high spirits and with the fires of Zeal burning in the more pious of people. Others were here for the glory, many for revenge. The militia men trudged behind mercenaries while Those with horses, mainly nobles and their retainers. The Spring Wind Keep lay looming behind them, the army could be seen all the way down the road from the keep. Ahead of them lay the hilly, lightly forested area of Northern most Nul Rahn. Past that was the Port City of Nubina. The first step towards retribution. And so the army of Cardinals Call trudged on.

Theowald was to big for anything other then a massive thoroughbred and he liked the marching for now. It helped his mind to keep from distractions. Next to him trudged alexus, ever steadfast. Around them the remains of a small farmstead lay in long forgotten negligence. Pale bones jutted out of the mud at some point, sobering the passersby somewhat. Zeal was good, overconfidence was not. A bleak reminder of what they faced might just be for the benefit of all in the end.

“That was something huh?” He said as they walked past the charred remains of a grain silo, A couple of ravens fought over a dead fox by its base. Theo noted that what ever killed the fox had left some seriously big pawprints. It had only been around 2 years and yet nature had quickly reclaimed what it could. He knew that further in they got, the less normal and the more twisted said nature would appear.

“Indeed. But look how quickly the confidence escape so many of our numbers. “He nodded towards some poor militia men who looked all but tripped over the remains of a broken cart that had long since rotted and become part of the road. Remains of bags that had once held goods was half buried now. Among them were tiny bones. Someone had hid their child among the bags no doubt. That's when the men ahead stopped suddenly. The two large knights looked to one another before jogging to the front of the group. The sight that was before them gave them pause.

“Belias braid..” Theo muttered. Before him was bones, seemingly washed up from the dirt by the now ceaseless summer rain. Stretching between the marching army frontline, all the way to the small birch forest beyond, was a field of bones, broken weapons. But most jarring was the neatly row upon row with pikes, each with a still writhing, screaming body on top of. Some of them were old and half rotten, likely from the war of perseverance. One or two out each ten however, where fresh. Wearing the Countess colors.

“Scouts… You can tell by their vests.” Alexus said, a bit pale. "They must have been caught only hours ago." He was right of course, the enemy had strung up the Countess forward scouts. Theo could see Countess glare at the pikes she had taken a position where she could have a proper view. Her face showed anger and sadness mixed into what he assumed was a ever growing fervor to claim vengeance.

“A warning” Theo began.

“ No. A statement” A gruff voice spoke behind them. Their Chapter Master spoke, having made his way over to them as they stood gawking. "This is where the difficult part starts."

Current Situation

Rows upon Rows, a grand total of 300 hundred undying corpses writhing 2 meters above the ground. Limbs flailing and scratching at unseen enemies. They all speak in a guttural, unknown tongue, a senseless, rythmic noise that escapes their moves between struggling. Each pike is firmly shoved into the ground, taking several men to remove. An effort made more difficult by the flailing undead creature liable to attack you. The field is so full of old bodies it is hard to walk with crushing a bone or skull. Jagged, broken spears and sword litter the ground. This is where the last of old Nubinas garrisons fell, after they tried to protect the refuges. These are their remains, almsot 18 years have they lay here. Forgotten. Unseen until now.

Before you, the otherwise ligh forested area looks so much more foreboding then any such sparse, light birch forest should. A feeling of unrest lay thick on men and women who were inspired and fired up just moments before.

Banaari

“Aye, and when we die we’ll come crawlin’ back and then we’ll ‘ave to die again, though naught before’ll kill a couple other lads, and they’ll kill a couple more, and that’s how we’ll all end up fucking corpses.” Banaari was not inspired, there was nothing in him left to fill, not with fiery words or good intentions. Speeches washed over him like freezing rain, leaving him cold and tired and no better off for the experience. Not that anyone heard his harsh words over the general din of cheering and yelling, men too eager to go to war, many more who had forgotten the face of battle for just a moment. Later, when they slept and the euphoria left them, the old memories would remain. Only those who had yet to fight, the green squires and farmers, would dream of heroism and glory. The rest would hardly sleep at all.

15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.

Banaari led his mule, Arion, down a dirt track trudged into muck by a thousand feet before him. He could hardly move a step in either direction, and frequently did he brush his eyes over his packs as they lay draped over the creature’s back, watching for the deft hand of a thief. There was many flitting about the army, as there was wherever a great mass of bodies gathered, parasites one and all. Still, he did not begrudge them their living, not until they tried to rob him at least. Besides that, there was little for him to see hemmed in as he was by man, woman and child alike. He was in the baggage train, where the camp followers and the lesser men could be found. He supposed that’s what he was, a lesser man, fit for guarding the supplies and naught else. It was tough going at the back, the ground was a mire by the time he reached it, but at least he’d be far down the line if they ran into any trouble.

Unless the Undying had any Liches or Necromancers within their forces, because if they did, the unnatural intelligence of those creatures could quite often see them employ some rudimentary tactics. While the shambling horde would run directly into a line of pikes, smashing like the waves into hard rock, the Necromancers would direct their forces around to the flanks, even lay ambush if the terrain allowed it. They were the real dangerous ones, because then the numbers of the Undying began to tell in battle. He had seen it before; he saw it now in his mind’s eye. Line of pikes, arrow fly, easy going. Then, the battle shifts, the left flank crumbles as the right finds itself devoid of enemy, the front is held by a token force, the left breaks, the slaughter begins. The battle is lost, and the Undying grow in number. A simple strategy, in truth, but one difficult to combat when the enemy outnumbers you, and becomes ever stronger as you weaken.

Whispers and rumour pass through a line of men and women like they do through a small town. That was how Banaari learned of the fields of pikes and corpses, despite not quite being able to see any such thing himself. A man turned to him, fear written on his pale face, a leatherworker if his tools betrayed him accurately.

“Elf, you’ve seen this sorta thing before, what does it mean?”

“Arl say it true, I reckon it means there’s a bunch’ar poor fuckers on spikes, and naught much else.” Banaari replied, rather unhelpfully. The man turned away from the Elf in disgust, wondering how someone could make light of a situation so horrendous. The Elf would have told him that he wasn’t making light of anything, he had just learned that sometimes things were as they were, and that it was a cruel world indeed.

Throughout the entire speech, Mynn was listening intently to the Duchess. Her intense focus aimed only at the commandeering lady standing on the wooden stage managed to shut her ears to the cheers and the roars of the crowd. She needed that state of mind so as to better understand the words spoken from the inspiring woman, the reason being that Mynn still did not fully understood every words spoken by the humans. But even though she would not comprehend parts of the words spoken by the Duchess, the elven druid could very much feel the passion behind the voice. And it was that very passion, that determination, that somewhat moved the usually passive-looking masked Elf. Like most of Nature’s gifted in this camp, Mynn wasn’t in search of glory or riches. They were allying with the others for the sake of vengeance and to reclaim the lands that were stolen by the undead.

By the end of the Duchess’ speech, the Wild Elf wasn’t as inspired or burning with passion for this crusade like most of the people part of the crowd, but she definitively felt more determined to reclaim the lost parts of her home, and to destroy the foul abominations that were the origin of this calamity.


It was only about an hour after the Duchess’ speech, everybody were readying themselves for the imminent mobilization of troops to reclaim a port town that was called Nubina. Never Mynn had heard of the place before, but from how others spoke of that city, it seemed very important and dear to some of the people in this camp. Judging from how many individuals that were packing their stuff to move out, it would seem like they would be heading for a big confrontation.

Having nothing much to bring with herself, the bronze-skinned daughter of Nature took little time to ready herself for the upcoming march. Swinging a large backpack onto her broad shoulders and grabbing her quarterstaff, the masked druid left the area where her small tent stood only just a few minutes ago, and began walking around in the camp, joining up with the others.

On her way to meet the officers in charge of the army, Mynn came across the stables. She couldn’t help but notice just how agitated the beasts seemed to be. While most would believe it’s the rain and the thunders making them this way, one who had spent almost their entire life could really feel what the horses felt. It was fear. Although the Duchess effectively raised everyone’s spirits, there was still fear inside of these people, especially when the time to march towards inevitable death was nigh. Animals can smell that fear, and in turn felt that very same fear of death.

There was one particular mare being quite the trouble for the stable workers. This one was of a chestnut colored-hide with a wild-looking black mane and an untamed look in its eyes. It took two full-grown men to try and keep the horse firmly where they stood, lest the mare rearing and trying to knock out her captors.

Seeing such a sad spectacle, Mynn approached the stables, towards the agitated horse acting wildly, despite the protests of the workers. Many looked at the cloaked and masked figure that was making her way into the stables with stupefied eyes, wondering what that person was doing. The horse also looked at the newcomer, eyes locking on the masked woman with defiance and wariness. By now, the horse seemed calmer, but was puffing loudly in disapproval. It was not until the elven druid removed her mask, revealing a calm and soft face, and extended a gentle hand towards the mare than the horse stopped its tantrum.

Bewildered by just how the elven lady managed to calm down the nervous horse in an instant, the stable master walked towards Mynn, who was now softly petting the beast while their head were connected, as if they were both communicating their feelings to each other.

“Y-Ye must be that rumoured Melfician forest witch! With the mask, and bein’ an Elf! ‘Tis an honor to have a livin’ veteran who lived through two wars in ‘tis humble stable.” The burly man said excitedly to the Elf.

Breaking head contact with the horse, Mynn looked towards the stable master with a neutral expression. There was nothing much to say to him other than simply nod in agreement with what the man said, confirming she might be the one he was talking about. There weren’t many Druids left alive to begin with, of elven origins to add. Most had died during the First War, and many others during the Perseverance.

Looking just like he had a flash of genius, the big-looking man took the Elf’s hands and entrusted the now peaceful mare’s reins to her.

“Chelsea’s a good horse, but ever since her old rider died in battle, she lost it, refusin’ to let anybody else ride her. We thought ‘bout putting her out of her misery soon, but ye just seemed to save her life. I don’t think anyone can make use of her, so please, take her with you. Hope she will be helpful to you, lady.” The bald mustached man added.

Mynn nodded calmly once more, delighted deep inside to not only have found a mount for the oncoming march to Nubina, but also to have accidentally saved this tormented animal at the same time. Putting her mask back on her face, and securing her belonging onto the horse’s saddle, the elven druid swung herself atop the horse. Just as she was about the exit the stables with her new companion, one could hear if they listened closely a whisper coming out from behind the druid’s mask.

“Thank…you…”


Assembled with the rest of the army, officers were shouting orders at their troops. For each section of the army, a few men of experience and trust would be leading divisions of the army. Mynn was to be assigned at the middle of the marching group, along with other supportive spellcasters. There, she would be able to make most use of her Nurture talents while being protected on both flanks, and if the situations would allow it, even manage to make use of some of her aggressive abilities.

Moving out according to the battle formation, Mynn joined up with the middle section. When she reached her assigned position, the elven druid was greeted by a group of feral-looking fellows, each wielding different weapons and of various races, but all wearing armors made of fur, hide and leaves. As soon as the Wild Elf had approached, they bowed their head slightly with a fist brought up to their chest.

“You are the White Mask! We are of the Oak Circle, sons and daughters of the woods. I am Ulfric Whitefang, leader of this group. Your feats have reached us, and we have joined this cause to lend you and your allies our help.” The front-most man spoke, wearing an armor made of black fur that had seemed to have belonged to a wolf, judging from his helmet made out of a wolf’s head.

Nodding in approval, Mynn imitated the Wild Men’s greetings, bringing a closed fist to her heart as she bowed her head down. She did not speak a word, but Ulfric knew from rumors that this Druid was not much talkative, although her actions spoke of her passion to defend the wilderness more than words could. He respected her nature, and allowed the Wild Elf to join their ranks silently as each and every man in this company readied themselves to march towards Nubina.

Now with a new companion and allies to fight alongside, Mynn and everybody else were now readier than ever. It was with the shouting orders from the officers ahead and behind of them that the first step towards reclaiming the land started.


So far, the march had been without troubles, but everyone kept quiet, whether it was from growing anxiousness towards the upcoming encounter with the Undying or to try and hear the undead shambling towards the thirty thousand strong army marching down the road to Nubina. The more time passed, the more everyone could feel their fear returning to themselves. While the Duchess had inspired the lot of them just few hours earlier, it was but until everyone had left the safety of the walls that they realized they might not return alive.

Trotting alongside her new comrades, Mynn also stayed quiet. There was not much going on inside her head, aside from a desire to crush the Undying standing in their way. She also felt anxiousness, who wouldn’t? Even if she had fought two wars against the shambling corpses of undeath, she would never be able to shake off this uneasiness. She knew very well, despite her efforts, that she could end up like most of her now-dead brothers and sisters.

Mynn could clearly remember the first days this plague hit the forest. At first, the undead were few and were quickly dispatched by the brotherhood of druids. But the more time passed. The more the Undying were plaguing the forest. Eventually, the newer members of the Circle died because of their inexperience and weaker powers than the older-members of the druidic circle. Then, a massive wave hit the forest like a sledgehammer hitting a nail. Most of the powerful druids died because of an excess of zeal in trying to defend their home, eventually overwhelmed by the sheer number of the living dead. Only the wisest of the Druids knew that this was a lost cause, and retreated outside of the forest to seek refuge and help from the Melfician civilization. Mynn would have been one of those who would’ve died as an over-zealous fanatic if it wasn’t for one of her former master who grabbed her and forced the Wild Elf to leave the forest.

Those harsh memories were brought upon the auburn-haired Elf as the whole army stopped, now facing a lightly forested hill. Between them and the entrance of the forest stood rows of pikes barring the way, with the impaled Undying writhing as a looming menace on each of those pikes. The pikes were few in numbers compared to the army standing in its way, but it was enough to block the road for horses, not to mention those who would attempt to forcibly go through this field would surely be killed by the undead creatures flailing about on their pikes.

This sight revolted the elven druid. She felt somewhat sick just by looking at the area and the blockade in front of them. It took part of her willpower to not actually feel nauseated from such sight. Never before had she seen such an abomination, a mockery of life. It disgusted Mynn to a point she could only feel more rage and hate boiling inside her.

“Spirits… strong… here. Anger… tormented… sadness. Danger?’ Mynn whispered.

The members of the Oak Circle looked among themselves, before Ulfric looked towards the masked druid whom he pledged friendship with just about an hour or so earlier.

“You have faced the undead before, Lady. What do you think of this?.” The wild leader said, a look of concern upon his face as he tried in vain to read his comrade’s face underneath her mask.

“I… never fought… this. Help kill… corpses. Help moving… spikes… with Magic. Watch.” The masked druid ordered, raising a glowing green hand towards the pikes. While there was not much to be seen, the soil around one pike started loosening its grip around the steel bar that was planted firmly into the ground. Eventually that one pike would fall on its own, with the Undying scout impaled on top of it crashing down from his two-meters perch.

Selene Silverblood - The Road to Nubina

Selene leaned forward and soothed Nerolim, her white mare. It was an unconscious action, and she knew she was trying to soothe herself. Nerolim stood stock still with only her tail whisking. The horse needed no words of comfort. Selene, on the other hand...

Long before the gagging scent of the Undead assaulted her nostrils, long before her eyes widened at the sight before her, her ears had told her something was horribly wrong. At first, it was a murmur, as of angry bees. The incessant chatter among the men had stopped abruptly as people became aware of the low murmur. Soldiers had looked at one another askance, shuffling their feet. The Captain of her retinue started staying close to her, as if the old man hoped to protect his liege lady from sound!

Then the murmur rose. Snatches of fell words blew in the wind. "Kar mirun morid... Morid" The voices chilled her to the bone. Morid. That was a word in High Elven. Selene was sure it meant death. Not death in the peaceful end-of-life sense. But death in the sense of eternal dying. "Kar mirun morid."

And as they crested a rise, so did the voices. Her eyes widened as she saw rows and rows of flailing limbs and grotesque faces. A thousand wailing and thrashing corpses singing their eternal dirge. "Kar mirun morid. Al tumun morid. Kar mirun morid. Al tumun morid," it went, engulfing all other sound. It wasn't loud, but it was a permeating sound. It made her feel dirty.

"Kartoll's balls!" swore Daram, her Captain of the Guard. He was shocked enough to forget his language in her presence. "What is-" It was obvious to anyone what it was. "How are we gonna get through that?"

Before Selene could reply, others were already taking the initiative. A stately-looking elf clad - albeit thinly - in what appeared to be the very grass and barks, was doing something to the pikes. As Selene watched, the pikes started falling, the corpses falling on them and unable to get up with the weight of the pike through them. Not bad, thought Selene.

"Follow me, Captain," she told Daram as she heeled Nerolim towards the elf. "And make sure the men are ready for any Undead who do manage to get up and come at us." She stopped next to the elf and her wild army and dismounted.

The elf was concentrating hard on using her magic. Selene just nodded to her and turned to the mass of pikes. She could see the elf was doing something to the soil, loosening them. Smiling to herself, she opened herself to the spirit of Kartoll.

Kartoll's spirit is like a torrential downpour. A river in full flood. From a very early age, Selene was taught - not to control this power but to surrender to it. Only by surrendering to Kartoll could one channel his power. She felt a divine rain fall on her, felt herself drenched by it.

She could clearly sense the water hidden under the soil. She willed it to overflow. She coaxed it to saturate large tracts of soil the pikes were impaled upon. The sand turned to mud and dirt and started forming puddles. Combined with the elf's work, the process speeded up the felling of the pikes. Her retinue were close by, taking on the occasional corpse that managed to get up.

"Let's see if we can forge a path through, Captain," Selene said thinly as she concentrated on the pikes. Should any Undead break through her men and come at her, her ice spikes should be enough to rip them apart.

"M'lady, a path through that mess of fuckin' Undead? It would be worse than marching through a canyon with an ambush on all sides."

"Then we must just hope to spread out, Captain. Slowly. If we can get these wild men to help you, we can make the process faster."

These were men once.

Aeron's face soured as he brought his horse to a stop. Before him was a tangle of desecrated bodies, transfixed on wicked pikes interspersed among a field of bones and battlefield debris. The sight was made worse by the unintelligible wails that the undying made, and the convulsions of their ruined bodies. The Optheranian had stared death in the face before, and now, death literally stared back.

A crash caught Aeron's attention, and he saw one of the pikes fall. The wailing creature it was embedded in went down with it, crashing to the mud with the grace of a bird hitting a window. More joined it on the ground as the druids worked their magic with impunity. Felling the pikes was the most practical way through, although watching the undying topple to the earth made Aeron's teeth clench. There was no redemption for these men at the end of the tunnel, only a faceful of mud.

Finally, Aeron could bear it no longer and dismounted with a crunch as boots ground into old bones. He sensed several of his brother-knights join him - Nethelin’s faithful knew what they had to do. The black-robed knights approached the tangle of pikes with their arms outstretched, each holding aloft a sacred icon of their god. They pushed through the cluster of druids, putting themselves between them and the undying.

Aeron began the litany. The language used by Nethelinic priests and crusaders was an ancient dialect, unfamiliar to most. Some words could be inferred from their similarity to modern Optheranian counterparts, but without context, Aeron’s chanting was little more than babble to the rest of those assembled.

The rest of the knights joined in, their voices a sonorous drone, unperturbed by the shrieks of the undead. A faint light emanated from their icons now, and in moments, it enveloped the writhing bodies as well. The Nethelinics broke their line, each striding down a different path through the rows of pikes, carrying on their hymn of deliverance. One by one, each knight brandished their icon at an undying, undaunted by their gnashing limbs or snapping jaws. One by one, the once-human bodies burst into light, then vanished. The fresh undying lingered longer than the older, feebler bodies, but the remains of each danced away in the wind as ash.

Many long minutes passed before the knights brought their grim work to a close, Aeron leading them back to the column. He lingered when he approached the druids, tossing the woman in the mask a look that betrayed a mixture of admonition and mourning.

“You may proceed now,” was all he said before remounting his destrier.

Olivaster watched as the crowd listened intently. Moving as her words were, he was not swayed. He was more than well aware of what they were up against. There was an old foreign adage, “Me Nem Nesa” - it is known. While perhaps not common knowledge and most certainly not spoken about at social gatherings Olivaster knew the truth. As courageous and honorable as this quest had been they were thirty leagues up shit-creak without a paddle and there was no one left to search for them.

“Terrific…” Olivaster scoffed shaking his head. “Perhaps you have been fooled but I would rather spend my time in preparation for the journey.”

“You’re not going anywhere Oli,” Lewin sternly replied placing a firm hand tightly on his younger siblings shoulders. “We may not all be fighters or followers of frightening unknown gods like you,” Lewin mocked, “but we are Wrathmont’s and we do not turn our backs on our brethren.”

“You know little of what you speak brother.” Olivaster grimaced as he tried to pull away.

“Relax Oli,” Wini laughed nudging him in jest laughing, “if you’re right, you’ll get your chance to show the Duchess what you’ve got in store. Maybe she’ll handle it your way.”

Shaking his head Olivaster pulled away from his brother, slipping from the grasp his brother struggled to maintain on his dampened robes. Little problem had he had with this. He may have lived in the duchess’ world and under her rule but he had little concern for her beyond the order she provided as a means for him to conduct his own business. The camp was near silent with the exception of the few soldiers that were pacing the small village to keep watch. It only made it easier for Olivaster to return to his own tent in the rain.

Pushing the flap open as it danced in the storms breeze, Olivaster walked into the tent that was positioned on the outside of the smith that his family had set up. There had not been much inside. A single bed roll in fairly decent shape given how little it had truly been used. His own bag, which too seemed immaculate. In fact, known of his things had looked like they had seen very much adventure despite his comings and goings across the land in search of knowledge.

But one structure stood out amongst the barrels and racks that had been placed around his tent in order to aid the family in their smithing duties. A small wooden table, rectangular in shape only about waist high from the ground. The legs were intricately carved with symbols that appeared beyond that of human, elf, or dwarf. The top of the table as well carried these same carvings. Upon the table top was a strange construct composed of near pristine white material, worked and connected to form what appeared to be a thick arm with fingers grasping an empty orb constructed of the same material. The orb was empty, but barbed with thorns. The entire structure was also carved with runes of an unknown kind. The entire piece was certainly foreign to this land.

Olivaster rested his staff upon the bedroll. Next to it, he placed the book he most typically carries on his person. Pacing he began to contemplate the implications of what he was about to do. It was difficult for him, weighing the necessity for contact versus the potential for alienation, discovery, treason. He came to sit upon the bedroll, crossing his legs. Resting his face within his open palms Olivaster sat in quiet contemplation. He knew time was running out.



With haste Olivaster stood up from his bedroll. He could not wait any longer. There was no more time. Waiting would risk discovery. Discovery would breed murder and treason. All of it would risk her desires. It was paramount that Olivaster did no such thing. For what she offered in punishment was only far greater than what she would ever offer during his lifetime. But upon his completion of her great will, she offered him immortality amongst the stars. A position beside her in the great pantheon. A position of godhood.

Swiftly he moved to his bag. A mental image appeared in his mind. A mental image of the things he was looking for. A pair of candles, black in color and ordinary in shape. However, they were quite necromantic in construction, arcane in nature. A small ordinary pouch closed tightly with leather thread, a strange symbol engraved upon a bone coin that hung from it. A strange white flask with a black stopper on top also labeled with the same strange symbol engraved upon it. Finally, a small vile of the same color and constructive material as the flask with the same strange symbol engraved upon it.

Each and every item was withdrawn from the bag as Olivaster put his hand inside of it. It was as if he was not even looking for it - as if the very thought was more than enough for him to locate the item he was looking for. Everything about it was rather arcane. With everything in a manageable pile upon his lap, Olivaster gathered everything up and carried it over to the small shrine and quickly initiated preparations.

Olivaster wasted little time, if only because he had little time to waste. The two candles he had acquired were placed in small depressions in front of the shrine to Enathrae, between them a small basin. He took the small cloth pouch in his hand and untied it. He emptied it into the small basin. The contents of which were small strips of what could only be described as fetid, pale flesh - the flesh of the undead. Next, Olivaster pulled the stop from the small vial. The contents of which, a grainy-green powdery substance was emptied into the basin as well. The final ingredient came from the the off-white flask. A black viscous substance that oozed from the flask as if extremely resistant to escaping the flask. The liquid itself seemed to slide out of the container forming tiny faces as it moved, depressions in the fluid wailing silently as it moved.

The concoction was complete. A strange odor had began to fill the tent as the components resting in the basin began to smoulder, wisps of oddly colored smoke wafting into the air. Olivaster placed an open palm over each candle concealing his other hand beneath it. Muttering a few words he lit the candles individually with a few snaps of his fingers.

“Niyin Ilhar usstan ul'nusst ulu tau,” he began cupping his hands over the basin, preventing the fumes from escaping.

“Tyrnae ussta gauka xuil dosst krik'vlicss,” Olivaster continued opening his hands and inhaling deeply.

“Dos inbal belbaunin uns'aa dosst yorn,” he carried on as the smoke from the candles began to coalesce inside the orb composed of bone.

“Balbau uns'aa dosst zhaunil,” Olivaster finished as a bright light began to pulsate from inside the orb, stifled by the smoke that had gathered around it like a star.

“Olivaster Wrathmont, my most promising Acolyte,” a feminine voice reverberated in the mind mages mind. “You must journey to Nubina. For it is there that you will find a particular scroll. You must gather this scroll. For this scroll will grant you the knowledge to bring me to the mortal realm. It is then you will ascend to power.”

“Vel'klar orn usstan ragar nindol narkuth, jabbress?” Olivaster inquired, only to find that the connection had been severed.

“N-n-no….no!” He shouted his hands pawing at the remains of the arcane candles that had been burned down to less than half. His eyes searched the basin haunted by the remnants of the concoction that had been used to open his mind to Enathrae’s being. Upon satisfaction that nothing was left to be done, Olivaster sat back in contemplation.

“I am to go to Nubina?” Olivaster thought his eyes darting back and forth.

The speech had just concluded. The applause that followed the speech echoed through the tent village. His time was up. Olivaster had to conclude this bit of confusion and regain his composure. He had to secure his belongings and ready himself for the journey. The sewers, the catacombs, some level beneath Nubina was his destination. The question became, how he was suppose to search the city without raising suspicion.



“What a waste…” Olivaster remarked shaking head.

Olivaster had spent the day marching with the others. He maintained his distance, choosing to creep in the shadows and remain aloof. While he appeared very similar to the other mages, clerics, and wizards that the army had to offer, he felt quite outcast. Olivaster carried a certain aura about him. While the passive gifts of Enathrae may be subtle they had manifested partially in two ways. The aura that all magic users coalesce around their figure and that all magic users can see represents their very being, the very magic seeping from their human flesh. Olivaster draws upon that aura as a means to fuel his own form while slowly weakening those around. Be it not enough to slaughter an unsuspecting user without close proximity and prolonged exposure; however, it is enough make one dizzy or weary. The second is Olivaster’s owns aura, a dark aura - an aura that would certainly put those around him in an uneasy state. This would not necessarily imitate nervousness or fear but those around him would certainly feel something is off - something unsettling.

Olivaster watched as the druids made short work of the undying corpses, at least, in their upright position. Further as the clerics moved into banish the undying, Olivaster felt a bit of his own anguish inside. The stories they may have been able to tell, or so he thought. Carefully, he followed the others through the sea of the undying and the dead. A presence was felt to him something beyond his own power of comprehension. Something that Enathrae failed to make known to him.

He knew not to whom he spoke; however, his voice was stern, “Mayhaps we could learn something from these creatures?”

Olivaster gestured to the corpses that lined the ground, “Could we not perhaps learn from the fallen?”

But perhaps no one had been listening. Olivaster felt as though these undying had something to offer. Perhaps these undead, that of the fallen from decades ago could very well provide some sort of answer to this plight that had befallen the land. Or at least, to Olivaster perhaps they could provide the insight that Enathrae so vaguely eluded to. Where was this scroll within Nubina? How was Olivaster to get there?

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A forsaken march— she had seen it before. She thought she would never see it again.

“Mi glywaf dyner lais yn galw arnaf i.” Afarene Taranau muttered the phrase under her breath, though it was not a gentle breeze that was calling her but the exact opposite. It was a callous storm that was reaching out for not only her soul but also everyone else’s.

“Mayhaps we could learn something from these creatures? Could we not perhaps learn from the fallen?”

Afarene’s eyes moved toward the direction of the words— to the human who seemed to be making the gesture of the dead and damned. Whilst she was not properly acquainted with those she traveled with, for her perspective it was not challenging to make a deduction based on the subtext of the words this human chose to speak. The idea of studying the dead was something that the elves of New Anur were very vocal about and in Afarene’s cultural and spiritual education as an adolescent there had been many lessons about leaving the dead be or descending into the madness of hubris. It was through that education and her experiences in the last one-hundred and sixty-four years of life that she agreed that mistakes would be avoided if all species, and not just her people, left things alone that didn’t need to be stirred in the first place. It was with those thoughts and recollections that the red-haired gray elf decided to make a matter-of-fact comment from beneath the cowl of her cloak.

“Have they not been forsaken enough?”

Her question was innocuous enough, but more level-headed comments had inspired conflict through her past. Her eyes moved back toward the field as she took a light breath— trying to make sense from a ranger’s perspective about how to approach the daunting and seemingly endless war she was entering— and this was just the first real situation of it following the speech their “leader” had announced only days prior.

---

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”Forsaken?”

Olivaster’s words were soft yet spoken with a certain condescension. He had always despised elves. From one side of the country to the other they were all the same. Life is precious. Let things lay as they may. Do not seek answers where things are better left undisturbed. It was all very innocent, very plebeian. As if to suggest that there was no price worth paying to learn from the mysteries of the world. Olivaster believed he knew this to be false. Regardless of the particular piece of knowledge, there was always a price worth paying. The only negotiable instrument was how much each particular piece was worth.

Sweeping his hand across the field of decades old fallen soldiers as well as the writhing remains of the undying Olivaster spoke boldly, “You would wade blindly into the unknown, rather than invoke the name of gods you dare not speak to educate us before we pass? You speak of them as forsaken, yet you insult them by aiding in the neglect of their duties. You insult them by not allowing them to protect and serve as they have sworn to do.”

The wizard whose appearance while doing service to his true power had beguiled his real age, began to walk forward. His footsteps were precise. He purposefully avoided damaging any of the skeletons to the best of his ability. But in a field consumed by the fallen it was difficult to avoid crushing at least a hand. In these instances, he merely avoided the more important parts of the skeletons. His face showed little fear if any. For what was there to fear? The undying, nailed to their crosses in a sadistic crucifixion? No, for even when the undying seemed to flail towards his passing robes, Olivaster did not hasten his step. His eyes carried through the masses searching through the faces of those he passed before turning around to face the gathered party once more.

”Do you believe that these men would care not to rest one last time knowing they were able to fulfill their duties where in the past they have failed? Are you so naive as to believe even the undying are too uncivilized to answer just one question?”

---

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Ffwl Anwybodus.

She should’ve known a human magi would think as such. Even with all of the wisdom that came from the Fall of Aith Anur and New Anur, his ideology continued to exist. The warnings were irrelevant to the humans that had studied magic and they were all so eager to continue on the path that nearly eradicated her people— the foolish ignorance of man’s hubris was infuriating. However, Afarene did not show abundance of emotion as she took a light breath whilst focusing on the situation at hand. There were, after all, more imperative things to focus on then argue with a human who believed that researching the forsaken would lead to victory and not utter total loss. The elves who advised the Duchess were certain to have warned her and set principles down that their soldiers would have to abide by; or so Afarene hoped.

“The only naïve one is you, human. You will learn if you are allowed to cross the line and study them. I bid you luck on your venture, though I know what will come of it.”

Afarene didn’t bother to stick around for his reply as she moved forward, closer to the thick of things— ready to fire an arrow as any ranger would.