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The chamber was awash with the din of pipes and drums, and the sounds of laughter leaked well beyond the walls of the homestead. The frame of the door was painted a blood red, and from it hung bundles of herbs, and a cluster of arrows, symbolizing the coming of age of a boy that called it home. It was now evening, and from the windows throbbed the shadows of dancing figures in candlelight.

“Come on, Stephanos!” A hairy hand tousled the hair of the youngster, who was jerked forward by the motion. His father, and patron of the Fukapoulos family, Annos, gave a hearty laugh and continued, “You should be proud! Now that you’ve slain your first boar, you’re in the men’s club now!” Stephan tried to force a smile, and he held his cup of wine unsteadily. Not that he’d drunk any - there was another reason for his uneasiness.

Before the boy could say a word, he was shoved from his spot towards the center of the room, where a handful of courtesans were gathered, flaunting themselves to the predominately-male audience, gyrating their bodies to the groove of the music. The push sent Stephanos stumbling, and he tripped over the disheveled corner of a rug. His momentum carried him, awkwardly, into the bosom of one of these dancing girls, and the roars of laughter from his uncles and cousins rang in his ears, muffled by a pair of milky-white globes pressed into his face.

A combination of dread and revulsion swelled up in the young Fukapoulos, and he made to escape, but a strength unexpected of the lithe figure held him fast.

The hoarse laugh of Uncle Phalos erupted from the corner of the room as he watched his nephew struggle against the woman’s chest. Being the benefactor of the party, he felt obligated to go congratulate his nephew’s second triumph of the day. With a wiggle of his extremely noticeable eyebrows he set his foaming drink down and strutted over, his trousers high and tight against his ill proportioned body to which resembled an upside down pear.

Walking up behind his nephew he gave a curt nod to the able bodied woman keeping him captive. The woman released the boy and Stephan leaned back to suck in a great breath of air, polluted with perfume. A hand that could knock a bull’s teeth out slapped Stephan hard on the back, “glad to see you finally enjoying your party!” Phalos declared, rubbing a mustache triple the bush of his eyebrows, “I see you are a man who prefers… well… the more… well quite frankly a woman who could knock you on your ass with a single blow!” He laughed, “and one with plenty of…” he motioned with both of his hands, elbow hooked around Stephans neck, forcing him to watch the gesture, “of…”

“Vigor,” he finally decided on, before roaring a drunk laugh.

Stephanos was at a loss for words. He knew he’d have to endure being the front-and-center of attention, and bearing the brunt of his family’s jokes. However, it was the secret that he clung on to inside that prevented him from fully enjoying himself - something that he should have told his family long ago, but hadn’t, out of apprehension. What would they think? Would his killing of his boar make any difference if they knew? But what better time to divulge it than now, at the most important day of his young life? If he went along with the machinations of Uncle Phalos and his father now, could he ever turn back?

The youth took a deep breath, cleared his throat and started, “Uncle Phalos, I have a confession to make, and I’d like you to hear it first.”

“Oh? Out with it, then, boy!” he gurgled, with no less mirth than before.

“Well… Since I was younger, I’ve...”

“Always wanted to live up to your great uncle Phalos?” the mustached man beamed proudly.

“Ehm, In a way...” Stephanos began, a hint of irritation on his brow, “I’ve always admired your stories and I’ve learned a lot from you, but the truth of the matter is I’m...”

“Going to make your own greater stories?” Phalos wiggled his mighty eyebrows as he scanned the room, aplenty with potential partners for his nephew, “possibly tonight? Eh? Eh?”

“Yes... I would hope so...” he answered, actually cross for the first time tonight. “But what I’d like to tell you is that...”

“Not only do you hope so, but you’ve already picked a potential adventure out very well as we even speak?” Phalos squinted as he scanned the room for the potential partner.

“NO, UNCLE! I”M FUCKING-”

“ALL THESE FINE WOMEN THIS VERY NIGHT, NOW THATTA BOY! AMBITIOUS BUT THATTA BOY!” Phalos clapped his hands, beating his mighty arms in a victorious flap.

At this point, Stephanos’ face was flush with vexation, and he threw his wine cup aside, dashing from his uncle to a fair-haired, dainty lute player, a boy not much younger than himself. Without a second thought, he smothered his lips against the musician’s, and with a loud ‘smack’ of his lips, turned to his family and screamed,

Calor Murex
Citadel of Caelum
Manor of Mountebank Soon

The Manor of Mountebank Soon was one of the tallest residences in the Western District of the citadel, and was positioned nearly adjacent to interior walls. This granted the manor one of the best of an already spectacular view of the rolling Calor Murex Steppes below the mountain range. Sitting at nearly four-thousand meters above sea-level, some claimed it was possible to see almost 300 kilometers on a clear day and to make out details of the city of Cartandal using certain optical instruments. The architects had kept the view in mind when planning the citadel’s construction, as it had been built to be a heavenly palace sitting astride and overlooking the whole of the world. The placement of nearly every structure in the city had been specifically mandated via the delegated authority of the royal family, and even the homes of the lowest of servants were made to reflect a lofty aesthetic. The streets were paved with sterling marble that glittered with mica, the buildingss were gilded with silvery pewter and their arches adorned with brilliant displays of intricately carved ivory. Statues of porcelain and brass stood astride bridges and causeways, overlooking tiled murals of polished granite. The citadel was a gleaming mass of ivory brilliance complimented by silver and golden sheens. Mountebank’s manor was no exception, and could have been not unreasonably mistaken for a palace in its own right due to the sheer number of towers, spires, and flying buttresses that adorned it.

As the sun began to rise in the East, Mountebank gazed across the shaded land of Calor Murex from atop one of his manor’s many balconies. As adviser to the royal family and more specifically the Heretic Regent, he was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the kingdom. The power he wielded in court arguably surpassed that of the Regent himself. The Council of Ten were known to afford the adviser great deference in many matters of state, and Mountebank was known to hold council with some the leading authorities of culture and business in the kingdom. Whispers spoke of the network of spies he maintained and the agents he employed, who saw and heard all. It would not have been a terrible exaggeration to suggest that Mountebank was the single most powerful political figure in the kingdom.

He had no idea what was going on.

"Mithril." He repeated in a flat tone.

"Yes." Was the simple, faintly bemused reply of Theris Ranor, one of the royal adviser's foremost agents. "No small amount of it either. Nearly a whole kilogram."

"Theris," Mountebank began as he stared out to the still-grayed Western horizon. "Did you know this has been happening for decades?"

"Mithril being stolen, my lord?" Theris raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean this - trend." Mountebank waved a hand errantly. "At first it was innocuous things. Shipments of wasp honey, of all things. Pitchblende going missing from the waste piles of excavations around Darjai. It was almost a lark. Then it escalated. Whalebone. Obsidian. Electrum."

"Is it so unusual? Those are valuable enough commodities. I can imagine raiders and privateers targeting such shipments." Theris commented, remaining calm in the face of his lord's displeasure.

"I do not quite think you understand, Theris." Mountebank finally turned around to face his foremost agent, just as the sun broke over the last mountain ridge and banished the remnants of darkness from the land below. "These shipments are not the kind of small, piecemeal affairs being transported amongst other goods. These are massive shipments so large they are transported by the ton via carrack."

"Truly? I had no idea whalebone and obsidian were in such high demand. Corsets and chokers, perhaps?" Theris quipped, though he was now standing at rapt attention.

"All the more perplexing in that these shipments have...inconsistent harbor dockets." Mountebank continued. "Sent from distant lands by people who never saw them, intended to arrive in Obrenz and be received by people who do not exist."

"Ah." Theris considered that particular turn for several moments, gazing out at the city for a moment - and wincing as the sun alighted off some piece of metal and lashed at his eyes. "Ah-er. How long has this been going on then? I understand you probably had me working on more important issues...and how is it we even know this is related?"

"Well for one thing, as far as I am aware, there is no need or desire for any quantity of Mithril whatsoever amongst all the merchant houses of Calor Murex. This shipment of Mithril is, quite literally, erupting from nowhere and for no cause. Of course though, the recipient knew nothing of the shipment until four days after when they decided they wanted compensation for our loss of it, and also to know how much they had apparently been in for." Mountebank gestured to the portion of the veranda preceding the balcony proper, still covered in shade and began to walk away from the balcony railing. "The loss, if recognized, is worth several thousand marks. The recipient is threatening to bring the issue to the Obrenz market guilds if we do not recoup what is owed. As for how long this has been going on,"

He paused momentarily as they both approached the Northern rail for the veranda, glancing upwards. "The discrepancies started to crop up nearly two decades ago." He waved his hand errantly once more - seeming to gesture at the structure in the distance.

The royal palace of Caelum.



Theris made the connection and considered.

"This may become untidy." He suggested lightly. Mountebank simply nodded gravely in response.

(SpleenxEkreture)



"This way mi'lady" the Cormyrean guard said as he led Princess Eosia and her band to Duchess Lynette's personal estate. The streets were busy, but not overly crowded. Peasants went about their business, trying to buy the goods they needed from overly greedy merchants. Guards kept a keen eye out for thieves; those very theives took care to stay away from the guards as they tried to swipe goods from the merchants. All turned to look at Eosia and her band as they passed, if even for just a moment. Foreigners were not exactly uncommon to the city, although it was rare for so many foreign women to pass through.

The guard blanched as he caught sight of a lamia and rather angry northerner, making sure to advert his gaze as they passed nearby. "Usually the city isn't quite so busy." He commented. "But with the prince summoning up the levies and keeping them nearby..."

In all honesty, Eosia could barely understand a word the guard was saying, so she simply nodded and grunted at him. In the palace it was different; not much was going on. But it's been years since she's seen commerce like this. Her eyes widened at the sight of the snake creature, but knowing better, said nothing. While the markets worried her, her women all giggled and laughed at the various sights. One of them spoke up.

"Eosia, could we return later?" Eosia's eyes darted between the carts and stalls, bickering and laughter.

"Eh...yes...perhaps." She looked down to find her hand at the pommel of her sword, and quickly removed it. "Where are horses? They at house?" she asked the guard.

"Yes mi'lady" The guard was quick to respond. "The Duchess was quite clear that your horses and cargo were to be treated with care."

Some of the women farther to the back were muttering to each other in Scaveni. "I wouldn't mind him handling me with care!" One shieldmaiden said to another. At this, most of the shieldmaidens started laughing, while Eosia barked back at them in Scaveni, then looked the guard, sheepishly embarassed. 

The guard let out a laugh as well and gave a quick shake of his head. "You'd best be careful" He called to the women over his shoulder. "Most people in this region would take your words seriously."

The shieldmaiden who said her comment smiled at him. "Who say they aren't?" and winked. Eosia blushed and put her palm in her hand. "I sorry. They...not meet new man in a time."

The guard simply laughed again. "Don't worry. This region of the world isn't exactly shy about sex." He gave Eosia a wide smile before giving the shieldmaiden an exaggerated wink. "The teachings of Eros and all that. Though.... we're moderate when compared to the Riawins."

At that moment a merchant, perhaps seeing a foreign woman as an easy source of wealth, pushed his way to the crowd. It was not an easy task for him, his rolls of fat making him less than agile. "A pretty necklace for a pretty woman" The merchant said as he reached the group, holding a golden necklace out towards Eosia. "For a pretty thing like you I'll reduce the price!"

"Back off" The guard said with a sigh.

"What do you say mi'lady?" The merchant said, completely ignoring the guard.

Eosia looked at him with a frank face. Up until now she'd acted somewhat nervous and reserved, eager to make a good impression on the leaders of this nation. But she knew she didn't need to impress this man. She quickly grabbed the necklace from the merchant's hand, knowing that he couldn't stop her if he wanted to, and studied it closely. "Not pretty." She then looked at it closer. "And...not gold." She looked to her women and said the Scaveni word for fool's gold, and tossed it back to the fat man, who didn't manage to catch it. "Eat less, work more. Maybe start to sell good necklace." She turned away from him and began walking towards the manor. She had no respect for anyone who would try to bilk people out of their belongings...she'd seen enough of that on the road.

"That guy is liable to run foul of a merchant one day" The guard muttered. "And then that'll be the end of that." To their right they passed a pair of street performers. One was balancing on one hand, with an apple resting atop each foot, as the other skillfully threw knives into those apples. The guard paused for a moment to drop a bronze coin into a bucket near the performers.

Eosia searched her person for a coin, but couldn't find any. She found herself surprised when one of her shieldmaidens dropped a whole purse of coins into the bucket. "Nidd, where'd you get that?" She asked.

Nidd motioned to the fat merchant, who was now patting over his body with a worried look on his face. "Snagged it while he was bent over." Eosia sighed as Nidd laughed histerically, and went over to the guard.

"We should move," she said, looking behind her as the merchant figured out what happened.

"I'm going to remain oblivious to what just happened" The guard muttered. It took the group another ten minutes to reach the Duchess's estate. In terms of estates it was fairly small, a decent sized mansion surrounded by a wall, with surprisingly little yard space around it. A pair of soldiers stood guard at the gate, with a few more visible on the inside. Even so the estate seemed sparcely guarded.

"Here we are." The guard said as they approached the estate's gate. The two soldiers standing guard opened the gate and gestured for the group to move on through. "This will be where we part ways. Oh, and should any of you care for my presence I can be found at a tavern called the Drunken Lamia." He rendered a low bow intended for the group as a whole.

The sheildmaiden who winked at him earlier cocked her head. "Drun-kin Lamb-e uh...you buy me drink?" She stepped closer to him as her fellow warriers snickered behind her.

"Of course." He answered.

She put her fist to her chest and giggled, then returned to her group, as they went into the manor, looking around them in wonder at the building they'd be sleeping in. The entrance of the mansion opened up into a fairly large hall. Paintings of, what could only be assumed to be, the Duchess's family lined the walls. A rug that wasn't quite ornate covered the floor. A few servants could be seen towards the back of the entry hall, cleaning a pair of vaces and putting new flowers into them.

"The Duchess sent word to expect you." An older man, probably in his sixties, limped over to the group. A nasty looking scar, which ran from his hairline over his left eye to the corner of his mouth, gave him the appearance of scowling despite his attempts at a smile. "Shall I have the cook prepare dinner or would you ladies prefer to wait for the Duchess's return?"

One of the warrior woman's eyes lit up at dinner. "Dinner?" Eosia gave her a stern look, then looked back to the old man.

"We wait for host...eh...what is you name?" She looked to his scar with sympathy in her eyes, knowing better than to ask about it.

"Ah how rude of me" The man either missed or ignored the look she gave him. "I'm Kerman. I serve the Duchess as her Seneschal. Before that I served at her side in battle till..." He smacked one of his thighs with his fist. "Pike got me." He finished with a shrug. "Well since you will be waiting for dinner shall I show you to our guest wing?"

"Eh...yes...armor is heavy," Eosia said with an awkward laugh. She fidgeted around, with sweat beads glazing her forehead, her scale armor clanking as she moved.

"Of course." Kerman said, leading the way towards the end of the entry hall. "I hate to admit it," He continued, "but the estate isn't designed for so many guests. We've had to clear some space in what is normally the servants quarters. I hope you don't mind. All but yourself and nine of your companions will have to stay here" He gestured towards a hallway that led to the right "in the servant wing. They will show your companions to their rooms." A pair of servants rendered low bows as the group approached.

"Straight forward" Kerman gestured towards another hall, "is the main part of the estate where the dinning hall and most other facilities can be found. And here," He led them to a hall to the left, "Leads the way to the Duchess's and guest rooms where the rest of you will be staying. We've arranged it so your nine remaining companions will have three rooms between them, with you having your own personal room. Is there anything else I can do to be of service?"

Eosia looked down the hall longingly for a real bed, but then turned back to Kerman. "Eh...where are horses? And our things?" Many of the shieldmaidens had already went into the servant wing and flopped down on the floor.

"The stables are right past the servant wing. There's a door at the end of the hall that opens within line of sight of it. Your cargo has been moved to a storage room. We'll be happy to move any and all of into your rooms if you wish."

"Eh...no, it okay..." She gazed down the hall. "Show me my room?"

"Ah yes. It's right here." He limped over to a door and opened it up. "Please make yourself at home."

The princess nodded, and walked into the room, finding herself unlatching her armor, revealing the tunic she was wearing underneath. He stared at the bed, slowly moving towards it, and moved her hand up and down the bedpost, feeling the texture of the wood. She was surprised to find herself salivating, and then, almost at random, collapsed on the bed, immediately falling asleep.

The next morning she was awoken by a loud whinnie and some yelling. Rushing outside, she saw the horse she brought as a gift for the duchess bucking at some guards and servants. She rushed forward, with a hand raised, and yelled, "Hod! Hod!"  The horse raised its front legs at her, letting out a large winnie, while she simply responded with some shushes. Recognizing her, it began to calm down, and she slowly moved forward, and placed her hand on his nose, calmly saying, "Ren, ren," repeatedly, and petting him. She looked to the guards. "What happened?"

"Not sure mi'lday." One of the guards answered, his sentiment mirrored by several nodding servants. "One of the servants found him wandering around just a few minutes ago. He must have broken out of the stable somehow."

She looked around, and noticed a servant who had been working on the roof, his hands covered in black tar. "You...you approach him?"

"Uh... yes." She nodded.

"Your hands...scare him." She led the horse back to the stable. "He okay now, just...clean hands if you touch him."

"Of course mi'lday" The various servants and guards excused themselves and went about their business, the last one leaving just as a pair of familiar figures stepped into view.

"We just don't have those kinds of numbers" Kerman was saying, eliciting a sharp shake of the head from the Duchess. "Lynette we-"

"We need to find them." The duchess cut him off. "With the threat of an invasion of Riawin and now this new army in the East..." She trailed off as she caught sight of Eosia. "We'll continue this talk later Kerman."

"Of course." Kerman rendered a bow to both the duchess and Eosia before turning and leaving.

"How was your night?" The Duchess asked as she approached Eosia.

Eosia embarradly looked down at her clothes, the same clothes she had worn the day before. "Eh...good. It was good." She felt strange openly wearing civilian clothes like this. "I sorry about the horse...he...seen much battle. Sometimes he forgets when a battle ends." As she said this, the horse was contentedly eating some hay that was strewn about on the floor.

"Haven't we all?" Suddenly the duchess sounded much older than she actually was. After a moment she simply shrugged. "You must have been exhausted. You slept straight through dinner and breakfast."

At the duchess's mention of it, Eosia suddenly found her stomach grumbling. "Oh, eh, yes...could I possibly..." one of the shieldmaidens, the one who had been talking up the guard the day before, walked out, with a loaf of bread in her hand. In Scaveni, she said to Eosia, "Took this from breakfast. Here." She tossed it to Eosia.

"Thank you, Ysa. What was dinner?" Ysa blushed.

"I wasn't here for dinner," the young girl said, biting her lip with her hands clasped behind her back. Eosia rolled her eyes.

"Of course you weren't. Go on." Ysa nodded, putting her fist to her chest and turned to leave, nodding at the Lynette. Eosia groaned.

"How my soldier so...man crazed?!" she exclaimed, taking a bite of the bread.

For a moment Lynette's only response was a cocked eyebrow. Afte a moment she asked "And you find that to be unusual?"

Eosia too raised an eyebrow. "Yes...wait...what you mean?" Eosia thought back to what the guard said yesterday about the area being liberal with sex, and leaned against the stable. Was the duchess unmarried and...not a virgin?

Lynette simply laughed and patted Eosia on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it." She looked Eosia up and down before adding "If you find us odd you'll think the Riawins are downright insane."

Eosia nodded, feigning understanding...from what she's heard, she wouldn't be a fan of these 'Riawins'. She waited for a few moments, eating the bread, then asked. "You have a husband?"

"What?" Lynette gave her a startled look. "Um... No. Why do you ask?"

Eosia's eyebrows raised at Lynette's response. "I am sorry!" She sighed, and added, "My people...most have husband by your age. Mine too. But I have no husband." She looked down, somewhat ashamed of the fact.

"Ah. Well that is the norm here as well." Lynette said with a slight nod. "Its not unusal to be betrothed before turning sixteen. But... well that wasn't the path laid out for me." She shrugged. "And there's more to life than being married anyways."

Eosia nodded, then asked, "Bet-roat...what is this?"

"To be betrothed is to be promised to marry." Lynette answered.

"Oh..." Suddently, Eosia seemed saddened. "I was...bet-roat. At birth."

"Guess Fate had a different plan for both of us then." Lynette gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. She lingered for a moment before saying "I'm afraid I must leave to attend some business at the palace. Perhaps we will speak again over dinner."

Eosia nodded, not looking up from the floor.

Later, after Eosia had gotten bathed and redressed, she walked into the room that all her shieldmaidens were in. They were singing and playing various native Scaveni instruments, with a few guards and servants hanging around them. When Eosia walked in, all of the shieldmaidens burst out laughing. Eosia grew red in the face. "It was all they had!" she yelled in Scaveni. One of the guards looked around in confusion.

"I don't get it, what is so humurous?" one of the guards asked. Nidd snorted, and pointed to her commander. 

"She is in a dress!" Eosia groaned, and sat down on the floor. After about five minutes of laughter and jokes, the rest of the shieldmaidens heard a familiar tune one of their comrades was playing. They began growing silent, as the girl began singing in Scaveni.

Down where the wind blows the leaves off the  trees,
And dwarves stood tall, their heads at your knees,
There lies the home of the men of the Knots,
A land that is lost, but a land not forgot.

The shieldmaiden singing this began tearing up, and moved to set aside her instrument. "Keep playing,"
Eosia requested, and the shieldmaiden looked at her hesitantly, then started playing the tune again. Eosia looked around her, and to the surprise of her subordinates, she began to sing.

Oh carry me, oh winds of Aea,
Bury me in flowers and mead,
And though times may be dark, through our will and our labor,
We'll be back in Scavenia, at least in our dreams.

More of the shieldmaidens began playing their instruments, and some of them started to harmonize with each other, a haunting and old ballad tossing itself into whichever ears would accept them. All knowing the song, the women began singing as a whole.

Down where the river babbles like a madman,
But the water tastes fresh, smooth like fine satin,
And our heroes, our comrades, their bodies there lie,
But though the land may be lost, the people won't die,

The women went back into the chorus, and began going through it a few more times, tears visibly streaming down many of their faces.

"A beautiful song from a group of beautiful ladies" A man said from where he was leaning against the side of the doorway. He his blonde hair and short beard gave his handsome face a rugged look. "Its a pity I couldn't understand the words." If there was any dishonesty in his words, they didn't show in his eyes. "I had heard that Lynette had some interesting guests, but the rumors don't do you justice."

Eosia stared at the man blankly while some of the women wiped the tears from their eyes.' Who are you?" she said, almost angrily, without bothering to move from her place on the floor.

"Ah for once my reputation doesn't precede me." The man gave her a warm smile. "Aldrick Cuvier at your service." He rendered a low bow, enhanced by a sweeping motion of his right arm. "I am a... good friend of the duchess. And you mi'lady?"

At his bow, the shieldmaidens burst out laughing. Ysa looked to Eosia, and in Scaveni asked "Do you think he fucks men?" Eosia chuckled for once, and crossed her arms, looking him up and down. "I am not sure," she replied in her native tongue, "I will ask him." She looked him square in the eyes, and with a stern face asked. "Do you...fuck men?"

"Nope. Do you?" He answered without missing a beat. He cocked an eyebrow as he waited for her response.

Eosia shook her head, an empty expression on her face. "No." Nidd tossed her an apple. "Women," she lied, as she took a bite from the fruit. A few of the shieldmaidens who understood the exchange started snickering quietly.

"What a coincidence!" Aldrick gave her a wide smile. "So do I! What kind of woman do you find attractive?"

The princess, still eating the apple, didn't saying anything in response, only nodding over to Nidd, who in turn turned around to Aldrick and waved at him with a grin. Nidd, though attractive, was far more muscular than Eosia, though not as skilled a warrior.

"If I had to guess..." Aldrick waved back at Nidd. "I'd peg you as the type to like strong women. And by strong I mean strength in character. Hmmm...." He started to walk over to Nidd even as he continued to speak to Eosia. "Fair hair and skin? Or are you more into tanned ladies?"

Eosia shrugged. Nidd reached suddly for a knife in her belt. Not at all fluent in the language Aldrick was speaking, she began speaking to Eosia in Scaveni. "What's he doing, is he coming onto me?" Eosia sighed. "No, he's just being a fool." Switching back to his language, she said to Aldrick, "Eh...fair. Skin and hair."

"Ah yes. Fair, yet strong, maidens are the best are they not?" Aldrick shot Eosia another friendly smile. "And of course one who speaks her mind and stands up for what she thinks is right is the best of all, wouldn't you say?"

The Scaveni Princess rolled her eyes and sighed.  How long would he keep yammering? "Yes. The best." Nidd still stared at him with unblinking eyes, though her hand had been taken off of her blade.

"I thought as much" His smile widened further, though whether that was because he was correct or due to the servant girl that had sauntered up to him and taken his arm in her own was unclear. Either way there was now a hard to miss mischievious glint in his eyes. "Why it sounds to me -and please correct me if I'm wrong- but it sounds to me like our fair duchess is exactly the type of woman you find attractive."

Not realizing what he said at first, Eosia rolled her eyes and started saying, "Y-" when she understood what he said. "NO!" She shouted, red in the face. Still not understanding the language, though understanding the shouting, Nidd quickly stood up, knife in hand, and went behind him, arm around his neck and knife pointed at his groin. "What happened, did he threaten you?" she asked in Scaveni.

Aldrick did his absolute best not to laugh and failed, letting out a long chuckle dispite the knife pointed at his groin. His laugh only intensified when one of the servant girls let out a squeel of delight, practically bounced over to Eosia, and grabbed hold of her hands as she yelled "We'll root for you!"

The mood in the room shifted when the servant girl fell to the floor, nose bloodied and broken. Eosia looked down on her, then to her first, still clenched tightly, glazed in red blood. Then she realized what happened. Last thing she remembered, Aldrick was laughing. Then an Einherjar Legionnaire rushed at her-no, that's not right. It was just the girl, making some stupid joke. Suddenly, her face filled with worry, and she collapsed to the girl's side.

"I am sorry! I...I didn't mean to..." Nidd sighed, and relaxed, letting Aldrick go, muttering, "Good fucking job," in Scaveni. If some of the shieldmaidens didn't know better, they would've sworn there were tears in Eosia's eyes.

The guards present had jumped to their feet, hands on the hilts of their swords. They hadn't drawn them yet, hadn't reacted beyond that as they seemed unsure as to what to do. Aldrick cleared his throat and made a lowering motion with his hand and, as a group, the guards seemed to settle back down. After a moment he commented "Well that joke went bad quick."

He walked over to Eosia and the fallen servant and fell down to a knee next to the girl. "Ah" He said as he rolled her over gently. "Looks like you got her pretty good." The girls nose was bent at an awkward angle, blood flowing freely from it. "But nothing we can't take care of at the temple."

He looked Eosia in the eyes, a look of understanding in his, as he quietly said "This isn't a battleground."

Eosia sniffed in, and took a deep breath. "The whole world is battleground." She stood up. "Just not all of it has been fought on." One of the shieldmaidens grabbed a bucket of water, and Eosia dipped her hand in it, the red of the girl's blood mixing in with the clear liquid, until the whole of the bucket was a murky brown. Eosia sat there for a moment, a tear dropping from her eye, giving one spot in the bucket a moment of clarity, before she turned to look at Aldrick again.

"I am Eosia, daughter of Vorin the King, child of House Jorgenson."

Whatever burns turns to ash. Men, trees, books, dogs. All burn into ashes. These thoughts filled Njorald's head as he stared into the hearth. It was snowing in Djerka. It always snowed in Djerka, the northernmost port in Velen. It wasn't too bad, but the sky was bleak and gray, and the Prince stared out into the ocean, which reflected the shadows of the cloudy sky. His eyes darted a little lower to the ships being prepared. Tomorrow, their portion of the invasion of Askor began.

People still walked the streets, but there was little joy, more just human cattle shuffling around to where they needed to go. The only people who seemed somewhat happy were some of the more ardent Veleni warriors, with large axes and tattoos covering their bodies.

Velen was hurt far less than most of the other Einherjar...or, as Veleni were supposed to call them, Nouven, vassals, with not nearly as much massacre and torture that followed their surrender. Because of this, the armies of Velen were expected to perform far better, and much more was expected out of them. This was why many of the other Nouven vassals, as well as the Nouven themselves, refered to them as dogs. Njorald breathed the cold, burnt air, and sat down on the deck of his estate in Djerka. He moved his hand over the heat of the flame to feel the warmth, and unconciously, he hand began moving closer and closer to the burning fire.

"Go ahead, grasp the flames" A deep voice said from behind Njorald. The air suddenly seemed cooler, as if someone had opened up a window. The clanking of plate armor grew louder as the figure stepped closer to the prince. "Perhaps I won't torture your countrymen if you torture yourself." The Einherjar commander said.

At hearing Llyr's voice, Njorald stood immediately, removing the hand from the fire and placing it over his chest, staring blankly ahead. "My lord, my deepest apologies, I did not hear you come in." He felt a deep, aching fear rise up inside of him, the same fear he felt when he saw his father's bloody corpse twenty years ago.

"You'd best stay vigilant" Llyr's tone belied the smile hidden behind his helmet, "least you share your father's fate." The Einherjar always seemed to enjoy mentioning Njorald's father. "Lord Goscelin has already begun," He continued after a moment, "and soon it will be your turn. Do you understand your role?"

The Prince nodded. "Of course, my lord. I am to invade the nomads north of Cormyral, to quell whatever future threat they may hold to your endevours, as well as to take as many slaves to provide your lordship with whatever labor you may need." He went through his head, thinking of anything he might have left out...it did not go well when he did.

Llyr gave a slight nod of his head. "Show no mercy. It matters not if the rats you bring back in chains are in less than good condition. In fact... I expect you to personally flog the first hundred you catch."

Sighing in relief for having not missed anything, Njorald said, "Of course, my lord." He waited a moment, visibly sweating as he made the following request. "And...my lord...if it isn't too much trouble...the people of this town...their winter provisions were confiscated to feed our invasion force...if your greatness could maybe find some food in surplus to replace it..."

"Oh?" The air seemed to become even more chilled than before. "You need not concern yourself with the townsfolk. Soon they will not need to be concerned about food." There was no warmth in his voice, only trace amounts of amusement.

Njorald expected his skin to go cold, for some rage to build inside of him. He wasn't all too surprised, however, when he felt nothing. He simply nodded, with a bleak look on his face.

Sometimes he wondered if the rumors were true. He had been told that the Scaveni were brutally massacred, that no survivors remained, and all things to remember them by turned to ash. But there were rumors that persisted, in the darkest rooms, the quietest voices, that the Scaveni still lived. Not in their land of course. But that they lived in the hundreds of thousands, far, far to the west. Of course, if he ever brought this up to his overlords, he'd get a hand cut off, or a city massacred, or something of the sorts. But every so often he contemplated if, back as an adolescent, he should have gone with them in their migration.

Llyr observed Njorald for a moment before giving a slight nod of his head. "You have, by serving us, served the Goddess well. Perhaps she will, in time, allow you to truly join our ranks. But only if you show true dedication to the cause."

He turned to leave as he said "I will be watching your progress with great interest young prince. Remember that."

"I would be honored to recieve your approval," Njorald replied.  He waited for a solid five minutes after Llyr left before he finally relaxed...to the extent that he could. He turned back to the sea, and looked back to the flame.

Of course the Scaveni didn't survive. That's just rumors tortured women make up to find comfort. But perhaps Njorald should follow suit with his old allies. And burn to ash.

Gold/Aristo



A coastal wind ruffled Yadira’s garments as she stood at the top of the ramp, flanked by a number of bodyguards and attendants. The climate was different from Hyrkos, humid and tropical, and tiny beads of sweat formed on her brow. This had been her first real foray outside of her homeland, both a source of excitement and nervousness to the young princess.
There were burly shiphands with weather-tanned skin running up and down the docks, a bustle of commotion in languages Yadira didn’t understand, and the odor of the salty ocean fought with the spices of nearby markets. Already, the Hyrkossian had started to feel quite overwhelmed. Over the journey, she’d developed a reflex to reach for the white pedant in times of unease, and now it was nestled in her grip above her bosom.

From amidst the crowds and bustling of the docks below the ramp, a set of brown eyes marked out Yadira. That must be her, a thought passed through the lurker’s mind. Moving closer to the path she must take to enter the markets and exit the docking area he kept his eyes trained on her, only a slight pain in the head taking his attention elsewhere.

With her vessel in the hands of the Hyrkossian crew, Yadira composed herself and stepped down to the docks, her men in tow. One hundred and eight Tagmata, mail glinting in the sun, followed her, horses in tow. Their appearance stirred the locals nearby, pausing from their knots to gaze at the foreign procession. The crowd parted before Yadira, at the head of the mailed snake that crept from the ship to land.

A ways through the bustle, the march of the Hyrkossians was halted as a stranger stood in Yadira’s path, not parting with the crowd. The stranger pulled back a weathered hood, revealing the dark face of a Sakabanatu tribesman, a scar burned into his head of a handprint, and the bagged eyes of an alcoholic.

“Princess Yadira?” Mozkurtuta confidently asked, a desert accent whooping his words, or perhaps it was the drinks of the previous night. Stepping forward he knew his long and strange journey from the desert was finally at an end, and after going through such a distance and even an exile by trial, he was glad to be in front of the strange woman that an even stranger ghost told him to seek out.

Bowing lowly he cryptically finished his question, “I believe it is divine fate that we are to meet, destiny even.”

A Tagmata on Yadira’s right stepped forward and gestured defensively, but Yadira held his arm and brought herself before the stranger. She could not place his accent, having been accustomed only to men of the west, but his appearance and manner suggested he was no local. She could not be sure how he knew of her name, let alone that she would be found here, but after her experience with Ishtar weeks prior, she’d prepared herself for future oddities.

“Men believe a lot of things,” she answered, drawing herself up to full height. “I don’t believe you to be a representative of Cormyral, yet you stand ready to receive me anyway.”

Mozkurtuta lifted a single finger, but stood in silence. It was true he had no idea he would get this far, or even what to do to convince her to listen to what he had to say, but he did know one thing, either you believe the tribe drunk or you don’t. His look of surprise turned into a small welcoming smile, trying his best to look like a wizened man of the desert, “I come from the heart of the desert, Princess, tasked by the spectres of the sand and canals themselves to seek you out and share with you dire information, I only wish for your ear in privacy.”

Yadira was about to speak when she felt a warm throb at her chest, a pulsating that came from the stone around her neck. For a very brief moment, her mind was clear of all thoughts, save for one, that beckoned her: Go.

“...As Ishtar wills it,” she exhaled. “Lead on, if you have a place for my men and I.” It was suddenly clear to Yadira that her goddess would lead her by the hand at each twist and turn, and whatever grand plan Ishtar had for her, she was to be Her instrument. “And because you know mine, I think it only fair I ask your name as well.”

“Mozkurtuta,” Mozkurtuta said with a bow of his head, “and I know of a few higher up inns that could accommodate us for the evening, I assume your highness brought coin with her.”

He almost added “I’m a little strapped,” but then thought better of it, “this way!” He turned on his heel.

    A small boat bobbed softly in the shallow waters of the Sakabanatu shore. An old man sat in the center, carefully watching the ties of a net cast under the gleaming ripples. The sun baked his handprint tattoed bald head and freckled his brown cheeks, but this was nothing new in the lands of Sakabanatu for even by the shore, the sandy beaches only forshadowed the endless sand of the desert that laid beyond the salty sea breeze. Only the hardiest plants clung to the coast, bringing about the usual reptiles and even a few desert mammals to walk the gentle coast. 

    The man, however, was old and so he knew the water just as well as he did the ruthless sands of Sakabantu, in fact he was the very brother of Father Juntu of one of the larger tribes of the trade river to the far south, and only became a fisherman at the teachings of an old Ardir native up in Tarkima. One could say this old man, Father Tarko, kept the tradition of friendship with the Ardir of the north as well as fellowship with those who revere the ways of Sakabanatu.
    
    Tarko himself had long left the busier life of the trade river and retired with his small tribe of six to the northern coast, content with fishing and retiring in a sea side yurt every night. he knew it wouldn't last forever, and soon he will be gone from this world and he found it very unlikely his sons and daughters would continue to live by the lonely coast and opt for the more activity filled dunes and canals of his people, but for now, he will continue to fish and teach his children for the coming days they return to the heart of the desert. 
    
    Behind him he knew his eldest watched him from the saddle of a small desert horse, old yet quick, much like himself. The boy was more of a man now a days, but Tarko still dragged him to the shore to help fish and hunt for crabs. He knew his son grew impatient, bag full of squirming crustaceans and horse stamping the wet sand. 
    
    At that moment, seemingly out of nowhere, a black dot appeared in the sky above them. As it grew closer, it was revealed to be a raven, large and black, with its beak hooked and sharp. The seabreeze fluttering through its ebony feathers, it descended down next to Tarko, its obsidian body contrasting starkly with the white of the sand. Turning itself to look at the old man, it cocked its head inquisitively, its silky tailfeathers raised high above its torso.
    
    Tarko looked down at the bird perched on the rim of his humble boat. A crinkled old smile formed on his face, "well hello there friend." 
    
    Just beyond the obscurity of the coastal fog, Skayna sat at the bow of a ship crosslegged, her eyes void and dark like coal. "Hello to you too!" She replied to the old man. Of course, it's not as if Tarko could hear her. But she could hear him. And see him.
    
    Skayna's raven hopped around excitedly, then turned to face Tarko's son, mounted on horseback. The slaver frowned. "Well this will be a problem." At this, the raven screeched and flew forward, darting directly at the son, plunging its beak into his shoulder, and stratching furiously at his torso.
    
    The son dropped his basket of crabs and flailed wildly in surprise, his feet slipping from the saddle and himself falling backwards off the horse, in turn spooking the old beast and sending it running in a puff of sand. With a quick hand, the son snagged the raven at last, his hand holding the flapping bird away from him by the neck and head, as one would hold an angry chicken.
    
    "Gizon!" Tarko cried out, jumping to his feet and nearly capsizing his tiny boat, "Gizon are you okay!?"
    
    "Yes, father," The son slowly rose to his feet, raven still in hand, "seems your friend is a little.."
    
    Tarko shrugged, sitting back down, "as long as everyone is okay."
    
    "Should I go after Jukku?" Gizon motioned to the trailing cloud of sand that lingered at the horse's retreat.
    
    "Jukku is smart, he knows where home is," Tarko answered, "however we should get the crabs home, eh?"
    
    He jutted a chin at the escaping crabs, the little creatures skuttling eagerly towards the shore and prompting Gizon to jump after them.
    
    "FUCKING...ASS...DICK...SHIT...PISS!" Skayna screeched from the boat. "LET...GO!" By this point, the Veleni fleet was close enough for Gizon and Tarko to hear her.
    
    Like a roach crawls from under a table, nearly 500 ships withdrew themselves from the mist, creeping up to the shore. At the front was Skayna's ship, largest of them all, with the usual raven sail painted over with the red triple wave of Njorald, who stood behind her, clad in plate armor, already regretting its weight, with the sun piercing through him like nails in a coffin.
    
    Aboard these ships, most of the men wore no shirt or coverings for their bodies. One of these men was Skulvar, the werewolf berserker, who, with battle axe in hand stared at the two natives, nearly salivating at the sight. Then he caught eyes with Njorald, who gave a stern shake of the head. Nearby, Awnar leaned against the mast of a ship, adorned by a long, black, robe, with a scythe in hand.

    "Father..." Gizon stood speechless at the sight before him, anxiety growing in his stomach. His much more mellow father; however, seemed in the right of mind.
    
    "Do not worry, son" Tarko remained seated, "even now the ghosts watch over us." With a sly wink he tapped the hand print on his head, as if reminding his son of the ghosts. With a satisfied smile, Gizon tapped a small tattoo of an index finger on his own, beneath his black curls. Tarko, ever the giver of hope smiled back and slid his oar into the shallows to begin paddling back to the shore to be by his boy. 
    
    "MOTHER...FUCKER!" Finally, the raven, dragging a claw across Gizon's wrist, managed to wrestle out of the boy's grasp, and fluttered off to Skayna, who accepted the bird on her arm, color entering back into her eyes as the raven gained self control, hopping down to peck at a seagull someone shot down. "You piece of shit!" Skayna screamed at Gizon. Njorald walked forward, muttured to her to calm down, and stood at the front. As the ship slid up onto the beach, the Prince, Skayna, and his personal guard lept down from the vessel, as other landing ships began to do to the same. Placing his hand on the pommel of his sword, Njorald approached the two men.
    
    Old Tarko stood between the foreigners and his faithful son, he raised a single palm, "please, do not disrespect my boy, this is a land of friends, and family... not foe."
    
    Njorald looked between the two men...this land, untained by the darkness that has consumed his home. This father and his son...not unlike him and his father, unslain by the cruel blade of his overlords. He wanted to feel sorrow, sympathy. Instead, he felt a rage start to build in him. He drew closer. "On your knees."
    
    Tarko pointed to the desert, a suspicious eye could've sworn some of the sand moved where he had pointed, "you hold no authority here, the ghosts watch this land. If you do not come with open arms, I must suggest you do not come at all. If you want food, I will feed you, drink, I will make sure you are full, sleep, I will make you a bed, family, you may sit between my children, but blood, power, and conquest, we have none here."
    
    Honor. The Prince remembered this. His father had it, just as much, if not more, than the old man before him. Skayna came up from behind him, the raven on her shoulder, scowling deeply at Gizon. She held a 
cat o nine tail in her hands, handing it off to Njorald. Gritting his teeth, he inhaled deeply, and repeated, slower and through clenched teeth, "On...your...knees."

    Tarko stood strong, the sun glowing against his dark skin as he stood balwark between danger and the land and family he loved, "strike me, and all chances of forgiveness will be in question. Strike me and be cursed, as you hit me and my heart in front of the ghosts of compassion."
    
    "Father," Gizon muttered.
    
    "We have nothing to bow to here, nothing to kneel for, son," Tarko ushered his son back with a hand, "in peace and love we are all kings, in empathy we are rulers of our fate. We live for an idea, and while pain may strike my skin, son, never will it touch the idea gifted to us so long ago." 
    
    Tarko stepped forward towards the whip wielding man, "I warn you, son of long lost, I am king of that single grain you stand on, and I only share it with all who ever needed another."
    
    Njorald stared at him, baffled. He had found himself surprised as he took a step back. He stared to the ground. He thought of this man before him. What the Prince now called foolishness he would once call bravery; what he now calls an enemy he would once call friend.
    
    Then he thought to home. To the tired, blank faces, shuffling around; pale white specks squirming through a pitch darkness. He thought to the face of Llyr; so amused at how he would massacre a town that served him. Finally he thought on a truth that he had known for years; there can only be so many homes in this world. Not everyone can be afforded one.
    
    He moved his head up, though not making eye contact with Tarko. "Please." His voice was shaking. Gasps and murmers spread like fire throughout his crowd of warriors. Awnar, scythe still in hand, had lept onto the land, and was now approaching the scene. "Just get on your knees."

    Tarko reached out slowly, the tips of his fingers touching the back of the clenched hand that bound the whip, "son..." a father's voice came from the old man, smoothed with compassion yet grained with every year lived.
    
    The Prince looked away from him, staring down into the sand. A single teardrop fell from his face, adding a drop of moisture into the beach below him. He stared at the droplet. For a second, he felt nothing. The next moment, Tarko was on the floor. Njorald looked down; the whip lying on the floor, unused. He had pushed him. Like a child pushes away medicine. He reached down for the whip, and raised it high above him, when he heard shuffling behind him. It was Awnar, who had stepped forward. Njorald, visibly shuddering, barked, "What?!" 
    
    Awnar swallowed, looking around at his 'comrades'. Holding back his fear, he leaned against his polearm, and looked at Njorald, plainly saying, "You know the system."
    
    Njorald nodded, his eyes strangely grateful. He looked to Gizon, and in a much calmer, though still dictatorial voice, commanded, "Kneel!"

    Gizon shook with anxiety, unsure as he stared at his father. The old man slowly sat up. Tarko locked eyes with his scared son, and without a word he pointed back at the desert. Gizon slowly followed his finger, his gaze getting lost in one of the dunes off the shore. For a second he felt it, for a second he saw it, the sand moved, and two eyes stared back at him, and he gasped, then the sight was gone. Looking back at Njorald he shook his head, and clenched his fists.
    
    "I can't," he answered, a little more than fright in his voice. 
    
    Njorald almost seemd like he was about to nod. Before he could, Skayna had moved forward, landing her first square in his gut. "Just get down, idiot!" Forcing him to floor, the slaver pressed his body into the hot sand, her knee in his back. One of her men brought her a chain.
    
    "Now you'll know what it's like for someone to hold you down, !"

    With a puff of sand, Tarko sprung into action, the discipline of the Sondoper dance awakening with in him at the pain of his son. Spinning on his shoulders his legs shot out and he burst through the cloud of sand, landing square in front of Skayna, "unhand him, I cannot promise your well being if you do not."
    
    The Sondoper scholar tapped the palm on his head, and squared his shoulders, knees bending in a unique fighting stance.
    
    Skayna looked up at the old man. Then she looked down at the boy. Then back to the old man. "Fine!" She stood up, throwing the chain at the ground, then pointing at Gizon accusedly. "But I want an apology!"
    
    Gizon looked up at the woman incrediously, "I'm sorry." he apologized, "and now you?" 
    
    "Not to me!" she said. She nodded to the bird on her shoulder, who stared at Gizon, head cocked, the boy's blood still stained on its beak.
    
    "But th-" Gizon started.
    
    Tarko grunted.
    
    "I'm sorry," Gizon sighed, "and you?"
    
    "AHH!" Njorald shouted. "You are not in the position of power here!" He stared at the two men. "You...you are lucky! LUCKY!" He turned away from them, head shaking. "They are not here...they are not here!" He stopped, breathing in deeply, and turned back to the two of them, his regal stature regained. Teeth gritted, he stared dead eyed at Gizon. "Take...what you can!" 
    
    Before Gizon could speak, Tarko interupted, "why are we in this position in the first place? Why are you bringing hate here?"
    
    Njorald waited, looking at him. Then, he did something he did for the first time in twenty years; he laughed. But not a healthy, hearty laugh. A sinister, deranged laugh, like a hyena. He looked to the old man. "Do you not know? The hate was here...just simply ignored!" The massive Skulvar had stepped forward. As the arguing grew more intense, it seemed as though he was growing hairier. Njorald continued his laughing, as he turned around. "How do they not see the blood?" He muttered to himself. Skulvar looked at Tarko, grunting uneasily. He was holding something back.
    
    "I know of hate, and I know of hostility," Tarko answered, his own eyes returning Skulvar's stare, "I offer hospility, but the people and this desert are capable of the opposite. Grander armies have entered this land looking to take it, but there were no cities to seige, no food to eat, no water to drink, nothing to loot and no army to fight. Entire armies have been wiped away in a single night, not a battle stirred. This land eats hate, and those who bring harm do not survive. Every step walked in vain here is met by utter destruction, and there are many many ways that this destruction has been brought down upon the mightiest empires who set greedy eyes on this land, or jealous armies who sought to disrupt the sympathy of the land. There will be notihng for you here, not your army, not any other army, nothing, and those who disclaim this warning, do not exit the sands."
    
    Njorald nodded, taking in the information, before he looked back up to Tarko. "And that is why they sent me, isn't it?" He chuckled again. "You don't know! You...you don't know!" Skulvar started making a strange noise...a weird growl combined with a pant. Awnar looked at him uneasily, clasping his scythe tighter.
    
    "Who so ever sent you here out of hate, sent you here to condemn you," Tarko answered, "I offer freedom from that here, this is my gift."
    
    "And what of my kingdom? What of them! Can you free them! Free the huddled masses! Those who cower in their homes, though those too may be destroyed! Those whose fields have been burnt, daughters dishonored..." He choked back tears. "Fathers killed." He looked to each of his men; most of them shared that same experience. "Can you free them?" Skulvar began a low growl. Njorald paused a few moments to collect himself. "There is no freedom. There is no hate. There is only fear. And you can run from it, but it will chase you. And you can never run fast enough."

    "I can tell you what cannot free them," Tarko folded his hands together, "becoming what has enslaved you, spreading the will of those who defile you, and giving up on what they cannot touch, our ideas, our hopes, and unshakable will. I cannot solve your plight, but neither can this desert. I cannot fix any wrong, but I can tell you what can. Come, join my hand, and we will bring this information to my brother who will bring it to his brother and then to his brother, and before you would even know it, you shall see what I meant when I said this is the land of family and friends. This is your choice, under the beaten sun, this is your burden to lay, not mine. Choose where you stand, son, and plant your feet, for you will finish whatever is started, be that for the idea of freedom, or the idea of fright."
    
    Off to the side, Awnar found himself moved by these words, but said nothing. A glaze seemed to have fallen over Njorald's eyes. He turned away from Tarko. "I tire of this." By this point, the men had started unloading and pulling in the cargo. Long, wooden logs, being hauled in from the sea and left the dry in the sun; caskets of mead and fresh water, crates filled with chickens, goats, and a strange amount of ravens. Staring at the cargo being unloaded, the Prince spoke to Tarko and his son, without turning to face them. "Neither of you shall leave this place. If one of you does, the other shall die. Know this well." He stepped away, and a host of warriors stepped forward, surrounding them.
    
    Tarko shook his head, and turned to Gizon, "all of the desert will know of this declaration of war, and needless blood will be spilt, wasted on a fight meant for a greater evil. Beware the misguided hearts of man." 
    
    Gizon nodded, a grim expression on his face, covering fear.
    
    Tarko nodded in return, a solemn look on his face. 
    
    Njorald stepped out to the men unloading the cargo. "Pitch the tents, and set up a perimeter wall! I want this wall patrolled every minute, do you understand?" He saw some men chatting idly. "You, what are you doing?" One of them turned to him.
    
    "I'm sorry sir, we just-"
    
    "Nothing, get back in a ship, start fishing, we can't deplete our food supply." The soldiers nodded, and headed off for the ships. He looked at the horse transports finally arived; ten ships, each carrying twenty horses. He sighed, and turned to a nearby officer. "Assign these horses to men, and organize them into scouting parties. Send them out, and make sure to cover your tracks...have the compasses arrived?" The officer nodded. "Good, make sure not a single officer is lacking of one." He called to Skayna, and the girl approached him. "Skayna!" He said.
    
    It took a little bit before she realize he said her name. She looked at him. "Hm?"
    
    "How many are...like you?" he asked.
    
    "Oh, hardly any women sir."
    
    "No I mean...with the birds."
    
    "Oh! I'd say eh...around...50?" She huffed. "Of course, there's the one who can make them do tricks...but he doesn't count..." She seemed to lose focus.
    
    "Skayna!"
    
    "I HATE HIM!"
    
    "What?" Njorald seemed perplexed.
    
    "The one who can make them do tricks, I hate him! Why can't I make them do tricks? I can make them claw boys's brains out but I can't MAKE THEM DO A STUPID FUCKING TRICK!"
    
    Njorald stared at her blankly for a while. "So how many ravens do we have?"
    
    "Eh, hundred fifty, give or take."
    
    "Good, we'll have them get an aerial view...send them out." Skayna nodded, and walked off.
    
    Njorald looked out at the camp, then out to the desert. Again he thought back to the Scaveni. Why didn't the Einherjar kill their king? Why was it his father, his childhood destroyed, why did he become the pawn? If the Scaveni king, Vorin...if he was killed, and not his father...would it have been Njorald's father that went west, with Njorald faithfully by his side? And would they have met their demise? Or were the Scaveni...no. They weren't. If you oppose the Einherjar, you die. That's...that's fact.
    
    From atop the dune the ghost that had been watching stirred, it seemed to shake its head before vanishing in a cloud of sand. What enters the desert as foe, stays as grain. 
    
    A few hours later, a man approached Tarko and Gizon, and threw a bucket with a few salted fish in it at their feet. "Eat. I don't know which one of you's working, but figure it out!" With that, he stomped off.
    
    Gizon looked down at the fish and back up at his father, "these men are doomed."
    
    Tarko nodded slowly, "we did what we could, but let us continue before there is no turning back for them."

    Gizon sighed, "what of mother, no doubt Jukku made it home?"
    
    Tarko sighed and stood up from the stray log he sat on. Looking at the closest foreigner to him he gave a friendly nod, "I think me and my son are going to go home now. I'm fearful my wife might be worried."
    
    The Veleni warrior turned to him, and, after comprehending what Tarko said, burst out laughing. Then, in a serious tone, he said, "Well perhaps we should bring her to you?" He chuckled, and called out to the other warriors, "Hey, these ones need some more guards."
    
    Another warrior muttered, "How many guards do an old man and a child need?"
    
    It was at that moment that Awnar came stumbling out of a tent. His black religious robe had been removed, wearing only a loincloth covering his crotch. His back was covered in fresh cuts, the red blood dripping down and staining the sand. As he limped towards his own tent, he briefly made eye contact with Tarko, before avoiding his gaze.
    
    "Well shit," the guard said, "the price some pay for a stupid idea!"
    
    Tarko looked at the guards, "clearly you've never been married!" 
    
    Gizon spoke out, "you should send that man water," his chin jutting to the tent of Awnar, "bleeding openly without drink will kill him here, quicker than you might think. Even the ruthless are going to be forced to give up rage if they plan to walk two steps into this land."
    
    The guard looked at the boy, shrugging. "Well...maybe he deserves to dies...standing up for your old man like that." He sighed. "You two sure talk alot for prisoners."
    
    "Where I am standing," Tarko's warm smile faded into a serious line, "you are the prisoners, trapped in an illusion of labels and negative emotion. Your haste has already doomed you, for you set up a camp by a place with no fresh water, and every barrel brought will diminish the longer you set up claims as you do on this beach. Also, might I add, if you will not stand off to my side whilst I see to my wife, perhaps you would like to explain to her why I was late for dinner, then you will see that even the desert can seem soft and sweet."
    
    Gizon couldn't help but laugh off to his father's side. 
    
    The guard grew irritated. "And what of Awnar, eh? He did what was...was 'right'! And look what that got him, a shit ton of lashings that should've gone to you!" 
    
    "I cannot be blamed if you put authority behind a whip, and abide by the laws of violence and hate," Tarko suggested, his fatherly tone stern, "if none of you followed the laws of the whip, there would be no whip. It is not on my shoulders, but your own."
    
    Gizon recognized his father's tone, a classic repituar for his lectures whenever he had done something wrong growing up. 
    
    The guard threw down his shield. "Gah! I-" He stomped off. "Get someone else to watch the babbling fool, I'm done!"
    
    Awnar sat in his tent, the pain searing in his back. Was that worth it? Damn. He's thinking like Njorald now. At least he'd be out of fighting commision now. Fighting's what kept him fed, it's what kept him alive. It's what kept him useful. He didn't mind fighting. It was killing he didn't like.
    
     He moved his hand over his back, then looked at it. It was stained red.
    
     Better to bleed red than black  
    
    
    

Southern Cormyral
Several days had long passed since the unfortunate arrival of the Craitan Corsairs, the modest and nameless coastal town was now in ruin and lifeless, buildings torn down or charred, smoke still towering over the ruins. encircling the town were hundreds of tents set up hastily since the arrival, encircling the camp was a makeshift fence, any unused planks now acquisitioned by the corsairs combined with any spare lumber aboard the Craitan Vessels. All of the town's people had been herded into a small corner of the camp, small groups packed into wooden cells.

In the town center, Jarlan Urgan and his personal guard circled a pile of spare wood, now blazing with flames, feasting upon the town's stores of meat. "How much you think the whelps and wenches will fetch us?" A particularly burly Grogar and Jarlan's righthand, Gargin Zahc spoke.

"The usual." Jarlan replied as he gorged on leg of lamb. "Not enough for the riches we seek...we need something more....exotic." He paused a moment as he tore off the last bits of meat from the bone, tossing it aside to a moderately sized pile of chewed up bones. "Get used to the weather boys, we'll be here for quite a while. It'll all be worth it, enough slaves to keep the market's afloat for months, even years! The coins will be endless!" Cheers followed from his men. "We're going to assemble the warbands, it's about time we started to collect our bounty."

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

Eastern Tarkima


A day a passed since their faithful encounter with the Yeti, Firgus, Olaf and their guard companion continuing their journey back to the Clan stronghold of Heimyal. The mood in the air was a peaceful one as they traversed though the serene wilderness of Tarkima, a rather ironic thing to say considering the people of the land, yet despite this, there was beauty to be found in the "warmer" seasons in Tarkima. The two aged men sat in the back of the carriage with the fresh kill, the lone guard responsible for directing the yak pulling the cart to Heimyal. The two friends causally converse, as they near the stronghold, about another day's worth of travel. "The more I think." Firgus said. "The more I feel farald is worthy man for my little Elina."

"See my friend!" Oalf exclaimed joyously. "I knew you would come around to it eventually." Firgus gave a hearty laugh. "Yes yes, the boy has still much to prove, but for the time being, he'll make a good husband for my little ice fairy." Ice fairy, Elina used to love being called that in her younger years, over time, it's became a title of shame of which her father regular enjoys humorously spouting much to her dismay.

"I just love for the safety and comfort of my bed." Firgus said.

"Don't we all?" Olaf replied. The two made one more round of heart laughter until a loud beastly roar was heard. "Oh by the gods..not again.." the guard muttered as he noticed another yeti bursting from a small cluster of trees, ready to strike at its prey. "Whoa!" he ordered the two yaks. The guard was quick to hop down and unsheathe his sword as he came charging at beast, swinging his sword to intimidate the Yeti. "Back beast! Back!"

Firgus and Olaf were soon to join him, but he objected. "No my lord! I'll hold off the beast! Go now!"

Firgus nodded and complied with his request, hopping over to the seat "Go!" he ordered the yaks as they fled from the scene. Both Olaf and firgus giving one last glimpse of the brave guard as the Yeti grabbed a hold on him an fled with its new prey.

A sick guitar solo had just finished shredding as we begin our scene…

The sand has subsided after a long and grueling sandstorm. The mighty bullman, Freg, had been forced to walk through it, his grizzled fur powdered with the golden sand. It had been quite some time since he left the company of Aristal and each day his journey grew closer and closer to his target: the Sondoper Tree. Despite lugging his mighty axe, and his incredibly large book upon his back, he seemed full of vigor, or as much vigor as one can expect from an elderly bull man with a weighing conscience full of existential duty.

As he traveled closer to the heart of the desert, away from the cooling canals of the trade river, or the friendly yurts of Juntu, his pace quickened rather than slowed, an itch in his mind urging him to make it to the hidden oasis by the tree, an itch to fulfill an important event in the story he now found himself apart of.

As he wandered in both mindful ponderings and his trek across the burning sands, his ancient eyes scanned the endless blue horizon, a feeling of unease in his chest. It was true that he was not alone, and not the only thing brought into this world from the sanctuary under the well, and he was well aware of what would eventually come after him, even if in vain.

He stopped suddenly, the sands had flattened where he stood and the great eye of the sun shot down at him with such intensity it would bring any normal being to their knees. Freg did not flinch, for he knew what was to come.

The sky disappeared around him, the azure being replaced with a sinister black swirled upon a sickly purple, and then with a colorless flash, the sky was back, but the sun seemed dim where he stood and shadows fell where there were no clouds. A hissing laughter erupted around the bull man and he lifted his axe at the ready, his face emotionless.

One by one, monsterous creatures of chitin appeared out of rips in reality, walking forward on two legs ended with claws, and pointed sinister knife like fingers at the great bullman. The dark creatures hissed past rows of bloodied teeth, and coughed up bubbling black ichor as they laughed. Freg lifted his axe above his head, “Tharntin, Yortorg!” he chanted angrily in a language unknown to this world.

“Y-yo--yortorg… t-t-tu-und-dir...ha-ha-harn..” one of the beasts gurgled.

What could only be described as a terrible and grim looked washed over Freg’s face and what a bullman would call a macabre grin was formed on his bull-like mouth. In a unifying screech that shook the very sands, the terrible beasts began their hideous onslaught, claws flashing and flying through the air as they closed in on their prey, making sure to surround the lone bull.
Freg’s axe slammed down into the sands, and from it a cone of fire erupted, blasting a line through the beasts in front of him with a great roar of inferno. Those caught in the magical flames were rendered into many pieces from the blast and those who survived squirmed and screamed as their chitin shrank and burned away under the intense heat of the explosion.

The other sides were closing in. One brave beast leapt before his companions towards Freg’s back. The air rippled behind Freg as the beast’s claws were mere inches from his rune covered book and the sound of the air cracking boomed as an invisible shockwave sent the beast hurdling backwards over the lines of his still approaching comrades, arms dangling out of their sockets.

The rest of the horde was upon Freg, and with a mighty kick he was forced to leap into the air. Launched high above the black horde below Freg spun his axe, the world tinting crimson as he screamed, “YOOOORTOOOOOOORG!”

The beasts could be heard screaming back, be it fear or hatred, if one listened closely they could even hear Freg’s name being cursed in some sick alien language as the bull man fell back to the earth. The area was engulfed in an orb of white hot flames, the sand below melting as Fregs axe rippled into the ground, summoning a massive explosion around the bullman, and launching the immediate horde away in a mess of gore and fire.

Without giving the remaining horde time to react or respond, Freg stomped through the battlefield of limbs, chitin and ichor, slamming his axe repeatedly with every step, and summoning a pillar of flames with each strike. Blood and chitin rained from the red sky as a soft chant graced Freg’s lips. His eyes glazed over, his steps quickened, and his flames grew brighter.

The few beasts who survived the initial onslaught screeched, letting their voices rip through the air towards the approaching bullman. Freg slowed only as the screeches hit him, rippling the air around him, but he did not stop. The bullman’s form shimmered for a moment, disappearing for an instant, then with a clap the figure reformed closer to the beasts, axe cleaving through the creature’s head with a loud boom. The creature’s body was strewn in every direction as the axe finished it’s deadly arc, and at the sight, the rest of the beasts began their retreat.

One in particular breathed heavily as it sprinted as fast as its clawed feet could take it. It dared not look back as it heard the pounding of hooves chasing it and its remaining siblings. There was a sick crack as the sounds of those running with him on his right were suddenly silenced, intense heat burning its right side. The beast continued its retreat when suddenly screams erupted from its left side, the rest of the horde falling to the bull man.

It heard the hooves, and it heard the alien pounding of what could be called a heart bang against its chest cavity. Then it saw it, a tear in reality. Screeching with joy the creature slipped through the crack, landing in a land far from its greatest enemy.

Heavy, rhythmic blows of metal upon metal resounded as Vrathar ascended the spiral staircase leading to the pinnacle of the dark tower that grimly dominated the greater of the Isles of Sorrow. In the featureless, perfectly smooth walls around him there was not a single window to allow the bleak sunlight of the Fell Lands to filter into it. Instead, what luminescence there was came from the torches placed along them at regular intervals, their writhing flames inexplicably casting grotesquely distorted dancing shadows upon the steps of cold black steel. While one could never grow accustomed to climbing the Balespire, it was said that, after one had trodden its stairs enough times, the rise would appear to them progressively less long and laborious, and the shadows less sinister (though, curiously, no mention was ever made of the descent). Vrathar himself had, unfortunately, no means of verifying whether this impression was truly common to all, nor did he expect to achieve this anytime soon; indeed, he had, until recently, not expected to reach the top of the spire, where none of the Ironbound were permitted save for the Fell Lords, within two or three decades at the very least.

The battle had wrought more damage than he had first imagined as he had taken flight from the field. When what remained of the army had regrouped at one of the inner garrison holds, it was discovered that not only had a noticeable dent been put in the numberless rank and file, but all of Vorthal's retinue had been destroyed, with the sole exception of those who had retreated at his command. This had staggered the hierarchy of the Ironbound, not in the least because, since time immemorial, there had never been either less or more than ten Fell Lords at one time, and Vorthal's unexpected demise had disrupted any designs of succession the Overlord and his advisers might have prepared. It was thus much to everyone's surprise that Vrathar had been found to be the only suitable replacement. His age was certainly not such to rival even the least of those who held council in the Dread Keep, or even certain overseers in the Lands without; yet all of those were under someone's direct command, and, by unspoken law, to remove them thence and place them into new authority was not meet. In the dim hall of the Umbral Throne, he had been named Fell Lord, and the suzerain had etched the angular symbol of dominion upon his armour with his great blade of steel and obsidian.

Not less astonishing had been the resolution the Overlord had voiced afterwards. In the penumbral gloom of the stairway, Vrathar recalled the words that had been uttered mere days before:

"Out of the Fell Lands?" one of the Lords, his form indistinct in the shadowed corner he stood in, with only a few jagged edges visible in the shifting spots of light emanating from the nearest brazier, had asked, with a seeming impassiveness which would have struck a creature of flesh as unnatural - as indeed it was - considering the gravity of the matter he was inquiring about, "Would this not entail abandoning the relics of Memory to be desecrated and perverted by these invaders? Abandoning our ancestral duty itself?" The others said nothing, but from the slight nodding motions of certain among them it was clear they silently assented.

"It might be." came the low, echoing tones from the black dais, and Vrathar felt a shade of indistinct, nameless dread flit over his mind as Rahkerroth's burning gaze briefly passed over him as the fearsome horned helm turned towards towards the one who had spoken, "Yet think what good it would be if we remained. Think of this "legion". Only Vorthal could hinder it to at significant extent, and it was but two hundred strong. This could be less than a vanguard. If even we drove all our thralls in arms against the East, what would it avail if there were thousands more of those beings marching against us? The only manner for us to fulfil our duty would be to trust in the Ancients' foresight and hidden measures in our last instants. To do as you say would needlessly imperil what we are sworn to preserve as well as ourselves. Yet..." his ember-like eyes left the corner and slowly, deliberately shifted towards the darkness gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling, "If we gather all the might of the Fell Host and strike for the West... for Kahlor Marax... and finish what we began twenty years ago... If the Elder Gods shall return among us, all such concerns shall become meaningless."

With a surprisingly agile motion, the Overlord rose from his seat, draping his tattered cloak over his shoulder with a smooth motion of his clawed gauntlet. "But we shall not go alone. No, the land itself shall march with us..."

Were even the Ironbound not universally disinclined towards figurative speech, it would have been clear the Overlord's remark had been to the utmost literal. As the eldest of them, he was the most familiar with the esoteric rites and incantations gathered in the sinister, forlorn ruins in the north and stored in the vaults and dungeons of the Balespire, and surely knew that, through their occult potency, things could be achieved which fleshling brains could not conceive even in the direst extremes of their delirious visions, which they called “nightmares”. The summons to converge at the pinnacle, where, by tradition, the most portentous of evocations were performed, confirmed in Vrathar’s mind that, in one manner or the other, the land would truly be made to march if the Overlord willed it.

Finally, the stairway came to an end, and Vrathar stepped onto the wide circular platform that was, perhaps, the highest point in all the Fell Lands, save for the mountain peaks in the west. The others were already there: the imposing form of Rahkerroth seemed to cast a shadow over the nine Lords, eclectic in their shapes and armament, assembled near him, despite being only slightly taller than them. Somewhat to the side stood another figure, its body akin to that of an Ironbound and its head a hellish amalgam of metal and flame, the crackling of the inexhaustible conflagration alone breaking the stillness of the pale day. It That Consumes had come as well. Involuntarily edging towards the railings to avoid the fixed gaze of the aberration, Vrathar joined the Fell Lords, casting a glance towards the centre of the tower-top. There, a score of Riglir, bizarrely garbed in rags of cloth and mail with the apparent intent of emulating robes, stood in a circle, some fiddling with curious instruments such as bone flutes, drums of chimaera skin and brass cymbals, others strangely waving their forearms and rattling something with their mandibles. Seeing him approach, the Overlord inclined his head as in a nod, and, gesturing to the assembled Riglir, spoke a single word: “Begin.”

Immediately, the creatures began performing various odd motions, which they had apparently prepared and rehearsed. They grasped at the air with outstretched claws, chittered loudly and swayed to and fro; those who held an instrument began to blow or beat it, their initially discordant and cacophonic sounds gradually weaving themselves into a melodic, yet utterly unearthly rhythm, vaguely reminiscent of a tempestuous wind howling through caverns of jagged rock, bearing upon itself a host of moans, screams, lamentations and songs in unknown and unutterable languages. It was frightening and hypnotic; and anon, it grew in strength beyond what was imaginable for the squat creatures to produce. No, it was not the music; there truly was a wind. Many winds, roaring from all sides, swirling together in a vortex of dread and sorcery. The sky grew dark as a column of air, dust and black light encircled the tower, rising high over the sight of any present; within the circle of the frenzied celebrants, screeching and leaping madly in ritualistic ecstasy, there arose a wilderness of ebon flames, spinning and flaring, then stretching into a pillar to rival the whirlwind surrounding it. Bolts of crimson lightning arced from the flames and into the storm, the rising darkness rent by bloody glimmers visible from miles away; then, a thundering impact, a voice that could not be spoken uttering forbidden words and a glare which had no recognisable colour, and all was done.

Vrathar peered around himself. All seemed unchanged; the land nearby bore no trace of a storm of any sort, and certainly not the cataclysm he had beheld; in the distance, the dark waters of the lake could still be seen, and no dust hovered over them. He thought of what had transpired, yet the memory seemed to be growing vague and blurred, eluding him as sand flowing between his iron fingers. Yet it could not have been a mirage: there, among the crouching Riglir, there hung still a black wisp, no larger than the flame of a candle, and this shadow had not been there before… Yes, the shadow. Why was it that all around him seemed to be overcast with gloom, as though night were already not far from falling? Just then, one of the Riglir chittered, motioning upwards: “The charm is done. The Essence is here.”

Slowly, yet striving for all the speed their heavy frames would permit, the assembled Fell Lords turned their gaze to the sky. High above them, in the bleak, cloudless sky, there hovered something that could scarce be defined. It was not a cloud, or smoke, or a bank of fog; it was akin to all these things, and likewise to a wraith, a shadow, a void. Immensely vast and oppressively heavy, it moved slowly through the heavens, flowing as in rivers of liquid spirit and gathering in nimbi of incorporeal blackness. A voice like the subdued roaring of a blaze was heard from nearby as It That Consumes spoke: “The Essence of the earth. We called, and it came. Whitherever we shall go, the Fell Lands shall follow, and we shall be the heralds of ruin…”

A burst of chittering drew the attention of all back to the platform, and to the circle of Riglir, who were hopping and gesticulating in grotesque alarm. Between them, the black flame was growing anew. Yet it now was no longer a frame; it was a gaping wound, not in the air, but, for want of better words, in the fabric of the sky and the world itself. It gaped hungrily between blurred and frayed edges, the Riglir recoiling in fright before it; through it, a nightly sky, inexplicably yet unmistakeably alien in nature, could be glimpsed, replaced erratically with an inexplicable view of an expanse of sand. “What is this?” the Overlord rumbled, “The inscription did not speak of anything such!” “Do you not recall the tablet is broken?” It That Consumes replied, “The description of the incantation’s effects is incomplete. We knew it would summon the Essence, but not whether it would do anything else. You ought to have come prepared, as did I.” With these words, it grasped a heavy mace which had previously stood by its foot, and raised it as if poised to strike.

Anon, the rift appeared to grow stable in size, and soon in shape as well; then, in a single impossible moment, it vanished outright, and from it there stepped forth a horrendous creature, its chitinous hide and serrated fangs dripping with a foul ichor. Ironbound and Riglir alike stood motionless; never had any of them seen anything of that sort, not even those who had ventured in the lost and forgotten temples of the Ancients, where strange things were said to dwell. The horror remained unmoving as well, perhaps astounded by its transposition; but soon its four eyes flared up in ravenous ferocity, and with tremendous speed it leapt upon the nearest Riglir, eviscerating it with a swipe of its gnarled talons.

It That Consumes stepped forward, its flames crackling ominously, and swung its maul at the creature. The latter dodged the blow with an ease prodigious for something so large, and lunged at its foe. A small stream of smoke rose from its claw where it had touched the incandescent metal as it sharply withdrew it with a hiss, only to abruptly swerve about and hurl itself at another of the evokers. However, by then the Riglir had regained their bearings, and begun once again to chant in strange clicking intonations, rhythmically reaching up and swinging their pincer-like appendages at the sky. In its leap, the beast collided with what appeared to be a barrier of warped air, with veins of iridescent vapours slowly winging their way across the diaphanous surface. The creature swung to its left, then backwards, but all to no avail; surrounded by the shimmering force, it was trapped in a mystical circle, tenfold as tall as itself and to all appearances impregnable.

Motioning for the others to be silent, the Overlord ponderously approached the translucent prison and brought its helm close it, momentarily locking gazes with the misshapen head of the monstrosity within. Then, turning his back to it, he faced his lieutenants once more. “This is an omen.” came his voice, ever as grimly – or placidly – inflectionless as before, “First the one who stands in chains, now this entity. The Elder Gods have sent us signs, spurring us to be on our way. They know of our intent. We must not disappoint.” Indicating the mangled Riglir with a curt gesture, he commanded “Toss it this one, and prepare a receptacle for it. A harbinger of the Gods’ will shall not want for anything.” Stepping towards the parapet, he clutched it with an iron grip, letting the flames of his eyes wander away into the distance. “Soon, we march.”