The room was dim, the still night air hung thick with emotion too sick to be expressed. A glossy colour of an unknown type pulsed furiously behind the dull eyes of the dying monarch. The King barely sat in his throne as he leaned forward pleadingly, his mouth agape to expel a baritone moan of pain, a stark contrast to the river of insanities he had been spouting the last month.

Gattania was crumbling, and so was her leader. The groaning king reached out towards one of the other shadows that stood in the room of decay once seen as a pinnacle of luxury. Porcelain fingers wrapped around the growing wrinkles on the king’s hands, and the man looked up into the fresh eyes of the youthful daughter of the Count de Monet, Katherine de Monet. A prominent frown enraptured her face and tears swelled around her eyes. She caressed the face of the man turned mad infront of her, his mind gone in the same way her own fiancee’s had months earlier. She remembered the day this all began, the day her golden haired lover spout red faced accusations while he danced wildly around the town’s well, if only she had believed him then, maybe he would be… maybe the king would be…

“Water…” The king stated more than requested, and a pang struck Katherines belly, all too knowing what he meant.

“It’s in the water…” The king continued. Katherine just nodded, a warm tear wetting her cheek.

“It’s under my skin…”

Katherine knew the ramblings by heart, if not in the voice of the king, in the voice of a man long lost to the madness.

“It’s in my brain…”

“It’s under my feet…”

“It won’t let go…”

“Let me go.”

The words were soft and pleading, like a child to their mother, or a whimpering puppy to its master. Then, in a moment of horror not lost to anyone, the king’s wail grew, and with a sudden gust from one of the bow windows, his body crumbled to a fine powder. His face turning to the colorful sand before Katherine’s fear struck eyes, the sick vapor of the color rising from what pile remained. Gone… the same way as her fiance, the same way as her father, the same was as Gattania.

The wagon wheel struck a rock and Katherine was thrown out of her memories as the back of her head smacked the wall of the wagon.
“Deep in thought?” The gruff voice of the driver, Jean, took her attention.

“Just silly panderings is all,” The eloquent voice of Katherin responded, her own speech well versed and patterned to fit the ideals of aristocracy since a young age, yet her leather bound attire and green tunic brought the image of a common woodsman to mind instead, since the polish of wealth was long lost on the last remaining member of Gattanian nobility, it suited her just fine.

“Silly? Come now, misewell share, it’s been a long ways to the Middenland and we all deserve a story or two.”

“Katherine,” she said her own name, “it’s silly isn’t it? Katherine… Katherine… Katherine… my name is Katherine, isn’t that cute?”

The driver turned his attention away from his horses and peered back at the woman with wide eyes, “M’lady?”

“K-A-TH-E-RINE… it’s almost unreal, the more you say a word, the less meaning it has until you realize that you are what your name is, and your name is assigned to you.. A label… and mine begins with a “K” and sounds like “cat rasin” but with a “TH”.”

“Fine I get it,” Jean rolled his eyes, “but you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I told you,” Katherine leaned back, her eyes betraying her true thoughts as she peered at the moving landscape around her, “just silly ponderings.”

Jean snorted, “well… welcome to the Middenlands.”

---------

Coming soon: The General of the infected army

IC IS NOW OPEN TO ALL!

In the middle of the capital, the Emperor sat in quiet contemplation about the events that took place in Gattania, his mind racing as news of the color’s spread constantly grew more concerning on his already taxed mind. Markus was a bearded fellow, with nice, clean, kempt hair, and dressed in formal attire adorned with gold trimmings.

His court grew more unruly as time passed. General Staff, Advisers, and conflicting reports were never a good mix when it came to deciding what to do in Gattania’s matter. As the muddled state of his mind increased, he closed his eyes as he let out a deep sigh, imagining the events taking place in his own capital. The color was spreading, and previously he would not have considered any action as many stated it would not reach the Empire.

“Markus…” a voice broke him out of his deep trance. Markus looked up to see where it came from, finding a man in full military dress stride towards him from across the room.

“The color they speak of… it’s unnatural, it’s spreading. At this point, we have to consider action.” The man spoke, fiddling with his full moustache thoughtfully. His voice was rough, deep, and full of concern; he was the Field Marshal of the Military, Mikkel.

“We?” Markus echoed, internally questioning whether responsibility really fell unto them. He wondered whether it should be Emruen’s responsibility to clean the colors, an enemy that couldn’t be fought by conventional means.

He slipped back into his thoughts and the room grew quiet. His unspoken response hung in the air as his words were order, his words were law. An onslaught of ‘what-if’s came upon him; what if the colors reached them, what if no one could stop the colors, an entity so malicious and so unknown.

He gathered his thoughts and after an especially pregnant pause, the words finally spilled out in the Emperor’s croaky voice.
“I feel…it is necessary to find a way to combat this color, but I also feel it necessary to wait and see if any of Gattania’s neighbors have an answer to this threat, so I want our best minds here in the capital to converge as a way of preparation as we will try to think of a way to defeat this unknown threat.”

Mikkel decided to interject for a moment. “Should I send the scouts?”

Markus then turned to him and said “No, send an ambassador to the closest nation that borders Gattania; I want to know whether they even have a plan in mind, and I want the Ambassador to return with details of what is happening in the towns nearest to Gattania’s Borders. I request of you to give them a military escort, an extra pair of eyes. Do you agree?”


 

It took no more than a few seconds of considering for Mikkel to nod in agreement, before speaking again. “Maybe we should wait until we have at least one scientist here in the capital to go there and investigate for himself, so he could get a piece of this so called color to study.”

In objection Markus shook his head, “Perhaps, but that is for a later date. For now, focus on getting a better flow of information, as I don’t want to touch this… disease without knowing its effects as well as how it is believed to spread. We must be careful and clinical about this Mikkel, I don’t want any more conflicting reports.”

Again, Mikkel nodded in agreement. He turned to face the door and made a brisk exit. The room fell into silence once more and Markus turned his gaze to look at the remaining occupants.

“Well what are you all looking at? Get the message out and gather our best minds! I don’t care who or where they are, whether they believe that the color will reach us or not, whether they’re busy or free, I. WANT. THEM. HERE. NOW. MOVE!”

His voice boomed into the large, ornate room and not even moments after he spoke they all rushed out the door to follow Mikkel, leaving only the Emperor and his family in the throne chamber. He looked upon his son, aged twelve, his daughter who was turning sixteen in the next year, and his beautiful wife. His deepest concerns, if not for the country, were for his family, and he pondered what horrors the Gattanian People had to suffer, and what would happen to his people, including the ones who mattered the most to him.

The gentle touch of his wife’s hand on his own broke his current contemplation as she beckoned him to join her outside, the children moving to follow after their mother. It had passed Markus’s mind, it was already lunch time.



 
Mikkel glanced behind him to see the various people running past, their hurried footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Over his shoulder, he could see Markus seated, shoulders hunched and face clouded in deep thought. He and Markus shared a profound history; Markus was once a child of the Royal Family clan of Fredriksen, during the time another Family Clan was in the seat of Ruling power. Mikkel, on the other hand, was the son of a prestigious General who was then in the General Staff. They resided very close to each other and shared a close friendship, but now the times seemed to have changed as all that was currently in Markus’s mind was the wellbeing of the state; as for Mikkel’s , it was the smooth operation of the military.

He walked out of the large palace, an impressive building made of smooth white Marble. The tiles on the ground were stained to tell the story of the ascension of Emruen out of the Dark Ages. His boots clacked in a steady rhythm as they hit the old stone path that opened up into the royal yard, which held the many beautiful gardens meticulously tended by the many who were privileged to work there. The smell of fresh flowers and chirps of birds filled the sky, as Mikkel made his way to the Palace Gate, which led into a large clearing, a yard of sorts. Here, the Emperor’s Own drills ran for hours on end, and the ones who weren’t being drilled stood guard by the Palace gate. He walked through the lines of organized men; some of them had been under his command at one point during the selection processes, and he walked until he finally reached his carriage which was waiting for him.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked, bowing his head slightly in polite greeting.

“To the Military headquarters of the Capital Corporal.” He settled into the velvet seat and gazed idly out the window as he replied, watching the light cavalry carrying their rifles, the Cuirrasiers riding past, escorting the carriage wagon, and the men who were on foot, marching alongside them.

It was commonplace to see soldiers marching, and cavalry men galloping in and out of town. This was how life went by in Emruen; the Military bringing down crime and delivering order to the chaos of ordinary life. The ride was short as the way to the city was not very far. Mikkel watched as swaffs of farmland growing corn swept past them. The soft rustling of the wind brought with it a cool breeze from the western mountains, and you could almost smell the salt of the sea as it whiffed by.

The city was bustling with activity: merchants selling their wares, the strong smell of coffee and fresh fruits in the air as imports from other countries were being sold, soldiers passing by with sweat glistening on their cheeks. The warm humidity of the smells of a packed city came crashing in, but to Mikkel this was nothing more than regular life.

He reached the large military fort that served as the Headquarters in the area. As he entered, he saw criminals being punished and others being prepared for execution, most probably for charges of the unspeakable sort. He watched as more entered from the east gate; prisoners who had been tried and found guilty, now finding their way into detainment. The accused were usually kept in the dungeons along with the guilty until their trials. This was a stark contrast to the vibrant joys of the city.



He got out of the carriage as it came to a stop, and walked up into the Fort’s main hall where people ate, drank, and discussed freely. Stairways on the side allowed them to walk up into the private quarters, the floor above the private quarters serving as the General Staff’s meeting chamber. Mikkel entered the chamber and relayed the Emperor’s decision as they began their discussion.

“Who does he intend to send?”

“Should it be light Escort or Heavy Escort?”

“What should they look out for?”

“Should we quarantine them when they get back?”

As their questions came crashing down unto Mikkel, he answered each one crisply.

“I've yet to decide.”

“Light escort, a few skirmishers, a few armed guard, and some cavalry.”

“They should look out for any signs of infection, anything out of the norm, and anything that could give us more information about the Color’s properties.”

“Yes, definitely. This might be a disease which none of us would wish to take any chance of its spreading into Emruen.”

Their discussions went on until all their questions were satisfied and all their concerns were answered. Mikkel was efficient like that; this was mainly why the General Staff liked him, no huss or fuss. He was known to be a calm man, but he was also known as the man covered in blood during a battle against an uncovered criminal operation in a small port town north of the Capital.

They were all heavily armed, and they had used the small port town they were in as a mock fort with many barricades and the local Garrison had been coerced to surrendering used as hostages along with the towns folk, when the Army and Navy had arrived they were met with a fierce resistance along with hostage threats. The siege lasted four days, but as soon as Mikkel arrived, his leadership drove the men into the weakest parts of their defenses and a bloody fight occurred.

It was said that Mikkel killed a hundred men in the battle, and he came out of the front covered in blood, and his pouches empty, his rifle dirty and the bayonet still hanging on to a piece of bloody cloth. It was all folk tale, an exaggeration made by the men beside him, folk tale by the people he was able to save, however Mikkel barely talked about what happened there, he would grow quiet whenever anyone asks him about what happened that day.

When they had finished Mikkel stood up and announced;

“Alright, I will choose the Ambassador. I want only the best to escort, that lies upon you gentlemen.”

He returned to his quarters after the discussion, writing up the papers arranging for the travel. He also took some time to consider the route to use, he braces himself of what is to come in the following days, as Gattania's killer leaks out from its bleeding heart.

---

Niklaus rose from the seat of gold and velvet fabric, the procession making way into the court. A man of his youth, wiry frame and an absence of facial hair. He wore hair of deep brown, and his eyes a sapphire blue. He stood silent, as did the entire court, which was packed with nobility and the wealthy. The onlookers and observers all silently clamored amongst themselves as to get a well view of the events occurring.

The procession neared, and was now identified to be consisting of both House Speakers, Lord Kolmann and Count Siegwart, the former a portly man donned in a powdered wig, the latter, for lack of a better description, a beanpole, his hair a bright blonde. They were accompanied by men of the Guard, dressed in deep blue coats lined with vibrant crimsons and golds, and one held a crown upon a pillow of velvet, and another, a sword in a sheathe of pure gold.

He prepared to receive them, alone before the throne, and he began to recall the events regarding his current presence. His father, the second of his name, was dead. An ailment of which was identified by medical professionals as acute Pleurisy, and it had taken his life after a long year. Niklaus gulped audibly as he thought back, turned. He dared not dwell on it, instead directed his attention to those before him.

The procession had reached him now, and all of them kneeled, as did the rest of the court. Niklaus paced forward, and Lord Kolmann stood, beckoned the crown bearer up, and began to recite, "Prince Niklaus, House Liebhard, heir to the Throne of Auerbruck, on this first day of the season of Summer, the House, the People, and Creation itself crown you King Niklaus the Third of Auerbruck. Go with the Gods." The Lord ended, and picked up the crown in his hands. Niklaus kneeled, and the crown was placed upon his dome, and he rose.

Count Siegwart then rose as Kolmann knelt again. The sword bearer rose with him, and the Count took the sword into his own hand, reciting another spiel, "King Niklaus the Third, King of Auebruck and Head of House Liebhard, in the name of the People and the House, you are bestowed as the Ultimate and Supreme Commander of the Armed Services of Auerbruck. Go with the Gods." The Count cut off, and offered the sheathed sword. Niklaus took it, and fastened it on the straps idly hanging on the purple and blue fancy robes which he wore.

"All rise." Boomed Niklaus, and they all did, rising to him, and he raised his arms to bear, and the people cheered him on. The celebration began, and there were feasts within the court, festivals in the streets of every city as they received word.

---

---

A band played loudly, to step as they marched ahead of each regiment. It was the annual coronation military parade, which always took place the morning after the coronation itself. Representative detachments from each and every regiment came to march for the King, to show their prowess, discipline, and strength.

There must have had been dozens of regiments that marched, all in neat formation, not one out of step, each with their accompanying regimental band, playing their march, under watch from the King himself, perched in a hastily constructed observation platform, by his staff. Both Speakers were there, as was the Chief of the Court, Cord Gotthilf. Another figure that stood out was General Benedikt Oskar, the General which commanded these troops, and he was accompanied by his staff.

The marching lasted for hours, and after a brief feast, it was time for the King to inspect the troops. Regiments lined up in formation, and the King paced infront of each, greeted each commander, and closed it quickly with a dinner feast, and then returned to the Palace.

Joy was in the air, and peace loomed.

The Royal Palace

The Royal Council chambers were usually vacant, save for a handful of guards meant to keep watch over the room. It was arguably the most boring post in the entire palace. Rows upon rows of empty seats, and before them were five thrones - the largest one in the middle, and made from solid gold, while the others were smaller and made out of silver. Three of the thrones were intended for the Dukes, and the fourth was intended for the Grandmaster Cleric. The largest one was meant for a King. The surrounding walls had massive murals depicting significant moments throughout Gara's history.

But today was different. The King, the three Dukes, and the Grandmaster Cleric all sat upon their thrones. The other seats were filled, from the highest Counts at the front and the lowest Knights at the back, the latter of which were allowed to observe but not speak. A few clergymen were placed here or there, having accompanied the Grandmaster Cleric. With so many important leaders gathered in one location, he ordinary guardsmen were replaced by the King's personal elite bodyguards, in much greater numbers.

Such meetings were only called during a crisis; a declaration of war, a rebellion, an assassination, a plague. But the crisis they faced today was entirely different. Many of the nobles whispered among themselves, nervously.

King Edward Veliath was approaching his thirties, but if not for his short light brown beard he could easily pass for a man in his early twenties. His eyes were a dark green, and his hair short and neatly combed. An ornate golden crown rested upon his head, and he was clad in a ceremonial robe befitting the occasion.

He stood, and raised a fist into the air. The room fell quiet. The King lowered his arm to his side, and then he spoke. "We have all heard the rumors coming from the south." He announced. "This... Colour, some have been calling it. An entire kingdom reduced to lunacy and ashes. We know not it's origin, but..."

The Grandmaster Cleric, Horatio Thaddeus, clad in his ceremonial religious attire, leaped to his feet and raised his fist in the air, requesting to speak. Although it wasn't explicitly forbidden to do so whilst the King was already speaking, it was considered extremely rude. The unexpected gesture briefly caught the King off guard, and his eyes narrowed at the insolent priest, who was only allowed to be seated there on account of tradition. Many in the room were equally caught off guard.

Nevertheless, the King continued his speech. "...but the Kingdom of Gara has stood strong for centuries, and weathered many a crisis. Whatever affliction has struck the land, we shall not succumb to it! The Protecter has guarded us since the beginning of time, and will continue to do so, for we are the true faithful - even if the rest of world is to fall prey to this madness, we will endure!"

Considering the seriousness of the occasion, it would be rude to cheer. However, the polite applause that would normally accompany such a speech was more akin to an audience that had just witnessed a theatrical masterpiece. The Grandmaster Cleric, however, remained standing with his fist raised, and the clergymen who had arrived with him most noticeably refrained from clapping.

Eventually, the applause faded. And although Thaddeus had already committed a great breach of etiquette by requesting to speak in the middle of another's speech, the King would be seen as even worse if he refused to acknowledge him. "Grandmaster Cleric." The King began at last, sitting back down on his throne. "You may speak."

The Cleric lowered his fist and cleared his throat. "You speak of the Creator as if you know his intentions, or are capable of interpreting his actions... but that is falsehood." He accused, which was accompanied by a large number of raised eyebrows and even a handful of gasps. "Only we..." he gestured to himself and the other priests, "...have even the barest understanding of His goals. The reality is that our One True Lord grows tired. The rest of the world has turned its back upon him." He paused, allowing the more fervently religious nobles to nod along - Duke Edwick among them. Others had bored expressions - it was nothing they had not yet heard before. Duke Torrin looked to be on the verge of falling asleep.

"But the Heretics are not the only ones at fault!" The Grandmaster Cleric suddenly spoke up again, his voice booming and immediately drawing back the attention of anyone who had begun to already tune out. "Our entire nation is to blame as well, for our failure to educate them! To bring them back to the Light! Indeed, there are many among us who are beginning to stray as well!" His eyes scanned the room, settling on well-known womanizers or those who had helped strip the Church of its power in the past. "It is this lack of Faith, that has allowed the Creator's power to wane! So much that the Destroyer has managed to slip past His guard and strike His creation! His infernal Taint has infected the land, and the only way to stop its spread is for the Creator to regain his strength, to one again have the support of his Creations, so that he may drive the Evil back! To that end, we must find these nonbelievers and educate them!" By this point his voice had turned into a yell.

The entire room was stunned. No one had expected such an outburst - not from a position that was barely even politically relevant these days. The Grandmaster Cleric slowly sat back down on his throne, his expression grim, but King Veliath and Duke Wilhelm were close enough to see him fighting off a smile. Duke Torrin was more shocked than anything else, while Duke Edwick was fully taken in by the Thaddeus's words.

Then, at once, several nobles stood, fists raised, each wishing for their turn to speak. With so many standing, not all of them would receive the chance to speak, so they did not wait for permission, and all spoke at once - either in protest or support of the Cleric's words. A reasonable few were offering suggestions of their own - secure the borders, send scouting parties to view the afflicted lands, and researchers to study it, but they were drowned out.

Sir Gerald and Sir Gareth, who had been seated next to each other, exchanged glances. While the King called for order, Sir Gareth whispered. "It would seem that His Holiness has found an opportunity to claw his way back into power." He suggested. Although they came from entirely different backgrounds, held entirely different careers, and were knighted for entirely different reasons, they had somehow become friends.

Sir Gerald could only nod. "Indeed." He stated in a gruff voice, rubbing a hand against his scarred chin, where an Alban blade had missed his throat by mere inches. "And if he has his way, we'll be in a holy war." He remarked bitterly. "Or he'll everyone bickering while the real threat nears our borders."

Unfortunately, neither of them could add their own opinions to the debate. The only reason they got away with speaking at all was because they could not be heard over the rest of the room. But eventually, the voices quieted, the nobles sat back down, and the King stood.

"We must stand united in the face of this crisis." He urged them. Since the Grandmaster Cleric was the highest ranking religious official, the King could not outright state that he was wrong on spiritual matters. Well, he could... but that generally prompted outrage. "Once again, we Garans are strong. We will endure. If the Grandmaster Cleric wishes to dispatch missionaries to convert the other nations, that is his right. But we will not force them to adopt the Creator's teachings against their will. In the meantime, the southern border is to be secured, scouts will be dispatched to the infected lands, and emissaries shall be sent to other nations to find out what they know. In the meantime, I task each and every one of you to lead your people well and stand by your countrymen." Then, before there could be any objection: "Council! Dismissed!"

With that, the meeting, perhaps one of the shortest in Garan history, was over.

At the western foot of The Highest Mountains of Pyra

The flames of the camp fire glow in the eyes of a bulky, golden eyed man whom devours his half cooked rabbit meat in large chunks, using three highly ornate and precise brass lined picks fashioned onto his fingers as utensils. Clothed in furs and thick silk from the springworms of the oasis city Utan Brae with a flat cap hat marked with various runic symbols denoting his heritage like the cohorts around him. All around the fire a several other men huddle around, with their horses roped around a staked nearby. It is a cold night as usual, but something was off about this night in particular. For the merchants who usually accompany their Ranuun masters seemed particularly distrubed and not by anything the Ranuun have done today. It was of a disturbance that made Clisan, the second oldest brother of the grand soverign Insan compelled to ask one of his subordinates to ask the filthy merchant what he saw while in the milk filled kingdom Gattania.

The merchant simply repeated again and again 'the color, it is all color'.

The subordinate of Clisan, one of many, in response to this nonsense unsheathed out his curved blade and held it to the merchant's neck and with blood lined eyes that pierced the mechant's soul says 'we asked what you saw, color is everywhere- do not waste the time of a relative of the supreme Ranuun! This slight if you continue it will have your neck slit.'

But the merchant continued it anyways and so his neck was slit with the supervision Clisan who waved his arm up approvingly of the glorious killing of the beast man while sitting atop of the largest, skin lined chair around the campfire. The Ranuun with the brass picks looks on with delight as Clisan says to one of the workers in the colder parts of the camp 'now make this beast's body into something of value'.

Clisan than began to worry about the oncoming invasions of the Roturran lands to the South. The lords of Gattania may well get in the way of the next glorious conquest as they had threatened with the conquest of the kingdom of Ignatia which had a royal tie to Gattania. But the bigger concern to Clisan was the aging supreme soverign whose death very easily may cause Linsan to steal away Clisan's ascension to being the next supreme soverign. Fellow kin in the natural order of things can prove more dangerous than any foreign savage after all.

And thus Clisan in that moment of paranoia, perhaps spurred by a bloodlust from killing the merchant asked one of his loyal Ranuun, a scarred hairy man with a prechant for hatches to 'rid the world of Linsan in silence'

Clisan than sat on his hide filled seat, lined in spears and from his basalt plate ate raw rabbit meat with his bloodied hands like the true soverign he shall be. The Ranuun who gained a liking to the picks, derisively nicknamed the 'pick man' by his own kin found discomfrot in Clisan's lack of sanitation, but who is he to question his higher ups when the pick man cowardly uses primitive tools to eat?

The Grand Te Whakahonoretia Pa

The bustling dirt roads were filled with various Isa, large roaming crowds of different tribal warriors explored the town-like fortress in groups. They laughed and cheered, mingled with other warriors and journeymen, visiting the brothels and the barracks. Traders and merchants gathered around the main port, dropping off a large variety of goods, ranging from fine Lythian muskets to large grain sacks from Auerbruck. There was no tension in the air for it was a day of celebration for the Union's success, the founding if their young nation and the annual meeting of the chieftains. Quisano tourists looked in wonder at the amount of Isa walking around. Their race were journeymen, people who almost never stayed in the same place for long. So to see so many of them gathered in one day, it was assaulting to the senses.

The arrival of Te Pākiki and their chieftain was announced by the sound of a deep, powerful horn, the sound of marching and of men entering the pa. A great guard was gathered by Datu the Butcher, an elite force of 500 warriors with years of experience. His scarred grey eyes scanned the stunned streets as he marched with his warriors, standing tall and proud despite his old age. His great white beard hung braided, a cloak of furs and feather draped on wide shoulders. His renowned mere strapped to his bare torso, a swinging flintlock pistol hung at his waist as he walked up to the hall that he would be meeting the other tribes in. He heard the whispers amongst the onlookers, looks of both hate and awe were directed towards him. He was the Butcher of Tribes, leader of the great Te Pākiki and as such, one of the most elite warrior populations, coming to the meeting of chieftains.

His mood was anything but celebratory however. Troubled thoughts flooded his mind and he was restless. This would be one of the most important annual meetings in his mind and one of the few he has been bothered to come to. Datu himself rarely came to these meetings unless he was either hosting it or there was something important enough for him to discuss with the other chieftains. He looked down at the Union as a bunch squabbling children, tribes who would want nothing more than seeing their so called "allies" fall to take their place. Sure, there was some unity amongst the people, many young ones identified more as Isa than whatever tribe they were born in but their leaders were old men. Past grievances could have never been washed away by something as petty as a trade union.

The Butcher dismissed his elite guards, telling them to enjoy themselves in the celebrations. The surprised looks of 50 hardened warriors almost made him smile but they were quickly replaced with large smiles as they turned towards the pa. The tension and silence was broken, the festival started all over again as drinks and "sweets" we're shared. Datu walked up to Te Whakahonoretia's chamber rooms on his lonesome, the great stone hall atop the hill the pa was built upon. His hair blew in the wind, his hand reaching for a pipe in his cloak. As he lit the contents within, he took a long drag before blowing all the smoke away, opening the doors to the hall.

"Datu of Te Pākiki enters the hall as the last of the visiting chieftains! All stand!" Any previous conversations were interrupted by the great bellowing voice of the announcer, an old skeleton of a man sat on top of a throne in the middle of the assembled thrones. He was once a great warrior of Te Whakahonoretia, now an advisor to Chief Ramos, holding great wisdom despite his blurred memories. Murmurs from the assembled Union leaders made Datu's eye twitch with annoyance as he entered. He didn't expect his arrival to be that unexpected nor, as he listened to the small whispers, that unwanted. The hall was made up of 15 great thrones set in a large semi circle, all adorned with the symbols representing each tribe. As he sat upon his, taking his place between Ramos and Delossantos, every chief sat down and the meeting was called to start.

There was a tense silence in the air, thick enough to cut with a mere. The Aquiano brothers broke it first, speaking at the same time. It was a habit that they had picked up when they were younger and it could be unnerving to those who were not used to it. "Our Te Toa people expresses great concern to the happenings in the mainland. We must discuss this so called Colour for it may be a threat towards our trade and interest." Te Pākiki's Chieftain clicked his mouth in clear distaste, knowing that when these brothers referred to "us", they were merely concerned for their own business. Despite this, he knew that they acknowledged that this threat was a threat to the very Union. After all, without any drug customers, there would be no money and the economic powerhouse of the Union could collapse.

Despite this, Ramos of Te Whakahonoretia and host of this meeting, dismissed the statement with a wave and a clenching of the fist. "We should not concern ourselves with these rumours, this is a problem for the mainlanders. We still have Quiso to trade with and many of our partners still exist. It is a problem for the far future. Something we should focus on however is the wretched Albians. They continue to abuse our women in their lands, still raiding our shores despite the threat of war." Datu stroked his beard in contemplation. This well known hatred for Alba was beginning to cloud Ramos' vision, he must be replaced soon. However, Alba was beginning to annoy the warmongering chieftain as well, refusing to stop the raids upon their lands.

"I suggest sending a small group of warriors to their lands, handpicked by myself for both cunning and power. Extend a hand of friendship and peace before revealing a dagger that would strike the heart of Alba itself. Their High King, Totisson!" Protests erupted from the gathered leaders, arguing against such an aggressive action. It came to a surprise for most, for Ramos to show such incapacity to think beyond revenge and anger. If the Union was to use such underhanded tactics, it could ruin their reputation as a friendly island people and potentially break trade deals. Such a thing could restrict the money flow into their coffers.

It was obvious to the others beforehand however, that Ramos was going to suggest war. His tribe was once the greatest military power in the country, some fearing that in Te Whakahonoretia's climax in power, they would become the face of the Isang people. The sole, one and only tribe of the island. Those fears had subsided once they were put in their place by the raiding and destruction of several of their pa plus the capturing of their princess. These things led to their unending hatred of all things Albian, the vast majority of their dwindling population being warriors and the development of their war-like nature.

"Silence!" Datu's great bellowing voice echoed throughout the room, causing most of the protesters to sit. "Te Toa and Te Whakahonoretia's chieftains have both given viable topics to discuss! As written in the treaty of our country's founding, we must discuss any topic that a chieftain deems worthy for our meeting. We shall start with Ramos' suggestion for the assassination of Alba's High Kind." Surprisingly, Delossantos of Te Tika was the first to speak up.

"There is no reason for us to make such an open declaration of war. Such a deceitful, underhanded tactic could ruin the Union's reputation. Sure, the raids upon our shores are an annoyance but under the High King's rule, Alba has been put on a leash. No Jarl can outright raid without Totisson's permission and as such, there has been a decreasing amount of raids upon our people. In a successful assassination, we would destabilise this fragile political balance and turn Alba into it's old warmongering ways."

"We agree with Delossantos, a failed assassination would result in a war that the Union isn't ready to have. It would be a waste of resources." said the Eldest Aquiano. A wave of approval for this opinion seemed to flood the room, leaving a fuming Ramos in it's wake. Datu could sympathise with the man, after all, if his daughter was ever taken away from him he wouldn't stop until the kidnapper's head hung from his wall. Unfortunately, politics was politics and personal grievances must be put aside for the greater good. Or the wealthy coffers of he chieftains. As this topic seemed adjourned, he moved the discussion along towards the reason he came here in the first place. Although he would note much later on that the meeting's host was hardly listening after his failed attempt to rally the Union to war.

Datu cleared his throat, speaking in a grave and serious tone "I have come here for one reason and one reason only. The Colour is not something that should be so easily dismissed." He glanced at Ramos, accusing eyes pointing fingers at him. He didn't seem to notice. "I have heard from Isang journeymen that send letters from the mainland, survivors from Gattania. This Colour seemed to have come from the great asteroid some of our navigators observed to fall in the middle of the mainland. It corrupts and kills, it poisons wells and grain. It is something straight out of old mythologies, pagan religions of old. It is an affront to the Goddess herself!"

A smaller tribal chieftain whose name was of little importance to him spoke up, grey eyes clashing with grey eyes. It seemed as though that this was one of the traditionalists, as shown by the red markings on his throne, a clear sign of Te Toa influence. "What would we do about such a thing? We have all heard of this horror from the stars but we have little influence over the mainland politics other than our travelling journeymen, traders and roaming merchants."

There was some nods of agreement however the brothers Aquiano seemed to be on Datu's side with his point. "That does not mean that we should stand idle against such a thing, if it truly exists. Despite the rumours and firsthand experiences we have gained through other Isa, we must send an official party to observe and record this threat." Delossantos then raised his hand and cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the room.

"I have many contacts within the Rotturan Wetlands, a country which bordered the now dead Gattania. Observers can travel with Wetlanders towards their border without suspicion from the Rotturans. Our people are very common amongst them, Te Tika especially. I shall send an group of warriors and scribes to one of my Wetlanders contacts, they will do my bidding." Everyone seemed to agree with that. The Wetlanders has always been a point of contact for Isa to connect with other mainlanders, an ally that was both looked down upon but seen as worthy of alliance in their own right. They could be trusted with something as simple as escorting a bunch of Isa, something they have been doing for centuries.

Seeing the current topic finished for the time being, the meeting of chieftains began to discuss new trade agreements with the Emruen Empire. After all, business was as usual for the Isa. A thing such as the Colour could not be discussed further without any in-depth knowledge and such things were mostly problems for the mainlanders. It could not pass the great oceans, right?

---

The Trading Letter to Emruen

Day 1 Morning - Civility Forest - A few miles from The Capital Vanir.

The sun lay low in the sky, signifying the start of summer in Alba, however this could be easily argued false as the snow that blanketed the soil of the forest was still as heavy as ever. The snow of Alba tells a story, tales of creatures walking, or running. The tales the snow told Hundi, the heir to the Tostisson clan, was that of a large hoofed creature moving north of his position. He had been tracking the creature for many hours, and the hunt was soon to be complete. The snow told Hundi that the creature had begun to slow, and with this information the large man quickened his pace.

The next clue the snow gave him was the spatter of crimson splashed across it. The damage Hundi’s first arrow had placed was taking effect on the creature. Patience was all it took to finally take such a large beast down. He altered his path, moving slightly east until he made his way to a clearing, there he found the creature he had been following. It was stumbling slightly, the arrow to its shoulder still stuck deep within. Hundi looked at it for a moment, admiring the strength of such a muscular being as he removed the bow from his back and began to nock an arrow. The projectile flew quickly and pierced the horned creature in the neck, the antlered beast reared slightly and huffed viciously. It was not to be killed so easily, however the body of the animal was to give up before its mind and despite its determination to stay standing the creature slumped to lie down. Hundi began to approach, causing the creature to cry out and attempt an escape, which only caused itself more damage as it fell into the snow. The pelt covered man attempted to calm the beast, cooing slightly as he removed the large blade from his belt. It was over quickly, the animals blood spilling quickly across the snow. Another story for the frost to tell.

Day 1 Noon - The Capital Vanir - High King Vikar’s Bed Chambers

Cinnamon.
Why could he smell Cinnamon?
The High King awoke from his restful slumber, yawning loudly as he stretched out his muscular arms. He panned his head around the room, the walls adorning themselves with countless trophies from many hunts and battles, he stopped when he found the source of the unusual smell. Incense has been lit on Vikar’s desk. ‘Must have been one of the woman’ He thought slowly rising himself from the many furs that adorned his large bed. As he did so a faint knock came from the door.
“Who is it?” asked Vikar, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Instead of a response the door opened as his son Griotgard entered.
“Still in bed Father, how are you supposed to do anything these days when you are sleeping half the time.” Griotgard teased, he moved towards the desk, “You going soft on us?” He asked gesturing to the pleasant smelling incense slowly burning.
“I awoke to it, probably one of the new Thralls” He replied rising from the bed and moving towards the wardrobe “What brings you here Griotgard?”
“Oh, Thorarin of the Crossroads has traveled to meet with you. I believe it is to discuss the goings on in the south.” Griotgard replied, moving to the door. “He is waiting for you in the meeting hall, I suggest you hurry, before he sponges all of the ale.” He then left ignoring his father's groan of annoyance. ‘What does that idiot want now…’ Vikar thought changing quickly and moving to the meeting hall.

The meeting hall was a large stone room, adorned with many paintings and tapestries of past battles of glory and honour. Each Jarl was represented here and each had a seat at the long table. However today only one seat was filled, that of The Crossroads. The Jarl of which was a large fat man who easily lost himself to ale and food. Thorarin drank heartily from a large tankard, a half empty bottle sitting beside it. As Vikar entered the man sat up.
“Ah, so glad for you to join us your majesty” Thorarin proclaimed bitterly, swigging at his drink “I have only been waiting a cuckles breakfast!*”
“What do you want Thorarin” Vikar asked, seating himself at the head of the table and nodding towards the small woman who stood in the corner. She looked nervously at the High King then went to find some wine.
“It's about the southerners, this ‘colour’ is spreading and I was wondering what plans we have to dealing with it.” He replied.
“Dealing with what? This ‘colour’ will not reach this far north, the cold will kill anything but the strongest of Albians.” Vikar retorted, he found the whole ordeal foolish, the disease of the mind would not find its way this far north.
“But if it does make it this far?” Thorarin asked.
“Then we will deal with it, Albians are a strong people, they will not be brought to their knees by a disease. We will survive this and get through it, your lack of faith in the strength of my people is what I find the most worrying here Thorarin.” Vikar responded angrily. The wine was brought in as silence enveloped the room. The foreign concubine began to pour a glass but was shaking quite erratically. “Just leave the bottle!” Yelled Vikar, causing the woman to quickly place the beverage down and speedily walk away. Thorarin was unsure how to respond, he began pouring himself another tankard of ale.
“You should leave Thorarin, go back to your lands, and have faith in the Albian people.” Vikar drank from his glass waiting for a response. Instead Thorarin stood and left the room.
Vikar drank alone, wondering if the words he spoke would be easier said than done.

*A cuckles breakfast - Alba slang for a long time.

---

Kurt Brassbeg, Veteran Soldier of the 18th Line Infantry "Brave Grey Gooses"

---

To each side of the horizon, all that Kurt could see were the kneeling men of his regiment, the other regiments, the cavalry and the artillery corps. Noble folk, artisans and commoners alike, kneeled in the mud of the early day, as the priests were giving the first blessing of the day. Wearing the robes of the church, great hats made out of the fur of white wolfs, and filling the air with the scent of resin, fir needles and fresh blood, as their incense burner were swinging in one hand, and the holy books in the other.

"Wulfen, thy pack has assembled..."

The voice of the priests cut through the warm morning like a knife, as it seemed like total silence held sway over the army, and not even a single soldier dared to even raise his breath. Like a large organism, the mass of blue coated soldiers, officers and personal let the silence exist for a few more moments, before the voice once more was raised. This time, thousand of voices had raised it, pushed it over the silence, and cutting it once more.

"...TO ENDURE THE COLDEST WINTER..."

In one single movments, Kurt raised his arms to reach for the shoulders of his men next to him, as did they to his. Once more, like one gigantic organism, the army would do this movment, each man, now forming a thick wall with his men to his side. Slowly, the body would move, silent circles, as Kurt could feel the breath of the whole army on his back. They all were one!

"...thy blessing be upon us..."

Once more the priests spoke up, and Kurt could get a glimps onto the archduke himself, kneeling in front of the army, his arms around the shoulders of his generals. In the distance slowly a drum was beaten, and men began to growl out the ancient chants of their god, the faith of the white wolf. The beat would increase ins speed, as a horn would join, then another one. Then, once more, the army would raise its voice.

"...THY BLESSING BE UPON MIDDENLAND! THY BLESSING BE ON THE CHURCH! THY BLESSING BE ON OUR BELOVED ARCHDUKE!"

---

Boris Weißbacher, Archduke of Middenland, Leader of the "Grand army under the banner of the white wolf"

---

The old and grey man, with his long hair bound to many braids over the back of his head, and his long beard in an impressive assembly of knots, wore the uniform of a general, showing his lifetime of war and battle. Kneeling in the wet mud of the early morning, he payed little attention to such minor inconveniences.

The priest in front of him was young, and clearly was shivering from nerviosty, as he dipped his hands in the bowl of warm blood, coming from a fresh sacrifice to Wulfen. A warm smile moved on the old Archdukes face. "At ease, boy...Wulfen can smell fear, so never dare to be afraid!"

The young priest nodded, as his face turned more pale. Both hands now drenched in blood, be began to draw lines on the Archdukes face. Before kneeling deeply, and slowly retreating. With that, Boris raised from the mud, and his generals followed. Turning his head, he stared over his army, still kneeling. Men, assembled from all over Middenland!

Gattania might have fallen to madness and death, yet Middenland would make sure to see its corpse not defiled!

---

Hugo Todbringer, Hussar-Captain of the 1st "His Highness personal Hussars"

---

Middenland was not known for its horsemen, yet the 1st Hussars saw themselves as the elite of the Grand army. Sons of high Ranking nobles, these bored brats were faced with an almost nightmarish turn, when they were placed under the Command of Todbringer! Hugo parents were of minor nobility, and their name long forgotten, yet he was a soldier, and as would not tolerate anything else but soldiers under his command. Yet still, countless requested to placed under his command...

For Todbringer promised glory!

Hugo and his men had volenteered to scout ahead near the border, and the sight of what they saw were...discouraging. Far in the distance, where the nation of Gattania once lay, was a blasted wasteland, unable to support any life! But at night, the grey would shift, and the light of strange colors could be seen in the distance. A light that had effects on his men!
Two had been found yesterday morning, cutting their own throats with their sabers, and a third one had gone insane before the first prayer. As such, Todbringer had ordered that all men now would bind their eyes before sleeping, and that looking at the south-west at night, would be punished with 5 lashes with the short whip. Today´s lack of deaths had proofen this to be effective.

"Sir! A wagon has been spotted!" One of the hussars had quickly moved close, as Hugo was still cutting his impressive black beard. "Good...IN THE SADDLES YOU DOGS!" His roaring voice was feared among his men, and a few moments later, thirty hussars were once more on the move. The carriage was soon reached, and Hugo had his hand on his blade as he stopped the wagon.

"Halt! In the name of the Archduke! State your name and your intentions..."

It was then when Hugo noticed the woman in the back...far to delicate for the clothing she wore. "Mylady, please excuse the rough tone! Hugo Todbringer, Captain of his personal Hussars, at your service!" Taking off his head, it was quite clear that he had a keen eye on discovering nobility...

..that or the fact that he was also famous for his path of seduction and bastards!

The Emperor prepared for his travels, the color still a concern in his mind. However, that was still secondary to the duty of the Crown; trade relations with any nation was always good, though what Markus had heard of the Isang people’s addiction to some sort of opiate was kind of off putting. Still, it was culture and it was not as if the culture of the Emruenian people didn’t have any off peculiar aspects to it as well.

“Mikkel, may I ask a favor of you?”

Mikkel was in charge of hand-picking and briefing the men who would escort the Emperor. He turned to look at Markus as he inspected the Escort, the Emperor doing the same with his own Lion’s Corps.

“What do you need?”

Markus answered curtly,

“I need you to wait for me to return before doing anything with the Ambassador.”

Mikkel understood why Markus wanted him to wait. Immediately, he nodded in approval.

“Men, remember: when you meet the Isang, greet them in the same fashion that we greet all of the people we meet, with respect and honor. Bind your weapons to your backs and bow your heads, show that you mean no harm.”

There was a simultaneous reply.

“YES,SIR FIELDMARSHAL!”

Mikkel was proud of his soldiers. He was proud of the Army, for the Army itself was disciplined and well mannered, and their discipline reflected in their actions even when they were out of uniform. He was quite impressed with what the Military had accomplished and he was glad he could contribute to this rich history. But before he could grin with elated spirit, Markus gestured for him to turn around, before enclosing him in a hug that could only have come from a brother.

“I’ll be back, friend.” He spoke, warmth reflecting regally in his eyes.

“As always and without a scratch, brother. The Empire needs both of us, especially in these strange times.” Mikkel replied softly, and with established confidence.

Their embrace was brief and meaningful, and then the escort readied themselves for the journey; as per tradition, most of the journey would be made on foot, with the horses being there for the ride home or for hasty escape should there be any trouble.

Markus waved goodbye to his friend and began his journey to the southern tip of the peninsula, keeping his mind occupied throughout the journey by pondering what had to be done about the colors.







They made good, steady progress moving south, and stopped by the lake path. Gazing beyond, they saw the other side which had been overtaken by the Aureans. Markus clicked his tongue, visibly irked. He had once thought of moving south to take this area, but now the Aureans stood in his way; a pompous, ignorant, and arrogant people. He scoffed at the idea that they could take on the professional disciplined fighting force of Emruen and their battle-hardened commanders.

They had a first rate navy to rival that of the professionalism of Emruen’s own, which was adorned with quality weapons and constructed with the best lumber. But at the moment, there was no reason to fall in conflict with them here down south even if tensions were high. Markus would return after his meeting and take the other half of the peninsula for Emruen.

Even if the Aureans weren’t currently in hostile relations with Emruen, it still bothered the Emperor to be so close to them. He quickly ordered his men to pack up; he wanted to use the horses to ride away as soon as possible. An engagement against large superior numbers on inferior, exposed, open ground was not a good thing, and watching Mikkel and his battles against petty uprisings and Albians taught him that.

He thought a little about the Colors at this point, only to find that it seemed petty to squabble over a little bit of land in these times of uncertainty.

At night they took their rest, their camp being kept under the sharp watch by keen-eyed skirmishers, ready to rouse the Emperor to run if times called for it.







They left at the break of the first light of day, their efforts significantly fruitful. As they neared the camp at the southern-most tip of the peninsula, the Emperor and his guard signaled the Isang, and they came out to greet the Emperor. With utmost respect, he and his men performed a greeting that was only done to the people they deemed respectable and honorable enough to receive the greeting.

The Emperor lowered himself to one knee, and his men bound their weapons behind their backs using their arms and bowed as a sign of peace, respect, and dignity. Emruen respected these traits, it was these traits that bound them as people.

The Trader came out with his guard of warriors to greet the Emruenians. Upon reaching them, the Trader spoke,

“The warriors will now issue the challenge. If you move, it is an act of war; if you do not, you come in true peace.”

The Emperor did not even flinch, and his men remained with their backs arched respectfully to the ground as the Isang warriors performed the challenge, twirling their weapons between their fingers. The ground shook with their fierce shouts and gestures and the looks they wore on their faces were grim and intimidating, yet Markus and his men stayed still in respect.

As the Challenge was coming to an end, one of the warriors came up to one of the guards and shouted war cries in front of him, but the guard with his steeled discipline did not even flinch. The warrior then came back and they all slowly stepped away, ending it with a few rhythmic beats that faded into the trees beyond.

“Impressive, Emperor Markus. We have heard much of your people, please, come in.”

Their unorthodox greetings left good impressions on both sides, as the Emruenians displayed their discipline, and the Isang their Culture. They walked through the Isang outpost, and there Markus saw how they lived.

They first led him through the first section, which was occupied with houses, taverns, inns, and various shops in the market. The place seemed to emit a hundred different scents at the same time; hyacinth, lavender, spices and the smell of savory meat cooking, as well as a dozen more fragrant scents Markus could almost name but never quite did. People rushed past them as they made their way through the packed streets. Thankfully, second hand smoke of the Opiate did not lead to a high. After walking through the first layer, they were then brought through another gate that separated the second and first sections of the town. This section looked to be somewhat of a barracks section. It was full of grains and food stuffs; supplies that could last for months.

After being brought through the second section, he was taken through to the treasury section. It was at this point that he realized he had not seen many women before they reached this particular section, and he found it quite strange as it was a week of celebration for the Isang. He considered asking about it, then thought better to ask after the negotiations had been done.

The trader stopped as he gestured towards the door. Following closely behind him was his daughter, grey eyes calm and calculating. She was flanked by two guards as they entered the room after the trader, who motioned for Markus to come in. Markus found it difficult to mask his culture shock at how different everything was to Emruen. He stepped into the small room; upon doing so, he found himself in a cozy den, furnished with fine wooden seats and bureaus, heavily adorned with furs and silks. A table made of dark mahogany stood proudly in the middle of the room, with a large map laid out on it. Three of the Emperor's own walked in to accompany the Emperor, and everyone settled themselves into the ornate comfort of the room and began to deliberate on the topics that they planned to discuss in the first place.