"Halt! We are under orders to let none inside the chambers," proclaimed a palace guard that stood before a set of heavy oaken doors.

Henrik's mother let go of his hand and stormed towards the man. "As your Empress, I command you to open the door!"

She looked at him with a fiery gaze. Out of respect he averted his eyes and looked down; nonetheless, he did not move to open the door. "Your command does not supersede his, Your Majesty."

What ensued was something of a standoff. The young prince thought he could faintly hear the words of his father and the war council drifting through the door.

"...a waste of resources, too much manpower already thrown away for those worthless lands..."

"It is too late to back down. If...refuse to send reinforcements...prolonged campaign will cost us even mor-"

"Enough! This talk has gone full circle; I will hear nothing more. Send another two regiments to the eastern front," boomed the familiar voice of the Imperator. Seemingly ever serious and contemplative, the stern Wladyslaw III was nonetheless not known to be a quiet man in those occasions that he did see fit to speak.

A few moments later there came a knock from inside. At once the guard stepped aside to stand at attention as the wooden door was pushed open. The ruler of the Commonwealth strode out of the room with a foul look upon his face, the High Command still gathering their things before they left.

When he encountered his wife and son waiting just on the other side of the door, his face softened ever so slightly. On another day he might have reminded them of their place and explained that the War Council was not for empresses and young princes, but now he was not in the mood for another confrontation.

It had already been quite the birthday for him. The day was not even half over and the celebrations had yet to begin, but already he felt weary from the burdens of leadership. But he was never one to complain or shirk from his duties; with every breath he strove to be a living reflection of Lindos' diligence.

So it was a welcome respite to walk down the grand halls alongside his family and enjoy what time he could spare for them. They gave him the pleasantries and wishes of a happy birthday, but then Henrik found himself distracted. Alongside one of the walls there was a line of great tapestries. The pictures seemed to come to life with a thousand colors, no small thing considering the rarity and cost of some dyes. Golden threads bordered them, and every weave was masterful. They told a story as one walked down the hall and looked at the pictures.

The prince gazed in wonder at the pictures just as he always had. "What does that one show?" Henrik asked for what might have been the tenth time.

A soft and small smile eased itself onto the Imperator's chiseled face. "It shows King Wladyslaw I, our ancestor whose name I share. He ruled our traditional lands, in the far north. His reign came before the Commonwealth came to be, back when we had only a kingdom...They say that he loved every tree, bird, and blade of grass in all his lands, and that he fought with all his strength to protect his people. That was why he was a great and beloved king."

Just next to the tapestry that showed the king as a smiling and gentle man, there was another depiction that cast him in a different light. He was armored and brandishing a sword, standing triumphantly on a bloody battlefield. Though he had started no wars, Wladyslaw I had never hesitated to conquer and utterly destroy those that threatened his realm. His small kingdom of Polesia had managed to expand its borders even under such a peaceful and kind ruler. Polesia had always expanded its borders, and the Commonwealth, as Polesia's successor state, had seemed to inherit that same tendency.

They walked on, at a pace slow enough for the Imperator to tell the short story of each picture to Henrik as they passed it by.

"...and here you see your great grandfather, a brilliant strategist and great man. The Holy Moravian Empire grew decadent and strayed from Lindos' teachings, so he toppled it. That next banner shows what came afterward: those princes and electors that took his side were allowed to keep their holdings and serfs, but those that had defied him were stripped of all titles and had their serfs freed," he explained to Henrik as the boy continued to look on in wonder.

Finally, he finished, "There is my father as a youth. He is accepting the surrender of the last Sultan of Al-Arabus..."

When his father finally finished, Henrik asked, "But what will your tapestry say when they add it to the end?"

The Imperator froze then, something that he was not wont to do. He was of middling age, and thus far his accomplishments had included little. Would the subjugation of those savage lands in the east be his greatest accomplishment? He didn't even lead the war effort, having entrusted that to his heir and oldest son; the triumph wouldn't even be his, and even if it were, what was grand about bringing civilization to some backwards and savage tribes in the burning veldtlands?

"That is not a kind question! He isn't going to die and have a tapestry added anytime soon. Come now, your tutor will be looking for you..." his mother began.

"I didn't mean that I thought he would die soon!" Henrik objected.

The Imperator regained his composure and looked towards them. His wife and son both stood still, and then he answered them, "They will say that I was a just king, and that my reign saw the Commonwealth expands its borders and reach greater heights than ever before."

He forced a small smile, and then left them to return to his war council before they all dispersed. Upon his mind was one thing: Albion.

Daystur Matenjo sits comfortably in the pleasure barge. Watching the team of servants row against the current of the river. The feathers in his round cap struggled against the wind as Daystur looked across the west bank. The slopped bastions of Fort Klajo slid into the Sava, with shirt buildings and docks pushed up against the dense ramparts.

A collection of leisure boats could be heard, sliding down stream. Judging by their finery and servants, they are headed for the Madara Quarter. They are relaxed and celebrating the new year. Daystur listens to the laughter and greetings as the two vessels pass each other. The man sat next to Daystur waves to the jubilant gentry with his burgundy gloves and his wide grin.

"The best of a new year!" the man shouts, before relaxing back onto the bench.

The sun pokes through the layer of clouds and pours it's light across the river. They sky had threatened to rain all day, with many donning cloaks and capes for the occasion. The bridge ahead, that connects the Fortress to the Aprij district, spans the river with five arches, with houses built on the stone bridge itself. Daystur can spot buckets pulling up from the river and rubbish being dumped over the edge.

The plaster and brick walls of the upper class townhouses and pools recline along the east bank. With trees and other forms of greenery being prevalent on the Viskijs side of the river. All around him, Daystur can hear parades and celebrations of the new year. The voracity and the style depended district to district, but it was all in observance of the same thing.

The shadow of the bridge pulls over the bow of the pleasure barge, sweeping over each rower before finally covering Daystur and the aft. The sleek vessel quickly dives through the brick arch of the bridge before pushing out the other side. Daystur notices the thud of one of the oars knocking a bucket as the barge speed past.
"Where exactly are we going Mr Vidasorjan?" Daystur asked the man next to him. As the vessel clears the bridge.

"Have you never been to the Aprij Quarter?" the man looks surprised at Daystur.

"No, where in the Aprij Quarter are we going?" Daystur tries to dampen his frustration.

"Oh well... we're meeting at the Cavistoj House, though I reckon we'll be early" Mr Vidasorjan explained as Aprij Quarter started rolling along east riverbank. Daystur had been to the house before, though never by boat.
The quarter was a ridgeline covered in streets and houses, blocking the view of the rest of the district along the harbour of Aprij.

With the pace set by the pleasure barge's rowers, they quickly skimmed along the riverbank, past a myriad of docks and moored riverboats. Along the river side thoroughfare, Dayster could see revellers and decorations draped over the streets.

Then a gated canal soon appeared along the shore. The rudder was turned and the rowers slowed their pace. Daystur saw guards drag the gates open, pulling against the water and the mud beneath it. The sleek barge turned in the water and the rowers pulled their oars from the short gun rail. They lifted the oars skyward and then pushed them into the water like harpoons, using them as barge poles to move the vessel into the canal.

It was a tight canal, another shadow pulled over them. This time from the tall buildings that stood tall over the narrow canal. The watermarked and moss covered bricks of the canal flanked them closely. The sound of the city started diming and becoming a distant murmurs echoed against the thin canal's walls.

The left side of the canal wall gave way to smooth steps, layered on each other before a small garden. Flowers of many colours and dense vines clung to the walls surrounding the garden. A small collection of attendants, all wearing golden suns somewhere on their jackets or hats, stood at attention waiting for them.
The rowers soon held the barge steady and Vidasorjan waved his palm for Daystur to disembark.

As his boots stamped onto the smooth steps, Daystur noticed how the garden had no exits, save to a doorway on the far end. A private entrance into the Cavistoj House? Daystur wondered if he was starting to make an impression.

The attendants take his cloak off of him and a senior of their number walks him to the door. Daystur hears Vidasorjan giving orders behind his back to the barge.
"You're no longer required" he heard the man say to the rowers. Was he going to be staying awhile? Daystur pondered with a smile as he walked through the doorway.

Once inside, Daystur recognised the corridor. He had seen people leave through it though never enter before. He was escorted out into the hall, where paintings and tapestries lay over the walls in various fades of colour.
Then a familiar face appeared, standing next to the wooden staircase.

"Sir Matenjo, her majesty is not hear at the moment. If you'd be so kind as to wait in the dining hall sir" Hansel Vor Lipesat, an aged house steward tells Daystur.

"Of course Hansel" Daystur peeled a smile as he walked past the servant, knowing where he was going.

He turned through an ornate wooden doorway, before emerging into a long hall. The tables previously there had been moved to the walls, beneath sprawling paintings. A fire burns in an iron fire pit at the centre of the hall, a few chairs have been shuffled around it.

Daystur takes a seat and feels the warmth soak through his breeches. For a few moments, everything is quiet, except from the crackling sound of the fire. Daystur leans back in his seat and rubs his eyes, letting out a yawn as he settles into comfort.

Minutes go by, Daystur just stares into the fire. The faint beat of feet and shouts slip through the windows. Occasionally listening to a set of footsteps moving through the building somewhere.

Then, Hansel walks into the hall, followed by a thin-moustached man, only a few years his younger.
"Mr Visvaldis Vor Tepwaj sir" Hansel loudly announces, before giving way to the man himself.
A humbly dressed man, in a long cloak and carrying a ledger filled the parchments. Daystur sits up straight in his wooden seat, he wasn't expecting anyone else to arrive.

"Uh... Hansel, can you bring us some drinks! Mr Vor Tepwaj, do you mind if we have rum?" Daystur tells Hansel as he leaves back through the doorway.
Visvaldis lifts a meek smile. "I don't mind uh... sir?" Visvaldis says as he lingers closely to the doorway.
"Sir Daystur Matenjo, Captain of the Battered Seal" Daystur offers an open palm for the newcomer to shake, which is returned rather limply.

"Tell me, why are you here mister Vor Tepwaj?" Daystur wanted to know keenly as to relieve his surprise in some way. Visvaldis looks perplexed at Daystur, as he takes a seat, he refrains from making eye contact.

"I'm here for the same meeting as you are sir. I've been summoned to represent the Anjlana Family Holdings in this meeting with his majesty" Vor Tepwaj explains. Daystur feels his heart sink in his chest.

"His majesty!?... I thought I was meeting with the princess-consort?" Daystur asks Visvaldis, trying to mask his emotions. Visvaldis looks more visibly confused.

"I'm here to meet the king, perhaps we are meeting them both?" Visvaldis is trying to rationalise this perdicament as some sort of mistake.
Daystur looks into the fire, why wouldn't Anna tell me the king was here as well?

"I thought this would also be an opportune time to present the king with my research and findings" Visvaldis opens his ledger on his lap and started sifting through documents and charts. Daystur is only half listening.

"Would you like to hear about them Sir Matenjo? I have sea charts and cross-examined rumors from pirates and all manner of statements from survivors of shipwreck and even marooning!" Visvaldis continues, looking up at Daystur with a grin and pulling out neatly written parchments.

"What are you talking about Mr Vor Tepwaj?" Daystur finally returns his full attention to the clerk.

"What do you mean... We're here to discuss the King's plans for the new world settlement sir" Visvaldis drops his frown in puzzlement.

Hansel returns to the room, though without a rum decanter and glasses.
He instead returns with a large silver bowl in both hands.

"What is this Hansel?" Daystur looks over to be ignored by the servant, who places the bowl on a table, revealing to be filled with water.
"Well, it's no doubt here to freshen up before we meet his majesty" Visvaldis says as if a wave of uncertainty has drained from him.

"Well, you're too late then" A recognisable voice echoes within the hall from the doorway.

Teodor Vor Oranzs enters the room to the almost immediate standing of Visvaldis and Daystur. The king is followed by three armed men, wearing the same golden suns the attendants did. Vidasorjan also enters, following after the king before shutting the door behind him.

"Please, sit down gentlemen" Teodor says to the men around the fire, who oblige their king.
Daystur starts noticing his heartbeat, pounding against his chest and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He wanted to shout and rave what the hell was going on, but he had to cage up his frustration in front of the king. The armed men take up to standing against the table, their basket hilt swords rattle from their belts.

"I'm sorry that Hansel can't bring in refreshments at the moment, but I have business with you... both" Teodor casually waves his hand towards the door, the charcoal-black stained hands that finish roughly around his wrists.

Daystur shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"I'm sorry for my demeanour your majesty, I wasn't expecting to meet you today" Daystur explains himself.

"I know you weren't" Teodor responds, walking up towards the fire pit and warming his hands. The silence in the room takes a pressing form. Daystur's collar is suddenly tighter than he thought it was.

"I've been made aware that this isn't the first time in my wife's house" King Teodor told Daystur, glancing over at Visvaldis. Vor Tepwej closes his ledger and tries not to make eye contact.

"I also know Sir Matenjo, that you've been fucking my wife" Teodor continued and Daystur jumps from his seat.

"I don't understand your maj..." Daystur feels the gloved hands of the armed men push his shoulders down back into the seat. Visvaldis is startled and by his face, confounded.

"You know fully well, do you think the house servants don't tell me? Do you think I don't have ears in my own kingdom?" Teodor gently pushes his hands into the fire. Without a flinch in pain, the flames roll and slide along his hands like he'd dipped them in water.

"I know that Anna isn't the sort to be... constrained by marriage" The king looks to Daystur with a warm smile, still twisting his hands in the flames. Daystur looks on in trepidation and fear.

"No, my lord please! I didn't mean anything" Daystur mutters as he starts trying to shake off the guards. Then the cold iron of a knife presses against his neck, looking at the burgundy gloved hand that could only be Vidasorjan's. The third guard gently puts his hand on Vor Tepwaj's shoulder, who looks up to the soldier and is intimidated into silence.

"But I can't have you disrupt the line of succession with any bastards of yours" Teodor finally pulls his hands from the flames and then steps towards Daystur.

"No your majesty! Have mercy! It was only the once..." Daystur tries to say but then the king lunges at him.

"No, don't you say another word!"

Teodor rams his thumbs into Daystur's eyes. His hand's hiss against Daystur's face like a steak pressed into a hot pan. Daystur starts screeching as the palms melt the skin of his cheeks, his eyes start melting and steam starts spilling out of his sockets.

Vidasorjan pulls back his knife so the king can push his hands further into Daystur's face. The flesh of his ears starts peeling away and his eyebrows singe and burn.

Daystur tries to push the king's hands of him, but his fingertips slap and sear against the king's boiling wrists.

The captain starts to wail, a bizarre, low yowl. The rendering skin and flesh starts drooling off Daystur's face and spilling onto his jacket. The hairs on his face flash into flames briefly. Before a final push of Teodor's thumbs sinks them through his sockets and into his brain.

Daystur's body starts to go limp and his throat starts echoing a raspy, simple growl.

The king removes his hands and the blood starts trickle out of the dead man's eyes. The blackened skin of Daystur's face begins to hardened, but the flesh is still liquid beneath it.
The guards remove their hands from the mutilated body, as the mucus and blood that was it's brain starts oozing out from the skull.

Teodor walks over to the bowl of water, with burnt skin and viscous flesh still strung between his finger like melted cheese. More steam fizzles from the bowl as the king washes his hands. Visvaldis is wiping the tears off of his cheeks.

"The lesson here Mr Vor Tepwaj is..." King Teodor finishes washing his hands and wipes them on his jacket. He takes steps towards Visvaldis in his seat, pointing his unharmed finger at the man.

"The same fate awaits you... if you think of playing me the fool, once you get to the new world. Do you understand?" Teodor sees the meek clerk wriggle in his seat when the King's fingers gets closer.

"Yes your majesty!" Visvaldis' cheeks are red and puffy, still moist from his tears. Steam and smoke still rising from Sir Matenjo's face and neck.

"Good, then our meeting is concluded Mr Vor Tepwej" Teodor raises a warm smile to the man and departs, leaving the body in the seat across from Visvaldis.

"I wish you and the company good fortune on your voyage" The king shouts without looking back at the merchant.

"And a happy new year!"

Visvaldis starts to tremble, his fingers shake on his ledger as Vidasorjan turns around beneath the doorway.

"Commandeer this corpse's ship for your trip. It should get you to the new world with little hassle, though... you'll need a new captain" Vidasorjan chuckled at Daystur's body before leaving the hall.
The clerk quickly makes his way out of the room.
As the smell of burnt flesh starts to stink out the hall, with the limp body slumped on the seat.

“Citing old age as a cause, Dux Xhore Javor of the region of Lellail, often considered the most powerful person in the Confederation of the Heratereh, has renounced his position and abandoned the political arena in which he had been a dominating force for over 40 years.” Read a piece of paper in elegant black letters inside an announcement board made of glass. The typical perfection of a printing press making itself apparent as it was the tenth one Aeresk had seen in the short period he had been in the city and all looked exquisitely similar.

The drawing room in which the half-Kitsune admiral waited was one of many of the uncountable ones in the Grand Palace in Lellail; this time, for waiting an audience with the advisor in chief of the Dux. The door suddenly opened, startling the admiral even though he gave no outward signs of it. There were very few people of very certain species which would do that, no human he had met yet could even approach it, but that was no surprise. However, the person which did was indeed a shock for Aeresk. “Grandfather.” He mouthed on the cold air of the antechamber to his mother’s office while said pair of Kitsunes looked at each other with a somewhat mischievous challenge in their eyes. His ancestor only made a gesture with his head, smirked and with a nod turned back into his fox-form in a ring of multicoloured flames which soon engulfed him. As they dispersed, there was no fox inside of them. Oh, how he envied how easily they could use that ability. He was a prodigy and still it took a great amount of effort to turn into a fox himself, never mind transporting himself through solid matter using flames. For once in almost a century he cursed his inexperience and young age.

“Aeresk, come inside.” His mother announced and led him into her office. He discussed absentmindedly his findings as both Admiral and through his network of spies while his eyes looked at the vivid portrait of his father in the back of the office.

There was no time to lose, they were right on time for their opportunity, but life was never as easy as that and as such, they both were worried. It was too much of a coincidence, however good it was, and they had to be careful now. In that same manner, they couldn’t afford to lose this chance. So, Aeresk continued absentmindedly with his report.

“I miss your father too.” Said Jya in a tone of resignation, cutting through the conversation. She had lived long enough that she mostly knew when her feelings would decay enough for her to be able to function almost normally again… But any being that is alive wouldn’t die from the inside out as long as they could experience and awe at life and as such, at the age of seven hundred and fifty five years old, Jya had met and married Aeresk’s father, soon giving birth to her firstborn. His father had passed away at the age of a hundred and twelve, through magic he had stayed alive that long, but no magic could keep people alive and mentally sane forever, so for more than three hundred years after that, Aeresk had lived without a father. It was normal in his life; normally he didn’t miss him, though there were times when he gave himself some licence and breathing room.

Aeresk was suddenly startled again for the second time that morning and the first two in several decades when his mother encased them both in a hollow sphere of multicoloured fire. “We are to execute what we discussed in private ten years ago. This is the moment.” – At last, some fun – Thought the half-kitsune.

“I’ll call the captains loyal to me and we shall move forwards with the plan.” Answered Aeresk without emotion, it was business now, except for the part when Jya cut him off by grabbing one of his hands in between hers and holding him in position before he could leave with that simple gesture.

“I told you not to talk to me as I was a stranger. I soon will be your commander but before that I carried you in me, so, please, never forget that.”

“Never trust the eastern winds.” Said a part of the Oath of the Admiralty and recited Jya. Instead of the normal “Never turn your back on Lellail” Which would complete that verse of the Oath, Aeresk swore.

“Never turn your back on loved ones.”



“And you expect me to believe I shall be free to act after this? I’m not innocent nor naïve enough for you to believe so… Thus tell me, why do you believe you have power over me, Lady Jya?” Asked the half-elf Rag Sau-Sau while pacing around the room before setting in a fixed rhythm in which he travelled from one corner to the next one. They were in the studio of the chief of the Great Guild of Lellaili Traders, seat of T’zah.

“I do not expect you to do anything. We both know what you will do; you shall castling yourself in the fortresses of T’zah, raise your shields and prepare your Holy Heratereh Fire while having a leg outside the city in case escape is needed. You want to weather this storm; however, it will engulf us all.” Answered Jya Alexeria with no apparent malice in her voice, just security behind her words.

“Trust when I say I do not believe this is the best for our nation, if the single noun “nation” can be used for the Heratereh, and we both know it likely can’t. Regardless, the fact remains that you’ll be playing a dangerous game.” Warned Rag as he semi-hysterically paced in another, more complex pattern on the floor.

“Please, you know a few hundred years too old for those warning to have any effect on me, or be useful at all. I know the game.” Jya drummed her fingers on the table as a possible sign of annoyance; nobody really knew how to interpret Kitsunes’ gestures, especially those who lived as long as Jya had, except for those who had spent as long a time around them. Jya was simply too old for her gestures not be completely under her control. Nobody even knew her real age except her family.

“And that will be your undoing, nobody knows the game. When you feel as you do, you fall. It is as simple as that.” Accused Sau-Sau with a slightly shaky finger.

“Hide in your towers as much as you like-” She was cut by his following statement.

“I know you plan on gaining the title of Dux once and for all, it has been decades since you had all your husbands and wives in one place. They have lives on their own, nonetheless, with something as important as your ascension to Dux it is obviously now a time for celebration and to reunite them.”

“Your spy network is impressive, yes.” Started Jya, with some superiority. “Your conclusions, not so much.”

“I was not hoping to impress you, I was simply stating a fact we both know as clear as the Sun. You control the Arsenal of Lellail and plan to get rid of the corrupted official within as soon as possible. It is likely you use your newfound political power to try to remove Morm and Kiv.” Continued Sau-Sau acidly.

“It is interesting that you see them as more of a threat than Crerom. Very well… You seem more capable and informed than you show. Most importantly, more perceptive. Good.” Congratulated the Kitsune as she was talking to a small child, she liked to play with people, that much was obvious.

“Do not treat like I am incapable of handling my business – and someone else’s – I might not be ageless but life has given me intelligence and wisdom.” Jya snorted just to provoke the Dux, he didn’t heed her. “We might be allies, but that doesn’t think we have to enjoy each other’s presence; tolerate is just enough.”

At some point in the conversation Jya had stood up and was leaning on the table, Rag being none the wiser thanks to his concentration on the many ways this supposed conference could kill or injure him. Finally he was stopped by the Kitsune offering her hand, which he shook with fervour to calm his perennial nervousness. “Alies.”

“Of convenience, Kitsune, for as long as we find use in each other; Albion spins in that manner. I’m sorry.” He pierced her multicoloured eyes with a glare.

“Of course.” She smiled, showing her pearly white teeth, much more sharp than a normal human should have them. Another indecipherable gesture. It might have been a predatory stare but it could also be just a sardonic smile, one never knew and Jya, while having proven herself completely reliable in trade deals for more than a few generations, was enjoying sending confusing body language to the Great Paranoid of the East.



“Why would admiral Aeresk dethatch all of the galleys from his fleets?” Asked an advisor, a rather novice one, to one of his seniors while they were passing through a half-broken and partially eroded hallway in the inner city of Gañau, one of the many monstrous constructions of old casting its shadows upon them.

“He’s done what?” The elder of the two asked in surprise, then the cogs in his agile mind started turning faster and faster, in compensation perhaps of what his body could no longer do.

“He wants a high seas fleet, galleys aren’t good for that… But that should be no problem, except if you count that some admirals are tied to the number of ship they control, selling them or scrapping them is also a demonstration of power and a way of removing other admirals from a position of enough power to threaten him.” Continued the senior advisor in a surprised tone of voice, speaking faster and faster, his mind leaving his speech very behind in terms of speed.

“Why employ such a drastic tactic now? He knows that he is also being as subtly as using a pyre of Holy Heratereh Hellfire as a bonfire.” Asked the novice with some trembling in his voice. The elder understood it as a sign of nervousness, but in reality it was an expression of eagerness.

“That would be especially effective if he wants to ensure that whatever he does is a triumph only for him and which benefits would only be given to those of his choice. Probably he yearns for battle and glory, he must be preparing to invade…”

“The hysterical voices of Dux Dutte and Dux Sau-Sau shall rise.”

“Yes they will, now, how do you think this will affect our lord Bluesun-Muth?”

“Isn’t this dangerous enough that we should just go directly to him?”

“Indeed, but your proficiency as an advisor has been compromised and thus you must answer satisfactorily or I shall give you my vote of no-confidence in the inner council of Gañau.”

However, the senior advisor would not live to see more than a week after that conversation and the Dux of Gañau wouldn’t be informed immediately. The junior advisor would receive the vote of no-confidence and disappear in the shadows through a supposed self-imposed ostracism outside of Herater.



The ceremony was reaching its apex when Jya rose as the newly appointed Dux of the city of Lellail. She was dressed with a large series of tunics one over the other, each more glamorous than the last, some with precious stones and plates of precious metals interwoven in the cloth of the garment. In Venetian red she stood with pride as the past Dux, Xhore Javor, took off his hat with seven horns, red beryl stones incrusted and platinum jewellery feathers and put in on the head of the kneeling new Dux.

Jya smiled triumphantly at her family reunited after so long, her husbands, her wives and her many children watching from the galleries at the sides of the Great Galley she was in. The ship wasn’t truly seaworthy with all the ominous and opulent decoration that made each of the parts of the monstrous vessel a piece of art, nonetheless, it could travel around the canals and lagoons in the city in calm waters and thanks to the very intervened environment of Lellail, the Great Galley could be safe even with a snowstorm thrashing the waters of the small bay to which the city opened the gates of its hundreds of dams. But now the galley was just a mobile platform located in front of the Great Palace of the city of Lellail. Marble sculptures, precious metals, paintings, woodworking and many other things made the Great Galley a mobile palace in itself and the tremendous celebration in the city only accentuated it, when all the coffers of the merchants and government officials were opened and used to their fullest to demonstrate their economic power and grandstanding above every other city in the continent.

And so Jya accepted her position as the new Dux by swearing the Old Oath. The people which had been deathly silent up to that point, exploded in cheering and the Grand Cannon of the Crow, with its fuse on fire by the Kitsune-Bi of Jya, launched the first of the many fireworks that would be extending the day into the night for the following hours. The celebration would be for every inhabitant of the city and the region, no matter their race or social standing. It was the moment in which many would ask for the hand of their loved one, the enterprises would be blessed by many of the churches in Lellail and people would forget their old grudges in and out of the city. Merchants and travellers from the entirety of the continent were invited by their peers and many more arrived simply because of the fame of the event. A day of celebration of the inauguration of the Dux and then a week of celebrations dedicated to the city of Lellail. The largest celebration of Albion would also include the blessing of the fleet of Admiral Aeresk, which would set sail to war.

In the meantime, in the thrones of the Great Galley the other Duxes speculated and planned.

“The Commonwealth is moving its large weight around, amassing their forces on the borders, training troops, laying down ships.” Spoke calmly the half-elf in his shaky tone of voice.

“They have allies in the continent, hidden but they are here, in this very city.” Spat Crerom Dutte, his contempt almost palpable in the very air around him.

“They would be foolish to start anything now, they know the city is filled with important people from the sixteen winds, they can’t risk harming or antagonizing one of the many nations here reunited.” Kiv Eadrath spoke in a flat tone, almost innocently.

“Most insidious indeed, nonetheless, the danger is here, many could die today and there would be nothing any of us could do, even if we summoned the Violet Banner of the Parliament of the Fires.” Spoke Morm Bluesun-Muth.

“We are all protected the same, and as such, we are all in the same danger.” Continued Rag Sau-Sau.

“You spend your time hiding in the darkness because you are afraid of the shadows, Dux, don’t you think you are not in the best position to speak about danger?” Crerom ground out.

“It might be true, but I am still alive.”

“Alive enough to enjoy life?” Dux Kiv of Schwah asked.

“This conversation will not lead us anywhere.” Crerom continued, in his ever tired and angry tone.

“Most wise advice.” Spoke Morm in conciliation. “So, what do you think about the current situation, Lords?”

“Aeresk is a danger, he always has been, though he has been moving silently, he has made an announcement so loud to the lands of Albion that he might as well have been the Grand Cannon of the Crow firing during all of his lif-” Sau-Sau began before being interrupted.

“Everything a worrying situation in the last hundred years.” Eadrath pushed air through his nose, maybe in laugh, maybe in a sigh, maybe in a snort. “Don’t you all think?” He twisted his tone in a manner which couldn’t be classified even as a question, a statement, irony or sarcasm.

“Of course…” Crerom failed to imitate the tone of his younger peer but then continued normally. “Aeresk will ingratiate himself with the admirals, he shall be Arch-Grand Admiral before the year has completed its cycle and there is nothing we can do openly or not without compromising the entirety of Herater. Heh.”

“The new Dux is brilliant.”

“She has been alive more than us all combined, Kiv. She probably saw the fall of our Old Empire even.” Spoke Morm referring to the old glory of Gañau, as always, present somewhere in the conversation of the Dux. “We cannot move our pieces now, we have our hands tied.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sau-Sau smirked, likely forcefully. However, with his face deeply marked by his constant worries it was impossible to tell.

“Aeresk will take the islands and the Arch-Grand Admiralship. We can expect a massive rearrangement in the Parliament of the Seas.” Morm brought the conversation back on track.

“And it will be the destruction of the comparative advantages of many nobles. We can expect another massive rearrangement in the Parliament of the Lands.” Crerom continued that line of thought.

“Precisely, and so a crisis of economical nature shall follow. But, what does she want with it?” Morm finished.

“She will take advantage. That is assured, my lords.” Kiv intervened. “How is the question. I’ve heard she shall invoke the Parliament of the Fires, but why…”



“Did you know that Admiral Aeresk has a new flagship. They say there are only a dozen or so in the fleets of Herater that can come close to it and none that can match its speed.”

“Really, father? What kind of galley is it?”

“It is no galley my ray of sunshine.”

“But the Great Galley is the largest ship ever.”

“Well, we don’t know, it is likely it might be so, but the ship of the Admiral is another type of ship entirely.”
“A gelleen?”

“It is galleon, and yes, that ship you see in the front is the Stormbreaker, his flagship.”

“But it isn’t as large as the Great Galley!”

“No, but size isn’t as important as speed and manoeuvrability in combat sometimes, it depends on the situation.”

“And why are there so many ships? There must be more than a hundred!”

“Many don’t sail under the flag of Lellail, but under his personal command. Even then, more ships are waiting outside the bay; he has many mercenaries under his command.”

“And what about pirates, won’t they attack him, Dad?”

“Admiral Aeresk has bought all the pirates in the sea of Southern Albion. They will join in later, not attack him.”

“How?”

“Pirates and mercenaries can’t hope to match him in firepower nor they can they coordinate themselves good enough to muster a fleet to overwhelm him.”

“Isn’t because he isn’t fully human?”

“That should be also part of it. It is incredibly hard to injure, much less kill, a Kitsune.”

“And if he is a Kitsomething, why is called the Dragon?”

“Most Kitsunes can control a special type of fire they produce very well. He is such a prodigy he can control natural fires… In this case Holy Heratereh Hellfire.”

“What is that fire?”

“I pray you’ll never get to know it, ray of sunshine. A good shot of it can easily annihilate an entire city.”

“But battles in the sea are full of water! Water kills fire.”

“The Holy Hellfire can burn even underwater.”

“How is that possible, Dad?”

“Only a few really know how, it isn’t magic though."

“How can it not be magic?”

“Wizards, warlocks, witches, druids, sages and many, many others tried to decipher the secret of how to put it out. They all reached the same conclusion…”

“What is it dad, why do you look sad?”

“It can only be extinguished when there is nothing else that can burn and the fire itself has no fuel left.”

The stars are a most impressive canvas of both magnificence, cosmic will, and divine magic. As it shines and wavers with the day and the night, sometimes it can even overcome the blue veil of the sky even as the sun overpowers all other stars in the heavens. Countless civilizations before would see the heavens and their stellar constellations as anything from a roof to a divine creator's own canvas. These ludicrous superstitions have left the old lands of Oros since long, as understanding of magic grew, so too did religion lose its grip on the powerful mage-caste of the seemingly primordial nation.

At the very peak of the tallest mountain range of Othros, the Orobori Mountains, sits one of the many observatories that litter the lands of the arcane realm. The possesion of the most prestigious Stargazer's Guild. This particular building being the personal observation center for none other than the Guild Master, Astros Luprico; a renowned writer across Albion, most known for his works on cosmic interpretation. On this particular night, just like any other, the clouds would not be able to defy his cosmic ambitions. The clouds were below him, the observatory and the summit it was built into, reaching far towards the stars above.

As he gazed out from the ledge of his seemingly celestial abode he could see before him a sea of clouds, rocking into the mountain side beneath him. As he looked into its vast expanse, as this grey aerial ocean reaches far and in all directions, he could see ever-the-odd opening, allowing him to gaze into the vast metropolis of Omon below him. Home to the citadel of the Lord, the Most Benevolent, almighty, and divine lord of Othros. His might and will is the might and will of his subjects, but through his fair iron hand he promotes progress and empowers the people through benevolence and justice --- it is this benevolence that granted Astros Luprico his home amongst the stars, far above common men and women, far above even the apex of the many towering castles and palaces of their grand and benevolent masters, far above the intrigue and ambition of the mage society.

The Stargazer's Guild has been, since many generations prior, in a most difficult position, only improving under Astros' leadership. Illegitimate scorn and nonsensible insults have plagued the Guild. It had been completely unable to expand its cosmic ambitions for over five generations. If there was a reason for this then it had been hidden from the world long since he was ever born, but the Archdeities are all-knowing, they are all-seeing, and they do not forget scorn or insults laid upon them. Their mercy is great, but their wrath is thousand-fold greater. The world is the way it is for it is better that way, whatever his ancestors had done it was only natural that their descendents would pay for this wrong doing.

But the Lord, in his eternal splendor, granted home and sanctuary to the guild. He allowed it to prosper within his land, and through tedious efforts, allowed them proper embassy within the many institutions owned and governed by the seemingly all-encompassing Administratory. The Lord's selfless efforts and caring earned this old man, at the top of one of the most advanced cosmic observatories in all of Albion, countless mentions of undeserved praise.

Luprico looked down once more, as he sees the clouds begin to reach the distant spire of the Lord's personal palace. The grey veil would not rock against the great tower as it had done the side of the mountain, instead it would go around. He had seen this happen many times before, and will likely see it many times in the future, but he will always be as amazed as he was when he first saw it. The very ability of the Archdeities to bend the world and its laws to their will, their ability and their existence as walking forces of nature, it seemed to transcend even the very nature of what a mage is.

In his amazement, Astros Luprico was put off suddenly as he heard the rapid yet passive, somewhat shy steps of a woman approach behind him. "Master, the Cosmic Chamber has been prepared for you," she trailed off, her eyes not meeting the gaze of her master, as it grazed her face from across the observatory's terrace. Astros was never much for handling slaves, he saw their uses, but always had difficulty talking with them. Before he had thought of how to properly respond, to ease the tense atmosphere between the two since earlier, the slave took it upon herself to take the directive.

"Um, I've prepared the necessary elements for you, so please follow me" she stammered with confidence, she was certain that she had prepared everything required to gaze into and interpret the odd stellar canvas above her. Her master was not so sure, however, and followed her in curious silence. Her ignorance of the cosmic reality above them had been made apparent the other day, where she and her fellow servants had done nothing except clean the Cosmic Chamber, neglecting to prepare even the most basic of arcane instruments --- not even Luprico's most trusted notebook had been prepared. In his irritation and schooling of his less than satisfactory servants, he had raised his arm and submitted them to arcane discipline.

This night, however, would come as a surprise to all of them, Luprico's first would be that his servants had not only prepared the necessary instruments, but even replaced his aging cold-steel feather quilt. It had been his since he was young, granted to him as a gift by the Grand Teacher of the Magi, the Noble Master of the Administratory, the Administrator himself. Rarely did an Archdeity spend time amongst mortal whelps, but the Administrator is one of few to make an exception. During exceptional graduations and exemplorary students, he gifts them with a personalized gift, more honorary and symbolic thank practical, and sends them on their way towards the new world of the Master Magi in the lavishness of a most glorious and awe-inspiring ceremony.

Luprico had been fortunate enough to go on that path 62 years in the past, but as he had aged, so too had his quilt wavered. It was at its last legs by now, simple stubbornness being the only real explanation for why it was still in use. In order to excuse their wrong service yesterday, his servants had apparently taken it upon themselves to have their desire to excuse their horrific service the day before made manifest in this gold-embroidered, volcanically forged steel quilt. He marveled in silent wonder at the make of this most impressive tool of writing. Runes on the side of the quilt, before the feathered end's beginning, seem to speak of a forge amidsts the skies, a citadel of craftsmanship, ingenuity, and magic.

As he realized its origin, he quickly looked towards the girl, her face grinning immensely --- How could a servant girl have come into contact with someone who sells a quilt of the Maker? No, not even that, how is such a craft even here in his humble chamber of cosmic intepretation to begin with? Only questions appeared in his head, but it was all suddenly silenced as a faint, uninterpretable whisper crossed the night sky.

Luprico quickly gazed up, holy quilt in hand, and dropped it as he saw the cosmic anomaly ride across the clear sky before him. His servant girl, terrified, sprinted towards the quilt in fear that her master was disappointed, but as she frightfully gazed up at his face after having picked up her gift from her floor, she was swept away. Her mouth wide open, the other horde of servants have since long been gazing in amazement as well, as the fifteen stars zoomed across the divine canvas above them.

"This is no canvas, girl" he paused, "What you see above you is the cosmos; vast expanse of unimaginable magic. A world of the arcane far beyond our mortal understanding..." He spoke mostly to himself, but he could feel the very awe within the girl next to him build up with every word he uttered as they all gazed out of the open roof above them. The marble around them made even the faintest whispers of perplexity bounce around the room, creating an atmosphere of absolute wonderment for all of them to experience.

"Fifteen stars zoom across the heavens, Fifteen stars..."

His face, as he thought and stared at the night sky, went through all the emotions known to man. Awe, fear, pride, joy, curiosity, and so many more. In astonishment he finally concluded, as he finally took the quilt from his servant girl next to him, that this was divine. "The Fifteen stars of our world; the fourteen, the archdeities, led by this world's sovereign, the sovereign of all this world, the- the Monarch himself!"

As the stars had finally passed from their vision out of the open roof in the Cosmic Chamber and Luprico had finally regained his composure, he shot directly towards the writing desk behind him. He noted his discovery, his theory, and to his amusement, his childish glee. This was a cosmic interpretation without equal, without comparison in all the world and all the history before, it was the first of its kind, and it was, most importantly, fifteen stars that zoomed through the skies.

I must inform the Most Benevolent in the city below, he thought, as he finished his scribbling and quickly set off towards the path which would lead him through the many halls of his lavish observatory. As he left through the entrance, tailed by his servants, the difficult journey of racing down the rock path down the mountain side was to be the next obstacle. He was adamant, though, of his findings and an unforeseen sense of obligation aided in his quest down the mountain. His fervour would not be concluded until his journey would bring him into the megapolis of Omon and ultimately into the sacrosanct halls of the Lord's personal acropolis.

"I'm out of my depth here!" Visvaldis Vor Tepwej lamented to himself. Pressing his elbows against the gun rail of the Battered Seal. It wasn't long after dawn and already he felt a tingle in his throat for liqueur.

He looked a sorry sight. Leaning over with his dishevelled brown hair, patted down to look somewhat decent. Visvaldis has spent many hours alone in his cabin on the carrack. The more astute observer could notice that Visvaldis had worn the same jacket and breeches for a few days now and rarely disembarked the ship. On the quayside and docks around him, sizeable loads of supplies and materials were being loaded aboard the Battered Seal and others vessels docked besides her.

Sailors carried packs and equipment over their shoulders and up gangplanks. Before stowing them below decks. Notable passengers boarded the ship with tools and luggage they deemed worthy of the new world. A team of engineers brought instruments and papers, to be looked over and prepared for landing.

"Captain, you look like shit!" the Battered Seal's first mate said, walking next to Visvaldis after emerging from below deck. Visvaldis had struggled to find a suitable captain, considering the burial ceremony of the former's body scared many away from the position. Instead, Visvaldis made his fisherman father proud and made himself captain.

"I certainly feel it Mr Bendiksis"

Larjo Bendiksis was the man with real naval experience. A suitable candidate to command the ship while Visvaldis commanded the expedition. His greying horseshoe moustache and bulky frame made him seem rather intimidating too.

"This looks like a lot to lug across the ocea... oh shit it's Legerstroj" Bendiksis said with a weary drole in his words. Visvaldis turned his head to see a finely dressed man stride along the quayside with purpose. The man spots the duo and lifts his hand in a quick wave, weaving between sailors and supplies. He halts just before the gangplank.

"Mr Vor Tepwej! Can you explain to me, in your oooh so mighty knowledge of sailing and navigation! Why have you named my ship as the supply ship!" Captain Legerstroj shouted.
"It's rather self-explanatory Captain" Bendiksis shouted back, garnering chuckles and short laughs from the sailors around them.

"Mr Vor Tepwej, a captain who knew what they were doing, would give that man twelve lashings!" Legerstroj spat out with a finger pointed to Bendiksis.

"Captain Legerstroj, please... The details have already been approved and we leave soon. Please consider this matter settled" Visvaldis tried to reason with the captain, brushing off the blatant comments about his worth as the watched Legerstroj storm off.

"Did you know I have an interest in science captain?" the first mate said to Visvaldis, who turned his head to the senior in puzzlement.

"I'm going to actively survey the wildlife of the new world. Find an insect with the biggest teeth and stuff them up Captain Legerstroj's arsehole!" Larjo Bendiksis said, like he'd either used that threat before or had actually done it before.

"Well, I hope our third captain will be more agreeable to you" Visvaldis told Largo, feeling a light headed spell drift over his head.

"Sir! A royal carriage approaches!" A sailor shouts to Visvaldis, who feels his faintness into a unsettling feeling of nausea.
"Oh... Okay" Visvaldis really didn't know what to do. Should he head back to his cabin quickly and freshen up? Should he change his jacket?

He instantly starts brushing his hair with his hands as Bendiksis quickly shouts to the sailors to clear space for the arrivals.

Visvaldis grabs a waterskin and washes his mouth and face, as a quartet of horsemen approach the wharf.
"Make way! Back up!" A horseman, wearing a black cloak with a golden sun badge starts shouting at sailors. His horse starts to clap it's shoes onto the cobblestones and unnerve those too close. The sun shines of their breastplates and sallets as the carriage, painted black with blue and yellow furnishes, rolls on the cobblestones and stops before the gangplank.

Visvaldis gulps and descends the gangplank. Holding his hands in a neutral clasp, at least he hoped was neutral.

A servant on the carriage hops off and opens the narrow door, allowing a woman of toasted brown hair to emerge in a blue jacket. Not entirely ladylike, but that wasn't the fashion of the princess-consort liked to promote.

Visvaldis felt a ease in his stomach a little, at least enough to bow for her majesty as she emerged and stepped forward.

"Your majesty, it's a delight to see you here" Visvaldis spoke to the ground, before rising up.

"Thank you Mr Vor Tepwej, I have come to introduce you to your fellow captain and wish her well on her journey" Anna Vor Oranzs' voice was somewhat deep but regal. Visvaldis could tell she was used to lecture work.

A second figure emerged from the carriage, another woman, wearing a deep blue doublet and short ruff. Various seashells and tokens dangle from a necklace over under her pale ruff.

"Mr Vor Tepwej, this is Inga Sapsejes, my student and friend at the academy of saltwater magics" the royal introduced her companion to Visvaldis, who's green eyes struck with his and a polite smile peeled over her jaw.

"I will be captaining the Twin Strings, Mr Vor Tepwej" Inga spoke with ease, if anything with self-assuredness. Visvaldis lifted a smile back at her.

"It'll be an honour to have a Sea-Mage in our company your majesty. I am sure that the Twin Strings is almost ready to weigh anchor" Visvaldis eased his voice out of diplomatic tones and into comfortable.

Then the princess-consort leaned in closer to him.
"Thank you Mr Vor Tepwej, for your discretion over a recent incident. I'm sorry for what you had to see" The royal highness whispered into Visvaldis' ear, feeling her warm breath tickle against his hair. Visvaldis rarely heard genuinely kind words.

An grateful smile slid from his lips. "Thank you your majesty" before bowing to the royal as she and her protégé left to walk the quayside.

Visvaldis felt better as he ascended back up the gangplank. He had a new spring in his step, maybe he wasn't totally stranded on this mission.
As his shoes creaked onto the deck, a sleek caravel sailed past, with it's triangular sails unfurled and pushed taut against the wind.

Royal authority flags fly it's bow and masts. Visvaldis pauses for a few scant moments, spotting a familiar face aboard the caravel.

Vidasorjan stands on the aft deck of the slim vessel, not noticing the clerk-captain as he sails past. Visvaldis spots a woman in a black and blue half cape standing next the to king's agent as the ship glides out of the Harbour of Janis.

Visvaldis is relieved. Letting out the tense air that he held in his throat and chest. He'd hoped that it was the last time he'd see Vidasorjan, preferably, for the rest of his life.

"Excuse me captain" A sailor said behind him, lugging a pair of crossbows over his shoulders. Visvaldis stepped out of the way, collected himself, and then headed back for his cabin.
He thought it best that he should get washed now.

---

It was a clear, spring day in the Timberlands of Keva, a vast region of rolling hills, oceans of determined bark, low shrubs and rushing rivers that surged through deep cut river valleys. Keva dominated the eastern marches of Albion, the developing powerhouse of the planets northern hemisphere; a timberland called by many people the Wilderness. Here many living things thrived in the tropical climate, both on the ground and in the air, the least of them not being Men, which made the great timberland their home.

With morning already well by and the sun climbing to his accustomed noonday seat high in the sky, a soft breeze blew out of the west to caress the thick treetops that dominated the landscape. Each gust and puff sent the thick stuff rippling like waves on a sea of fresh green, a lazy dance of motion and sound both hypnotic and soothing. Here and there small clusters of bushes swayed melodically in that strengthening wind, dancing with the breeze rushing through their tiny branches. And high over head small white clouds scudded across a deep blue sky and a beautiful green and blue, cloud-wreathed crescent floated lazily just above the horizon.

Denizens of the great wilderness, small animals rustling through the thick woodland they called home and birds winging through the heavens, marked by their soft and echoing cries over the coppice, both rejoiced in the soon to return of spring to Keva. For winter laid hard upon the woodlot and gentle swells of the timberland and every creature, going either a-wing, on four legs or on two, welcomed the renewed warmth that spring returned to the land. With the last frosts of a clinging winter but only a tenday distant, the chill of winter was still fresh in every memory.

Unheeding of that cold, as it was the heat of summer when it descended onto Keva was a massive spire of granite ranges that jutted from the earth near the very center of the great forest. It was a naked dragon’s tooth of earthen bone thrust unabashedly into the sky and across the timberland, weathered and worn by generations of storms. It’s raw form clawed a full twenty lengths into the heavens, challenging both the force of gravity which held it firmly to the ground, and the elements which sought to sweep it away with their tumult. Today it stood silent, ignoring the breeze that whistled about its worn feet, glowering at the sun as he climbed in the west.

All around those weathered feet, as far as one could see, the rolling hills of the west extended, painted new green by the brush of nature wielded by the Maker himself, the mark of the coming of the new season. High in the sky’s sapphire vaults, hunting birds hung almost motionless in the distance, held aloft by the strengthening westerly wind as their sharp eyes scanned the ground far below for an unwary mouse or vole, seeking to satisfy a long winter’s hunger on the new green of the wilderness.  Their wings were silent on the spring breeze as they effortlessly rode the thermals rising more strongly now, with the sun nearing its perihelion.

Easily seen, but ignored by the high-flying raptors was a herd of deer grazing hungrily on the new grass to the north. They too gladly filled their bellies with the tender and supple blades of new grass that pushed its way out of the hard ground and winter debris to gather in the sunlight. They had enough gnawing the bark of trees to fill hungry bellies during the deepest of winter’s cold embraces. They swiftly ate, knowing that this brief respite, this window of peace would soon close, as it often did in nature.

Neither deer nor raptor, however, foresaw how peace this day would come to an end. The herd’s lead buck, a broad shouldered male with spring velvet still covering his new season rack, gave a start when a low booming sound echoed through the wilderness.  With vigilance meaning survival to the deer, any unusual sound found its way quickly to their attention. As had this sound; head up and ears pricked forward, big brown eyes swept first in one direction, then another, searching out the low, almost inaudible sound’s source.

Was it thunder, announcing an approaching storm in the distance?  A look to the sky yielded only scattered clouds, white and without menace. As the sound grew louder and more insistent, the stag shifted nervously, pondering on whether to send his herd fleeing towards the nearest grove marking the steep banks of a nearby river valley or to hold his ground. If it were truly the echoes of an approaching storm, they risked losing a fine meal to a mere torrential downpour, a common occurrence in the Keva spring. But if it were something more menacing, . . .

Ears tuned to subtleties of sound that would escape creatures not so dependent on caution, the stag felt his body tense as he finally recognized the sound, now grown loud enough to be felt through the thick stuff of their hooves. It was the sound of horses’ hooves, heavy with the burden of riders; the sounds of Men, of hunters, come to reap a deadly harvest from the flesh of the stag’s charges. By the cadence and speed of the distant hoof beats, they were riding hard and fast, directly towards them out of the west.

The stag didn’t hesitate from that point; swinging his magnificent head around, he bounded for the grove, his herd hard in his shadow. The deer of Keva and their fellow forest fauna had learned swiftly to seek shelter when Men were about. Especially in these days of turmoil amongst the two-legged dwellers in the great cities and towns that dotted the rolling hills like artificial mountains.

With his back to the west, the stag’s sharp eyes didn’t see the dark shadows flitting through a large grove nearby. Even if he had though, even his vision would’ve been hard pressed to make out the forms behind the shadows.  Then the nearest passed through a column of sunshine that had managed to penetrate the new growth forming the grove’s canopy and, for the briefest of moments, it was revealed.

It was a man, bent low over the back of a horse.  His face was hardened and chiseled by long turns exposed to the elements and by days of trial and travail spent striving against his enemies.  Even harder still were his eyes; chips of stone as they stared ahead, fixed on a distant goal, his battle-hardened body draped about with a cloak and clothing of dull and plain colors: browns, grays and blacks.  That clothing showed the signs of heavy wear and travel, the woolen cloak still damp from the last downpour the man had ridden through, the horse beneath him covered with both rainwater and her own lather. She had been ridden hard for many days and her rib cage now heaved in silent protest.

In an eyeblink the man was joined by a score of others; silent as ghosts, dangerous as a pack of wolves, they raced through the tree trunks at breakneck speed, the branches around them greening with spring’s first touch. Bent low over the necks of their animals, the dark company pressed for the edge of the grove, marked by a splash of sunlight in front of them.

Then, with an explosion of sound and motion they burst out of the grove to pound recklessly across the ground, clods of sod flying in their wake, their heads pointed towards the rocky spur in the distance.  Revealed in the light, the company numbered twenty souls and the smell of death lay close to them, both man and mount.  Heads still low over the necks of their horses, they rode on.

These men sought not the rich hunting of the Wilderness, as the stag had surmised. Though hunters of a sort themselves, hunters of Men, this day they were the hunted. For they were a bare handful of spans from the grove’s edge when a second group of riders burst roughly forth like wolves in relentless pursuit of their prey, eyes intent on the dark men racing away from them. With horses lathered from being ridden as hard as those of the company before them, these men made to continue their chase, clothed as darkly and plainly as the men that had gone before.

But where there was only grim purpose in the dress and mannerisms of the dark riders that now fled across the plain away from them, this second group of men showed flashes of color as they moved.  Brilliant hues of orange, blue and green on black were only partially hidden by rain-damp cloaks and well-used tunics.  It marked them as, . . . . different.  Seeing their prey only a heartbeat in front of them, to the man they grimly smiled, their company numbering nearly four times the count of the group that had gone before them.  When they caught them, it would be a furious, but short battle!

Before the second company could re-launch themselves in pursuit, however, a curt word from a leader amongst them stayed their hands and, impatiently they waited. Thankfully they didn’t have to wait long.

Only a turn of the small glass had gone by before another rider exited the grove. This one, however, was significantly different from both the company he now joined, and the tight knot of men racing away from them.  Be-robed in black velvet, his shaved head etched with dark blue tattooed symbols of the Church, this one with eyes sunk deep into a cadaverous face stared imperiously first at the men he joined, then at the ones fleeing from them. Then, after a moment’s brief study, he threw back the robe and shouted out loud in a deep voice, his words strange and powerful. At the same time, he made a hard gesture with his right hand, followed by a second one with his left.

The tingle of magic in use swept over the company surrounding the strange man, and then over the timberland. And, with the sharp report of heavy static discharge, lightning bolts dropped out of the clear blue sky to hammer into the ground all around the dark company racing away to the east.

As soon as the last bolt dropped, the leader of the second company hissed a tight command and, with hooves churning into the dry soil, the company charged back into pursuit.

Oaths hot on his lips, the leader of the dark company, a powerfully muscular man that sat nearly a head taller than any of his companions, sawed back on his reins in time to avoid getting speared by one of the lightning bolts.  Instead it slashed into the dark soil of Keva, kicking up a gout of dirt and seared grass mere hand spans from where his horse jerked to a stop in a spray of sod fragments.

As the dirt and dust washed over him, he twisted in the saddle to stare back along the path they had come, his face tight with fatigue, as the company jerked their mounts to a halt all around him in smaller sprays of sod and dust. Yet the man’s eyes burned with intent purpose, firebrands in the midst of the sun-darkened and weathered features. Mouth tightening at the sight of the be-robed magic user that had called lightning down onto them and the men on horses charging after them, he looked over at the slender man that had come to a halt beside him.

“Esper,” he curtly said and the second man, instantly understanding, nodded.

The second man then twisted in his saddle to flash a tight series of barely visible hand gestures at the dark men thronging all around him, gestures that were quickly passed throughout the company.  And, as soon as the last man was reached, three of the dark company pulled short hunting bows of horn and lacquer from their saddles with a grace that seemed as instinctual as it was smooth and economical. They strung them in the time it took one to draw breath, nocking arrows and letting fly all in the same motion, as if by silent command, the whip-cord lean men sending their gray-fletched missiles flying as one at the onrushing riders.

Two went down before they could react to the imminent danger, the arrows buried deep in their throats, their faces twisting in pain and surprise before they fell from their saddles to slam into the ground, rolling limply to a stop as their rider-less horses raced on. Their comrades surged forward, unheeding of the fallen, intent on the dark company.

The third arrow, however, was meant for a different target.  Darting past the riders, it streaked towards the unmoving sorcerer sitting just outside the grove he had exited but a moment ago.  With eyesight magically enhanced to make it as keen as the stag who had led his herd to safety before the Men’s arrival, the magic user saw the arrow coming towards him long before it was actually dangerous.  Lips curling in derision that he would be attacked in such a mundane manner, the sorcerer waved his hand and the arrow dropped lifeless onto the ground, its speed and strength stolen by runic magic a handful of spans away from him.

Undaunted by their failure to slay the magic user, the three archers continued to fire into the onrushing warriors, knowing their deadly missiles to have effect on them. In an eyeblink three more were unsaddled, then yet another three. Then they were forced to holster their bows in favor of weapons more suited to close-at-hand work as their pursuers fell amongst them. Swords were yanked from worn leather scabbards, hard-quenched lengths of silvery Kevan steel, notched and nicked from heavy use.

“For Keva!” a dark colored man in dun brown roared and, as one, they plunged into the colored ranks, swords already swinging.

The soldiers with their bright flashes of nearly hidden color had barely enough time to clear their own weapons before the dark ones were upon them. Metal rang against metal and horses squealed as they jockeyed for position, the battle now joined. It wasn’t long before its first victim was claimed: with a wet ‘crunch’ a northern blade cut through a grim iron helm and one of the pursuers was swept from his saddle.  Beside him another took a long dirk in the chest, the dark wielder of the dagger not pausing to watch the lifeless body topple to the ground, throwing himself instead back into the fray.

There another fell to clean northern steel and another after him, bright blood staining their travel-worn clothing, the men in the dark cloaks working hard to stay alive against a force that outnumbered them four to one. And none worked harder than the tall, thickset man who had led the dark company out of the forest, towering over them all. Determination hardening his face, he laid about him with his long and heavy sword, wielding it as if it were nothing more than a straw of grass instead of a length of hard steel, cutting through opponents with barely a pause. He was a grim reaper of men, the notched and worn blade scything through living flesh to gather in a deadly harvest.

With the battle quickly wearing on, the big man’s sharp eyes caught sight of one of the enemy’s officers as he knocked aside a thrust meant to skewer him like a piece of meat. A flash of silver marked the man at his tunic collar; a shirt of mail, or a breastplate perhaps, hidden beneath the bulky garment.  In that same instant the officer caught sight of him as well and, with a grim smile turning up the corner’s of his thin mouth, the man began to bear down on him, sword ready. While the big man didn’t recognize the enemy officer, he apparently recognized the big man, and clearly meant to cut him down.

Grimly the big man ducked beneath a wild swing from the attacker that had tried to stab him, before using a backhand cut to unhorse him, all the while keeping his eyes on the officer. And then the man was upon him; the officer’s cuts and slashes were measured and methodical as he began to hammer away at the big man’s careful defense, speaking of a man well versed in the arts of swordplay.

But the officer wasn’t the only student of the grim arts; with a nearly impenetrable defense, the dark man was able to take several slashes directly on his blade without harm as he took a brief moment to study the other man’s offense. Seeing an opening after a moment of loud and clear ringing of steel against steel, he swiftly and without hesitation, attacked.

Battering the officer’s sword back and away, the big man cut hard at the man’s armored body with his return cut. Desperately the officer tried to parry the heavy blow, but was too slow and weak.  With a bright flare of sparks, the big man’s blade slide down the officer’s to skip over the guard and bite deeply into the man’s ribcage, slicing through leather strap, metal plate and flesh with equal speed.  Screaming hoarsely the officer was knocked off his horse to drop with a sodden thump onto the churned up ground where he lay moaning the last of his life away.

His eyes momentarily caught following the stricken officer off of his horse and to the ground, the big man barely caught the movement out of the corner of his eye that spoke of yet another foe closing, and fast. Leaning back just in time to avoid a hard stab moving swiftly in from his right, the big man twisted with a grace belied by his size to bring his equally massive sword around in a tight, back-handed cut that caught his newest attacker leaning in too close.

Honed to a razor’s edge, the heavy blade effortlessly separated the attacker’s head from his neck, leaving the errant head spinning in the air as the enemy soldier’s horse charged by, blood and fluids reluctantly spurting from the neck’s sudden truncation. Ignoring the head’s fall to the ground, the big man turned back to the battle. Just in time to hear a sharp static ‘crunch’ of discharge just to his left, followed by a brief, harsh flash of light. In that same instant he caught sight of another attacker going down, a smoking hole where his chest used to be, as the warmth of magic use washed over him.

But before he could rejoin the battle proper, the short, furious skirmish was over and the horses of the dark company were left jostling the rider-less ones of their enemies as they danced over their crushed bodies on the ground.  Pushing a blood-matted dun mare away from his own horse with a shove of his boot, the big man glanced up at the esper, still sitting just outside the grove, perhaps half a league away.

So far the magic user had been satisfied just to attack the once, not bothering to lend the soldiers that escorted him any aide during the battle with his men. Which was fine by the big man; he had more than enough magic in the last few days!  But something he could never have enough of were answers to his questions.

With a final look up at the silent and unmoving sorcerer, he slid from his saddle and stepped to where the enemy officer was still moaning out the last moments of his life.  His massive sword went into the ground with a low ‘crunch’ as it bit through the soil and he knelt between it and the fallen officer.

“How many of you still fight two decades after your greatest failure?” he growled his question, his eyes shards of ice as they bore into the officer’s face. "How many more Silvermare will we hunt before you realize this Rebellion is over?”

Somehow, though the man was lost in his pain as his life leaked away, the low tone of command in the big man’s voice was enough to pull him back from the brink. His eyes fluttered before he turned his head slightly to focus on the big man’s face.

“More than enough, general.” the officer rasped, his voice weakening with every word as blood appeared on his lips. “We will not rest until Silvermane is restored.”

“Then fight until you drop dead,” the slender man, who had commanded the archers to fire, hissed tightly as he too knelt nearby. “It’ll take more than a few lonely heretics to stop a company of the praetorian legion, esper or no!”

As if in answer to him being named, the dark company became aware of a low chanting audible from a distance, quickly accompanied by the warming rush of magic gathering. And, as he felt the warmth wash over him, the fallen officer smiled and closed his eyes.

“Yes, captain,” he said, his voice now nearly a whisper. Yet it clearly carried to every member of the dark company. 

“Yes, we shall fight till the death.” And then his death’s rattle was slipping past his lips and the big man, who the officer had called ‘general’, leaned back from him, a frown on his chiseled face as he watched the officer relax into morbidity.

“Irrumabo!” the slender man snarled, throwing a hard look up at the esper, who now made strange and fluid gestures with his arms as he stared into the heavens. Heavens that, suddenly, were filling with dark and seething clouds.

“More magic!” He looked at the big man, still kneeling on the ground, a thoughtful expression replacing his frown. “I like it not, general. The heretic is summoning some sort of storm. I suggest we leave this place immediately and request for an ordained esper!”

You’ll get no argument from me, centurion,” the big man rumbled, coming to his feet in a surge of strength and motion, taking hold of his sword hilt before jerking it free with a yank of powerful arm and shoulder muscles.  What blood and gore the dirt hadn’t scraped off, he wiped clean with a piece of cloth he tore from the fallen officer’s cloak.  He went on as he slipped the clean blade back into its worn scabbard.

“See to your wounded. As soon as the last body is policed and properly buried, we’ll be on our way.”

The slender man nodded.

“And the rebels, sir?”

The big man grimaced as his eyes raked over the ragged battleground and the broken bodies of their enemies that strew it liberally.

“Leave them to the crows. They’ll serve as a sign to any that come across them that even the thought of rebellion against the rightful way of Keva will be met with the swiftest justice!”

It took half a turn of hourglass to bury the four legionnaires that had fallen in the brief but devastating clash. And, all the while that the soldiers worked to care for their slain comrades, the esper continued to gather the storm above the grove.  Until, as the dark company returned to their saddles, the first fat drops of the growing tempest began to pelt them.

“We ride! Back to the castrum.” Putting spur to flank, he sent his horse surging away from the makeshift battlefield, making word into action. Faces tightening with determination, the rest of the dark company quickly joined him, the wind flapping their travel-worn clothing about their lean, battle-hardened bodies as they charged into the gray wall of rain to the east.

If he was aware of his sworn men’s plight out in the wilderness, Marcellus, the Dignitas of the Republic and Master of the Star of Keva showed no sign as he stared out over the city. To his eyes it’s hard edges and shapes were fading as the heavy spring shower that had descended onto the city a few hours ago, turned into a full downpour, hiding the great place behind a silvery curtain. Watching the rain grow heavy, he sighed before speaking.

“Bring me a map, will you, Fidelis?”

Behind him a young page in soft leather breeches in blue, soft leather boots of black, and a light tunic with a crisp linen tabard stitched with the crest of Keva over top, started from where he had been sitting quietly in the corner of the small meeting room. Dark, short cut hair was brushed out of large blue eyes and the young lad looked earnestly at the lean young man who had spoken to him.

“At once, your Majesty,” he piped, his voice still not broken with adolescence. “Which one may I retrieve?”

But it wasn’t Marcellus who replied;

“The Eastern Sea, lad,” a second man answered from where he sat at a beautifully hand carved table, stained a golden brown and polished to a high gloss in the light of the handful of lamps that lit the medium sized room.

Fidelis, the page, looked to this second man as he spoke, his expression of earnestness not wavering one whit at hearing this one answer his question, instead of his emperor. For while the equally lean and muscular man, when compared to Marcellus, wore no crown, he wielded power in Keva equaled by few. With skin the color of soft chocolate, he was dressed casually in a light linen shirt in bronze, a sleeveless tunic in scarlet, tan breeches and heavy black riding boots of leather. He smiled as he caught the page’s eye.

“Yes, sir, Master Claudius, your Majesty.” The boy bobbed a quick bow to first Marcellus then to Claudius before scampering out an open door in the near wall, closing it behind him.

As the page slipped out of sight, the lean legate let his dark brown eyes scan over the rigid and tense form of his dignitas. Marcellus was a handsome man, slender yet wiry, with the legendary strength of Festus Silvermane rushing in his blood. He too had the intensity that allowed the old war emperor Jerald to hold out against the greater powers of the Silvermare, throwing attack after attack back with characteristic Kevan courage, cunning and resolve. Quick of wit, intelligent, determined and honorable, both Jerald and Marcellus were a marked contrast to the brutality of the Silvermane, the family Jerald had deposed to establish the Republic of Keva, now in hands of Marcellus.

But, unlike Jerald Vulso, founder of the Republic, Marcellus had a deep thoughtful edge to him.  A dark and brooding leader, he spent hours walking the halls of his fortified palace, or in the gardens that surrounded it, pondering his rule and the destiny of humanity’s strongest kingdom. This afternoon was no different. Even as he watched, he saw Marcellus turn back to his study of the city, just visible through the rain and beyond the high walls surrounding the palatial complex, which sat on the crest of Caer Aslan, the Hill of the Lion.

Ki'vara, the capital of Keva itself sat on a series of hills, which rose out of the heart of the great Wilderness of Keva, called the Foundation Hills.  Here, in the heart of Keva called the Teke Awade by the locals, the first of the Silvermane Family constructed a great city to serve as their regional capital, a center point that connected East Keva to the West. And so that city itself was great, powerful and fortified, and a mainstay in the defense of the Central Keva. Yet it had fallen to Jerald Vulso, a warrior with skill and tenacity unrivaled, where greater armies had dashed themselves to pieces against her gleaming white walls.

The view that Marcellus now availed himself of showed that same powerful city. Short turrets, thick walls, square, massive buildings; she looked not so much like a city, but a great beast of prey, brooding in the rain as she crouched on the crowns of the Foundation Hills, waiting for an unwary creature to wander close enough to pounce upon. Beware the traveler and the fool that come close enough to feel her claws!

Over his rule, some eight years long now, Marcellus had become that beast, that great predator, brooding from his perch high atop Caer Aslan.  Waiting and watching; watching the embers of the Silver Rebellion die out in Keva. Watching the uneasy stirrings of the Confederation as they continued to jockey for supremacy while throwing hungry looks at the resource-rich islands to the far east. Watching the sparks of civil war ignite into fire in the Kingdom of Cenaria to the south and the maneuverings of Torious' political landscape thanks to the proclamations of godhood by Torvald O Egeng. Watching, ever watching. Now, however, that beast was preparing to strike, both on the homefront and the world stage.

First, Keva's very security was of concern. Brought to his' attention at the start the election year and the platform upon which he ran, Marcellus spent the first year of his initial campaign touring the republic and advocating for the construction of forts, towers, and walls all across the edges of the republic. Solidifying Keva's borders by fortifying it's different strategic positions with a series of fortifications and established lines of defense on a strategic scale Marcellus dubbed the Limes Ratio Terminus or Limes Border Fortification System. A system in which he established using his imperium maius at the start of his initial reign.

These fortification systems primarily consisted of fortresses and messengers posts for legions and vexillations as well as a system of roads for the rapid transit of troops and improvement of national infrastructure and communication.

It was heavy handed policies like these that separated Marcellus from Jerald Vulso. The 1st Dignitas of Keva saw fit to implement a mutual assistance policy. Such a treaty disavowed the militarization of national borders, but instead relied on a series of treaties tieing together neighboring states to defend the homefront. These series of treaties gave way to the formation of the early Albion League, the brain child of Jerald Vulso. However, Marcellus was in no way discrediting his predecessors stroke of genius. He instead disagreed with the stance taken and the position in which it left Keva and her people in. Nevertheless the Albion League remained a powerhouse of economic and defensive propositions.

Next came the progress made on the Quinque Anno Propositum or the 5 Year Plan. Marcellus' proposal to establish fundamental facilities and systems primarily requiring the extensive re-organisation of Keva's economy for the purpose of manufacturing. Such a plan required a shift from rural work to industrial labor which meant extensive training programs, financial investments in new industrial structures, dozens of government contracts, and time, plenty of time.

Unfortunately, Keva didn't have time. Marcellus' sole goal lay in making Keva the powerhouse of Albion, and that power lay in manufacturing and industrializing. With the demand of blackpowder weapons on the rise, someone other than Commonwealth and it's Albion influenced would have to meet the supply.

Adaptation and innovation where the doctrines upon which nations hay survival upon. And with only three years left until the the Quinque Anno Propositum could finally claim completion, Keva could confidently say it was at it's forefront.

Finally came Keva's response to the Confederation assault on the Islands of Nova Albion to the east. Already his Magister Militum expressed outrage at the undertaking and employed Keva to act and do so quickly. Marcellus could see clearly the danger in the Confederation's rash and useless attempt at imperialism. Within weeks Commonwealth would shudder and shake off the dust of stagnation produced by peace and flex is mighty muscles of war in retaliation. With defeat clearly on the horizon, the Confederation would be forced to pull back vital elements from its frontier with Nova Albion. It would be an opening that Commonwealth wouldn’t ignore. In addition, Confederation control of Nova Albion would disrupt it's commercial interests not only in the area, but farther south. Keva would not stand back and accept this intrusion of peace and prosperity.

Pondering the moves his emperor was considering on making, or had already made, Claudius suddenly grinned. It was all like a game of chess, an exercise in military and political strategy that required tactically moving the pieces until the opposing side had no choice but to either surrender, die in bloody combat, or suffer complete and utter defeat. A game the young leader already had both too much experience and skill in, gained in the few cycles he had spent fighting against the Silvermare during the rebellion. That was proven by the next move the young emperor considered. For the deceleration of sovereign over the Nova Albion Islands would be like moving the Queen, one of the most powerful pieces in chess, right into the checkmate position; a devastating, and calculating move that would create chaos amongst the Confederate states.

Claudius' grin broadened; move after move after move, Marcellus sought to maneuver the power of Keva throughout Albion. Aye, the beast no longer brooded; it was striking!

From a village based far north in the Aesica Province, which had fought beside Jerald Vulso during the Last and Sliver Rebellion, Claudius Nerva had been taken at an early age into Jerald's household. There, as a page, he had begun his long education in the powerful traditions of one of Keva's strongest houses. And, amongst the dour and grim members of that house, he had gained his almost legendary humor, a survival trait for the young Kevan. Now he could see it in almost anything, including war and politics, as dark and dreary as it was.

But even more legendary that his sense of humor was Claudius' skill in battle, quickly learned at the hands of the most powerful warriors in the Legions of Keva. He had marched with Jerald on the Trail of Fire that led to the capitol's ivory gates. And before that he had risen through the ranks to become one of Jerald's Mailed Fist, the five generals that led Keva’s great rebel army into battle against the Silvermane. Now he was Marcellus' premier general, heading up a command staff of puissant Kevan warriors that strove to hold the vastness of Keva together against marauding raiders, rebels and enemy states. Only Claudius could find humor in that.

“Perhaps you’d like to let us in on what you’re thinking, Marcellus.” Came a soft voice from the opposite side of the table. Eyebrow raised, Claudius looked over at the only other occupant of the relatively large room, who was bold enough to ask the question he himself was pondering beneath his smile.

Titus was a study in contradictions. Cloaked in the flowing gray robes of a priest, the spiritual leaders of Keva who normally avoiding entangling themselves in the more mundane affairs of the republic, the handsome, blonde man was nevertheless one of Marcellus' most ardent political supporters. Not to mention, one of his closest friends. The lean esper had even suggested the shacking up of defense in the Nova Albion in the hopes of gaining a tactical advantage over the Confederation.

Titus, looking more like a young Senator than a priest, was also the third most powerful esper in all of Keva, only behind the Archbishop, and his associate, Cardinal Augustus. With that power he operated to diffuse and deflect much of the political intrigue that constantly swirled about the Senate. There, with sharp eyed senators ready to take advantage of even the smallest weakness, an aging Senator Julius Septum was a tepid ally at best. And Marcellus counted the old Senator amongst his only real support within the Senate.

Marcellus frowned before glancing over his shoulder at the blonde cleric, who seemed to manage to divine his thoughts, no matter how deeply they run.  It would be easier to hide shadow from the sun, than what he was thinking from his friend.

"War, Titus,” he answered finally in a low, tired-sounding voice. “What else would the disciple of Jerald dwell upon?” The lean emperor turned back to staring out the window. “It consumes my thoughts upon waking until the very turn that my head hits the pillow,” he continued, his usually vibrant voice a low rumble.

Abruptly he turned from the window to stalk to the table, his face dark with thought. He, like Claudius, was dressed casually in a light shirt of linen, a sleeveless leather tunic dyed crimson Kevan red, breeches of silky woven wool in the same color and black calf boots of leather.

“But enough thought,” he said as he leaned over the table, bracing against his hands, to look over at Claudius, who sobered at the approach of the emperor. “What information do you have out of the Nova Albion on Confederation fleet movements and positions?”

Claudius tapped his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information that suddenly leapt to the forefront of his mind at the question.

“Well, your Majesty, I have the most recent intelligence from your brother’s spies as well as my own scouting reports,” he began carefully, tugging on his lower lip when he paused to gather his thoughts. “And they both tell me that, as you suspected, Aeresk isn't positioning ships to account for a potential falling back of his frontier forces. I would say their homeward defenses are lessened but nonetheless formidable. In addition, there's rumor that this fleet of Aeresk's is largely comprised of privateer ships playing mercenary."

“Intriguing,” Marcellus abruptly announced, his dark eyes keen. [color=Sienna]“Admiral Vledni and the Classis Aquilae are preparing to move out of Maximus Tridens in a tenday, his holds filled with Kevan marines bound for the northern most seas of the Islands of Nova Albion. In addition, I have ordered the Ministry of Diplomacy to send diplomats to the Nova Albion islands this next night.”

Claudius' eyebrow slowly rose as he pondered this latest piece of information and how it affected the strategic placement of both Kevan and Confederate forces across the Eastern Sea.

“Vledni, eh? You’re not looking to drive a military wedge into Aeresk's plan are you? Or are you looking for political motivation?”

“No, not exactly,” the dark emperor admitted with a frown, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over at a bemused Titus. “Such brazenness wouldn't bode well politically. But convincing Nova Albion to lay claim to Keva as their sovereign wouldn't.”

“Must one waste time on politics? Send in the troops anyway,” Claudius replied with a grin and flourish of his hand. “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Marcellus allowed himself a tight smile at his general’s impertinence towards Keva's most powerful ruling body and the rest of the watching world, a force that had thwarted his own plans more often than he’d care to remember.

"To tell you the truth, I thought about it.”  The smile disappeared. "I could’ve rolled deep into Nova Albion territory and taken the northern most island in a tenday, leaving only a few weeks sail from the north island to the southern most islands.” The emperor frowned again. "But Commonwealth wouldn't take that well. Military action without real reason is imperialism, and imperializing a possible Commonwealth ally is pretence for war. Notwithstanding, I will not allow a warmongering such as the Confederation any closer to Keva than I have too. Not without challenge."

“The Confederation went as far as to hire privateers and pirates to contribute troops to there general force,” Titus breathed with a wry twist of his mouth, his usually smooth and unhurried voice tight with frustration. “They must’ve thought their positions strong to make such a move.”

“I would say so,” Claudius agreed, his own smile vanishing. “Although that doesn’t sound like a loyal following to me.” He looked over at Marcellus, his eyes hard. “We could easily crush any opposition by sending in the Classis Ignis as well. And with a little maneuvering and good money, get those pirates to preform a few acts of treason.

"Pirates!”Marcellus muttered with a grimace. “How I despise them. At least they now have the courage to face a fight directly. It was more frustrating when they were sneaking around our seas.”

“Aye, but you have to remember, my liege, that you won’t be able to fight these particular enemies with sword and spear just yet” Titus pointed out as he noticed the fires beginning to burn high in Marcellus' eyes, never a good sign. “They are clever men; predators that are dangerous when faced on their home ground. We'd rather play the political game first and gain ally support. As I assume that is your plan.

Marcellus sighed at his friend’s words and nodded slowly.

“This I know, my friend, and that it is.” he said with a resigned look, the soft slur of Keva marking his words more strongly now that his emotions were surging hot through his veins.

“Neither confederate nor general will suspect the order for the Ministry of Diplomacy to send diplomats to Nova Albion this following night. Nor will they suspect the declaration I am sure they will make in the tenday afterwards. If they value their lives.”

Claudius nodded slowly in agreement, a smile returning finally to his full lips.

“Indeed, your Majesty. A neat move, worthy of your lineage. You should halt most of Aeresk's advance in a month or two's time, with Nova Albion in your hands!”

Marcellus inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, his smile growing minutely at the praise. Then, just as quickly, he was sober once more.

“Now all I have to do is make sure I follow up on this move.”

Just as he spoke those words, the page returned, a tightly furled parchment map clutched in young hands. As he slipped through the door, Marcellus looked up and over at him.

“Ah, good work, Fidelis. You’ve brought the map. Now before you find your seat once more I need you to run and fetch me my squire. I need to get my generals and diplomats here as soon as possible!”

---

The flowers were in bloom. Those stunningly pink blossoms surrounded the a great walls of Kurotari. It would have been a much beautiful sight of the mountain city had it not been surrounded by legions of rebels, flying the banner of democracy and freedom. The city, however, flew banners of religion and oppression of all the people that dared live in the once peaceful lands. Both wanted for the civil war to end.

One man sat on a in front of a small table, a sign of parlay in the Andraxi culture, awaiting another man dressed in white robes to come out of the city. The two were silent once the meeting began, staring at one another with hatred filled within their eyes. Neither wanted to negotiate with the other, but it was a necessity should the violence stop on that day. “Saitou Kakeru, I would say it is an honor to meet you should our situation be different,” chimed the white robed one. A silent nod came from the rebellious leader, simply staring and listening to the shaman. “We both know what a siege would mean.” Another nod. “Deaths of many, it would leave both of us weak to foreigners.” A final nod.

“Then let us end it now with an honourable duel, my champion against yours,” finally said the warlord, Saitou, his antennae curving downwards. The same came from the white robed one, the equivalent of narrowing one’s eyes.

“How can I know that you will truly honor the rights of a duel?”

“How can I know that you will?,” Saitou responded, a servant coming behind him to pour both of them honey tea into small cups. Both of them took the warm tea into their hands and took a sips through small proboscises that poked through their facial masks. “Trust goes both ways, my shaman,” the warlord continued, cocking his head to the side.

“I suppose it does,” silence filled the air after those words as the shaman looked at the pink blossoms that surrounded them. “Very well, you shall have your duel. Send your champion forward and I will send mine.”

Saitou nodded in silence, the two quickly finishing the drinks. They both stood from the table, a servant came and carried it away to a stand, where Saitou would sit to observe the battle. Three paddles sat upon the table now, six different colors total. He held up a green sided to one paddle. A female shuffled forwards, wearing nothing but a skirt and carrying a large no-dachi over her shoulder. Opposite to the female strode out a much smaller male who carried a spear, he wore similar white robes to the shaman but also wore wooden spheres around his neck.

The two bowed to each other before readying their weapons; the woman holding the sword above her head and the male keeping his spear close. Quickly the did the champion step forward and swing at the air in front of her. The male staggered backwards, not wanting to be hit by the massive no-dachi. He thrust his spear forwards, only for it to be deflected upwards. The two stared at each other once more, silently and unmoving.

Another step by the female and a swing from above, the male moved to block except the sword never came into contact with the body of the spear. It had been a feint. Suddenly, he found himself dodging the massive weapon, his body becoming parallel with the ground and his foot jetting outwards to kick the female in the stomach. The blow sent the female backwards a bit. Finally, they went back to staring at each other. The man began to reach into the back of his robes with one of his smaller arms, the female unnoticing.

Again did she come forwards, only to find sand thrown into her eyes. It stung all four of her eyes, soon she was firmly planted onto the ground by the monk who had swept her feet to the side. Desperately, the champion began crawling backwards as the male charge forwards with his spear. She then firmly planted her hand into the ground before a sudden surge of earth came forwards, spearing the monk through the chest. Orange tinted blood spewed across the ground behind the monk and travelled down the pillar that had penetrated him. He had died instantly.

The champion sighed in relief before getting to her feet before turning back to her comrades who were cheering for her.

The war had been won.

Suddenly, an arrow pierced her shoulder sending her stumbling forwards. Saitou’s antennae flew up and his wings flared out in shock that these cowards would dare break the promise. He held up a black side of a paddle and ordered his men, “Charge! Take the city and kill those dishonorable! Slaughter them all!”

With a warcry the men surged forwards, taking to the air as arrows began falling from the sky and piercing the chitin of the charging force. The charging force began falling as the arrows met their mark, but none dared waver in face of the enemy.

“Umeji! Destroy them!,” the Oriqui ordered, his four eyes staring straight ahead as his men began to take to the air in order to take the walls. He could see the melee combat on the walls from where he stood, the blood and carnage. Saitou looked around, breaking his concentration, seeing his champion recovering by having the arrow pulled from her shoulder. At least it had not been barbed. “Mitsugu, go and kill them. I want their heads,” Saitou growled, earning a nod from the champion.

Umeji, the most powerful mage in the lands, began waving his four arms in front of him, a fireball forming. The flaming sphere was soon perfected by the smooth motions of his hands. Finally he held the sphere above his head and watched it grow larger, growing into a boulder of pure fire. Soon, the boulder was sent arching forwards and into a spot on the wall where archers were most present. The stone wall came crashing down, a large amount of of arrow fire being silenced instantly.

The mage began to slowly walk forwards, his soldiers taking the walls now that arrows were not raining upon them like a harsh storm. It became easy to retake the capital after that, granted there was a large amount of death in the field when the warriors began charging forth and dying valiantly from the arrow fire.

Inside the city was a different story, there was fighting and blood in every space that could be occupied. None of the fighting was of Mitsugu, however, as she made her way to the palace to settle the war once and for all.

Perhaps in better circumstances, the palace may have been described as opulent and Imperial, but the war had taken a toll on the capital as the local government diverted all resources to the war effort. The bright yellow of the palace now stood grayed and barren, planted trees lay withered and destroyed. There was no beauty to be found, no sign of their culture other than the architecture before the palace.

Mitsugu drew her blade, steeling herself to fight off potentially dozens of armed bodyguards, yet none sallied out to meet her and, upon opening the doors, only saw one figure. It was the white robed man from earlier, sitting peacefully with a sword in front of him. She knew what he was about to do, uncaring about much else.

“So you would rather take your own life than die in battle?,” she questioned.

“At least I will keep what little honor I have left,” the white robed one sighed, opening his robed to reveal his chest then lower abdomen. Mitsugu began walking forwards, stopping behind him and raising her sword. “I only hope that the gods allow me to rest peacefully.”

“As do I.”

The whited robed one sent his own sword into his lower abdomen, jerking it to the side and watching as his orange blood began to flow. Soon he would feel no pain as Mitsugu lobbed off his head with one savage strike. Now the city was theirs, now the Republic could solidify its hold over the lands.

It was a brave new world.

"We have not spoken in a long time," a robed man finally said. He brought a cup of exotic tea to his lips and sipped deeply. He had expected such smalltalk to shatter the oppressive silence like glass. Instead there was nothing.

The other figure across the table sat in utter stillness, as if contemplating something. It was hard to tell what the Tyrant was thinking; he always wore a mask and a set of ornate robes dyed the colors of coal and vermillion. He had no tea, of course. The Tyrant had such an inhuman demeanor that it was hard to imagine him even eating or drinking, and indeed there were whispers that not even the palace servants ever saw him take food or drink. But whispers always abounded, and in the end words were nothing but wind.

The man with the tea took a deep breath and then glanced sideways out a window. At this late hour the city below glowed with the lights of lamps and lanterns. In the far distance one could just barely see the port. It looekd as if there was one lonely sheep just now undocking at this unseemly hour when the sky was black and the waves below the color of wine.

Finally the ruler of these lands broke his long contemplation and spoke. "You have my favor and that is enough. The trade will continue as soon I am able to acquire more...playthings."

And then there was suddenly a quick rapping upon the door. Tyrant Velharus rarely projected any motion, but even through that mask his irritation seemed palpable in that moment. A half dozen men barged into that private meeting with an exhausted courier at their head. "My lord," he began, "We have been attacked! It was a fleet flying the flag of the Herater; they encircled and then occupied Mykonos. All the southern islands will have likely fallen by now; we were unprepared..."

The Tyrant remained utterly still and almost disconcerting calm. Most petty kings would have descended into madness or despair or rage upon hearing such news, but Velharus as silent. Then without warning he had risen from his seat and the messenger's words had trailed off as the Tyrant shoved him aside and left the room at a brisk pace.

Within the hour the Tyrant's soldiers had declared martial law. Within the next day the entire island of Naxos was under alarm and preparing itself for a siege.

---

Only few miles away, the brisk ocean air of the Eastern Sea pelted the hardened face of Proculus Vestalis; minister of the Kevan legation to Naxos. He inhaled the wafting scent of salt mixed with sweat as the waves lightly crashed against the hull of the ship. The sun had dipped between the grey clouds and the morning was falling into the afternoon. He could hear the grunts of the sailors below deck as they rowed in a disciplined cadence to the sound of a drum. The ship began to rock to-and-fro. He exhaled deeply. He had been on this ship for a full hour, and yet it seemed like an eternity.

Not too far behind, the Classis Aquilae lay anchorage, awaiting word of the legations success or failure. For ten days the fleet sailed the across the Eastern Sea under orders from the Dignitas himself. An honor so great that it nearly knocked Proculus to his knees upon receiving summons to the Teke Awade. After an extensive briefing period, Proculus was awarded the rank of Minister, granted a legation, supplied a security detail, and deployed to Naxos, Cyrene's northern most territory with the Classis Aquilae led by Admiral Vledni as an escort. Upon reaching the edge of the Isle's territorial waters, the fleet deployed a single boat topped with a flag signifying peace. The legations envoy. But failure was not an option. Not for Proculus.

A Kevan of average height but with an impressive build, Proculus had coursing jet black hair and a light black beard that made him sexually appealing for the women that saw him. But through his stunning handsome looks, he had the eyes of a true Kevan; stubborn and strong. A senior member of the Ministry of Diplomacy, Proculus clad himself in a crimson pallium of silk and gold embroidery. A traditional attire in nature, diplomats of a Keva were required to dawn it during any foreign affair. A regulation established by the Ministry of Culture.

Aboard the envoy, Kevan sailors were at the mast, pulling ropes and giving the ship full sails to catch the wind. The men of the Kevan legation were lounging around on the deck; several men were by the sides of the ships staring out into the horizons of the endless oceans, others sat in the corners leaning against the side and catching much needed sleep, a select few were vomiting off to the side from the seasickness. All while staying out of the way of the sailors manning the ship.

Proculus sneered. Diplomats acted as the representatives of their home country, yet here his legation lay, disgracing the name of Keva long before they reached Naxos.

The Isle of Naxos, … Proculus quietly mused. A nation sovereign to Cyrene defined by its tumultuous past. One of civil war and insurrection. Yet Naxos had little to flaunt in comparison to Tyrant Velharus. A man as mysterious in manner as the Creator was in loving-kindness, the Tyrant's only knowings hid in the drunken revelry of hardened sea-men.

Tyrant! A man of the Black Circle!

Tyrant! A man without hunger!

Bah! It as all the same jargon that sent Proculus' head spinning. All he could do was wait and meet this Tyrant Velharus for himself.

"TERRA!" a voice bellowed from up above. A signal that land had been sighted. Proculus fitted his pallium and with a curt clap, summoned his legation to him. Most of which who had snapped back into reality after the signal.

The deck of the ship was alive with motion. Yet, a semblance remained remained. Proculus smiled. Keva would not come to shame this day! Not under his watch!

"Trierarchus, make ready for a smooth landing! First impressions are everything!"

When the ship at least steered into port and finally lowered its gangplank onto the pier, there was a grisly sight within sight of the docks: displayed high in the air and prominent for all to see there were gallows. There three men were hanging suspended in the air, but where other lands did their executions with a noose about the neck these Cyrenea had an even crueler method. At the end of each rope was a large metal hook and each man upon the gallows had such a hook forced through his ribcage. There, hanging limply and pathetically to one side, two of the swaying men had eyes already pecked out by the birds. One more remained with a glazed look about him as he neared his slow and excrutiating end. Above them there was a signed painted with the words, 'The Fate of Pyrates'.

Indeed, Cyrene had always loathed the swashbucklers that plagued the seas, bled their coffers, and enslaved any sailor on a ship unfortunate to be seized. Under Tyrant Velharus they had begun a campaign of ruthlessly hunting the pirates of these nearby seas. For the most part their efforts had been met with success; only a week prior had they hunted down yet another pirate ship. Three of the crew were on display before the Kevans, but as for the rest...well, perhaps they had been taken as galley slaves. Or if the rumors were true, perhaps they had been sold to the Black Circle.

In any case, the Cyrenae had been waiting as the Kevan ship drew into port. A half dozen of the tyrant's soldiers dressed in black stood ready with crossbow and sword, while a customs officer and the man in charge of these docks approached. Probably taking this for nothing more than another merchant vessel, they noted the Kevan imagery that was to be seen and the appropriate slave translator was quickly summoned.

"The wise and noble lords of Naxos greet you! They would know what you seek in this port."

"First impressions my arse." whispered a Kevan sailor at the sight of executed criminals.

Proculus dutifully ignored the sailors' impertinence as he stood atop the gangplank. Although, he took curious cognizance to the execution style of the Cyrenea. One set aside for those the Cyrenea hated with a passion: pirates. Like a plague, pirates infected the Eastern Sea with such commonality it seemed like they spawned from the depths of the ocean itself. Along side Kevan galleys worked Cyrenea war vessels, razing the sea of any raider, pirate, or undocumented privateer. Certainly a leverage or starting point Proculus could use to win the Tyrant's heart. Or attention.

On the dock below, a duo of Kevan marines took up station, both clad in republican colors. To his back, the rest of the Kevan legation took up waiting, each as stoic as the marines surrounding them, all who were in which armed with crossbows and gladii of Kevan steel. Security took first place in situations like these. One could be never to careful in territory that wasn't his own. Nevertheless, one had to be cautious as to not insight a conflict as it would certainly end with their carcasses on a hook, and most likely war. Failure was not an option.

Without cue and as per protocol, Proculus' Ministri Consiliarius stepped forward.

"In the name of Secundus Dignitas Marcellus Tiberius of the Republic of Keva, we great you. As an envoy of the Star Republic, we seek audience with your head of state."

"Then you will be brought to the Tyrant's fortress," came the answer. Just like that, the Cyrenae guards moved into formation and began walking the envoy through the city.



Finally they arrived at a looming castle of bleak stone that overlooked the city and (just barely) the port and quays. Once they were walked into the Tyrant's seat of power it quickly became clear that the place was even more austere than the dead streets outside. With nearly all the the Tyrant's men out patrolling the streets there was nothing to be heard but the echoes of the party's own footsteps upon the stone floor. The Tyrant himself seemed to care little for aesthetic, for what little decor remained in place seemed dusty and ancient.

Finally they arrived at a throne room. Seated upright and perfectly rigid upon a stone chair upon a high dias there was a man that could only have been the Tyrant himself. He didn't so much as glance at the Kevans as they entered, so busy was he with another.

A richly clothed man that represented the Commonwealth stood before the Tyrant with two other envoys at his side. "Have I not been a just ruler over Cyrene? Have I lent aid to my neighbors when such was needed, ridded these seas of the scourge of piracy, and ensured the flow of trade? You will tell your 'First Citizen' to act, and that despot will answer my call to arms against this wretched confederation that claws greedily at my lands."

The man spoke in a coarse voice as softly as a feather, but nonetheless his words found a way to project across the entire room and cut through men like a ship through water. The Commonwealth's diplomat had been standing almost haughtily as the Kevans entered but by the time the Tyrant had finished his short speech all three of the Commonwealth's delegates had knelt before him. He had a way of inspiring terror, but that was good. First impressions were of utmost importance.

Quite a first impression indeed." Proculus grimly ruminated as his eyes fell upon the groveling diplomats.

The Kevan envoy, wishing not disturb the current procession, stood off to the side, quietly observing, subtly gathering information. Such an opportunity could not be squandered. One stood to gain insight on the inner machinations of the man they were soon to receive. Precious information such as: his current mood, the situation he was in, his relationship with nations of interest and vise-versa. Everything mentioned here stood as ammunition for the Kevans. Bullets capable of piercing the most peerless of defences.

Proculus watched on, his expert eyes and ears picking apart the feast of knowledge in which acted as timber to the fiery argument blazing in his head. He struggled to keep his face neutral. The odds tipped in Keva's favor.

"Lord Velharus, you must understand that the Commonwealth first looks to its interests. That you might be a just ruler is...is..." the kneeling ambassador tried to say.

"Our arrangement was one of mutual support, and now your grand Commonwealth will not even aid its ally against an enemy that has challenged their authority before? Pathetic."

"Wh-what would you expect the Imperator to do? Send a regiment to garrison this isle?" the diplomat stammered.

"No, Naxos is defensible and I will not have my realm made into a puppet state by allowing you to occupy it in all but name. No, I want to raze the cities of Herater and salt their fields...but I will settle with help in reclaiming what is mine: Mykonos. Help me obliterate their navy and then your obligation will be fulfilled."

"This...this proposal, Lord Velharus, you must understand that the Imperator will not expend resources for nothing in retur-"

"Then begone from my sight." the Tyrant interrupted with a dismissive wave. A few guards in the throne room walked out the Commonwealth's envoy and now the Tyrant looked towards the Kevans that had come for an audience.

In any case, the Tyrant had played with fire by attempting to make demands from the Commonwealth. The Creator alone knew how he would react to whatever concessions the Kevans would want for their aid.

And the beast rears its ugly head our way. Proculus silently mused as left his envoy's corner and took center stage. By his side remained his Ministri Consiliarius and Consiliarius, both critical members in the diplomatic process respectively.

The Ministri Consiliarius acted as his translator. He served as the bridge between cultures and tradtions, allowing for diplomatic missions such as these to go smoothy. Years of instructions went into this practice. Translators to be were expected to master a language
within a minimum of 2 years to a maximum of 4 years. After the time frame given to learn the language a test is taken to check the level of proficiency. Failure to learn the language often resulted in dismissal.

In order to gain rank in the Ministry of Diplomacy as a translator, knowledge of more languages was required. It gave ones an upper hand at competing with other members of the cadre.

On the other hand, the Consiliarius acted as a scribe of sorts. He served to document each and every word of the deliberation acted out before him. Nothing was to be ommitied, edited, or faulted. If so, a Consiliarius could risk losing his/her place in the Ministry of Diplmacy.

Armed with his Ministri Consiliarius and Consiliarius, Proculus was more that ready to take on the Cyrenea Tyrant. With a curt nod, the Ministri Consiliarius stepped forward and began translating after emulating Proculus' bow in respect.

"I am Proculus Vestalis of the Rebulbic of Keva. I am Minister to the Kevan Legation of Naxos. I humbly come before you with the highest deference and respects, oh Tyrant Velharus, as emissary to the Secundus Dignitas Marcellus Tiberius."

The Tyrant's gaze had fallen upon the Kevans from the moment that they entered his room, but the shadows from his ornamental helmet shrouded his face completely enough to hide the set of piercing eyes. He listened patiently to what they had to say. Twice. He understood the Kevan tongue well enough, but better to let them think that he needed their translation.

"If you have come to offer military support," the Tyrant addressed them in the Cyrenae dialect, "then your arrival was one with impeccable timing."

"Much gratitude, my lord." Proculus' Ministri Consiliarius translated smoothly. Suddenly he spoke bluntly. "It is indeed true that our Dignitas seeks to send millitary aid to your cause, but not without reason."

I don't play games, I make them.
Velharus sat in silence as if expecting the Kevan to go on.

And without pause Proculus contiuned. Although, he noticed the subtle shift in the air. His words struck a cord.

"See, my lord, there stands in our way an obstacle that we cannot surmount through convetical means. That obstacle is Commonwealth. Keva cannot send millitray aid while you maintain an undefined relationship with them. Proculus paused, allowing that fact to sink in before resuming the offensive. "But, if you were to redefine you relationship with Commonwealth, it would serve as reason for Keva to aid you."

Velharus listened to the translator's droll attempt at wording that as delicately as it needed to be. For the first time the Tyrant shifted in his throne. Ever so slowly, he reached for a staff at the side of his chair. Then he rose, using the staff to support himself. He leaned and put some weight upon it, but not overly so. He approached a gigantic map that sprawled across one wall, then simply pointed his staff at the Commonwealth's vast expanse of land. It dominated nearly a third of the map. "You have more to offer me than that empire?" he inquired with mild amusement.

Proculus observed the procession without expression. From what he could see, the Tyrannt suffered from some kind of ailment. One that rendered his body weak and required that make use of a cane. A war scar perhaps?

Without moving from place, Proculus turned to face the Tyrannt and the massive map. Indeed Commonwealth held a vast territory. But the Creator blessed Proculus with the opportunity to listen in on the Tyrants most reccent bout with them. It was time to make use of his ammunition.

"If I may speak freely. From what I can recollect, correct me if I am wrong. But Commonwealth is reluctant to send you aid."

"Their 'terms' are less than favorable, as are yours I would suspect."

"In all honesty, my lord. But our terms ensure your defense and the defeat of the Conferdation." Proculus made silent gesture towards his Consiliarius who immediately responded by bringing him a sealed parchment from his pack.

Taking the utmost care, Proculus broke the seal on the parchment, unfurled it, and began reading from its contents.

"Secundus Dignitas Marcellus Tiberius of the Star Republic seeks to extend the hand of vassalage over Cyrene. Should Cyrene accept, it will fall under the Laws of a Protectorate State, and the might of the Kevan Fleet shall rise in its defense. What say you to these terms?"

"And what does Keva expect from her vassals?"

"Financial tribute and military compliance and your allegiance, and in return you receive protection."

"I would expect the right to scutage."

Proculus gave pause, but only for a moment. "Keva, unfortunately, cannot grant this right."

He could have fought over that term and many others. Velharus could have threatened to look to the Commonwealth instead, but there was little point. If the time ever came that the small realm of Cyrene was called to some conflict, the Tyrant would send as much or as little support as he deigned, regardless of any demands for so-called 'military compliance'.

"Then a concordat may be struck. I will accept your terms."

Proculus beamed. Certainly the Maker blessed him this day! For he claimed success not just for Keva, but for all of Albion.

With a snap of his meaty fingers, his Consiliarius brought out from his bag another sealed parchment, this one stamped with the ornate seal of the Dignitas himself. His eyes averted, the Consiliarius held the contract before the Tyrant and with his other hand extended an ink quill.

"With his contract, we shall make this treaty official." Proculus proclaimed.

Velharus scoffed at the sight of the quill. Taking the parchment, he held it against a wall with his left hand. With his right, he covered the bottom of the paper. When he offered the treaty back to the Kevan, the imprint of a hand had somehow been burned onto it as the Tyrant's signature. Though his hands had been gloved, there was nary the scent of burnt leather nor even that of paper.

An unnerved Consiliarius took back the parcel and returned to Proculus' side.

"You certainly have have done your people - no, Albion, a great service."

Getting off a horse somewhat obviously sore is a man dressed in some finery, many fine furs and some rich imported cloths, but also the several holy feathers in his fur cap denoting his Imperial rank. Proceeding away from the gates of the Palatial district and up the steps towards the Autokrator’s Southern Palace, he turns to have a look around. Beyond the walls and the gates is the hustle of the many plazas and their market activities, not to mention the grand forest of masts in the harbor.

The man turns back and proceeds up the grand staircase into the Palace, decorated and imposing on the outside, formidable towers stick out of the main domed building showing it's presence for more than just Imperial inhabitantance. The exterior painted in broad blues on the central dome, but nothing compared to the interior so gaudy with wealth from bygone times it was almost humorous.

"Right this way your Highness.” The Eunuch bowing to the proper degree of respect before turning his body to indicate the path forward to his scheduled meeting. Following from the entrance to go onto his audience.

“Thank you, Petyra.” Grand Prince Akysveril Lindokar replied, very pleased he was able to remember the name of the Southern Palace’s Seneschal. As he begins walking he asks, “Is Uncle still meeting with the generals?”

Continuing to lead through the labyrinth that was the Southern Palace’s layout, and attempting to avoid servants so as to prevent interruption of their duties, the Seneschal replies, “The Autokrator is indeed still meeting with several important officials your Highness. Among them are the Lord High General Jandur of Venfaren, the Colonel-Captain Azhishmar, War Leaders Jhaeros of the Umrannaes and Imizael of the Syltrisar, and Archcount Grigion of Venkhor Keep.”

“Thank you Petyra.” Akysveril took a moment to prepare his next question, the conversation falling lax. “What is the Lord Venkhor doing this far West?”

“Something to do with the Andraxi, I am led to believe your Highness.”

Akysveril continued to test the Seneschal’s knowledge, even seeing if gossip just coming in as he left had already been heard, which it was, as they approached the meeting place. Voices could be heard, noticeably that of the Autokrator.

“...that will be all Lord Venkhor, if anything happens inform me.”

“I will your Imperial Majesty, however I do regrettably need to return to my holdings and cannot stay for a dinner.” said a voice presumably belonging to the Archcount Grigion, and confirmed as such as he stepped out of the door with an Elven War Leader in tow. He took a moment to recognize the Autokrator’s nephew in the hallway and after a few brief steps in which conversation reengaged back in the room spoke as he too bowed deeply, speaking as he rose.

“Your Highness, I believe your Uncle wants you to meet someone. If you would excuse me your Highness?”

“Thank you, you may go Lord Venkhor.”

As the Archcount and his Elven ally escaped down the hall Akysveril prepared to enter the room and Petyra went in to whisper his arrival to the Autokrator, the conversation going on within.

A hard voice belonging to the Lord High General Venfaren roared out in a rough bass, “We cannot rely of the natives for supply, it seems that we’ll use the troops in minor options until better supply can be established.”

Petyra entered and began to whisper to the Autokrator.

A younger voice belonging to the Colonel-Captain Azhishmar responded in a modulated tenor, “Indeed sir, I have discussed the matter with War Leader Jhaeros and we have come up with opportunities if you would approve them.”

A raucous voice rang out from the Autokrator. “I’ll see him now Petyra”

Akysveril laughed internally as he composed his face and waited for Petyra, you could never quite forget Uncle’s insistence of bombards usage in ceremonies. Petyra stepped out and bowing, gestured inward.

Akysveril entered the room, and was immediately stuck by the difference. A large amount of the ornaments had, in some cases quite literally, been ripped from their holdings and been replaced by maps, an odd case considering that there was a war room in the palace. The Autokrator sat on a sturdy wooden chair, plain except for a few fur coverings, at a table in which two other chairs were positioned side by him, one was empty the other occupied by the Lord High General, facing the Colonel-Captain.

Despite his wonderings Akysveril walked in the prescribed distance in front the Autokrator easily falling into, and out of at the gesture of his Uncle, the necessary prostration to the Autokrator.

Akysveril spoke, “I serve as you command Uncle.”

A snort then, “You never would do that when you were younger.” The Autokrator paused as if remembering something then spoke, “Akysveril I would like you to meet Colonel-Captain Azhishmar, future governor of our colonies in Ardire.” As the two clasped arms in greeting he continued. “He has read some of your Father’s treatises on governance and it would be best if you could give him some advice.”

“Of course Uncle.” Akysveril grinning, dropping his earlier composure.

“Go wherever Petyra says is open and speak about it, I have had enough of that talk for now.” As the Colonel-Captain and the Imperial Prince left, the Autokrator spoke, “Jandur, I left a note with your aide on who you need to yell at back in the capitol.”

“I wondered why you had left the dance early.”

“Jandur, I may be a fine example of many things, a paragon of dancing I am not.” A shared chuckle paused this temporarily before the end. “I know I mustn't keep you or Shialova will bring the palace down around me.”

“Till I can return.”

Nods and quiet echoing down the hall. Petyra steps in.

“Petyra, I need a scribe to send a message for a summons for the Patriarch, I’ll need him for someone important.”

“Of course your Imperial Majesty.”

January 1, 1500

Marco grimaced as he tried to wash down the last of the sour taste in his mouth. He raised his hand and called "more water" and his servant promptly came, picking up the puke filled bucket sitting at Marco's feet before hurrying off to do his master's wish. Marco sat alone at the desk of the cabin, looking around, pondering. It was a nice cabin, lighted with candles, lined with books, the wood was nicely engraved and the bed had satin sheets. Marco had hardly touched the books, the furnishing of the cabin was the only legacy the previous ship owner had. For a long time he had hidden away in this cabin, keeping his sickness to himself, not wanting to start his command with a sign of weakness to his men. Though his servant had informed him that most of them were equally sick.

Marco felt uneasy at his new responsibilities. He knew his uncle had sent him here more than anything because he trusted in his loyalty, not his ability. But this would be an opportunity for him to prove himself capable as well as loyal. Upon arrival, Marco would be family's lieutenant in this new world. The men and provisions he brought with him would be the last piece of the small army they had been gathering for an in-land expedition. Their primary goal was to search out whatever riches lay beyond, in whatever form they might come in. Be it resources, new partners in trade or victims to be exploited. Perhaps in time this land could be the basis of the Pintado family's power, finally shifting the balance in Battizia to their favour. And more so, it could launch Marco and his name to new heights.

The servant re-entered, setting down a new bucket by the door frame and a beaker of water on the desk before informing his master that they would be arriving shortly. Marco leaned back and let the servant get to work on preparing him for his appearance. During his long stay in the cabin he had paid little mind to his appearance, leaving him dishevelled. With his servant's work, he returned to his old self. Clean-shaven, with curly black hair waxed and drawn back. The Pintado family prided itself in the relative discipline under which they operated and Marco was no exception. Soldierly physical training had left him a handsome young man. Dressed fancifully in the black and blue colors of his family, he walked out and up onto the deck of the ship.

Some forty Pintado soldiers were spread about the ship, some of them relaxing below, some of them lying about in sickly misery, others looking ahead expectantly at the land that became ever more visible. To the crewmen of the ship they paid no heed. Marco walked to the bow of the ship and looked ahead. The land looked disappointingly flat and unexciting from there, but no matter, their goal after all was to look further in-land. On the shore they saw the outpost that they had been working on. A pier stretched out into the ocean, ready to receive them and a number of barracks had been built to accommodate everyone. A simple palisade encircled the outpost, providing outwards protection.

The ship was brought to a hold at the pier and the Pintado men were the first to get off, many expressed relief at finally putting their feet back down on solid ground. Following them would be the slaves that they brought with them to turn this new land profitable. Altogether the population of the outpost was a mixture of Pintado men, Brotherhood sailors, freemen who had come to settle voluntarily and slaves. In preparation for his arrival they had even built an office that would also act as his accommodation. His uncle had really thought of everything. It might have been prudent to delve into the work of managing the outpost, but they were planned to venture out on their expedition as soon as the day after their arrival. He dismissed the small entourage that had gathered around him and secluded himself in his new home, seeking to catch up on sleep and think in private on the coming days.