Spleen x Shiteagle x Isocrap



As far as taverns went the Lying Willow was pleasant, if unmemorable. The stench of ale and vomit that so often marked a tavern had yet to mar the relatively new establishment. It was still daytime, though the sun’s light was beginning to wane, thus few occupied the tavern yet. A few merchants occupied one corner of the room, feasting on a small dinner before turning their attention to business. Across the room, a group of men held a hushed discussion over tankards of ale.

Loudly Cannae burst through the entrance doors, nearly knocking one of the thin wooden portals clear of its cast iron hinge. The hulk of a man swaggered over to the serving bar, ignoring the glares he summoned from his entry and plopped down into one of the stools, the cotton stuffed seat, a grand insignia of a well of establishment, flattened and threatened to burst through the seams under the weight of the muscular man atop it.

A white smile flashed from the man towards the wide eyed bartender. The son of Iao pointed a finger at a spherical bottle with a long neck that lingered on the polished shelf, “all of it,” Cannae ordered.

The bartender squinted at the bottle, and a dubious looked formed on his visage, “w...water? That’s for the g-”

“ALL!” Cannae reiterated, nearly laughing at the bewildered man as he slammed down enough coin for two actual drinks rather than fetched water.

“Interesting drink choice.” A man said as he sat next to Cannae. His accent hinted that he hailed from Lonassa or Hellara, especially the way he emphasized the ‘k’ in drink. “Lord Cannae?” It was as much a statement as a question.

“Ever have it?” Cannae looked over at the man as the bottle was begrudgingly shuffled over to Cannae’s grasp, “makes ya piss though.”

“As for who I am, I am Lieutenant General Partial Rotation Twenty Six Cycle four Cannae of The North, begatten by-” Cannae started to snicker as he studied the man’s face. He snorted, “ye, I’m Cannae.”

“This old soldier never could make sense of your northern ranks.” The man said with a shake. He didn’t look that old, thirty perhaps, but the scars visible on his hands and neck certainly indicated that he had seen more than his fair share of battles. “I’m Xanthus, from Hellaras” He lowered his voice slightly. “I serve Our Fair Lady of Change in battle.” A kopis, the sword favored by soldiers serving Soraya, was partially visible under his cloak. “I… hate to ask, but I could use some assistance.”

Before Cannae could voice so much as a word in reply a rather haggard looking drunk stumbled up to the mountain of a man and slapped a calloused hand onto his shoulder. Pulling himself closer the inebriated fellow introduced himself, “Cannae is it? Now excuse a man fer listening but I er… I heard some speak about yous being a lord eh? Figure you could help me out yer lordship? Me names Mar.. Uh… Markos!”

Markos, breath stinking of liquor a great deal stronger than simple beer, pointed a grimy finger at the bartender and went on, “If you’d believe it that… That scoundrel there! He gone went and told me I can’t buy any more of this fine establishments swill! Now if you’d go outta yer way and help me out, well, I’d make it worth your while. Come on now, show some charity! Those snakes in the corner wouldn’t, but yer a lord ain’t ya? Gotta show up them peasant folk with yer generosity eh?”

“I’m.. not a lord,” Cannae leaned backwards to avoid the spittle that seemed to be summoned after every hard “p”, “but yeah sure, knock yourself out.”

The mighty man swung over his bottle and placed it roughly into Markos hand with an accompanying bright smile, “have all you want.”

The moment the bottle touched his hands Markos raised it to his lips, it’s contents being gone long before the forced smile on his drunk lips shifted to a grimace. With a curse Markos hefted the bottle and hurled it backwards, where it collided with the head of a robed man coincidentally named Rob. Unaware of his transgression, Markos looked to Cannae and shouted, “Yer a damn cruel bastard ya know that! How do ya think I’ll keep my present shine now? Eh? Eh?”

Cannae wildly gestured with his hands, “you! YOU! What about me? That was ALL the water, M-Markos!”

He started counting off his fingers, “you come up to me, take my drinks, interrupt my friends, force me to try new flavors of spit that I never thought existed, and to top it all off… wait no that’s all of it.”

Cannae crossed his tree trunk arms, “dick.”

“You’d best walk away Markos” Xanthus spoke up, his hand drifting towards the hilt of his kopis.

Markos, quite ignorant of the substance behind the threat, simply continued ranting at Cannae, “Why in all the gods names would ya be drinking water in a tavern anyway! I swear! Ya’d be better served lying in the street and waitin for rain!”

Briefly acknowledging Xanthus Markos added, “And as if I could walk! Ha!”
“How about a midday flight session then?” Cannae rose to his feet, towering over both the sitting men as he menacingly cracked his knuckles. A long dark shadow was cast over Markos as he tried to stare the drunk in the eye, if the drunk’s eyes wouldn’t stop lazing off slowly to one side or the other.

Markos squinted and replied slowly, “I don’t think I know how to fly a griffin.”

“Let’s trying flying something else then,” Cannae grinned wickedly as he grabbed Markos’ collar and yanked him upwards. Before a protest could be muttered, Cannae hefted his mighty shoulders and flung the drunk backwards, straight into the robed man who had just been helped to his feet after his encounter with the stray water bottle.

“So much for not drawing their attention” Xanthus grimaced as the robed man’s minions each drew a dagger. The look in more than one of their eyes showed recognition as they looked at Xanthus. “Please try to keep one of them alive.” The old soldier said as he drew his kopis.

Cannae raised his fists up to his chin and shuffled his feet into a fighting stance, “this isn’t my first awkward fight out of the blue,” he assured his recent companion.

Pointing a finger at the armed gang he taunted loudly, “little sensitive to be hanging around bars don’t ya think?”

The group of men simply grunted as they moved towards Cannae and Xanthus. Two moved towards Xanthus as the other four men seemed intent on Cannae. Meanwhile Markos was left completely unmolested, whether that was due to the men believing him to not be a threat or simply because they didn’t care about the man none could say.

“You shouldn’t have stuck your nose where it wasn’t wanted.” One of the men said as he lunged at Xanthus. The old soldier backed away from the man’s knife, only to curse as he bumped into the bar behind him. He grunted in pain as his second opponent also lunged at him, sinking his dagger into Xanthus’ arm. Xanthus yelled as he planted his fist on the man’s face with more than enough force to break his nose.

One of the men hesitated to join in the attack, eyes darting to and fro frantically searching for an opportunity to strike. One would never com, given a Harpe was swung into crown of his head with sickening thwack before he had the chance to move. An unseen and disregarded Markos pulled the bloodied blade from the man's skull with a disgusting squelch, clumsily letting the body crumple to the ground. Another step forward saw Markos stumble, following the corpse to the floor in his tumble.

The first man to reach Cannae shot forward with his dagger. The hulking Cannae managed to grab the surprised man’s wrist before the dagger plunged into his throat. As the next assaulter got in fighting range, Cannae aggressively jabbed the captive hand and ultimately the dagger towards the other man. Cannae’s crushing fingers wrapped around the fist of the man, keeping the dagger in his hand as he forced him to stab the other in the larynx, a spurt of blood washing the horrified first attacker.

Cannae kicked the man away, sending both the dying man and the first attacker to the ground in shock. The remaining two rushed Cannae, looks of fury on their faces. The Son of Iao rapidly took a fighting stance and as quick as lightening two thunderous cracks sounded out as he rapped two terrible punches on each man, a brief flash of light blinking as his Stromist powered fists connected. The two men crumpled to the floor, each with unrecognizable pulpy faces.

By that point Xanthus’ second attack was on the ground, his blood dripping from Xanthus’ kopis. The old soldier grimaced as he placed the bloody weapon on the bar, giving the tavern owner an apologetic look. He then reached over to the dagger still embedded in his arm and, with a grunt, yanked the weapon out.

“As I was saying earlier,” He said as he tore the sleeve off of one of their assailants to make a makeshift bandage, “I could very much use your assistance.”

“I’ll say,” Cannae wiped his knuckles on his rough linen pants, “especially if this is a common occurrence for you.”

“Well…” Xanthus was applying his makeshift bandage by this point. “I had remained undetected to those men until that Maria guy got involved.” He picked his kopis off of the bar and wiped its blade clean on one of the men’s shirts. “I might be thankful towards the man if these were all that were involved.”

Cannae looked down at the sole surviving attacker, now passed out from shock exhaustion on the floor. Slowly he looked over at Xanthus, his curiosity piqued, “what kind of problem requires both help from myself, and the death of a bunch of thugs?”

“The kind that involves my archon.” Xanthus answered as he nudged the surviving thug with his foot. When the man didn’t respond Xanthus let out a long sigh. “You’ve heard those rumors claiming Our Fair Lady of Change has surely had a kid or two, right?”

Cannae smirked and crossed his arms, “no disrespect coming from a son of Iao, but there are some tales that number well more than two, and not all of them human.”

“Yes” Xanthus agreed, “but no man of intelligence actually believes those rumors. And yet these guys seem pretty damned sure that’s the case. They’re so sure that,” Xanthus shrugged, “I’m beginning to believe there may be something to those rumors.”

Cannae raised a brow, “they? What does a silly rumor have to do with you, or them for that matter.” He jutted his chin at the bloodied corpses, the fact that the authorities have yet to arrive made Cannae wonder a few other things.

“Think about it.” Xanthus lowered his voice slightly. “If they actually do know of a child of Archon Soraya they could use this child to blackmail her.”

“To be honest, the thought of Soraya caring about anything seems alien,” Cannae casually commented, “but I suppose the bodies speak for themselves.”

“And yet,” Xanthus scowled at Cannae, “she’s the only one amongst the archons that I’ve heard goes into the slums to heal the sick and wounded. She cares, she’s just… flighty.”

Behind the pair Markos picked himself up off the floor and took in the gruesome scene. Scratching his head he looked down at his blood stained clothing and swore, his liquor addled mind more concerned about the condition of his dress than the probability of the city guard finding him covered head to toe in a stranger's blood. Not fully connecting the dots, Markos asked as politely as he was able, “You folks wouldn’t happen to have more o that water eh? Seems I made a right mess of myself.”

Cannae snarled, “oh now you want the water!”

He waved a finger at both of them, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting out of here before too many questions start getting shot around by angry officials with shiny badges. You wanna talk, follow me, but I can’t say any of this has put me in a talking mood.”

“Can’t say I blame you” Xanthus said as he picked the unconscious thug up and pulled him over his shoulder. “You!” He pointed at Markos. “Search their bodies for any notes or anything and come with us.” Turning back to Cannae he asked “Do you have some specific hiding place in mind?”

Cannae looked out through the Inn window, the cobblestone street having turned blue from the growing dusk. He thought for a moment, “well I’m walking home, er, to my lodgings.”

“I guess it’s no secret I’m in town anyway,” he shrugged. Suddenly the man bit his lip as his eyes widen, “might not be a good idea to bring him though,” he pointed at the man Xanthus had lugged over his shoulder, “especially not with that.” He pointed lower at the red seeping through Xanthus’ makeshift bandage.

Markos shrugged and began rifling through the dead men’s pockets. Still rather disoriented, he mostly prioritized extracting spare coins, though he remembered to grab whatever else he found. By the time he was done there was a small pile; and looking around he found a coat without too much blood on it to fashion a makeshift sack for carrying the small hoard. With his vision beginning to clear he looked to the others, “Have ya thought of putting a bag over his head or something?”

“Give me a bag and I’ll be more than happy to.” Xanthus answered. He shifted the thug on his shoulder before nodding at Cannae. “Lead the way milord.”

Cannae stood silent for a moment before stuttered back into the conversation, “o-oh! You mean me!”

“Yes.” Xanthus raised an eyebrow. “I do mean you. Unless you’d rather we follow him.” He gestured towards Markos. “Hey….” He had to think on what the drunk’s name was for a moment. “Markos… Know of any good holes to hide in nearby?”

Rubbing his temples and beginning to wake up to the situation, the pitcher of water doing its work, Markos replied deliberately, “In the city? Bah, I’d not spend the night here with the threat of being eaten by a griffin over my head. There’s an overhang I’ve been camping under a few hours walk from the wall, and I’ll be hurrying there. Maybe our friend over there will get away with this, but the Exarch’s going ta be out for my head for certain.”

“Normally I wouldn’t even get involved in this, but if it will help Soraya out, just follow me and shut up until I say otherwise,” Cannae grunted, “and if you insist on a prisoner, let’s at least find a cart to hide him in until we get there.”

(A collaborative post by Goldeagle1221 and gorgenmast)

The sun had sunk beneath the western peaks of the Tiranines, silhouetting the jagged mountains against a blazing array of reds, oranges, and purples. The darkening skies beckoned the first peeping frogs of spring out of their daytime haunts to sing their chirping songs from Old Valatir's cisterns and aqueducts. Torchglow increasingly illuminated the city streets below and the stars above twinkled faintly into being in the sun's diminishing afterglow. These marked the end of a momentous day in the history of the Night Mother's Empire. And with the day's closed-door discussions and strategic coordinations concluded, now was the time for the dissimination of what the Archons and their servants had discussed.

Regent Ai lounged upon a balcony of one of the Valatirine Sanctum's annexes, joined by Stewardess Helkha of Boria. The dark blue light of dusk tinted the pair dimly, as the ray's of springs day began to fall behind the horizon. A look of thought had taken Ai's visage in the twilight.

"Sometimes I wonder about the divide between the north and south, Helkha," Ai thoughtlessly commented, crossing his arms over the balcony rails, leaning forward into the gust of evening air. The man had taken off his metal bands sometime after the council along with the heavier furs, leaving him in a casual wear that if not for his trademark scimitars of striped metal and darker skin tone, he could easily be mistaken for any common fur bearing Aesling.

"This is a different land, to be sure," Helkha replied, taking up a stone cup of mulled wine from the platter left by the Sanctum's attendants. "The south is an older, more established realm than our northern homelands. Things are naturally quite different in these parts, and as such, their customs and attitudes are often unsual to us northerners to the point of bristling. There is a cultural divide, but we all live to serve Her. We are one empire under Her grace, after all."

"I know," Ai accepted, his eyes fixed on the waxing moon, "but sometimes anguish conquers the fore of my mind."

"Anguish is something with which I am all too familiar," Helkha added with a glance to the moon. "Anguish on behalf of my Vadigar, who does battle against the servants of the moon on the edge of the world even now... Mother willing." With that, she took a long swig from the steaming cup.

"What troubles you, dear Ai?"

"I feel as if I'm growing contempt," Ai admitted, clear guilt in his voice, "being down here is like a cold shock upon my psyche."

"Contempt for whom? I know something of great import was discussed here today. I hope you do not refer to your discussions with Kalon and the Archons."

Ai squeezed the rail, his knuckles betraying his calm tones, "the talks went terrible, horrible even. Sinful."

"Oh dear," Helkha lamented. "Do tell me, dear Ai; tell me what was said."

"They knew," Ai turned to Helkha, "for seven years, while the north twisted itself and wrestled with building the perfect land for all citizens of Illyrica, the South knew about the machinations of Lesmania and did nothing to prevent this."

Before Helkha had a chance to react, Ai continued, fragments of anger in his voice, "and now thousands upon thousands who trusted them are to be put to death in a war, orchestrated by me, not them, with all of us to pay for their sins of sloth!"

Helkha laid her cup upon the railing and stood silent as she processed what Ai had recounted.

"They mean to invade Lesmania? Why must there be a pre-emptive attack? Surely, there can be diplomacy with Charce and Bretturea?" Helkha said reactively, with little forethought. But as she heard her words on her own lips, she had already realized how ridiculous it was to even suggest diplomacy. When had the Night Mother or her Archons ever thought to engage in diplomacy? They had not attempted to treat with the Aeslings, nor with her own Borians. She felt foolish to think, even for but a moment, that things could be different with Lesmania. Invasion - not diplomacy - was the Illyrican way.

"What does this mean for us, dear Ai?"

Ai looked over Helkha's face, as if studying her. Unlike the ears of most of the commanders of the Empire, Ai's twitched at her original suggestion. He lowered his eyes, "if this was brought to me, or even my father, seven years ago, for sure we could have ended this series of events with as little brute conflict as possible. But this is the now and Charce has been prepared for all out war for five years, even attacking our borders, unbeknownst to the north of course."

He sighed, "I asked to initiate parley with Bretturea, if war must come, be it small."

"I certainly hope so. But if what you say is true, Lesmania, from the sound of it, seems entrenched for as prolonged a fight as they can sustain. I fear a great many men will need to be mustered, from north and south alike. How many of my countrymen are requested for this effort?"

Ai's face grew grim, "Thousands upon thousands. I do not think the others realize what their lack of response has done to our countrymen. We are going to not only need to muster for war, but dig in for defense in the North incase all our work is to be seen undone by Atar or rebels."

"Boria is not a populous realm," Helkha said as she poured herself another cup of steaming mulled wine from the carafe. "Thousands upon thousands of our people are not so readily available as they are in the coastal realms. Boria is only still transitioning to an imperial lifestyle, and the peasantry are not yet numerous. Rest assured, I will commit all that I can spare to the war effort, but know that each man that is levied to fight in Lesmania will be sorely missed."

Ai crossed his arms and leaned against the railing, "I have actually pondered often about the duties of Boria in this. I do not think so early in the war it would be a good idea to call the good people of Boria out of their homes. Keep them in their homelands, to defend it should Atar attack. They would be better fit and happy defending their own ground than claiming ground for the far away south."

"That is welcome news to be sure," Helkha said, sipping from her cup in relief. "I could not agree more that the Borian people are of better use to the Mother's designs in Boria."

"But what of you, dear Ai? You do not have the luxury - if it may be called such - of governing a depauperate backwater. You are the Regent Master of the north, the hand of your father. What does this war mean for you?"

"It means that the blood of the innocent will be laid at my feet, while the others play fool as to why this war is so difficult," Ai snapped unexpectedly. With a heaving breath he raised a hand, "I am sorry, but you know this is not the way of my father. We fought wars of priority, putting peaceful conversions before murdering both our own citizens and those of the enemy."

"I feel trapped, never given the option of peace, and skipping right to the part that gave my family its legacy," Ai pulled a wicker chair out from its hiding place in the corner of the balcany and fell into in it, stress plastered about his being.

"I fear for you, dear Ai. I do not wish for you to be sent against the armies of Charce and Breturrea. Everyone that is dear to me leaves and never returns. Vescar, my father, rode against the imperial legions who invaded Boria and was slain. I fear the same has happened to my dear Vadigar. And now that I have come to cherish your friendship, you too seem destined to be sent into the maw of death."

"Do not leave me, Ai." Helkha beseeched, planting her palm upon Ai's hand on the chair's armrest. "You are the only one that I have left."

Ai looked over to her hand, his face macabre with reflection, "the curse of any who acts in war is that you are unaware of how many bonds you have broken beyond that of your sword, or how many hearts."

With that, Helkha stood in thoughtful silence for a moment. She turned and met the Regent Master's moonlit eyes before and pressed her lips against Ai's.

"Then spare mine," she whispered, "and return alive."

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Upon this peak in the Tiranine Mountains, there had once been a castle. It had stood against the sky, seven turrets like the talons of a deformed hand. This had been the fortress of Saram Tzaam, the High Exaltarch. One of the seven mighty harbingers of legend who lead the armies of Azueral during the war in heaven. Now there was only a scattering of rubble that drifted like snow onto the valley, spreading out for miles. Where once there had been a stronghold, there was now a ruin. The intention had been to destroy completely all trace of the taint that had once inhabited the land. The touch of the Ancient Ones was not a thing that could be erased or destroyed. Borken, cut away, yes, but never truly destroyed. Stone and slate could be smashed, but it was impossible to blow away like chaff the horrors that lay in the memories.

Buried in the ruins for these past centuries was the Animus, a thinking creature with no true form. Just now it resided in a mask; a plain oval one like a large half-eggshell, wrought from a long forgotten light metal, so thin as to be almost transparent. It had features, but they were uninformed, undefined. To gain character, the mask needed to be worn.

To that end, it had gathered its strength over the countless years. Calling to it unendingly all that was kin of the devourer, so high in the Tiranine Mountains, they came by the hundreds. First, a dozen, then twice that many, then a hundred that had grown into nearly a thousand strong. With each Vilespawn brought to the ruins of this fortress, the power of the Animus became a little stronger, taking sustenance from the spirits of uncountable vile spirits and in turn imparting its will.

The gathering of so much taint had not gone without notice, however, for another creature as old as the Animus laid claim to these very same mountain ranges. It sensed the solid growth of taint, the alarming strength it mustered far from prying eyes. It knew what needed to be done, yet for all its might it was powerless to stop this mustering of evil. So it watched and waited, apprehensive yet patient.

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Kalon sat behind his desk, regarding the man standing before him, a bundle of papers in his hand. He fidgeted where he stood, obviously trying to find somewhere to look other than into Kalon’s mask, where his face and form were reflected, but Kalon’s study bore little in the way of adornment. Finding the Portrait of the city on the right wall and the stylized map of the furthest extent of the territory controlled by the Exarch’s native Tirani people on the left too far from the Exarch for politeness, he settled on That-Which-Is-Due, which hung on the wall behind Kalon.

“Say that again, Lay Vicar. I want to be sure I understood you properly.” Kalon’s voice was low, and his words were those of his mother tongue.

“Y-yes, your grace” The man stammered in the same language, “The Steward of the Waters reports that there have been a significantly higher-than-average number of Vilespawn attacks within your territory—twelve in the past three weeks.” Over Kalon’s nearly-century-long tenure as Exarch in Sanc Valatir, such a span would average between two or three. The man took a deep breath. “Additionally, one of the last trade caravans originating within the empire to travel to Lesmiana was discovered within the Kalutir, with no known survivors, which the Priesthood of the Waters has attributed to a Vilespawn attack.”

It could not be seen, but beneath his mask Kalon’s eyes were now closed. “You are dismissed.”

The man stepped back in surprise, but bowed and left without another word.

As soon as the door was closed again, he reached down behind his desk, at his side, and pulled out a large scroll. As he unrolled it, he revealed a large-scale topographical map of his domain in the Tiranine Mountains. Next, he having weighed the map down at the corners, he untied the bundle of papers, and began reading through the reports of confirmed attacks within his territory. Taking a quill pen in one hand, he meticulously marked each attack on the map in ink with a small x,and scrawled its date and approximate time beside it.

Last of all was the attack on the Caravan, but a pattern had appeared well before that was placed. The attacks had all happened in and around the Kalutir—what was known in the imperial tongue as the Lesser Tiran Pass—and the fortress that guarded it, Sanc Kalutir.

Kalon leaned back in his chair. This was Not Good.

He knew what had happened, and he was familiar enough with the Vilespawn to guess as to how. He knew where it had happened, and had a very good idea of when. He did not know why, but the map in front of him was proof positive that there was a why. The large uptick in Vilespawn attacks taking place within a very small area only made sense if they had a very specific cause.

“The first step,” Kalon’s voice seemed to reverberate slightly in the otherwise empty room as he spoke, “is to identify the cause. Only then can the problem be redressed.”

He leaned forward again, and spread his hands out over the table. Closing his eyes, he slowly breathed in, and then out. He reached down within himself, and pulled in the tulval from the world around him.

”Sky-Captain Cirile Kalaster. Commander Salvus Ward. High Priestess Kaia Storkan. Report to my study immediately.”

He closed the connection before they could respond.

---

He had ordered chairs brought in for them before they arrived, but they and Kalon chose to stand regardless, with him on one side of his desk, and they on the other. On the left stood Commander Ward, a large, bald man of middle age, dressed in his uniform. He had been expressing severe displeasure with one of his officers when Kalon had called for him. On the right stood High Priestess Storkan, a woman with a young face, but silvered hair—Kalon knew her to be about the same age as Ward, but both exposure to and deliberate use of the clerical magic of Akaeron had made her appearance what it was. She wore the flowing robes of ceremony, as she had been preparing to lead a minor rite when Kalon had called for her. In the center stood the eldest mortal present, Sky-Captain Cirile Kalaster, whose hair was noticeably turning grey, and whose build was wiry. He had been looking through reports when Kalon had called for him.

“I assume,” said Kalon, “that you all know what it is we are looking at.”

“Indeed,” Storkan was the first of them to speak, “the recent attacks. This likely means that the source of all of this is near Sanc Kalutir.”

“Or,” Kalaster interrupted, “perhaps it might be near their goal.”

“Cirile, “ Ward said, “do you mean to suggest that the Vilespawn are seeking something other than mayhem?”

Storkan looked up from the map at Ward. “There are more intelligent breeds of the accursed things. It isn’t impossible for them to have decided on a particular objective.”

“However,” Ward looked back at her, and crossed his arms over his chest, “objectives mean tactics, and possibly even strategy. Correct me if I’m wrong, your reverence, but any tactics requiring that advanced intelligence have gone unseen since the War in the Heavens.”

“The Ancient Ones,” Kalon said, his gaze still fixed on the map, “are either dead or sealed. If any had somehow been revived, or if Azueral had been freed, we would know, and it would be neither this small nor this localized.”

“That is the case,” said Kalaster, “but the Ancient Ones had commanders that served under them, and while it still holds that one of them returning would have far larger immediate consequences than this, their having existed is proof enough that the Vilespawn could form into creatures of the means and inclination.”

“Be that as it may,” said Kalon, his tone grave, “if they were pursuing an objective, their action would have been more focused than even this. However, that does not preclude the possibility that they will not display such intelligence in the future. The possibility of an attack of even basic coordination on Sanc Valatir is something that cannot be ignored.”

Ward uncrossed his arms and leaned them on the desk. “A fair point, your grace, but they, as any army, would be hard pressed to take the city.

“That may be the case,” said Kalon, “but they would not need to take the whole of the city. They would only need to breach the gates.”

Storkar’s eyes grew wide. “If they broke open the Archives, they could release every spirit the Priesthood has imprisoned there over the past three centuries.”

“Indeed.” Kalon looked up from the map at his subordinates.

“They would have the largest army of Vilespawn the world has seen since the sealing of Azueral,” Ward’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “It could be enough to seize the Webwood. If they were to wait until the Long Night, they might even be able to march on Thulthar.”

“With Iao asleep, and so many of our forces tied up in Lesmiana or the North, only Archon Kabius, his shades, and whatever forces Archon Irkalla held in reserve would stand in the way.” Kalaster’s voice was trembling.

Kalon raised one hand, and slammed his fist down onto the table. The other three all jumped. “Enough! We accomplish nothing by sitting here and stewing on what may be. This has the potential to be cataclysmic, and so we cannot ignore that possibility, but there are too many variables in play to say for certain what the present situation is, let alone any plans that may or may not exist.” He waited a moment, allowing the other three to regain their composure. “We shall stamp out this problem now, so that it never has the opportunity to develop any further.”

“Should we arm the garrisons to fight Vilespawn?” Ward looked back down to the map. “I’m no expert, but I understand that spraying blood everywhere makes it easier for the taint to spread, and swords tend to have that effect.”

“The Priesthood require extensive training to fight with maces–” Storkar stopped herself, and aised a hand to her chin. “Actually, since the garrisons can expect to fight at locations specifically designed to constrict the potential angles of attack in their favor, and not in the variable, open terrain of the wilderness, it would take significantly less time to train them. The only issue would be the weapons themselves. The Priesthood has more weapons than warriors, but not enough to man every soldier in all three passes.”

“The Tithing could produce some as well,” said Kalaster, “but the logistics would be somewhat difficult—any extra arms are spread out in the towers of the different Wings. I could also call up some retired officers to instruct the men on how to fight in formation.”

“Sanc Kalutir is the most critical.” Kalon tapped the fortress’ location on the map. “All the attacks have been near there. There is a decent chance that they will be struck even if they aren’t pursuing some objective, and there should be enough between the Tithing and the Priesthood for the full garrison. The other garrisons may follow, and I will have Adyras place a commission with the Ironmonger’s Guild to cover the shortfall.” He looked back up at the assembled officers, and they each nodded. “Also, I want a force of Brothers and Sisters of the Priesthood present at Sanc Kalutir, both to provide tactical advice and to cleanse the taint after any potential incidents.” Both Storkar and Ward spoke in the affirmative. “We will expand these measures to both the Mountain and Sanc Akatir before too long.” He turned his head towards Kalaster. “How much can Loft Osterius tighten their screen? I want to divert as many Riders towards finding the cause of all this as we safely can.”

Kalaster crossed his arms and closed his eyes, his face pensive. “We can decrease Riders on leave and decrease probes into Charce to free more up for patrol. I would need to go over the numbers, but we would be able to free up no fewer than three Wings for the search, and possibly as many as five. Seeing as the Lesmianans likely know that you recently hosted the War Council, my Lord, a change in tactics would not seem entirely out of place. But we would need to make the same changes in Loft Anterius’ orders, otherwise they might suspect something is amiss.”

Kalon nodded at Kalaster. “It will be so. Any attack by airborne Vilespawn on any Rider is to be considered a serious threat, and they are to open a telepathic link with myself immediately should one occur.” He turned his face to Storkar. “I assume Talson has already begun organizing parties to inspect the locations of each confirmed attack?”

Storkar nodded. “He has, my Lord, and intends for them to cleanse each location as necessary and track the Vilespawn involved as best as they can, though the trails will have begun to vanish by now so available information will be minimal.”

“If any remains we will have more than we have now. The team which goes to the caravan will be accompanied by a team from the City Guard, who will be going over the wreckage with a fine toothed comb. Adyras and the civil servants will be comparing what trade goods remain in the wreckage to what they were expected to be carrying, and the inspectors will be making not of which parts of the caravan suffered the most damage. If we allow for tactical decision making on the part of the Vilespawn, then we cannot ignore the possibility that the caravan was hit for a specific reason. Additionally, I shall accompany the expedition once it is prepared.”

Storkar’s face distorted in confusion. “My lord? I am afraid I don’t see your line of thinking.”

“Over the course of my life,” said Kalon, “ I have fought more Vilespawn, and used more magic, than any person any of you command. I am only surpassed in these respects by Archons, other Exarchs, and one or two particularly old archmages. There is a chance I will be able to detect something beyond the physical that the search teams could not. As I cannot realistically review every sight, it is the most exceptional that shall receive my attention.”

Storkar bowed her head. “I will convey your orders once we are concluded here.”

Their eyes all fell on the map, and Kalon said, “I am going to order the Kalutir closed to all passage not authorized by any person present here.”

“Your grace,” said Ward, “that could conceivably tell communicate to Lesmiana that something is amiss, to say nothing of how the public might react.”

“The Vilespawn attacks are known outside these walls,” said Kalon, “though the specifics will be kept in confidence by those who need to know, there is no changing the fact that the public and Lesmina will know soon if they do not already. Any persons moving through the pass will only be an obstruction to us and in danger of being attacked. The pass will be closed. My heralds shall proclaim it on the dawn, and the garrison will divert all resources previously devoted to probing Charce towards keeping it closed.”

Ward bowed to Kalon.. “A apologize your grace. Your will shall be.done.”

“I will be informing Lord Regeant Ai, Archon Grim, Archon Irkalla, and my Liege of these developments, and our plans for them. Do any of you have any other concerns?”

None of them spoke.

“You are all dismissed.” Each of them bowed deeply to Kalon, and filtered out of the room. Slowly, Kalon sat in his chair. Slower still, he removed his mask, and placed it on his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he raised his arm and wiped the sweat from his brow. The Exarch heaved a heavy sigh.

Gold & Aristo


BOOM!

Thunder shook the air as the massive hooves of Iao’s pegasus rampaged through darkening skies. The massive beast was known as “Pain” and it’s coat was as dark as night, it’s eyes as red as blood. Lightning cracked open the sky as each hoof pounded, and thunder boomed with each flap of its mighty wings.

On top of the towering beast sat an eager Ai, all feelings of fear from the intense ride were cast aside and replaced with ambition and behind him sat Errocas. The younger boy was shielded from most of the hurricane winds pounding his older brother, giving him a clear watery eyed view of the citadel below. Should he have been here a week ago he would’ve seen massive towers rising from seemingly impenetrable walls, and an intricate city within, but now it’s walls were crumbled, sprinkled with the gory remnants of war, and surrounded by the camps of his father soldiers, tasked with cleaning up hollowed out city and rebuilding the great structure for their own use.

The brother’s trip had been silent, and upon seeing the city, any comment from either would have been drowned out by the winds of flight. As the soldiers commonly known as the Anvil’s of Eden saw the approaching pegasus, they pounded their fists to their hearts, chanting together the name of Ai’s father, but as the son of Iao got closer, the chants slowly changed to his name. From behind his brother, Errocas silently wondered if his own name would echo from the lips of men. The pounding hooves of Pain matched their chants with strikes of lightning as it landed into a slow trot, until the chants and the mighty beast finally came to a stop.

A soldier wearing segmented strips of metal over a fur lining approached the brothers, dirt and sweat covering his aged brow and a pick with the blade of a war axe on the opposite end in his hands.

“Hail Ai, son of Iao,” he dropped his tool to salute the brothers with a fist to his chest, his voice was thick with the accent of the Aeslings. Errocas pouted, fidgeted on the saddle and made a tiny cough.

The commander's eyes met Ai’s, offering a look of confusion to the brothers as he looked over to Errocas. Ai motioned towards his brother, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao.”

The Commander dipped his head in apology, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao. I beg forgiveness for my ignorance.”

“It’s quite alright,” the younger son replied, leaning out from behind Ai’s back. “But more importantly, where is Jericho? Have you seen him?”
“Master Jericho was last seen in the atrium of the enemy keep, that’s all I know, we’ve been busy on your father’s orders,” the commander quickly replied, his words sharp and to the point.

“Thank you,” Ai looked over at Errocas, a look of worry on his face before turning back to the commander, “return to your posts, we are going to take entry.”

“Should be safe sir,” the commander quickly answered.

“Even if it wasn’t, it looks a lot safer than the last time I was here,” Ai gave the man a smirk, attempting to conceal the strain of worry.

“Of course, sir,” The commander saluted, offering a smile before spinning on his heel and returning to his idle soldiers with a cacophony of loud shouts, and barking orders.

Ai quickly slid off the saddle of Pain, it taking a few seconds for his booted feet to reach the flattened grass. Errocas followed suit, reluctantly taking his brother’s aid on the way down.

“You don’t suppose Jericho’s in trouble, do you?” Errocas asked. “Father was adamant we find him right away.” The image of Iao’s bloated, bedridden body pointing towards the door filled his head, causing him to shudder.

“No,” Ai muttered as he turned towards the beaten path that lead into the crumbled maw that once was the arching portal to the citadel.

“He is our father’s son, and our brother, there is no battle he can’t win,” Ai looked over to Errocas as they began their evening walk. Errocas hoped he was right.

The walk was quiet, or would have been if not for the sounds of construction around them, and the heaves of men lifting both block and corpses onto wagons. The smell of death had been scrubbed clean and replaced with the stink of plaster, and only the loudest evening birds challenged the casual banter of the soldiers that swarmed the outer walls, all too deep in their own work to notice the two brothers make their way into the citadel.

Once inside it was clear that the theme of rubble was not forsaken, as crumbled buildings surrounded the brothers. While Errocas was entering the grey stone wreckage for the first time, Ai’s eyes were darting all around, soaking in familiar sights. The city wasn’t large by any standards, and was more of a ring of marts and homes surrounding the central keep, which now was the only building standing in its completeness, save for the massive hole where the thick oaken doors once were.

There were less soldiers the closer the brothers got to the keep, and the lingering smell of battle started to creep and overtake the smell of construction that reigned back at the walls. The taste of iron was still in the air, despite the battle being a day away, reminding Ai just how much blood was spilled. The further from the familiarity of the outside and the security of the soldiers they went, the closer Errocas stuck to his brother's side. He’d heard plenty of stories of battle, seen illustrations and watched men give their all in sparring. What he wasn’t prepared for was the aftermath firsthand - the sting in his nostrils, the blood staining his shoes, the moans of the dying.

The brother’s stopped their walk at the mouth of the keep, their feet standing between the light of the rising moon and the shade of the abandoned castle. The atrium before them was wide and spacious, with two foyers split by an ascending staircase that lead to the upper levels. The furniture had been upturned, the candle stands knocked over, the carpets wrinkled, and the tapestries torn. It was clear a bloodbath took place here as the crimson stained every surface. The stone walls captured the distinct smell of murder that made even Ai cringe, knowing his troops flooded this keep at the height of the battle, far before he even took one step in it, and by then, the droves of slaughtered bodies were moved from the confined battleground. Ai looked blankly at the scene before him, his mind trying to comprehend the final moments as sorrow turned his stomach.

“Disturbing isn’t it?” an Aesling voice broke Ai from his thoughts. The brothers turned to meet the old gaze of a tribesman, bile covering a dark apron, and the insignia of Iao clipped to his shoulder, marking him a Auxiliary.

“What happened here?” Errocas asked. He approached the haggard man cautiously. The Aesling looked like a boogeyman out of a children’s tale in his current state, but Errocas could only feel sorry for him.

“War, battle, death,” The man listed, “but I just clean it up.”

“I was there,” Ai muttered, his eyes wide still, he could feel the remains of what emotion was ripped from the gurgling throats of the slain.

The man grew silent for a while, then a sympathetic look took over his visage, “I take it, young master, that this is the first time you revisited the killing grounds.”

Ai simply nodded as the man continued, “you know, in youth I wish someone had told me of the price of the battle. It’s not only the possible death of yourself or the death of whoever is at the odd end of the blade, but the unseen bonds severed, and the hearts broken.”

The man looked down grimly, “I had learned this the hard way, and yesterday I saw many a men who just learned it as well.”

Ai looked over to the man, silent but attentive, his wide eyes soaked in the macabre look of the man as Ai’s heart began to leap with anxiety, the beginnings of guilt swirling in his stomach.

“There was one man who learned it the hardest,” The Aesling continued, looking off to the stairs, “Uh-top yonder stairs. The man could only be described as a Stromist, true and fit, and yet he clutched the bloodied body of one of the resisters. I’ve seen men cry, and piss themselves in battle, but to hear the sobs of a heart breaking is chilling. The poor sod held a hand to her stomach in a way that made me fear more than one life was lost.”

Ai’s eyes grew dark, and the guilt spilled into his stomach, raging and certain, “who was this man?”

“I do not know,” The old Aesling remarked, “none of the Auxiliary sent in to clean the place really knew, but we were pulled recently from the surrounding villages. One of our boys tried to break it up, but now he is in the infirmary with burn wounds and a broken arm.”

“Burns?” Ai felt his blood freeze.

“Aye, from a lash of flame no less,” the man answered, not finding the detail as important as the moral of his story.

Ai’s face flashed blank, his heart grew still and his veins grew cold with amassing guilt and anxiety. He stammered out his final remark, “w-where did he go?”

“East,” the old man answered, “to the swamps.”

“Ai. Do you think…?” Errocas clasped a hand to his brother’s shoulder as he began to suggest the unthinkable. From his stare, he knew the eldest had come to the same conclusion. “Quick! We have to go out there!”

Stewardess Helkha had traveled from Sanc Valatir, first by steed and now by boat, to the north. To Boria.

Knowing that she would not have another chance to speak with Ai, she saw no need to prolong her sojourn in the south and found speedy passage back to the north on the river cog Sargassum in Ardaza. For an extra 250 silver thorns, she persuaded the merchant boat's captain to bypass Thulthar and sail up the River Khad toward Eskar. As the Sargassum sailed up the great rivers of the north, Helkha watched from the window of her rude cabin as the landscape beyond the riverbanks gradually transitioned from the great manorial estates of the coast to wilder country whose forests and hills were scarcely touched by man. When it had been nearly a day of sailing since the last settlement passed by - a tiny collection of wattle and daub huts built around a few jetties into the river - Helkha knew they were getting close.

There was little for the Stewardess to entertain herself with as the boat crawled up the River Khad. She brought numerous books with her before leaving for Sanc Valatir, but she had already read them all. Helkha had given up checking her crystal scrying orb to reach Vadigar, and was now wishing she had asked if Ai possessed a similar scrying orb with which she could attune hers. She spent a time reviewing that conversation with Ai on the balcony of the Sanctum. She regretted being so brash and wished that she could speak with Ai now to explain her sentiments more clearly. But now, with the great impending war in the south, Ai would either spend much of his life subjugating the Lesmanian factions or die in the attempt. In any case, Helkha did not expect to cross paths with him ever again. With no one to confide with, Helkha resigned herself to looking through the window of her cabin and watching the open hill country of Ciskhadania roll past.

"Port ho!" Helkha heard a deckhand call from outside. Having passed Portus Furcata in the middle of the night, Helkha knew that there was only one port settlement of any size this far up the River Khad: Eskar. At long last, Helkha was nearly home again. She gathered up her belongings and left her cabin in preparation for disembarking.

From the Sargassum's cramped deck, Helkha watched as her home city inched closer toward her. Strategically situated on a point of land in the middle of the confluence of the rivers Khad and Isna, Eskar was perhaps as large as a settlement could reasonably be this far from the imperial heartland or any major trade routes. A palisade fortified with rudimentary watchtowers demarcated the town's boundaries on land, while a half-dozen wharves jutting out into the River Khad provided ample harborage to the odd vessel that found its way this far north. A few small warehouses and craftsmen's shops lined the waterfront row, and overlooking the city's houses and shops was the modest keep of Rasthomig.

But as the Sargassum's deckhands drew out oars and paddled up alongside one of the free wharves, Helkha noticed something unusual about the city. In the city's vacant lots and open spaces, a number of tents had been pitched. Men in silvery kettle hats with spears in their arms could be seen marching about Eskar's streets or milling about in loose clusters. Helkha's heart raced in her breast at the sight of so many soldiers. This had all the earmarks of an occupied city. What in the Mother's name had been allowed to transpire while she was away? Perhaps the baronets in the north of Boria had recognized an opportunity with the Stewardess' absence and had overtaken Eskar. But if that were the case, Helkha would expect to see the city brimming with mounted Narzads. The men that marched through the streets now seemed outfitted as imperial levies. The thousand questions swirling through the Stewardess' head would have to wait until she disembarked to be answered, and that could not come quickly enough. As soon as the Sargassum's moorings were hitched, the gangplank laid out, and the Stewardess' horse brought up from the cog's hold; Helkha slapped five large orichalcum coins worth 100 thorns apiece into the captain's hand. Without so much as a farewell, Helkha mounted her unsaddled horse and galloped off the gangplank and onto the wharf.

As Helkha rode through Eskar's streets, it became clear that the soldiers that milled about the city were not here as part of a coup mounted by the baronets. The soldiers, upon recognizing the Stewardess, stopped what they were doing and bowed their kettle hats to her in deference.

"Hail, Stewardess!" A soldier exclaimed as Helkha cantered past.

"Welcome home, milady!" Another greeted.

The fact that these men were attempting to greet her, rather than seize her, gave proof that these were not the warriors in the employ of some upstart baronet; but rather her loyal levies. But why had they been mustered?

When Helkha rode up to the foot of Rasthomig Keep, she encountered Hemigan and Baronet Galakhad surveying a platoon of spearman levies formed in ranks in an open plaza near the keep's gates - the closest thing Eskar had to a parade ground. As soon as Hemigan and Galakhad noticed the mounted Stewardess, they dismissed the soldiers and immediately approached.

"Milady!" Hemigan exclaimed. "Am I ever glad to see you!"

"Hemigan, Knight-Commander Galakhad," Helkha addressed as she reigned in her panting horse, "what is the meaning of all this? Why is the city teeming with soldiers?"

"I fear there has been some... disquieting news of late," Hemigan reported; a dour expression replacing the excitement of the Stewardess' unexpected return. The Stewardess' wizened adviser waited for the last of the spearmen to march out of earshot before he continued.

"Word has reached my ear from Atar that is profoundly alarming. I have no reason to question the source of this knowledge; invaders have arrived in the Lands of the Red Witch. There they speak of an army that crossed the western edge of Atar within the last month, moving east."

"From where?" Helkha asked.

"All that was said to me is that they hail from the west," Hemigan confessed. "With an array of soldiers and beasts the likes of which their people have never seen. Weapons that they have no words to describe. It all sounds frightfully familiar to the stories you recounted of your brother in the far west. I fear these warriors may hail from the Sunset Ocean."

"Djaam." Helkha concluded, speaking through a lump in her throat. Already, it seemed as though Illyrica was poised to suffer yet another surprise attack from its peripheries. First from Lesmania, and now from the Djaam by way of Atar. It was said that the Night Mother was capable of overcoming any foe or difficulty; but resisting two attacks across two very distant battlefields struck Helkha as a feat that even the Night Mother might have some difficulty achieving.

"Djahm?" Galakhad pronounced with difficulty.

"The sorcerer kings in the far west that my brother fought against," Helkha explained, before turning back to Hemigan. "Do you think they have come to avenge themselves for whatever injuries Vadigar inflicted against them?"

"I am told that these warriors are paying no heed to the indigenous peoples of Atar. They do not appear to attack or move toward the haunts of the Red Witches, only moving eastward at a very rapid pace. The Red Witches seem to have no interest in softening their blow against us. If anything, I would expect the Atari to mobilize any attacks after the arrival of this western host on our border."

"This must be the work of the Djaam," Helkha concluded. "In which case, we must look to the defenses of our western frontier."

"Agreed," Galakhad added. "It would seem your brother has rattled quite the hornet's nest. But, rest assured, milady, we will crush this expeditionary force of theirs. I have summoned as many levies as I was able from the south of Boria and the Baronets in the north will also heed the call to battle. Their Narzad cavalry will ours to command against this horde."

"That will be nowhere near enough to repel such a force," Helkha concluded. "If these are the same men my brother has fought against for the past ten years, they will be formidable foes to be sure. We must notify the whole of Illyrica."

"And I have sounded the call to the arms in your stead, milady." Hemigan reported. "I have sent riders as far as Thulthar to warn our fellow exarchs against this threat. But I fear there is no time to await any response. The time to fortify the empire's western flank is now. And to this end, Knight-Commander Galakhad has taken it upon himself to lead our forces to strengthen the existing garrisons of the empire's border forts along the western frontier."

"Indeed," Galakhad chimed in. "I will lead our forces to the fort at Abkher."

"And I will join you," declared Helkha.

"Milady, while your offer is generous, there is no need for-"

"No, Galakhad," Helkha stated firmly. "We will lead our forces to Abkher first thing tomorrow morning. For while it is possible that these monsters put my beloved brother to death, a daughter of Vescar yet draws breath. May the Mother damn me if I sit on a throne while the Djaam, the enemies of my Vadigar, take their war to the Illyrican homeland. So long as I live, I will help repel the Djaam."

Lady Margaux gripped the reigns of her horse tightly. The ship ride was relatively quick and uneventful, having sailed with all due haste to arrive in a timely manner. Margaux could not kid herself in the knowledge that she was deeply nervous, if not outright afraid. This was the capital of Sheol, the home of the Great-Father, the center of Archon Irkalla's power. She had been invited, but such an invitation also brought with it great responsibility and scrutiny. The looming walls of the black stone seemed to eat up any light that came down from the sky, and with them, rose the imposing towers of Maweth. Taking a deep breath, Margaux beckoned her mount onwards, flicking the reigns and digging her heels in. She was finally here, and it was time to prove that she was just as loyal and dutiful as any of the other children of the Great-Father.

She cast a side long look to Sir Armond, thankful to have him at her side. Along with her protector, rode a small retinue of forty-four more Crimson Reavers, all that she dared to bring with her. These soldiers were only meant to protect her if the need arose, and she surely hoped that such would not be needed. Looking away from her vassal, and back to Maweth, Margaux and her forces pressed onward, the foreboding citadel growing larger with each passing minute. It wouldn't be long before they arrived at the main gate to the capital, and would have to gain entry into the fortified complex. 'Lets hope the gate guards aren't in a bad mood, I would hate to be late to my first day of helping oversee Sheol while the Great-Father is away.' Margaux thought silently to herself as she and her retinue neared the Gates of Maweth.

Sir Armond rode ahead of the group, the rest having stopped the usual distance from the gates to allow their herald to speak with the guardsmen and gain permission to enter. "Hail, Guardsmen of Maweth, I come forth to speak for Lady Margaux, of the Rubis Isle, loyal subject of the Great-Father. She has been summoned by the Great-Father himself to conduct matters of State within the capital. We request permission to proceed." Sir Armond spoke aloud to the guards at the gate house. He held the letter of summons sent out by the Great-Father's steward, in case the guards needed evidence of what he said to be true.

The contingent of guards positioned at Maweth's southern gate was relatively minimal. Merely a half-dozen men with spears and black breastplates on the ground, and another half-dozen in the towers above with crossbows. Sheol's land routes were sparse, unpaved and rarely traveled, given the ubiquity of port cities around the island. That said, they were still ideal for an arriving noblewoman who wished to arrive inconspicuously. The guards glanced at each other, to Margaux and her retinue, and back to each other, before shrugging and signalling for the gate to be raised.

"Maweth welcomes you." Called out one of the guards. "Shall we bolster your forces with a contingent of our own on your ride to the palace?"

With the guards signal to open the gates, Sir Armond beckoned the rest of Lady Margaux's retinue to proceed forward. He wheeled his horse about, the creature flaring its nostrils as the gate creaked upwards. He looked to the guard who called out, pondering the question before shaking his head. Lady Margaux would not want to misuse nor waste resources of the Great-Father, and she had grown up here in the capital, she'd be able to find her way. "No thank you, we shall be able to manage. Lady Margaux would not wish to waste your time with escorting us. She is thankful for your offer, but we shall proceed with all due haste, and not take up anymore of your time." Sir Armond spoke politely, if not a bit commanding, as the Crimson Reaver's rode by. He nodded his head towards the guards, before riding off to rejoin the side of his liege lady.

Lady Margaux nodded to the guards as she rode by, at the center of her small retinue of soldiers. She steeled herself for the reunions she'd have to endure once reaching the central spire and holdfast of the citadel. She turned her focus back to the task at hand, riding her horse at a brisk pace, and not falling into the probably dirty streets. "That went easier than I had assumed, but I will not dwell on it Sir Armond. Let us hurry and make for the palace. We are expected, and I know that I will have to get to work right away." Lady Margaux spoke to Sir Armond as he rejoined her. Together with her loyal soldiers, Lady Margaux made good time to the palace, arriving just past midday.

-Royal Palace of Maweth-

Lady Margaux swung herself off from her horse, brushing the dust from the rode from her garments, taking the time to adjust them, before looking to the main doors of the palace. 'Home...' She thought to herself, smiling slightly, before making her way across the courtyard towards the awaiting figures. From here, she was not sure who they could be, but just by the way they held themselves, their posture, spoke of more "pure-blooded" children of the Great-Father. Her retinue was busy dismounting themselves, seeing to their gear and stabling their mounts. It fell to her, Sir Armond, and three other Crimson Reavers to meet with the representatives of the Great-Father, and see who they were, and how best to serve the Great-Father.

Waiting them stood Sibari, her white hair and pale skin contrasting strongly with her dark gowns in the midday sun, and four Sanguine Guards, all in glimmering gold-and-ebony rainments, their sheathed swords barely visible beneath their crimson cloaks. Members of the Coven all, the Guards glowered at Margaux's own Reavers, but Sibari's expression remained neutral, bordering on appearing disinterested in the ordeal.

"Welcome, Lady Margaux," She greeted the Exarch, bowing gracefully with her arm tucked under her. "We hope that your journey was free of difficulty." Her gowns seemed to have been designed with folds and swaths of fabric to conceal her right side, and perhaps suggest the presence of a limb there, but Margaux knew the truth. This was like many things in Sheol; gilt and prestige concealing deep scars and terrible pain.

Lady Margaux returned Sibari's bow, taking the time and effort to ensure it was as prim and proper as possible. Sibari was probably one of the more tolerable member's of the Great-Father's court, though Margaux still held her reservations towards the Great-Father's Steward. As she finished her bow, Margaux thought back to her own childhood, growing up as a ward of the Great-Father. Being one of the "bastard-brood" as the "pure-bloods" put it, she dealt with more than her fare share of ridicule and harassment. But, that was the past, and this was now. She looked at the Sanguine Guards, their imposing presence and no doubt blood purity another piece of the hierarchy that separated Margaux and her subjects from mainland Sheol. "Lady Sibari, I came with all due haste. Let us not keep you waiting any longer. I am correct in assuming that you would like to get straight to business, as usual?" Margaux asked calmly, looking to the woman who stood before her.

Margaux begrudgingly admired the quality of Sibari's gowns. They were certainly very finely made, and did their part in hiding Sibari's unfortunate loss of limb. Even though their pasts were not exactly one of friendship or direct kindness, she still felt sadness towards this woman. She was going to serve the Great-Father proudly on the field of battle, striking down his enemies and foes, yet fate intervened to steal away a limb. She let out a small sigh, before standing fully upright, her hands clasped behind her in the small of her back, awaiting Sibari's direction and command for the next move.

"Of course," she said, he voice still carrying an airy quality that smacked of dispassion. "If you would follow us..." Sibari turned about, walking from the courtyard into the archway that led back into the obsidian depths of the palace. The Sanguine Guards at her side all turned simultaneously to follow, no doubt still attempting to impress the idea of their superiority to Margaux's Reavers.

The halls of the palace were much the same as Margaux remembered from her childhood. Cold, black stone, as far as the eye could see. Only somehow, it seemed colder, and even more forbidding. She had not been in Maweth at the time of the Betrayal, as she had been busy defending her own holdings from the forces of the Ivory Dragon. But she could see plainly that even fifty years later the damage dealt was still felt. Maweth felt less like a monument to the Great-Father's glory, and more like a memorial of the city's former beauty.

Sibari gave Margaux a loose run-down of relevant information as they walked. "The palace's facilities are at your disposal, and the servants will attend to you as they would the Great-Father himself. We would only ask that both yourself and you men steer clear of the Seventh and Sixteenth Towers, as they have been deemed forbidden." The Seventh Tower was the Great-Father's own personal quarters and vaults, and so that much made sense. But the Sixteenth Tower was the nursery, where Margaux herself had been raised. Strange. "You will of course be roomed in the diplomat's quarters in the Fifth Tower. I will relocate to the room under yours so that I may assist you more easily, and I can have your men put up in the western barracks." Lodging for the common guards of the palace that were not of the Blood Host. Predictable.

They turned a corner, and Margaux was brought face to face with a sight she had nearly forgotten for more than sixty years. An imposing iron doorway, leading into the throne room of the Great-Father. They stepped within, following Sibari closely, but Margaux and her men both could not keep themselves from marveling at the sight. Priceless artwork, trophies from the Conquest of the North, tributes from vassals and supplicants the Great-Father. This was what Margaux had remembered about Maweth, and it was as comforting to behold as it was intimidating. Of course, the crown jewel of it all was the Sanguine Throne. It was even larger than she remembered, as it had grown by leaps and bounds during the purges following the Betrayal. The crystalline mass of blood and magic practically radiated power and opulence, casting a crimson light on the rest of the room.

Sibari gestured to the throne, a greater ruby than any that had been dug up from Margaux's home. "Come, my Lady. You will sit the throne."

Margaux politely listened to everything Sibari had to say. She was colder than Margaux last remembered, yet time changes everyone. She followed the steward on her tour throughout the various hallways and passages, making sure to take note mentally of everything she was told and informed of. In the back of her mind, Margaux thought that something was odd in how much leeway she was being given, or rather, delegated power and privilege. She did not question Sibari through her briefing, allowing the woman to fully speak her mind. Margaux kept close, until they finally arrived at the massive iron doors that led into the throne room. Being away from the throne itself made the sight all the more beautiful. The crimson red of the shimmering crystal reflected and refracted the light in a dazzling manner. Her men and herself stood in awe for a few moments, no doubt looking like country bumpkins, before Margaux shook her head and returned to reality. It was something that Sibari said that brought it all home once again.

"No, Lady Sibari. I am not worthy to sit the Throne, nor would I dare to transgress the seat of the Great-Father. We will have a simple wooden table and chairs set up in order to meet with those who seek an audience with the Great-Father." Margaux spoke with unshakable conviction and authority. "If there is one thing I remember growing up here, was that no one other than the Great-Father himself may sit the Sanguine Throne. Only fools and traitors dare to usurp the rightful bastion and symbol of the Great-Father's authority. A table and chairs will suffice for us both, in order to serve as temporary advisors for matters of state until the return of the Great-Father, where we will be released from these temporary duties." Margaux strode to the center of room, looking about at the centralized power of Sheol and that of the Great-Father.

"We both are loyal servants of the Great-Father, regardless of the nature of our blood purity." She turned to look back at Sibari. "No doubt you were tasked to help me out, much to your irritation to have a 'Bastard-Brood' delegated a position of authority above yours. I would also assume you were tasked in ensuring I didn't get too big for my own shoes, and to report any foolishness directly to the Great-Father. I am going to stop your right now and here. I am not a little girl anymore, able to be picked upon and bullied. I am certainly not some fool you can trick into damning myself and betraying my loyalty to the Great-Father." Margaux crossed the room to stand before Sibari, lowering her tone to one that only the two women would be able to hear, "You have served the Great-Father with honor and distinction for decades, cut the petty and paltry games of children, and be an adult. I expect you to be here tomorrow morning by the eighth bell, we will work together whether you like it or not, 'pure-blood'." Margaux spoke with a tone of irritation and dismissal, turning on her heel and leaving Sibari and her Sanguine Guards to their own devices.

"I can find my own way to my rooms, and will see to it myself the quartering of my retinue. Remember, wooden table, chairs, plain but able to be sat in comfortably for hours. See you tomorrow at eighth bell." Margaux said aloud as she left the Throne Room.

The throne room left empty but for Sibari and her guards, she sighed heavily, brushing back her hair. "I had been worried about this. She has too much to prove." She spoke aloud, seemingly to no one.

From the shadows stepped out an imposing figure, tall and strong-shouldered, with a dark cloak that made him seem all the more menacing. The man was Prince of Maweth, Nirgal Irkalla. He stroked his white beard with an ivory hand gilded with rings. "There's not yet cause for alarm, Sibari. We merely need to remind dear Maggie that her duty must come before her pride. She will serve Father yet." He smiled, but a certain coldness remained in his red eyes.

-Two Weeks Later, the Throne Room.-

To say that Margaux and Sibari got along would be a lie, but over the past two weeks, Margaux at least had tried to be less confrontational, in order to better serve the Great-Father. No doubt to Sibari's irritation and patience, Margaux learned all she could from the Great-Father's Steward, at least what one could learn in two weeks time. She busied herself with any and all work that was a matter of state. Always in the back of Margaux's mind was the fear that she might overstep herself, that she might abuse the powers that had been delegated to her, but at least so far, she hadn't done so, or so she hoped. Sibari was an enigma, but what could be expected from the "Pure-Blood" castes. They had always held themselves in higher regard, and Margaux herself was a relative newcomer, and an outsider who held a high rank, at least on paper.

Letting forth a sigh, Margaux pushed away the thoughts of loneliness and solitude. Aside from Sir Armond, she had next to no one to speak to. The aristocrats in the capital were loathe to associate with a "Bastard-Brood", and made a point of going out of their way to avoid Margaux. 'They can all drown on their refined and pure blood... they'll never be as loyal as I am to the Great-Father...' Margaux thought to herself as she finished sealing a Letter of Marque for a pirate captain hoping to curry favor with the Great-Father. No sooner had Margaux finished setting down the royal seal, a solitary old man in a heavy, hooded cloak had entered the room. He did not move hastily, but there was distinct purpose in his step, and he approached the two of them quite boldly, without announcing himself.

"I have a missive from the Great-Father," He said, in a rasping, heavily-accented voice. The man placed an unsealed letter on the table before them, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Arrived this morning. He calls for war."

"Sibari... " Margaux paused, looking at the old man. She bit her lower lip, not sure as how to proceed, thrown off balance now by this mysterious newcomer and his news that war was being called. Maybe he was a spy for the Great-Father, he surely had them, but the man seemed different than some eavesdropper or thief. Taking a quick breath, Lady Margaux thought it prudent to ask perhaps the obvious to everyone else but her. "Who are you, sir, and why is this letter unsealed?" She hoped that she was not digging her own grave, and looked down to the letter before her, carefully reading it while she awaited the old man's response and hopefully that of Sibari as well.

The man said nothing in response to Margaux's questions, instead facing squarely in Sibari's direction. His expression, hidden mostly by his hood, was utterly inscrutable. Glancing between the man and Margaux, Sibari eventually looked up at him as simply said, "Thank you, Master Vosk. We will follow through on this; I'm sure you have your own duties to attend to." The man, apparently addressed as Master Vosk, bowed curtly, and left the room as promptly as he had arrived. Sibari looked down at the letter on the table, not yet reading it, with a somewhat pained expression. "That..." She began tersely, "Was Mirko Vosk, the Great-Father's spymaster. Forgive his... eccentricities, my lady. He is slow to trust, as you might expect."

Margaux quietly leaned back in her chair, resting her hands in her lap. She looked to the direction in which Master Vosk had entered and left, and felt smaller because of it, felt as though she had seen a scion of death, and was graced to remain alive. Whatever rumors, tales, and whispers she heard, they were not nearly as terrifying as the real man was. "I'm sorry..." Margaux said softly, barely above a whisper. "I defer to your experience in this matter Lady Sibari." Margaux looked to the letter once again, knowing that it was true and real as the air she inhaled, or the wood of the table before her. She moved her right hand forward to move the letter closer for Lady Sibari's inspection. "What shall we do, Lady Sibari?"

Sibari reached over to pick the letter up, reading it carefully, herself. "The Great-Father predicted these eventualities a few months ago. Much of the war mustering is already complete, we merely need to mobilize our forces. Lord Nirgal and I will contact the masters of the Seven Hosts. I will send a missive to Lady Rubedo so that she might arm and ready Barzak's privateer fleets. We will also have to arrange a missive to Master Bloodhook to ensure that he relocates the Forever Worm to Charce." She set the letter down, closed her eyes for a moment, and reopened them to look squarely at Margaux. "All you need do is keep Sheol safe and Maweth running smoothly, my lady. That is what the Great-Father, and all of us here, need of you."

Lady Margaux nodded, taking a deep breath to collect her wits about her. "It would seem that you have everything already taken care of. Thank you Lady Sibari. I will ensure that I will not falter in my delegated duties to continue to the day to day operations of Sheol. I do appreciate your help... I hope you realize that... " She paused, looking back out across the room. She adjusted her clothes, and fixed her hair, before looking back at Sibari, "Well, shall we continue with our duties, and keep things running smoothly?"

"Of course, my lady." Sibari nodded somberly. Then, just for a moment, her usual disaffected demeanor slipped, and the slightest hint of her soul was able to shine through her emerald eyes. "I only wish to serve the Great-Father, in all things. I owe him my life, as same as you." Those green eyes were the human part of Sibari. The part of her that was not part of the Coven, the trials and rituals of blood, and the cult of the Great-Father. But just as soon as it had slipped, the facade snapped back into place, and Sibari's expression of disinterest resumed. "I will contact Lord Nirgal and begin writing the missives. Will you be needing anything before I become too busy? Communion perhaps?"

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An Isotope & Khan production.

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The last vestiges of daylight had already begun to fade, the fingers of Kammeth's light becoming an aura of orange blood red in the gaps among the clouds above. It was late evening, too early for the light of Azueral's Eye to be visible but late enough that already the street lamps were being lit for the upcoming night. Having spent the day looking through old records and searching up all that could be found out about the warehouse address they had learned of the previous day Jahard was feeling unusually tired.

Aleena could see that much though her brother hid his fatigue well. Ever since they had arrived in this cesspool of a city, it seemed he had bent every waking moment to unraveling the mystery of this Shades death. She knew her brother to be the sort of man to tackle any problem or obstacle with his every effort. Yet, even so, it seemed he had gone out of his way more than was usual to seek the answers that plagued this case. She could only guess at why that was, but she did not give it much thought. Aleena was simply glad to finally have a mission to fulfill after nearly two moons of inactivity in Thulthar.

At this moment both her and Jahard waited in an intersection of pathways off the main street just a single building away from the pier dock they wanted. Leaning against a rather large crate Aleena busied herself with sharpening one of her daggers to pass the time. Meanwhile, Jahard had his bow free from its usual sheath and was testing the string. Neither knew what awaited them at the warehouse, for all they knew it was full of ordinary innocent dock workers. Or at worse was the turf of a typical street gang.

Yet, if this had been the place a Shade had visited shortly before meeting his end, it was worth taking every precaution. Annoyed with her current task, Aleena switched to tossing one of her knives into the air and catching it with practiced ease.

Jahard glanced up at his sister for a moment before returning his attention back to his bowstringing, "have patience sister, she will be here any moment I'm sure."

"Right, though I don't see why we don't just go ahead without her. She'll get in the way more likely than not."

He had heard these complaints before, and in truth, he was getting tired of them, he sighed and said, "It's like I've told you w-"

Aleena raised her hand at that moment calling for silence as she cocked her head to one side. Turning the corner a figure appeared, at that moment a blur of motion flashed before the figures face ending with a loud 'thunk' as something struck wood. A short throwing dagger appeared shaking violently after sinking into the hard wood of a crate stacked near the corners edge just within inches from Lilika's head.

Lilka jerked back as the dagger impacted the wood, hands raised to her face to stop splinters from flying into her eyes. After a moment of confusion, she sheepishly waved to the two Justicars and made her way, rather cautiously, towards them. Once she was near enough to be heard, she spoke uncertainly, “Justicars, I uh, I should have called out before I surprised you. My apologies.”

"Ops," Aleena's announced in a neutral voice.

Jahard sighed once he saw that their visitor was none other than their guide. "Moon's silver light Aleena, you have to learn a better form of hello," He rose to his feet from his sitting position atop an overturned barrel, "sorry about that, Aleena can be rather... short strung."

Aleena made a face at him and stalked forward to pry her dagger free. "In my defense, she could have been anyone; this isn't exactly the nicest of neighborhoods."

"In any case..." Jarhard began. "Is everything in place?"

Lilika directed a concerned glance to Aleena as she removed the dagger, her eyes lingering on the female Justicar for a moment before she managed to return her attention to Jahard. Taking a breath to regain her composure, she almost sounded confident when she answered, “As to the matter at hand, I've made all the necessary arrangements. We’ve surrounded the warehouse with some forty men I was able to gather. Nilos is with them as well, and I've instructed them to wait out of sight; at least until they receive my signal. I have little doubt this will go smoothly. At least, smoothly from here on.”

Jahard nodded, "right, we'll move in first and see what we're dealing with. We've done a few passes and saw a few guards positioned about the warehouse. The owner was marked under the name Basimus Sesentanus. But no record of him exists in any official documents that I have found."

"In other words," Aleena grunted and pulled her knife free before adding. "A half ass alias by all accounts. And I'd wager they have something more valuable to hide than fresh grain given all the swords hired on."

"We shall soon see for ourselves," he looked to Lilika. "We can handle a quick peek on our own. Unless you are still of a mind to follow."

With a nod, Lilika spoke, more confident now, “I am, though if you’re concerned I might be a hindrance don’t hesitate to say so.”

"Oh trust me," Aleena said as she started walking ahead of them, "you'll be the first to know."

Jahard only shrugged and followed on after his sister, the group making their way through a crisscrossing maze of alleyways and backway paths. Having scooped the warehouse for some time, the Justicars had discovered one way into the warehouse that was out of sight from the main street. An apparently abandoned building sat flanking their objective. Much of the structure was worn down, but the rear dockyard was aligned with the adjacent warehouses. It was a simple case of scaling over a worn down embankment into the over saturated backyard of the warehouse they wanted.

The grounds rear of the warehouse were filled with containers and wooden boxes. Aleena considered this to be fortuitous for them, as the crates offered ample places to hide on their approach to the rear entrance of the building. Upon reaching the door, the trio stopped and considered their options. The door was an old reddish metal gate, which showed signs of significant rust, to the point a keen eye could spot several red flour beetles skittering across the surface of the portal.

Jahard tested the chains on the gates lock and furrowed his brow. "Would seem they dislike unexpected guest."

"I would think that painfully obvious brother," Aleena said drily. "I don't suppose you could take an ax to those chains."

"Not without alerting any and everyone inside to our intent, if we did that we may as well allowed the guards to barge in."

“We won’t be needing an ax Justicar.” Lilka grinned at Aleena and took a step forward to place her hand on the chain. She whispered an all but inaudible phrase and gripped the nearest link, which seemed to whine and groan as it frosted over. In mere seconds the air felt colder, and with a ‘ping’ the chain broke where Lilka’s hand had gripped it, the ice on its surface lingering after the magic had gone.

"Well done," Jahard voiced, seemingly impressed.

"Looks like she has her uses after all," Aleena said with a shrug.

Jahard gripped the bar attached to the iron gate and gingerly pulled the portal open. The door made a small moaning screech as it was pried open. The door opened up into a dark passage into the building. It was a small square room, with walls cut off from the center of the warehouse. From the look of it, it must have served as a backroom storage department. However, at that moment the room seemed to be mostly empty, save a few wooden lids and scattered tools such as a crowbar leaning against a wall.

Jahard led the way inside, unhooking one of his axes just in case. Lilka followed with Aleena bringing up the rear. Jahard walked to the far side of the room and looked through an indoor window that gave a look further into the warehouse. The glass was filthy, forcing him to clean it of some dust and grime to be able to see anything through it. The other side, of course, remained covered in dust, but what he was able to see only confirmed his suspicions.

"This place is empty," he said in a high whisper, his voice deep enough that it sounded almost as loud as most people's speaking voices.

"Could they have been tipped off?" Aleena voiced.

"No..." he said rubbing his dirtied hand against his thigh. "this place looks to have been mostly unused for weeks, maybe months now. Which puts it out of use during the time our shade should have been here..."

“If the warehouse was empty,” mused, “Why would they post a guard? Let alone several?”

Bending down she ran her hand over the dusty floor, just long enough to confirm the direction of the floorboards. With a frown she blew the muck off her fingers and began surveying the floor, eventually coming to a stop. With a few taps of her foot, she called out to the Justicars, “The floorboards are off here, they don’t line up with the others. From the sound of it, there’s something under here.”

Aleena walked over toward Lilika and tapped her feet on the wooden floorboards noting a change of sound over one particular spot. As she knelt to one knee Jahard walked over, his interest peaked.

"What do you think?" He asked.

Aleena unsheathed a dagger and slid the tip of its point across the dusted floor. "I think... as cliche as it might be..." Aleena's blade found a gap as it slipped into an open space. She pushed the discarded lid of a barrel and beneath revealed a latch.

"Huh," she exclaimed.

She pulled the latch opening a cleverly hidden trapdoor and with it a gush of cold, stale air that brought with it the smell of blood and oil. Aleena turned her face and grimaced as it hit her full force.

"Ah, foul, what is that smell?"

"Hard to say, but this may very well be what they- whoever they are- were seeking to keep this hidden. Perhaps the guard's were merely to discourage," Jahard looked down into the dark gloom noting a tattered looking ladder. "I'll head down first,"

Jahard belted his ax and made his way down the trapdoors ladder with slow and cautious movements. The track down took longer than Jahard expected, the decent into the darkness seeming to go on forever as the smell of copper and rot grew stronger. Soon he touched down in a square room with a single lantern atop a barrel. The room was empty and somewhat sparse save for a few pieces of trash here and there.

When Aleena and Lilika came down shortly after, Jahard walked toward the only door of the room placing his ear close to it. Aleena walked up beside him, having drawn one of her stilettos, and gave him a questioning look. He raised a hand with a gesture that Aleena responded to with a nod in understanding.

Bemused by the unspoken communication Lilka quietly waited in ready behind the two, having gleaned enough from the interaction to know there might be danger on the other side. Whatever was behind the door she didn’t like the smell of it, if nothing else. Jahard edged the door open into a narrow passageway that by all accounts looked to have been recently excavated; lanterns periodically left on hooks the halls only source of light. The trio moved down the corridor, the water dripping down from the ceiling with the quiet clatter of their feet the only sounds to they could hear.

Soon the noise of a distant voice cut into the quiet half way down the passage, "the Renegade said tomorrow needs to be when we make our move. Just one more day of pig stink and shit."

"Barolo better have the pitch in place by then. I won't want to be the one to tell the mask we failed."

The three reached the end of the tunnel where bisected into two pathways. To the right seemed to be the origin of the voices, the shadows dancing beneath the wooden door making that guess an easy one. Jahard raised a hand for them to stop short and gestured for them to draw closer.

When they did, he whispered, "we should go back the way we came, call in the guard and flus-"

"And announce our arrival? They could have a dozen holes these rats could fly to, and we'll have nothing. Grab hold of your cock man; I count three breaths, four at most, we can take them by surprise."

Jahard rolled his eyes but thought on it. It was too risky to go in on their own, but his sister did have a point. A troop of guards would offer their quarries a chance to escape before their full weight could be brought to bear. Before he could suggest a plan, Aleena interrupted him, "the voices echo from a passage further back, two ways in from our side. Give me a moment to circle around."

With that, she faded back the way they came, her cloak making it difficult to see her precise movements. Jahard fought the urge to curse under his breath, he trusted in his sister's skill but not in her patience. It looked like they would have to handle the issue themselves. It would hardly be the first time.

He looked to Lilka, "right then.. we'll draw their attention and give Aleena a chance to come up behind them. Ready?"

hushed her voice, “One-moment Justicar, I have something that should make this a bit easier.”

She whispered a spell, the words foreign to the ears of most, and the damp passage began to fill with a fog that thickened by the second. With a nod to Jahard, she steeled herself and prepared for whatever they would encounter. Jahard nodded and stood until he was next to the doorway that led into the room with voices. Raising his voice suddenly to gain their attention he shouted, "this is Justicar Jahard, you are all under arrest by the authority of Mother Night!"

There was the sound of cursing and surprise from within the room, and the panic only increased when the fog began to enter the chamber beyond. The response given was as quick in coming as it was predictable as a quarrel from a crossbow slammed into the wooden doorframe close to Jahard.

"How about that for a response, you shit!"

"They never want to make it easy," Jahard sighed in annoyance.

There came the sound of things being shifted and moved; Jahard took that moment to push through the doorway. The room was a long rectangular chamber with three long tables stretching from one end to the next. Dozens of jars lined the tables with buckets of something positioned along the walls. Jahard ignored these details for the time being despite his curiosity. The closest man was a skinny fellow with dark eyes, a butcher's knife in his right hand. The far side of the room stood the man with the crossbow, who was currently fumbling with pulling back of his weapons string.

Jahard had no time to retrieve his bow, not to mention the fog was growing stronger making that choice of arms unappealing, so reared back his right arm and threw his hand ax in an overhead throw. It sailed forward in a deadly spin before it smacked wetly into the chest of the crossbow wielder. The man grimaced and fell back with a pained shout as he crumpled to the floor. Jahard pulled free his other ax with his left hand, charging toward the closest man with a butcher knife.

The man's eyes widened in surprise, momentarily caught off guard he clumsily pushed forward with a lung aimed at Jarhard's stomach. The Justicar had predicted this, however, and swept his weapon across to parry the knife away so that it nearly missed him. This allowed him to ram his left shoulder into the smaller man physically knocking him back violently so that his back smacked hard against the edge of a table, which consequently caused one of the pots to fall over. Jahard then grabbed the man's collar and headbutted the man violently with such force that it broke the man's nose while Jahard's free right hand twisted the man's hand forcing him to drop his improvised weapon.

Jahard heard a cry of pain from further in the room alerting him to the fact Aleen had made use of their distraction. He kicked the dropped butcher knife away and twisted the arm of the man he was currently holding and forcing him face first onto to the tables face. To his far left, he heard a shouted challenge as another of the occupants of the room charged him with what looked to be a short sword.

At that moment the swirling fog that had engulfed much of the chamber seemed to rapidly gather above as it condensed. The mist formed into solid form as it became a dozen icicles that fell down with deadly force. The thug jerked to a halt as his body suddenly spurted several icicle spears, and with that decisive move, the room was secured. Aleena appeared a moment later from the other side of the room, blood wet on both her blades revealing that she had found no little resistance on her end.

As Aleena neared she shrugged, "that was easy."

The bold move to storm the chamber had been more successful than Jahard could have dared to hope for he had to admit. They had even managed to capture a prisoner. Jahard tightened his grip on the man he'd taken hold of as he felt him struggle.

"I'd not move if I were you," Jahard warned the man.

"Void take you Justicar! Even if you've stopped us here, it's already too late for your empire."

"And what's that's supposed to mean," Aleena said with a snare as she stepped next to Jahard.

"Ha, look around bitch, what do you think we were doing here?"

Jahard looked up and as the fog cleared it was able to fully take in the chamber around them. The overturned jar seemed to be filled with the remains of a dead pig, fat and pitch alike. Pig fat... and pitch...

Jahard could not imagine what uses such things could be put toward...except.

The mood of the flight was far from what one would expect. There was joy, cheering and overall excitement. In the vanguard flew the Drake Lords, led by their very own Dragon Princess. The dangerously beautiful Elyria. Who was enjoying the flight on top of her drake, Ancalegon. The largest of the drakes. With eyes closed and arms outstretched she could feel how the wind carried him. Under her she felt the hot air of his every breath. Such was the bond of the Drakestone Sorcerers and it far transcended what bond most had with their steeds. They were approaching their destination now. Sanc Valatir. Kalon’s great city, guarding the pass. Elyria had never seen the great city with her own eyes. Only models on the map-tables. Acalegion dropped lower and lower, as commanded by Elyria. But the temperamental drake did release his low, rumbling roar filling the pass. Announcing his arrival. The Dragon Princess couldn’t help but smile. Well, she had to give Kalon a warning they were close some way.

Below her, a small band of spread apart carts were walking through the pass. Often pulled by a slow donkey. In front of each cart, a rather old individual led it, holding himself up with a stick. Surrounded with 2 or 3 more people. All dressed in solemn, black robes. The carts were covered with simple cloth and carried simple things. Stale bread, some dried meat, water, tents. But should any guard listen very carefully, they'd hear the clanging of iron as well.

As it came into view, the city of Sanc Valatir seemed at first to be a pair of peaks peak jutting out of a plateau. The very tops of the Valatirine Sanctum, the Exarch’s keep, and the Eyrie, the headquarters of the storied Tithing, were the first things to peek over the landscape, and she caught sight of pillars of smoke soon after. The city’s great walls came after, and soon the roofs and walls of the buildings—mostly thatch and wood, but some were vaulted stone. As her horizon moved beyond the city, she saw them—several large fires, spewing smoke into the air. A clear signal for them to land.

The end of a short but enjoyable journey was in sight. Never in her life had Elyria ever flown so far out of Makania. So she marveled at everything she saw. Soon they were over the city. Casting winged shadows over the streets and roofs. Back in Makau, the people would have looked up to see what could cast it. But Elyria assumed that, with the Tithing being here, the people would be used to wings and shade. As she got closer to the landing city, the excitement of the fleet grew. The drakes were silent through the whole flight. But now, feeling the anxiousness in their riders, started to release their low, thunderous roars as they flew over the city and by the Eyrie. The loud rumbling incited the wyverns in tow and soon the whole fleet erupted in savage, thunderous growls. Which in turn enticed the riders to yell and cheer.

Elyria decided that landing the normal way would be far too boring for the excitement of the fleet. Instead, she kept her altitude. Only to roll into a dive at the last second. Ancalegon flew straight through one of the pillars and opened his wings to break the fall. The black clouds first entirely enveloped the drake, only to be blast apart by its wings’ blast of air. Not so gently and gracious to slammed itself into the ground below. Rival drakes and riders all followed suit. Diving from the air and trying to land on a spot that was still free. Elyria unhooked herself off her saddle and crawled off Ancalegon. Coughing a little due to the smoke, yet still cheering on her drake lords as they came down.

Swiftly all drakes had landed and the smaller wyverns were following suit. Elyria turned towards the nearest servant of Sanc Valatir. “Would you be a dear and lead me to Kalon? I assume he’s expecting me?” There was an odd amount of playfulness in her voice. As if she wasn’t marching for war but a party. She was even partially dressed the part. With pieces of silk cloth fluttering around her. Artfully attached to her leather riding suit. Her drake, behind her, roared once more. It was a different roar from back one from in the air, Elyria instincts sensed it. So she added: “Oh and you might want to bring a few cows or horses.”

The servant was dressed in a green tunic belted at the waist, and who wore a knee-length black cloak with silver trim along both sides of all its edges. If he took umbrage with the manner the Dragon Princess addressed his liege, it did not visibly show. “I would presume, then,” he said, “that you are the Dragon Princess Elyria? As it turns out, his grace sent me to bring you to him as soon as you arrived.. He is currently visiting with the Priesthood of the Waters, and so we shall not need to tarry long within the streets.” He turned, and the billowing of his cloak afforded Elyria a brief glimpse of a blade at his side, before he stopped. He turned his head to speak to her again. “Ah, yes, and some men should be arriving with food for the drakes shortly. His grace did not mention it, but I would imagine that he would be fine with you inspecting the food we have stored up for your drakes and wyverns in the General Warehouses. It should be enough to last until war begins, at which point they can feast on the bounty of Charce, but I see no harm in you investigating the matter personally.

Elyria merely nodded when the servant, or she assumed he was a servant, asked if she was the Dragon Princess. She was quite fond of the title, even though she didn’t ride a dragon. Sometimes Elyria questioned if they even existed anymore. They were creatures of pure legend. Still, her drakes were real enough and Ancalegon could probably pass for a dragon to anyone who never saw one before. Then she spotted the blade. So he wasn’t a servant after all. Unlike him, Elyria didn’t carry any weapons. Not even a knife. Her mastery over fire magic was strong enough to defend herself. Beside, she wouldn’t imagine what her drake would do if he discovered she died.

The comment about the inspection came somewhat unexpected. She rarely inspected anything really. Even back in Drakestone Ridge. The stewards and servants, gifted by nobles mostly, were well-versed in management. The fortress was quite self-governing. Which left the drake lords with plenty of time to study and explore the bonds with their drakes. “Thank you for the offer. I’ll just take your word for it.” she said rather sheepishly. In truth, she didn’t really know how to ‘inspect’ a warehouse. What would she have to look at?

The stone walls of the city curved slowly around to their right, every so often bulging into tower that stretched beyond the walls. In time, they reached the gates of the city, which were open, and saw what was unmistakably one of the Grave Keepers discussing something with a man who wore a cloak much alike to the one worn by the man who had come to greet Elyria.

Elyria was very much in awe with the massive walls. They reminded her of Makau’s. But something was amiss. They were as deeply scarred as the walls back home. Makau was besieged many times over. A great many warlords tested their siege engines against the solid stone. Time and time again gaps had to be filled and repaired. The walls of Makau had their own scars. The awe kept her silent for now, as she attentively looked at the walls and towers. At the gate, one of the Black Knights was discussing something with the guard there. For a moment, Elyria felt a little disappointed. Did Kalon just send a common guard to fetch her?

---

“Egeron of the Grave Keepers.” the man greeted the guard at the gate. Not even casting a glance towards the drakes and wyverns landing. Like all Grave Keepers that would pass, he offered a scroll sealed with black wax. The seal had the form of a snake eating its own tail, encircling an hourglass. The letter would be simple but straightforward. They were summoned to the city by their High-Priest. It also detailed why: a summons was called and the oath they swore would not be broken. The Black Knights would answer the call. They were to gather at Sanc Valatir, so the Priests packed up and started their long or short journey. Egeron was in a nearby village, just beyond the northern part of the pass. “Do tell me, my dear: where is your cemetery. I’m afraid I’ve never visited your fair city. Oh and the inn as well. I fear my novices might not yet be able to trade bed for stone.” Egeron was an old Priest now. Or he looked like one. With only flimsy wisps of hair falling from his scalp. His deep, bruised eyes looked as if he was either permanently exhausted or recently fought. His voice was thin like paper.

Taking the scroll from Egeron, the servant of Kalon broke the seal to read it. Finding that all was as the old man had told him, he looked up from the parchment and said, “We bury our dead on the north side of the walls. Follow the path round that way,” he gestured with one arm off to his right, “and take the first split off to the left. The nearer the graves are to the city, the older they are, if that makes any difference to you.” He produced some sort of stamp from beneath his cloak, pressed its mark into the parchment, and handed the scroll back to Egeron. “You’ll want to show this to the graveminders—they’re the folks who keep a watch over the graveyard. They’ll have been briefed more about what you folks do, and it’s all cleared. You just need to show that to them so they know you are who you say you are.” He placed the stamp back where it had been. “There are actually a few inns in the city that your Novices might want to stay at. I’ll call some of my subordinates over, and they’ll be able to get them settled.”

Egeron smiled like most weary, old man smiled. His novices, almost relieved to hear the news, rushed inside the city. Towards the prospect of a warm bed. Only Egeron and his apprentice remained. The apprentice already ushered on the donkey to go towards the graveyard. Egeron almost went on his way. But something stopped him. He looked at the guard for a moment and then said: “Do visit your grandparents, will you? If I have to, it will be too late.” After those words, he was off.

---

As soon as they could see through the gates, they could see the Great Baths, the marble edifice of which seemed to almost glow.

As they passed through streets and plazas, pedestrians parted to let them through. Though their gazes inevitably fell Elyria, they seemed to hang on her guide before they noticed her—though they did inevitably notice her.

They passed near enough to the speaking heralds to hear what they were saying, and all of them bore a similar refrain: the Drakestone Sorcerers, servants of the Exarch Alexander of Makau, had just arrived.

When they reached the doors to the Great Baths, Elyria’s guide approached one of the men guarding the door, who was dressed differently from the other guards she’d seen.

“His grace is expecting us.” This was all he said, and the guard immediately turned and entered the door ahead of them.

Elyria simply followed the man into the baths. Those legendary baths. Elyria fashioned herself a Vilespawn Slayer and back home, few could dispute that claim. Mounted on her drake she could fly from cave to cave, filling them with scorching fire. She couldn’t capture the malevolent spirits, that was true. But it was their material form that she could keep at bay. But now she stood in the temple dedicated to those who didn’t just kill them. These people had made it their life’s mission to not just slay them, but to capture the spirits. A bit struck by the building, she said: “I do hope I can come back here, after the war.”

The man who had guided Elyria here from where she had landed fell into step behind her as she entered the Great Baths, muttering under his breath—Elyria could make out the words “grace,” and “arrived.” After that, he was wholly silent.

At her comment, the priest guiding them turned to her with a smile on her face, and said, “We would be glad to have you as our guest.”

They wound their way through the corridors, the walls and vaulted ceiling built from the same type of marble as the Bath’s exterior, lit by sconces that hung just above their heads. They passed a number of robed members of the Priesthood of the Waters, each of whom nodded their head in greeting, and stood to the side to let them past. They passed several doors, some leading to the public baths, some to yet more corridors. In time, they came upon a large set of double doors made, it seemed, from lacquered mahogany.

The priest turned to them and said “Exarch Kalon and the Archcurate are currently speaking within the Inner Sanctum. I will tell them that–” But he was unable to finish his sentence, as the doors began to open. He jumped, just a little, with a look of surprise on his face, but that fell away and he looked back at the man who had first greeted Elyria, who stood behind her, and nodded when he met the priest’s gaze.

The doors parted, two men stepped out. One, on what was Elyria’s right, was large, balding, and wore a more ornate fashion of robes than the other priests she had seen so far. The other, on her left, was tall, dressed in a heavy gambeson, and wore a polished, almost-featureless mask over his face—the Exarch, Kalon.

He’s masked. Always. With a heavy cloak that will look a bit too heavy on a hot summer afternoon. Trust me, you will know who Kalon is when he speaks. Back In Makau, Elyria thought this to be enough. Masked, heavy robed and speaks with a certain gravity. Now she stood before him, Exarch Kalon and the only thing she could think of was: how ordinary he looks. He’s just a man wearing a mask. Of course, Alexander was the same. Yet, as a mage, she felt he was something beyond simply a man. Magic swirled around him. Before you enter a room with him, you can sense the air thick with mana. But that was Alexander’s aura as Exarch of Sorcery. Kalon did not seem to possess the same aura. In fact, she thought he could easily be mistaken for a common man.

Now, does she bow for him? She doesn’t even bow for Alexander but that’s because they were friends. Would she bow for an Archon? Yes, yes she would. But she didn’t bow for her own Exarch, so why should she bow for another? Instead, she swiftly fidgeted with a hardened leather cylinder on her belt and extracted a scroll, sealed with the shiny blue wax. The symbol was that of Makau: seven stars and a sickle moon. The scroll would say the usual, that the Drakestone Sorcerers came to aid the assault on Lesmania. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” She said, as she handed over the scroll. Formal enough, right? “I think we should probably talk about logistics though.” She did add. This was concerning her drakes. She preferred to keep them away from the griffins. For both of their sakes. But that meant that they couldn't be housed in the Eyrie.

“Indeed.” His voice was deep, but not extraordinarily so. “There is a mountain just east of the city that is clear of trees.” He gestured to a passageway splitting off the one that had brought Elyria here. “The Priesthood keeps a detailed map of the region, and I have had the site marked.” He walked just beyond her, up to where the passageway split off and turned to look at her. She saw the distorted image of her own face reflected in his mask. “Come. We can discuss the matter in greater detail further in.”

A mountain? He was going to give her a mountain? Maybe she should have waited a little bit so he could arrange things better. Yet she was so excited for the battles. She let out a heavy sigh, only to realize Kalon could probably hear that. Under her breath she utter a curse at herself for the slip, but she did walk into the room with the map. Again, to her surprise and disappointment, the map was just that. A boring old map. Nothing like the map-tables from Makau. Maybe that would be a good gift for the priests? “So, a mountain. Yes, I guess the drakes could live there.” she said, trying not to let the disappointment slip in her voice. “And I’m guessing we can eat from your General Warehouse?” she added, trying to assumed the facts to get them out of the way. “So what about patrols? When do we join them?” That was a different question altogether but one Elyria had been preparing the whole journey. She wasn’t about to just sit on her mountain for days if not months.

“Things are already beginning to accelerate.” Kalon turned partly to the door, and said to the servant from the landing-site, “Await without, pendynion.” He closed the door, and turned to her again. “When we sat in Council, a plan an opening of subterfuge was discussed, and it is my understanding that it will be underway before long.” He walked over to the other side of the table as he spoke. “After that, hostilities along the border will begin in earnest in short order, and that will mean enemy soldiers lined up in formation. Excellent targets for you and yours, as I understand it.”

They very much were. Elyria had read her books and knew full well that most lords chose to put their warriors in certain standard formations. Most did not have to worry about attacks from above though. So when Kalon said that they would be excellent targets, Elyria smiled. If the enemy was truly stupid enough to march out to meet them in the field, she’d turn it into a fire sea.

He laid his hands on the far side of the table, which now was just in front of him. “Now, I can understand your dissatisfaction with your lodging, but you will be provided with the amenities you require—there is more than enough bedding and food for you, and surveyors of mine found a dry cave there that large enough to fit you all to shelter you from the elements should they turn against us. I’ve already had preparations made there; you won’t be sleeping on stone, though the beds may not be as fine as you’re used to.” He looked into her face again and she saw her own reflection. “The size and shape of your drakes may complicate matters, but you are still my guests here.”

He looked down to the map, his gaze lingering over the western portion, which was marked with a number of dots, each with two sets of dates—one past, and one to come. “If any of you or yours chooses to go hunting with your drake, that is acceptable—though, as I said, unnecessary, as food will be brought up to you from our storehouse—but stay east of the city. Several members of the Priesthood are going to be investigating a surge in Vilespawn activity near the Lesser Tiran pass.” He looked back up at her, and his voice grew just a little bit harsher.. “I would rather that they were not interrupted.”

Elyria was rather sad Kalon didn’t invite her on the Vilespawn hunt. It felt like a crack at her ego as if she wasn’t good enough to vanquish the evil spirits. But then again, Kalon was the boss here. So he was, in a way, ruler over her too. “My drakes love hunting, as do their lords. So I can assure you, some game will be found burned or broken.” Drake Lords didn’t hunt for food like most would. They hunted for the fun of it. To see the power of their drake. It was not a hunt, but a slaughter.

Kalon regarded her for a moment, his face unreadable behind his mask. Beneath, he sighed to himself—this young woman was of a kind he had seen many times before. He wondered, briefly, if she had actually seen a person burn to death, and whether her distance from the field of battle would serve to distance her from the battle itself. “Well, I believe that is all, then.” It was neither his purpose nor his place to preach to her. He stepped out from behind the table. Wordlessly, he walked to the door behind Elyria, behind which the servant stood an appreciable distance away. “Pendynion,” said Kalon, “see my guest back to her subordinates.” The man bowed deeply. Kalon turned back to Elyria. “I yet have matters to attend to here. Farewell.”

A Zen & Legion creation

Two swords clashed.Pulsing flashes of golden light burst forth from the impact , blinding the ring of onlookers. Two heavily armored men circled each other within the ring, chips and flakes running up the length of their blades from the sheer duration of their match. They were adorned in the all encasing golden colored armor of the Suns of Mars, and brilliant flashes of blinding light regularly exploded from their being, as was their stromist training to confuse the enemy.

Behind the thick metal helmets that encased their heads, two pairs of golden eyes remained unaffected by the displays of light, much in contrast to the dizzied fans watching the bout. Long discarded kite shields were strewn at either side of the makeshift arena, massive dents and tears running along them as if they were thin sheets of metal rather than thick shields of battle.

One knight stood taller than the other, and a look of aggression emitted from his eyes, the rest of his face hidden to the world. The second man had a look of determination and even desperation, the flutes of his armor cut and dented in from powerful blows, and his stance staggering under the constant attack from the first.

“General Caldronax!” A yellow tabard wearing messenger squeezed through the crowd. The skinny man managed to push his way to the front of the crowd in time for the first, taller man to turn his head at hearing his name.

The desperate knight took this as his chance to strike and swung his blade deftly at the back of Caldronax’s leg, but with inhuman speed that could only be described as stromist power, the General quickly lifted his leg and brought his heavy sabaton on top of the other’s blade, trapping it to the ground.

“Urgent news!” The messenger relayed.

Caldronax grunted within the casing of his helmet and turned back to the wide eyed knight, “fun’s over commander.”

The crowd preemptively cheered, knowing what was to come next. First it started as a whisper, but soon everyone save the messenger and the worried commander was chanting the General’s name. Then with an eruption of bright white light, the entire town square where the fighters found themselves was enveloped in the brain splitting display. A loud bang rang out as everyone stood blind, then the sound of a heavy suit of metal crumpling to the ground soon followed.

As the light dissipated and the negative still burned in the eyes of the onlooking common folk of Doma, The general was seen walking away with the messenger, having left the unconscious commander lying in the street, a concerning dent pounded into his helmet.

The messenger and Caldronax strolled passed the many stalls of the merchant district of Doma, the northern sun high in the chilled sky. Fur bearing imperials and northerners alike barked their wares and haggled harshly, while silk covered visitors spun on their heels, lost for direction. Much like the general, other soldiers of Iao’s vanguard were seen in heated duels in every corner and square of the district, much like every district save the residential. Some citizens joined in, some watched, but the majority of Doma denizens ignored them, having seen them every day they had lived in the city of the Archon of War.

The buildings were unassuming and practical, contrasting the major cities of the heartlands of southern Empire, and the only protection offered by fortification was a stout wall ringing the major districts, but in the eyes of Caldronax, that was easily made up for the sheer force Doma could muster in a moment’s notice.

“General,” The messenger pulled Caldronax’s graeling mind from the campaign that took Doma from his ancestors in the first place, a fact that he did not hold personal.

“Speak, Argun,” Caldronax lifted his helmet, revealing the pale face of the north, with two golden eyes set deep over a stern look.

“The numbers have come back from the fire attacks and as requested, I have written them down for you,” Argun produced a rolled parchment from a flap in his deer skin coat. Caldronax raised a palm, not bothering to look at the paper, “I’ll read it later, just give me the details.”

“Thirty-two warships damaged, twelve irreparable, and-”

“Countless fishermen pissed?” Caldronax looked over at Argun with a raised brow.

“Enough to reconquer the entire north,” The messenger placed the scroll back into his coat.

“And the perpetrators?”

“We couldn’t get a word out of them, but we have news that the fire attacks also took place at all other major ports of the Empire,” The messenger turned with Caldronax onto a neatly fitted stone road. The pathway lead to the great spire ahead of them, the tower sitting on top of the hill that dominated Doma, and served as the central nerve for the city, and ultimately the north.

The spire was one of the few flashy buildings this far north, but was greatly feared by all enemies of Doma as the residence of none other than the great Iao himself.

“I sent for the other Generals as you requested,” Argun continued.

“Good,” Caldronax answered before falling into a silence. The walk grew tense, as Caldronax looked forward towards the spire with a serious glare that could cut down the thickest forest of jest. The general’s hand fell to the polished pommel of his blade, following it as the blade rattled against the overused scabbard.

“May I ask your thoughts?” Argun broke the silence.

Caldronax slowly looked over at Argun, his glare turning into one of a teacher, one of a well versed general, “I would wager Charce had their fingers in this. I can see how they would benefit from the destruction of our fleets,” he rubbed his shaved chin, “gives us quite the opportunity to try out our latest innovations however.”

“Sir?”

“We are down twelve ships, we are going to have to get creative and strike from angles no one is to expect.”

“That’s very Iaonian of you, sir,” Argun looked straight ahead.

“They have made this a war of the North, Argun,” Caldronax looked back towards Iao’s tower, “the least I can do is explain to them what that means, and explain it in the way the North does best. Send word to Ai.”

---

---

---

---

“I am many things, I have been many things. Young and strong, old and gray, devastated and dying. Now I am alive again, but I fear my new children imitate the old ones. Some claim prowess in battle or sorcery; others seek strength in the darkness. They begin to mistrust and prepare for war.

Still… I love them as only a mother can.. and now I fear for them. I feel the winds of change begin to blow, and this time it may be an all-out storm. I hope that my children will be able to weather this tempest.

...for nothing is immortal...and one day, they may have to survive without me."

---

---

The vilespawn at the center of the cave dreamed of blood, death, and war, civilizations torn down and entire populations glutted upon by the children of the Ancient Ones. Flames and the coming of the Long Night consumed it's every thought-- the order of the Eastlands overturned and the rule of the gods from The Beyond absolute. It's massive; bent form shifted position, it's clawed webbed feet undulating the rock as though it sat upon glistening mud. Spiked curling horns sprouted from the sides of its gray skull, protruding from a ripped and stained metal and bone mask that hid most of its entire face covering its many bulbous eyes. Dark midnight metal encased most of the vile creature's body save its long sinewy arms, and a circle of bleached white skulls hung from its waist like macabre decorations.

The monster clutched a gnarled, twisted iron staff-- the head of which had adorned upon it twin bladed prongs.-- Which it clutched in one pale fist, its substance slithering with a dark mist that was seemingly insubstantial, as though the beast's flesh merged with the jet black iron. It traced patterns and lines in the fluid matter of the cavern floor, ever more disordered and irregular as they overlapped and spiraled.

Clouds of clawing vapor gusted from its lipless mouth and exposed skin, twisting and rolling in the air before being absorbed by the walls. The rock glistened with a wet dew of moisture, dancing visions of war and death burning in its depths, reflections of the twisted perceptions of the Vilespawn that drooled thick ropes of greenish saliva. The men of the Westlands called it The Despoiler, while the Antediluvians had known it as Nguarsk and in the Empire, it was called the name of Rorretog, the Sower of Fear.

The fires of war burned in its mind and it could feel the approach of its kindred, the real inheritors of Ethica. The children of the Ancient Ones that would replace all that remained of the Architects creations. It could sense the breath of entropy within them, the boon of corruption and mutation that identified them out as the chosen of the Ancient Ones. Three came, the mightiest vilespawn of their tribes, fierce and proud, filled with power and drawn towards this dark, cold cave to seek approval from the Ancient Ones from Beyond that theirs was the right to rule this gathering of vilespawn.

It turned a lazy head towards the cave mouth as the weak spring light was blocked off by the three supplicants. It saw they were towering and broad, with high, corded muscles beneath dark, twisted scales, each the master of a great vileswarm. All three carried crude weapons: heavy bronze battle-axes or numerous, blade-studded clubs, though in truth anyone of them could fight as well with horn, maw, or claw. One stood on thick, goat-like legs, its shaggy head crowned with a mass of bronze-tipped antlers and a thick mane of bright orange fur.

Another stamped iron-tipped talons, its rump elongated like that of a horse, though with scaled flesh and bronze like an enormous reptile. Dark spikes grew from its back and an extra set of arms sprouted from beneath its armpits. But most fearsome of all the vilespawn heralds was a massive, iron horned creature with dark, bloodstained metal covered muscles, its iron hide scarred by decades of killing and battle. Thick, hooked chains looped across its metal chest plate, and it wore spiked shoulder guards crudely fashioned to resemble jutting spine like quills. It carried a large, double-headed ax, its blades rusted, but with a strong mystic aura surrounding them. The vile Archspawn in the cave let out a single growl, guttural and wet, and the three supplicants advanced towards it, their steps halting and unsure, though none wished to show weakness before the others. To do so would be to invite death.

The Despoiler felt the breath of the Ancient Ones channeling through its body in a flood of power and exhaled it as a toxic cloud of dark, writhing mist. The mist pulsed with the essence of the Disjunction, growing and surging outwards to envelop the three who had come to stand in its presence. The great cloud carried within it a married of twisting aspects that cast anguished faces.

Instantaneously, the creature with bronzed antlers collapsed, roaring in agony as its body became host to many dark spirits from Beyond. The countless new souls within it were suddenly fighting for dominance resulting in a sudden change that caused thrashing limbs and grasping thorned pseudopods to erupt from its thick flesh. Eye stalks seemed to melt from its head and hide randomly as it gained to much power for it to hold. The other two backed away from the howling creature spawned from The Despoiler's gifts and awaited their fate at the hands of the tainted magical mist.

Both became enveloped by the miasmic cloud of sorcerous power, and The Despoiler felt their will and ambition war with the power of numerous new spirits that seared through their veins. The bronze-scaled centaur creature reared up on its hind claws, the dark spines on its back mutating into rippling tentacles with snapping jaws, as eyes peeked through the needle sharp fangs. It lunged towards The Despoiler with a shriek of savage fury, but a massive, clawed hand dragged it back by its tail, the gigantic ironclad monster slashing its ax through the twisting creature’s midsection. Dark ichor sprayed from the wound, hot and stinking, and the vilespawn herald hissed in anger as its exposed dark flesh burned where the blood spattered then ran in rivulets down its fanged, masked features, scarring dark grooves on its face.

Its flesh paled, taking on the gray hue of The Despoiler it had just killed for, and its breath smoked with the heat of a furnace. It let out a mighty roar, the very walls of the cave cracking at its cry, and The Despoiler nodded in acceptance as the writhing black mist dispersed and faded from sight. The large vilespawn let out a great, grunting breath, its exposed hide now gray and scaled, its horned head beneath its metal mask was scarred and burnt, but a flickering, multi-colored glow beneath its veil shone with power. It raised its ax in a brief salute to the bent, horned creature at the center of the cave and ripped one of the chains from its armor, plunging a barbed hook into the screaming flesh of the thrashing creature that had first succumbed to The Despoiler's magic.

It then turned to the mouth of the cave and marched forward with lumbering, meaningful steps dragging the twisted creature behind it. Into the light it walked, stepping onto a mound of stone that rose forward like a horn of rock. Upon this overlooking position, it came into full few of the gathered vilespawn below. The gnawing, biting, and fighting below ceased for a moment as the horde took note of the emerging vilespawn lord.

The vilespawn took in the vast gathering that easily counted in the tens of thousands and apprehended its purpose as it felt the stirring will of the Ancient Ones. The Djaam had finally been laid low, their eyes forced to look elsewhere. Now was the time of Azueral's choosing,

They would march north then east and reap the fertile and weak lands of the eastern realms. A storm was brewing.

Boria was now several days and forty leagues behind the Stewardess and her host. They had left behind the modest trappings of civilization in Eskar and traded them for the pristine and rugged splendor of the northern frontier. To the east, a jagged chain of snowy mountains rose into the cerulean sky. The hillsides had turned green with fresh young grass that had only recently sprouted in the absence of the deep winter snow that had blanketed these lands only weeks before. Forests of pine and majestic Aesling cedar covered much of the land in patchy blankets of deep, dark green while patches of spring crocuses and daffodils flourished in the meadows. Far to the west, at the bottom of this great valley, the Atari River wound sinuously in the hazy distance - marking the northwestern extent of the Illyrican Empire and the beginning of the lands of Atar. With the fringe of the Atar in sight, Helkha knew that they had nearly arrived at their destination: the fort at Abkehr.

Helkha turned in her saddle to survey the army walking behind her. Stretching across this long meadow was a mass of warriors some 4,000 strong. Their spearpoints were pointed into the sky, catching the sun's rays in a scintillating array of flashes. Some of the spears had been affixed with flags that flapped vigorously in the wind; celemworm banners depicting either the Night Mother's rose sigil, or the wolverine crest of Boria. These decorated spearshafts, Helkha knew, belonged to the three-dozen or so sergeant yeomen in command of a regiment. The vast majority of this lot were comprised of peasant levies who could scarcely afford a spear, but there were some soldiers in this army - mainly folk from the north of Boria - who were equipped and skilled with bows.

"I wish we had more bowmen," Helkha remarked to Baronet Galakhad, who rode right alongside her at the very front of the army. "If this western horde attacks Abkehr, we will sorely wish for archers who can rain arrow volleys down over the walls."

"We have about 500 archers; not as many nor as skilled as I would like," Galakhad admitted. "But they will be numerous enough to make any attacker think twice about making an attempt on the walls. Not to mention the 400 Narzads that have joined us," the Knight-Commander turned and gestured to the cavalry formations riding along the flanks and rear of the massed infantry.

"Then the attackers will simply lay siege to the fort, and I doubt Abkehr's granaries and stores are sufficient to hold out for a prolonged siege."

"Let them lay siege, milady," Galakhad declared. "Regent Master Ai has pledged to commit 5,000 of his own forces to Abkehr's defense. They are a fortnight behind us at the latest. They will relieve Abkehr if a siege should occur. And if they should fail, then the combined armies of all of Illyrica will be brought to bear on this Djaam menace. No incursion will be allowed any farther than Abkehr."

"Assuming the collective might of Illyrica is not already committed against Lesmania," Helkha added.

"At the very least, we shall have support from Doma and the other northern domains. Regent Master Ai has wisely kept much of his forces in reserve here in the north. They will be sufficient to repel any attack."

"Mother willing," Helkha added.

The Borian host marched another two leagues northward, following the crude dirt road through the great old-growth forests of the imperial hinterlands. Helkha and Galakhad led the army down this road, walking betwixt huge cedars who had been fully grown a hundred years before the Night Mother's empire was ever thought of. The Stewardess, raised on the windswept plains of Boria, was unaccustomed to such an enclosed environment - perhaps unsettled as well. On the Borian plain, one could see anything approaching across the rolling plains from a league or two away. But with these great trees spreading forth in every direction except directly forward and behind and the dense understory brush - surprisingly opaque despite still being bare from winter, Helkha was unsettled by how easily an ambush could be laid here. Not just by this mysterious horde coming from the west across Atar, but the indigenous northerners of this land. The Empire's rule over the remote hinterland was tenuous at best, and there were yet many northerners who were still hostile to the Night Mother's servants. Hostile enough, perhaps, to waylay Helkha's forces as they crossed through the forest. She pressed her heels into the haunches of her horse, beckoning her steed - and the army following it - to move that much faster through the forest.

"Not so fond of these trees are you, milady?" the Knight-Commander noted with a reassuring smile.

"Not at all," Helkha admitted. "I miss the Borian plains, Galakhad. I miss how open it is out there, where you can see everything around you. The mountains, the hills, the wind rippling through a thousand acres of grassland... I miss Vadigar."

"Old Boria," Galakhad concluded. "The way things used to be be, before we were cooped up in Rasthomig and Eskar, tasked with turning it all into an imperial simulacrum. That is what you miss."

Helkha gave a nod.

"Do you miss it, Galakhad?" The Stewardess asked. "Old Boria?"

"How could I not? You were but a child when Old Boria became what it is today, but I am nearly twenty years your senior. I was old enough to remember life before the arrival of the empire and after. Those were simpler, happier times, without question. But, these are better times.

"We do not squabble and fight incessant wars over grazing lands as our ancestors did. Now, we fight to protect the entirety of our homeland and toil to improve the lives of our countrymen. It has been a little over a decade since the empire came to Boria, but think of the progress we have made. The lives of the common men are longer and healthier. The serfs harvest a surplus of wheat and potatoes so that they do not starve in the winter as they had before. Boria is now inhabited by craftsmen and merchants who enrich our people and our land. But most of all, we serve the Night Mother and thereby earn her blessing and protection.

"It is natural to miss the simplicity of childhood, milady. Likewise, we pine for the simpler times when Borians ruled themselves. But just as we mature in our older age, the Borian people have matured. I recognize that life is better serving the Night Mother, even if it does not always feel that way. It is a heartless man who does not miss old Boria, but it is a fool who wishes to go back."

Helkha rode in silence for a time, considering what Baronet Galakhad had said. But before she had another opportunity to speak again, she saw the forest suddenly give way to a vast clearing. An area a quarter of a league around had been completely stripped of its ancient forest, replaced by an expanse of half-rotten stumps erupting with all manner of mushrooms. In the middle of this emptied land was a stronghold ringed with a palisade wall rising fifteen feet high. Guard towers were fashioned from planks cut from the ancient trees felled around the fort, atop which small catapults were affixed. In the middle of the wooden fortifications was a keep built from native stone. From the battlements, banners flapped in the wind bearing the rose sigil of the Night Mother. At last, the Borians had arrived at Abkehr, and judging the multitude of guards gathering atop the palisade ramparts and the battlements - Abkehr's garrison knew it as well.

At Galakhad's order, the Borians formed ranks and the mounted Narzads joined Helkha and Galakhad at the front of the army. Synchronized bootfalls rumbled across the clearing as Helkha, Galakhad, and the Narzads led them up to within a hundred feet of Abkehr's southern gate. Galakhad raised his palm up, signaling to the yeoman sergeants to halt. At once, the Borian army halted, trading stares with the garrison of Abkehr looking down upon them from the ramparts.

"Friends and fellow servants of Mother Night," Galakhad called out to the guards standing above him. "I am Baronet Galakhad, and I am joined by Helkha, Stewardess of Boria in lieu of Exarch Vadigar; and the levies of Boria. We have traveled for many days from to reinforce this settlement against the purported threat from the west. I bid you to let us through the gate and feed these men, and that my lady Helkha and I may hold court with Exarch Errocas."

Without response, the solid timber gate was winched open before the Borians. As the gate opened, Helkha and Galakhad saw a grizzled man, with a salt-and-pepper beard and mane grayed more by the pressures of combat than age. He was tall with broad shoulders accentuated by the pauldrons of his plate-and-mail cuirass. Flanked on either side by a cadre of what Helkha recognized as Stromist honor guard, the man standing on the opposite side of the gate's threshold scanned over the Borians with gray eyes before ultimately deciding to swagger over to Helkha and Galakhad.

"So you lot are the reinforcements?" He said, looking across the Borian spearmen with those stern gray eyes. "How many are you? Three, four thousand?"

"We bring 4,120 levies and 380 horsemen from the Narze to assist in the defense of Abkehr," Galakhad reported.

"Less than 5,000 men in reinforcements, hmm? It seems I'm not the only one who isn't terribly concerned by this approaching army I've been warned about."

"Not at all, good sir," Galakhad said. "We are merely the first of the reinforcements to arrive. Regent Master Ai has dispatched another 5,000 men to Abkehr's aid."

"I didn't need anyone's aid."

"Who precisely are you?" Helkha snapped, clearly irritated by the man's lack of respect.

"Ah, I've never introduced myself. I am Marshal Dulas, serving commander of Abkehr until Lord Errocas returns."

"And where might Errocas be?"

"On an errand from the Mother herself."

"I see," Helkha acknowledged. "In any case, I regret that this was not the support you had anticipated, Marshal. But this is all that Boria could spare. We in Boria are unsettled by the news of this army approaching from the west."

"I hardly see why," Dulas replied with the characteristic nonchalance he had in the presence of everyone but Errocas. "Abkehr has seen plenty of attacks from Atar. And yet, here we stand."

"This is not another Atari border raid, Marshal. If the rumors out of Atar are true, we face a much more formidable enemy than any force that has come out of the Realms of the Red Witches," Helkha explained.

What exactly are we up against, then?"

"Allow us inside, and we will divulge all we know."

Dulas gave a nod, and turned to his Stromist guard. "Escort these soldiers to the barracks, see that they are fed, and show them to where they may pitch tents or be quartered. I will go with the Stewardess and her knight and let them speak their peace." With that, Dulas beckoned the Borians into fort Abkehr.

“Death to the Bitch-Empress!” The words hit the Undying Knight’s ears like thunder bolts. He could not quite process what he was seeing; it all seemed surreal.

Some men lived simple lives, tending farms and raising families. They built things. When they died, they left the world a better place than before. Though their lives were short, they had meaning.

Aethelhelm’s life was unending, and, it seemed to him, utterly meaningless.

Born the son of a warrior, sworn to a chief who was sworn to a chief who had opposed Illyrica’s expansion, so many years ago. Since he could walk, war had been his entire life. When he was a child, he would train constantly under his father’s stern gaze. When he was a youth, he carried his sword into bloody battle, raiding across the border into the Empire, and then fighting in the pitched battles that saw his Caesters, his people, utterly defeated. Pressed from the north by their ancient Borian enemies, and with the legions seizing town after town, he had fled with his kin to the south, where he continued to wage war.

Then he had had his encounter with the Lady, and with her mark burned into his arm, he found himself waging war on behalf of the empress he had cursed his entire life. He campaigned against the damn Borians for years. He died for the second time there, crossing the river Khad, when a Borian sheep-molester’s javelin struck him in the shoulder, and he drowned in the river, only to rise again whole and unharmed. When that war was over, he was sent to wage war on every frontier. He gutted Atar tribesmen, gutted Lesmanian regulars, and butchered the occasional vilespawn. He killed bandits and raiders, pirates and invaders. He killed boys, young and old. He killed the occasional woman, as well, who didn’t die any easier than their menfolk. And he killed children. They were the worst; as long as he lived, he would be haunted by the boys he had slain, some so young they might have been girls. And he had resigned himself to living forever.

This last war had been a tolerable one, truth be told. He had been lent- like a damn horse, but he had also resigned himself to being a tool to the Lady- to Exarch Kalon, ambushing Lesmanian patrols that became lost and “accidentally” crossed into Illyrican territory, klutzes as they were. They were numerous and well trained, but on the flip side, they were also willing, regular soldiers. Far easier to take the life of a men-at-arms than that of a peasant conscript forced from his village at sword point. With his fellow knights, he kept Ilyrica safe and her aristocracy fat.

He had come to hate war. The killing never seemed to accomplish anything. But for all his disdain for it, at least it had a sense to it. It was chaos,certainly, but organized, intended chaos, with a clear goal in mind, the destruction of the enemy. If you did not always comprehend what the enemy was doing, at least you knew the motive, that whatever they did was somehow intended to hurt you.

At that very moment, he longed for that sense of clarity.

“Wake up, Galans! Wake up, people of the Empire! You are being lied to: the empress you cling to is a demon, who has deceived you all!” The speaker was a bone thin and visibly deranged man, his shouts cracking is if he was overcome with emotions as he orated. He had a long and incredibly filthy beard, which had long ago been discolored by malnutrition. He seemed as old as a man could possibly be, though in all likelyhood he was younger than Aethelhelm himself. Odd thought, that.

“Famine and sickness, these are the punishments of the true gods for your sins! While you starve and toil and die, your imperial overlords feast and fornicate.” He pointed his bony finger in the general direction of the sea, though even from his podium there was no way he could actually see the port from there. “Make no mistake, it is they who are responsible for the fire that destroyed your homes and livelihoods. The Bitch-Empress, the She-Demon, she feeds on your suffering and misery! She wants to keep you under control, and fire is her tool! The gods have told me this!”

The crowd became more and more restless, and larger as people streamed in. Now, close to a hundred people were listening to the madman. Some glanced at each other skeptically or laughed, but far too many were cheering and shouting. He did not fail to notice that the troublemakers were disheveled and tattered, while the critics were clearly well fed and well off. Aethelhelm turned to Humes, the dour knight next to him, and grabbed his shoulder. “Gather the guards, and disperse this rabble,” he hissed. “Throw the madman in the dungeons.” Humes nodded and raced away to the nearby guardhouse. For the life of him, Aethelhelm could not comprehend why the guards had not acted already: Here was a man preaching treachery and heresy, in daylight, in a heavily populated area, with several guardsmen just watching. And he was doing it completely unmolested. What was the Lady thinking, allowing this? Had she lost all her damn sense?

The mad prophet just went on and on. “They keep the Lady from us, imprisoned in their Citadel. They dare not let us see her, for they know she would urge us to rise up! Where is the Lady of the Galans, I ask you!? Death approaches! Ten thousand ships, the fleet of the gods, sails to lay waste to the Empire! A great horde comes from the west, the vengeance of the war god, Ata’i! And the Lesmanians march on this very city! Ten thousand men, but three days away. Famine and war, that is what the false God has brought you. Repent! Repent!”

Aethelhelm shook his head and continued on his way to the Citadel, just in time for Numes to arrive with a conscripted contingent of guards to break up the plaza’s crowd. He could not stomach another minute of the lunacy. Fire attacks? Hordes from the west, ten thousand ships? Ten thousand Lesmanians? He knew for a fact that the countryside was clear of foes, though violence had erupted as peasants competed desperately for the little food there was. He had seen this kind of thing before: fear was a disease, and as it spread it became more and more pronounced as everyone worked themselves up to a fever pitch. As he walked away, he could hear the uproar behind him as the guards tried to disperse a growing and tumultuous mob. This kind of mass hysteria was typically reserved for cities about to be besieged; that didn’t bode well for his peace of mind.

They were five to continue to the Citadel, armored and armed as befitting Knights of the Wings, the order of ten which stood above all others in virtue and might in this corner of the world. They were figures of legend and adoration. In normal times, the common people showered them with praise and adulation, mistaking them for something other than the killers they were. But these were not normal times. As he walked in the rough packed dirt streets, past rough structures he’d hardly call houses, he saw rows of commoners watching their march, but their looks were suspicious, not adoring. He could see why: most were visibly racked with hunger, bone thin and tattered.

Galenave had survived the last year’s crop failure fine. It had plenty of stores, after all, even if they were depleted after that year. When he had left at the tail end of it, in the fall, it had seemed as if things would be going back to normal. The occasional dispatch he received from the Lesmanian front indicated that this year the harvest had failed yet again, and that the famine had strick. But he had not grasped the severity of the situation from so far away. Riding to the city, he had witnessed fertile landscapes give way to barren wastelands, where nothing seemed to grow. It seemed some terrible disease had afflicted the region, killing most plants as they grew. Some orchards still provided sustenance, and the fishermen still brought in their catches, but these food sources were nowhere near sufficient to sustain the entire region. Curiously, only the lands beholden to Galenave seemed affected, the harvests around Ardaza and in the western foothills being bountiful this year. He was not one to label every misfortune as the work of black magic, but this seemed passingly queer.

The countryside had been in a pitiful state, truth be told. Some villages were hit worse than others, and he came upon settlements completely empty, the people having fled or been killed in cattle raids. When men grew desperate, their hearts shrivelled and shrunk away, and beyond Galenave’s walls banditry had become widespread. He had dispatched the Niassa Parthon with their contingent of soldiers to hunt down the renegades, but he suspected that regardless of how many they killed, the problem would persist as long as its cause remained.

He had heard nothing of the pox. But the giant trench outside the city walls, filled with corpses, confirmed for him the rumors he had heard on the road, that a terrible sickness was wracking the city, brought in from foreign trading ships. He could not see any visible sick spectators as he rode by, but wondered at what lied behind the shut doors of the houses he passed.

All in all, the city was a mess. He could understand why the people were agitated, but not why the Lady had done seemingly nothing to quell the unrest. He hoped he would find answers in the Citadel, where she resided and ruled.

As he pased a bend, the final approach to the castle’s hill, they came upon a line of riders in front of them, armored and emblazed as Exarch Lysvita’s personal cohort of guards. She was not one of the riders, however. Instead, they were led by three figures he recognized: Guzno, the fat representative of the merchants of the city, Merric Tarras, head of the territory’s imperial administration, and Edward Went, the knight commonly called the Jester.

“My lord Aethelhelm!” the Jester announced, putting a large emphasis on the “lord” knowing such a title was improper to his knightly peer as well as disliked personally by Aethelhelm, “It’s so good to see you. It’d have been a shame if you missed all the excitement in the city recently.” He had a big stupid grin on his face, like he always did.

“A little excitement? More like complete anarchy. What the hell is going on here?,” he growled as he shot the younger man a glare that could kill..

The smile vanished. “Well… there was the harvest that failed, and the plague… and what happened at the docks...”

“We would be glad to tell you everything that has transpired, my Lord, but in a more fitting place,” Tarras interrupted, the bony man showing as much emotion as he ever did, that is to say none at all. “Pray accompany us to the Citadel.”

“Like hell. I’m not waiting one more damn minute to get some answers. That mob down in the plaza? They’re preaching fucking treason. Where is Lysvita, and why is she content to let Mother Night bring her wrath down upon her people?”

“You could tell me,” the administrator snapped, before looks from his companions queued him in on the fact that he’d said too much. A few passer-bies had stoped to listen, and some began to whisper around them. Tarras sighed, and turned is horse around, the others following suit. ”“This is not a fitting conversations for the streets. The Citadel is just ahead. This situation... It shames me to say, we need your help, knight-captain.”





“Gone.” The Undying One said the word slowly, savoring each syllable, hardly believing it. He stared out the window, the view showcasing near the entirety of Galenave’s sprawl.

“Gone,” fat Guzno confirmed unhappily.

Apparently, she had vanished completely a month ago, as the food crisis worsened. Nobody seemed to know where she had gone, nor had she left any indication. He had known his Exarch for fifty years now, but never before had he seen her seemingly abandon her duties in such a way. To leave Galenave amid such a crisis, without so much as a hint to her intentions to any of her advisors? Such a thing might be believed of the Archon Soraya, whose mind nobody knew, but of the Lady it was unbelievable.

“How is that even possible?,” Dugren wondered. “Such news would spread like wildfire throughout the land, within Galenave as well as without it. When Vadigar disappeared beyond the savage lands, on the other side of the world, word of it reached us in weeks.” The knight put her hands on the table, as if to hold herself steady.

Jester looked uncomfortable. “That’s simple, really. We didn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t have news come out amidst all this anarchy that the Exarch was gone. Well, it was a secret, until now.” He made a mock bow in the direction of Tarras, who returned a blank look of mild irritation.

“We don’t even know if she’s alive,” Guzno said unhappily.

A moments silence ensued. Sighing, Aethelhelm drew his dirk, outstretched his hand on the stone wall, and plunged the knife into it with all his force, gritting his teeth at the pain as blood splurted from the wound. Wordless, he turned around, and showed the hand to the others. Before their very eyes, the bleeding slowed to a crawl, and the wound closed. “Nightly Mother,” the merchant lord muttered, his face pale.

Aethelhelm looked at his hand with disinterest, watching the skin sew itself shut as the pain receded. “She’s alive. Which just makes all this even stranger.” He threw Jester an accusatory glare. “That doesn’t explain why you’ve let things go to shit in her absence.”

Jester crossed his arms. “It’s hardly our fault if the shit keeps piling up on our doorstep. Things have been out of our hands for a while now.”

“Is that so? And yet Humes seems to have had success in throwing the idiots below in the dungeons. I wonder, are you three lazy, or just craven?”

Jester grimaced, and scratched his head. That had clearly hit home. Guzno stepped forward. “With all respect, Captain, sending Sir Humes like you did was a folly. It just gave the madman credibility: the lower town is in uproar! We let these false prophets preach following our long tradition of not interfering with local beliefs. He was just one beggar among thousands, hardly a threat to anyone.”

“Hardly a threat,” Aethelhelm echoed unbelieving, staring down. Lady above, I’m too old for this nonsense. “Yes, I saw that. That crowd was just a social gathering, and his rants about Mother Night were veiled compliments, I’m sure.”

“He was preaching heresy for certain,” Tarras interjected, “but the Her Excellency would doubtless understand that offensive words are preferable to provoking a riot-”

“Every word from his beggar mouth brought this region closer to doomsday!” Aethelhelm brought down his mailed gauntlet on the table with all his force, splintering the fine wood. He saw things clear as day. These two feared the peasant mobs far more than they did the armies of the Empire. They’d been born long after this land had been conquered. They’d never known what happened to those who defied Illyrica. He closed his eyes and made an effort to regain his composure. “Merric Tarras. Lord Guzno. Your services to the Lady have been appreciated. Now leave. You are banished from all lands beholden to this Citadel.”

Silenced ensued. The two men looked at one another, shocked. Tarras recovered first. “Captain, it is not in your power to banish us from anywhere. We are members of the Council-”

“The Council is disbanded as well, by my decree as our Exarch’s right hand.” He straightened himself up. He was by far the oldest in the room, and also the tallest. He loomed over the others like a mountain, glaring at them, daring them to object. “With Lysvita gone, I am assuming temporary control of the city; This province needs an iron hand, whether it likes it or not. Giant, Boy, take a force of guards and inform the esteemed council members. Should they object, lock them in the dungeons. Hroth-” he pointed at the two buffoons- “get these fools out of my face and out of this city. Tanith, go find wherever Humes is now, and take to the streets. Have heralds announce a curfew; any found roaming the streets after nightfall will be assumed to be bandits, and treated as such.”

As his knights sprang to action, he turned to Jester, who had that infuriating smile he always seemed to sport. He wanted nothing more than to crack the young knight in the face then and there; why such a man was chosen for the wings by the Lady, he’d never know. “Wipe that grin off your face, I’ve not forgotten about you. I’ll decide how I want to roast your guts later. Tell me everything else that happened.”

Jester sighed. “What hasn’t happened? Well, you know about the crop failure, and our fair lady’s disappearance. The famine just got worse and worse. Bread has tripled in price in the last week alone, while the only meat to be found anywhere is rodent. As far as we can tell, nothing edible has grown anywhere inside our borders. We could still bring in food from the traders, but Tarras showed me the treasury; we aren't exactly rich. We certainly couldn't afford buying food for the populace, nor could they buy it themselves, at the prices imports were going at. When I suggested we simply seize and distribute their cargoes, Guzno nearly exploded. He insisted that if we just took the food, Galenave would never see another trading galley for a thousand years. Not to mention that half the overpriced moldy foodstuffs are his own property."

"Even then, things weren’t so bad, but a few weeks ago the plague came in from one of the trading galleys - amid the chaos we never found out which one, not that it matters much- and lots of people died from that. You might have seen our attempt to bury the dead outside. Well, we eventually decided to just sequester all the sick on Mud Street. Given how weak they were, and seeing how little food there is to go around, they’re almost certainly all… dead.”

“A few days ago, things really started to escalate out of control. News came in from the north about some Atar border raid, which scared a lot of people, and then there was rumors that Lesmania had invaded and were besieging Sanc Valatir. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

“When we left the borderlands, tensions were high, but there was certainly no war. And I don’t believe for a second that the Lesmanians managed to rout all our forces there in the week since.”

“Well, the people here believed it in a second. Panic has been building up. Then some fishermen started claiming that an immense fleet is sailing to conquer the Empire as well, some ten thousand ships.”

“More stupidity.” Once this kind of hysteria started, men were ready to believe anything.

“Right, that’s what we judged as well. We tried getting word out that these threats were all pure fiction, but there’s no convincing the masses once they get some silliness in their heads. Everything was still under control, so we didn’t worry too much.”

“But then, two nights ago, all hell broke loose in the docks. Fires broke out throughout the district: before we could even act, a third of the wharfs were ashes. It was no use trying to fight the blaze. It’s been dry recently, and we couldn’t put out the fires no matter what we tried. It was arson, you see. Somebody had littered the city with pitch. I had the guard tear down all the structures around the docks instead, and let the inferno burn itself out. All in all, we lost almost almost the entire dockside, and damn near every trading ship too. Some wharfs survived, and we’ve been rebuilding, but… anyway, we haven’t even tried counting the dead.”



“That fire was the tipping point. The commoners are in hysteria; these kinds of false prophets have been popping up everywhere preaching their nonsense. If it’s worth anything, I wanted to clear them out of the city, but the Council - by intermediary of Lord Fat and Lord Stone- insisted on avoiding confrontations. The merchants are terrified: I’m certain they’ve hired more mercenaries than we have guards by now.”

Aethelhelm waited for a moment, expecting more. “Is that all?”

“Pretty much. I don’t see how things could get any worse anyway.”

The captain of the winged knights sighed wearily and rubbed his forehead. “Well, I suppose I can leave Sir Humes in charge here. Boy is older, but and more.... Imaginative, but he a steady hand is required here. No, Humes should be able to keep things in order until I come back.”

“Until you come… What? You aren’t staying? But I thought...”

“We don’t need one more old man here. We need the Lady. We need Lysvita. Besides… I have an idea where to look.”

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The city of Everyren possessed an air filled with the clamor and the chaos of a large port city in the busiest time of day. The whole town seemed alive with activity as it bobbed and weaved as many common folks went about their business. The Grand keep in the center of the city was the heart of the capital. The fortress possessed a gray stone exterior surrounded by a colorful green courtyard filled with vines and planted flowers imported from the forest realm to the east. It was within this high structure that the council of Lord Knights was now holding court. The chamber was large and ornate; banners hung from the walls as well as ceremonial swords and shields. It was a circular room of generous size. It held a domed ceiling above with chimneys strategically placed above burning braziers so that the chamber was always warm regardless of the season or weather.

In the center of the room stood a half circle of men, five in number, with each wearing ornate armor with regel capes and belted swords. Before them was a round table of oakwood and on its face was the blooming flower artistry that was the heraldry of Bretturean. The man who sat in the middle of these knightley lords looked to be a ruggedly handsome man, he appeared young though his dark eyes seemed to possess a sharpness that hinted at a brilliant intellect. A courtier entered the chamber through two large double wooden doors and stopped short a few feet from the table with a low bow.

"M'lords, the delegation from Illyrica has arrived."

The center Lord nodded as he scratched his beard, "send them in, we shall hear their words." His Bretturean accent thick and strong.

The courtier quickly disappeared through the large doors and within moments they were swung wide open. Three figures marched in, two cream colored Suns of Mars fitted in an impressive array of armor that caught every spark of light offered, their faces concealed by their helms, and one very different looking woman.

She wore the badge of Iao on her right shoulder and the emblem of Mother Night on her left, both clipped a long flowing cape the color of a purple spring night. Her body was wrapped in furs and belts, hiding the glints of steel that formed her armor, and upon her face she wore a large black patch over her left eye, a jagged scar running from under it and down her otherwise flawless cheek to cleave the corner of her lips. Despite her look of experience, she held herself well, and with a spring of youth in each step.

The trio approached the round table of knights, the escorting Suns stopping halfway there while the delegate continued her approach. As she found herself by the hem of the table she pressed her fist to her chest and bowed her head, “Lords of Bretturean,” she looked up and paused where one would expect her to flood the room with the various titles endowed on both her and the company before her, but instead she smiled at the group before her, “I have no doubt you are all well aware of why I am here.”

One of the seated Lords possessed of sharp features with a goatee and mustache, tapped a finger on his hard wood of the table and spoke, "a guess may be a hazard, you act as voice for your Mother Night yes? Well, then speak and have your words meet acknowledgment."

“Charce has provoked Illyrian attention into the south with unnecessary violence, and is quickly bringing despair and destruction to this previously unbothered land,” The delegate shook her head, “My Archon seeks out the voices of reason and understanding among the Lords of Bretturean to help us all see this rising conflict ended quickly.”

One of the knight lords sitting to the far left, broader of the waist and build than the rest, drummed his fingers as he responded, "unprovoked violence is it, well a that sounds a right dodgy that given the news we've heard. If what you say is true, what would you have Bretturean do?"

“Wait,” the delegate seemed dumbfounded, “dodgy, news? Charce has attacked our borders, disrupted the peace in the south, and has set up to invade Illyrica. We cannot have this be a precedent for the south, the fighting will simply spill over and the council of Iao has made it very clear that they want to stay out of the south indefinitely.”

The delegate sighed, “I have been asked by Lord Regent Ai to come to Bretturean to propose a simple alliance and eventually a peaceful pact to ensure that wars in the future can be avoided by stopping such bold strikes we now see Charce making.”

"As we hear it," said the same pot-bellied Lord, "it was Illyrica that has threatened the peace, the border towns of Samis, Diosissa, and… ah yes Apussae are known to have been gutted this month alone."

"Lord Ivan has a point," spoke the mustached noble from before, "nevermind it is well known Illyrica employs privateers to waylay trade on the Sunset seas; your own Mother Night has claimed sovereignty of the East. The invasion of the Northern Kingdoms has made that all too clear Illyrica to rule everything east of the Shambled lands. Are we to believe Illyrica has suddenly lost its thirst for conquest?"

The delegate cocked a brow above her good eye, “my Lords, Illyrica has no thirst for conquest. Mother Night asked of Iao to take the lawless lands so that they may be secured under her -- Bretturean is no lawless land, and Charce was not without law. I hadn’t even heard the names on the lips of my superiors until Charce began murdering our southern patrols and building large forts on our border. There were no orders from Illyrica be it Iao, or the Southern Archon’s and Exarch’s to even touch a hair of the south until the recent aggressions. Lesmania was secure and out of the sight of the Archon of War himself, already deemed sufficiently attended to by her own politics and leaders. Charce has fallen from this point of view, and now we ask Bretturean to help us balance things once more before entire cities of blood are spilled.”

"You must think us so daft as to-" the man was cut short when the lord sitting in the center raised his hand for silence.

"Enough Lord Beerus," said the dark-eyed man as he turned his gaze toward the delegate, "assuming Mother Night's desire for peace is genuine, what assurances can Illyrica give that they do not seek the to add the southern kingdoms to her rule. And what aid would Illyrica ask of Bretturean concerning Charce?"

“Charce has shown itself unfit for peace and it’s leaders have proved unable to maintain a balanced border with us, and so it would be under the best interests of the South if the lands of Charce were put under a split custody of both Illyrican and Bretturean, split down an agreed border, to maintain a peaceful and possibly open border in the future,” the Delegate answered, her hand finding its way to the top of a chair’s back, “Illyrica alone can’t say what is best for Charce, but Bretturean can fill where we lack to ensure this balanced alliance. The Beyond knows there are greater threats to the lands of mortals, and such infighting -- especially without prior parlay’s and meetings -- serves no one.”

There were grumbles from around the table at this declaration, and a few shifted in their seat while the man in the center of Lords, Varncknis, remained silent for a time. The others looked on as if waiting for his lead. Finally, he broke the silence, "you speak in a very round about manner delegate. But it is evident you would have us dishonor ourselves by turning on our allies based on their supposed breaking of this peace?"

There was a pause before he continued, "the roundtable will convene and discuss this...proposition of yours. We must also meet with Sea Lord Karadal to validate these allegations of skive and warmongering you so quickly level. In the candle length till then, you and your retinue are free to enjoy the hospitality of Bretturean."

“Might I leave on a final word?” The Delegate quickly asked.

Lord Varncknis crossed his fingers under his chin and nodded giving her permission to speak.

“Might Charce revoke her aggressions and lay down her arms, so would Illyrica. We do not want the war, and we come to you only if Charce will not see reason, so I wish you luck on your talks with Lord Karadal. If even all three nations could simply talk and avoid armed conflict, then there would be a great victory for all of us. Thank you for your ears,” The delegate bowed her head and lifted her fist to her chest as before. As silence overtook her audience, the delegate gave one more parting bow before turning, her hand slipping from the untaken seat she had held. Only the sounds of her boots clapping the floor made sound as she exited the room, her Suns following shortly after.

---

---

---

“This is the worst of all plausible circumstances.”

“Your grace–“

Kalon silenced him with a wave of his hand. The pendynion, a servant, one of his many hands, his face hidden in the deep recesses of his hooded cloak, responded to the command instantly. “You shall see that Commander Ward is notified of these developments, and Sky-Captain Kalaster after him. Under no circumstances is any of this information to be spread. ”

He bowed. “Your will be done, grace.”

Kalon turned from him as he departed, and his eyes fell on That-Which-Is-Due, and he mulled over the report now in his grasp. An army of Vilespawn had amassed on the edge of his territory, at what could only be a fortress dating back to the War in the Heavens, about one thousand horrors strong. The inevitable conclusion was that they were being gathered under the command of an abomination from before the War’s end. It may have been a Herald, one of the strongest of the Vilespawn. It may have been another sort of creature, the like of which had not been seen since Azueral was seen inside the moon. Undoubtedly the strongest individual creature in that fortress.

But also the its greatest vulnerability. This behavior had not been seen in Vilespawn in centuries, and this element was inevitably the cause of said behavior. If it could be defeated and sealed away, the army would inevitably collapse. Incidents of attacks would likely remain higher than usual, but would return to normal within a decade, or perhaps two.

Unless a new leader arises.

Kalon shook that thought from his head. While whatever circumstances led to this particular Herald, or whatever it was, were troubling enough to bear investigation in their own right, neutralizing it, and thus putting an end to both the army at his doorstep, and most likely to roving Vileswarms, was a higher priority.

The trouble was exploiting that one weakness. This mysterious leader may be the lynchpin of the enemy force, but it was incredibly powerful. The only means by which a besieging force might approach to fortress—the two options of either a narrow pass or a system of caverns—were suicidal. He could send a much smaller force to sneak in and assassinate the enemy leader, but it was questionable whether or not a small enough force to avoid entering the fortress undetected would have the strength to defeat a Herald, let alone some unknown monstrosity from the War. Their odds would be considerably better if he accompanied them, but whatever it was that commanded the Vilespawn was likely magically sensitive enough to detect his approach., which would allow it to bring the full force of its army on their heads, which he was not likely to survive, to say nothing of whoever accompanied him.

No. So long as they were inside that fortress, he wouldn’t be able to attack them. He would need to draw them out. He would need to do it soon, as well, to put an end to the attacks of the Vileswarms. But he lacked any means of forcing their hand, so he needed to offer them something they wanted. But what could that be? What did the Vilespawn desire?

Truthfully, Kalon did not know if “desire” was a concept that could be correctly applied to Vilespawn. But he did know what they did. They spread corruption, afixing their horrid essence to the land and its creatures to spread the influence of their masters.

Vilespawn taint, it was well known, could not be destroyed. That was why the Priesthood of the Waters sealed it away in their archives. But it could still be released if the containment was destroyed. And if it was released, it would once again take some form. And, he imagined, join the Vilespawn army.

“Why,” Kalon’s voice was hushed, as he smiled beneath his mask, “with the Vileswarms about, it would only make sense that outlying stores of taint be brought here, that they might be better protected behind the walls of Sanc Valatir. Of course, such a transfer would need to be under heavy guard by people capable of binding taint in the first place, and several other soldiers to bolster their numbers.” He reached towards That-Which-Is-Due and plucked it from the wall, and struck the floor with its flat end. “In fact, the process is so great a risk that I should oversee the process myself, should the strongest of them arrive.” In an instant, the blade was alight in ghostly, silver flame. Kalon pointed it west, where he knew his enemy to be.

“Do not disappoint me, monster.”

“What you call ‘life’ is irrelevant, youngling,” Lysvita’s mother, Arcaell, had told her once, a look of amusement on her face.

“Irrelevant?” The very notion had infuriated her. She was still but a child in the terms of her people, the immortal Angelos, and their sense of superiority and supremacy had bothered them. She’d always found her kin to care nothing for the lives of anyone without wings. And here was her own mother confirming her suspicions. “You can’t be… Are you really saying that all the humans of this world, their hopes, their dreams, they don’t matter?”

“In the grand scheme of things, no, they do not.” Her mother gave her a patronizing smile. As if she were talking to a simpleton. “Child, this world is but an insignificant part of a cosmos beyond mortal comprehension. The peasants who toil to maintain our great city lie to themselves and insist that their struggles have meaning, and you, being a child, believe the lies as well. You do not understand; nor can you, until you’ve had your first Reaping.”

They had argued for a while after that, Lysvita’s growing outrage contrasting with her mother’s serene and condescending tranquility. Finally, she had stormed out of their manse, and calmed her mind by doing what she found gave her life purpose, being the guardian of humanity. She healed the masses and assured them their existence was valued by the Council of the Elders, the ruling body of the most powerful Angelos, on which both her parents held seats. And yet all the while that same conversation remained stuck in the back of her mind. Her own mother had confirmed her worst fears: The Angelos cared nothing for their subjects, or indeed anything beyond their golden walls and golden spires. Her association with, to the other Angelos, were equal to animals isolated her more and more. They saw her hobbies as a youthful fancy, the harmless folly of the youngest of their race. “In time she will learn,” they said. “She will understand when she has Reaped.”

And she did. She truly did.

One moment she had been in Galenave, contemplating on the ruinous misfortune that had been sweeping her lands. Two consecutive years of crop failures had left her people starving, and the rest of the Empire was indifferent to their plight. It was not a natural disease, the exarch knew: logic said that crop diseases did not stop at political borders, and her instincts as the last of the winged born screamed the presence of foul magic. Then the next instant she was gone. She was now everywhere, and yet nowhere. She flew, but her wings did not beat, nor did she feel the rush of air hammering at her. She saw everything, and yet could not make out anything. The entirety of Ethica seemed at the same time to be both tiny and yet hopelessly far away.

She knew, however, that this was a Reaping. It happened at different times for the first time to all Angelos, some after a hundred years, some after ten thousand, but for her it had not occurred until then. She’d heard about it, been taught about it, by the elders in Old Galenave. But even beside that, she knew on an instinctual, inner level. This was the reason for her existence, whispered a voice in her head, and she could not argue. It was not even a suggestion: It was reality.

Part of her struggled against it. I must return to my people. Galenave needs me.

That is not Galenave. It is a pebble compared to the glory that was Galenave. And they will never be your people.

They are starving. My people are killing each other. If I don’t return, they will die.

Their lives are irrelevant, her mother had said. She imagined her father was beside her, his giant black wings wrapping around both of them. He grasped her shoulder and pointed forward. “Look. But more importantly, see. See, and you will understand.” His voice was same soft rasp it had been when he lived. She looked. She saw. She understood. She understood her people now.

The world stretched below her. She could sea everything from the shores of Sheol to the savage lands of the west, and beyond even, to queer lands where even the trees seemed alien. And this vast world was not empty. Everywhere she looked, she saw dancing lights, stretching like comets as they floated aimlessly. One wandered the bottom of the eastern ocean, kilometers below the surface. She reached out and touched it, the act defying all conventional logic and senses, but which at that moment seemed as easy as touching your own face. She grasped the spirit, and felt her senses be momentarily overwhelmed as a surge of emotions flooded over her. Horror, fear, despair. Even… anger? She felt salt water fill her lungs, felt herself sink to the depths, thought the same curses at the wretch of a captain that a sailor from Doma had once thought. And then it was all gone, as was the light. The spirit flowed through her for a moment. She felt its gratitude. And then it was gone, sent away her unconscious. She had reaped a soul, sending it on its way beyond their world.

“Nothing on this world matters,” her father murmed. “It is but the first step on a journey beyond years. For them, death is a kindness, and life a cruelty.”

She had heard it all before. She shook her head. Perhaps she understood; that did not mean she agreed. “Their suffering is real, as are their wills. They are like blind kittens. They must be guided.”

“It is not your place,” her father whispered. “You do not exist to lead them, nor to protect them. Your place is to reap them.”

Closing her eyes, she felt grief fill her. Grief for her father, grief for her mother. Grief for Galenave, the most beautiful city in the world. Grief for her people. “You’re not real, are you? You’re not spirits.”

“No,” her mother said sadly, there again in front of her. “We do not ascend, as mortals do. When we leave our coils, we vanish into nothingness. Their ignorance is a tragedy: they curse their mortality and envy our lack of it, but it is us who are cursed. We remain in this insignificant world, to serve humanity.”

“We are but memories, child,” her father said. “And we ask you to look.”

“To see,” said her mother.

“To understand,” a voice around her boomed, coming from everywhere and yet nowhere.

She looked up. And she gasped.

The sky above was blotted out by a massive vortex that stretched beyond even her gaze. At its heart there was blackness, unfathomably vast blackness, with tentacles that writhed in the air. The only feature it had that could be made out was an eye of unimaginable proportions, its unblinking gaze scanning across the world in instants. It was terror incarnate, an incorporeal nightmare that drove fear even in her heart. She knew it could not see her, but only because to such a thing she was insignificant. It paid paid her no more mind than a king paid a pebble of sand. And the souls…

The souls were floating up to it.

Most resisted its lure, she saw, too attached or distant to be overpowered, but all of them felt the tug of the thing’s attraction. Those lights that reached it, further high than the mountains and further high than the sky, disappeared into its form, absorbed by the nightmare. It was a thing beyond even her existence. And slowly but surely, it was devouring the souls of the dead.


Meanwhile, on Sheol...

Three tired, dirty, and frustrated hooded figures tore apart a small cellar in a forgotten corner of a forgotten ruin on a forgotten island. The two large men, Ganthred and Pirth, tore the room apart, while the aged woman, Nith, paced frantically. "There's got a be somethin' here," she muttered loudly.

"There's nothin'!" Ganthred snarled. She shot him a vicious look. He was angry, she got that. They were all angry. The four of them had pissed away what little coin they had to get to this god forsaken corner of the Empire, a small ruined tower on a rocky peninsula the kind of which Sheol had in abundance. The tower was supposed to have been built by Old Farron, a big sorcerer in olden times. Folks said he had amassed a massive trove of treasure which he had accumulated serving the blood suckers of this mother damned island, and which he had hidden away when he had died of old age.

Thing was, it seemed old Farron had hid his treasure trove too well, the motherless bastard. And the traps! Oh, the decrepit turd had certainly been a magician, alright. Poor Mathos had melted in front of their eyes- just melted. They'd been extra careful after that, but she made a note to herself to arrange for a curse on good old Farron when they went back to Ardaza. Anyway, they had wasted all their money and had a friend die, and they had barely found two metal coins to justify all of it. Damn right they were cranky. Still, she wasn't going to take their crap; with Mathos dead, she was the closest thing they had to a leader, and tough luck to that.

Ganthred rammed into an empty barrel, which crashed onto the floor, the old decayed wood splintering on impact like butter. "What kind of sick fuck was this old wizard? All those damn traps to protect nothing at all!?"

"Hold your idiot tongue for one minute, Ganthred," Nith shot out. She had stopped at a curious alcove in the wall, and was examining some runes etched into its sides. She couldn't make out the words - she was as illiterate as a fish, and proud of it, and besides she had a feeling even a book reader wouldn't be able to make out these words. They seemed to shift as she stared at them.

She had lived fishing the seas and selling her catch in the docks of Ardaza all her life. Both could kill you in a second if you were stupid or unlucky. She had survived to her fourties by being tough as nails and the meanest bitch around besides, but also by knowing when to act on her gut. So that's what she did: she acted on her gut, and started brushing the runes.

"The hell are you doing, you old hag?" Pirth asked.

"Shut up and give me your knife," she snapped.

Brushing the runes with her hands hadn't done much, but as she chipped away at the old stone with Pirth's generously donated knife, she became more and more certain that she had made the right call. She was rewarded when, after defacing yet another letter, the runes all vanished. Just vanished. All that was left of them was a long groove where the writing had been. And the alcove... Ah, there was a handly on it now.

"Magic," Pirth said, wide eyed. "We shouldn't be messin' around with magic, Nith. Magic never ends well for anyone, everyone says so."

"We're already knee deep in magic, salt for brains. Mathos got liquified, remember? Might as well keep on going. Ganthred, get over here and pull this handle, I got a feeling there's a hidden path here."

The big man shuffled over and obliged. He gave the handle a hard tug, and the stone wall flung open, nearly making him fall down in the process. "What the hell?" he asked as he got back to his feet.

"Magic," Pirth cursed again.

She shut them up with a glare and went into the next chamber, waving her torch in front of her warily. The next room was small, as pitch black the other rooms they had visited... and cold. Gods, it was cold as winter! The sudden shock made her shiver involuntarily. "Should've brought coats," she pointed out, laughing.

"Wait, there's something," Ganthred said, pointing towards what seemed to be an altar in the center of the small round chamber.

"What do we have here, I wonder?" Nith walked towards it. When the light shone on the object rested on the pedestal, she had a sudden intake of breath.

"What the shit?" she heard Pirth whine behind her.

"Is that an... an egg?" Ganthred's voice seemed strangely muffled, though she couldn't tell if it were in awe or just the small room playing tricks on her deaf ears.

"That's... that's gotta be a dragon egg," she gasped finally after a moment's stunned silence. "Look at it! Look at the size of the thing!" The egg was as big as a dog, its smooth flawless surface reflecting the torch's light as if it were made of some kind of gemstone. "This is gotta be worth a fortune! We'll be rich!"

"I'll carry it," Pirth said quickly, and rushed forward. He picked up the egg, clearly struggling. "Damn this thing's heavy? How much do 'em dragon eggs weigh? It's not even funny."

Ganthred moved next to him, a strange look on his dumb face. "Give that here, Pirth. I can carry it."

Pirth laughed and gave his companion a condescending look. "Fat chance of that. You're a moron, Ganthred. I'm not givin' this to you just so you can drop and break the thing."

"Shut up, I'm stronger than you! I'll carry it!" In a flash, they were tussling, and Ganthred had tossed Pirth to the ground. The egg fell right to the floor with a loud crack, but it didn't look like it was even dented, lucky that. She was going to tell both of them off when she wondered why they weren't even looking at where the egg fell. Then she saw: Between them, a slew of small coins of all kinds of metals were strewn over the floor. They'd fallen out of Pirth's pockets as he had fallen.

Ganthred's face went from confusion to pure rage. "You cheating piece of shit! I'll kill you!"

"Bring it on, ox!" Pirth whiped out his dagger in an instant and charged Ganthred, embedding it into his stomach. Nith pulled out her own knife and jumped in. At the end of the fight, Ganthred was on the floor bleeding out slowly, Pirth was choking on his own blood after she'd slit his neck open, and she was picking up the egg, not even looking at her friends or the coins. "Little help here?" she heard Ganthred call out weakly. "That rat got me good."

She looked at him, as if she didn't even know him. "Yeah, I'd say you're pretty gotten. Tough luck, buddy." She hoisted up the egg; Pirth had been right, the thing weighed more you'd expect, even considering its size. Still, she managed to get in into a sack, and started dragging it away.

Ganthred looked at her go dumbfoundedly. "You're serious? You're just gonna... let me die here? Like a damn animal?"

She laughed as she disappeared from his sight. "You forgot, fish for brains, I'm a bitch, remember? If you somehow manage to not bleed to death, there's probably enough coins there for you to rent a room in some shithouse for a few weeks. I have a meeting with riches. Best of luck!" As she left, her cackling died down, and by the time she had dragged the thing to their dinghy she had realized that she didn't actually know where to sell the thing.

Ardaza was the obvious option, but big Manuel had his fingers in every pie, and his thugs would probably just take the egg from her if she popped up with it. Thultar was too orderly. She didn't even know if the city HAD a black market, and she certainly wasn't gonna put any bets on it. It would be Doma, she decided. A big city, far enough away from this hellhole that nobody would guess what she had, and far away from the families of her former traveling companions, who might ask pointed questions on why she was coming back alone. Plus, she'd been there before, and she knew a few scoundrels who'd probably give up their left testicle to get her egg. That was that, then: Doma it was!

As she started rowing away, watching the collapsed stone tower recede into the distance, she couldn't help but admire her egg. Her dragon egg. She smiled.