Monavdu, Aylsfyn

The sound of the jewell-blue sea washing against the rocks of the shore was a sound of soft pillows. Washed inland by a fresh breeze the gentle washing of the shoreline carried on into and over the city of Monavdu. It brought with it the daily celebration of life and comfort. The gauls over head squalled and called against each other as they circled over the countless fishing boats that sailed the calm mirror-quality waters.

Minarets and towers towered over the homes and guild-halls of Monavdu proper. Their bright plaster caught in the glow of the sun, turning them into shafts of silver light, crowned in red. Dominating the skyline, a towering keep of deep earth-reddened stone stood over the city, bearing a stoic watch on its domain as soldiers below patrolled and drilled in the court-yard. The sights of a thousands of banners flew over the yard from ropes, proclaiming the thousands of lords of the king's reach.

Standing guard over the ramparts, twisted and gnarled gargoyles sat at their frozen perch. The twisting snarled faces bore a resemblance to the northern Wyrms and bears of the homeland of the island kingdom's ruling family. Those locals who looked up at the carved avatars bore little to know knowledge of these beasts. Less so of the rearing chimps and cheeky monkeys carved onto pillars and into mosaics that decorated the court-low walls of the liege-lord's home. Pieces of porcelain glowed in the eyes, like gemstone inlays burning with the ferocity of the sun.

All through the courtyard stands of spindly bamboo and towering Cyprus provided decoration for the stone yard, or at the least some manner of shade for the clumped courtiers who haggled and hawked over the soldiers with one another. Casting sharp eyes towards their neighbors or rivals. Fearing that perhaps even a castle away, their secrets could be heard. But their affairs were merely private, passing along the gossip. It was in the grand scheme – and always will be – the talk of young girls amidst adult men with money pretending to own prestige. Many of them could hardly prove the titles they claimed to bear, and simply waited and hoped for some power to make good on them.

A high platform stood above the court. Nestled in the clusters of towers rising in succession to the top of the great keep. Covered over by a stone-cut canopy draped with hanging moss the true nobles of the keep sat reclined in the fair weather of the Mondovan afternoon. Servant women in loosely hanging robes attended to the needs of the men, pouring their wine from silver vases and offering bread from silver platters.

Their lord - Malius Enywyr – was a simple man by many standards. A small creature with a plane round visage. He reclined on a long couch, his blue eyes pulled down to an unrolled scroll, and not up to the maidens that served him. He was a paler man than they, with hair far fairer and soft.

“I hear the Bjorni family kids have been dabbling in with-craft.” Malus said, his voice hard and grinding. Like gravel under the boot. If it was for a man larger, it would have been fitting. “I am rather unhappy that my pledges against dark magic have not been taken seriously.”

“My liege, I must insist they are only rumors.” a dark skinned man said, his head crowned with a turban as simple as the robes he wore. The chancellor Veada. A man who claimed to be the heir to the titles of the minor house of Bedja. But in trying to force his claim had been proven a mere bastard and beaten on the field as such. A cowardly man by his nature, he sought quick refuge in Malius' court. But the native-born blue-eyed dark skin courtier had proven a serviceable figure with an apt ability to put his large nose into affairs he did not need to know, but his king did.

“The house Bjorni is already at odds with your imprisonment of Cath Rathskull, Od' Bjorni's eldest son's fiancee. Would it even be wise for you to charge his sons on black magic?”

“They know well the consequences of associating with such matters!” Malus boomed. His eyes turned up from the scroll to Veada. His bright blue eyes connecting with his. “I have made it time and time clear my tolerance on the matter as I sentence many a thousand to partnering with the old blood magics.

“Od' was even at the trial of Cath and saw full well the weight of the evidence against her. He knows full well the consequences of not keeping an eye on his brood. And should understand the merit to controlling these rumors. But they are out there, and I must take action on my own honor.”

“I understand the issue of your honor,” Veada pleaded, “But it might be best to let this go. For the sake of the realm.”

“The sake of the realm's stability is no issue when speaking of a house so low as Bjorni. If we were speaking of the Vedajad or the Barwrongs I would be inclined to agree on the matter.” an old man said between the two. The old wizard Skulding. The beard hanging from his face not unlike the moss that hung down from the eaves of the castle. And his face as tired as the ground itself. His eyes still shone with a spark. The magic of his very life, “I would hazard to say that the association of black magic with his family would dissuade Od' from declaring hard action in retribution. The Rathskull's abided, despite being a more major house than Bjorni.

“In fact, if I have heard right on the matter the Rathskull after the charging of Cath had their invitation revoked from the banquet of Geja's design. It hurt their alliances in such a way that they could not make a move.”

“Od' is still all the same a short-tempered man!” Veada pleaded, “He is not the complacent, tempered person as Goring Rathskull.”

“Still, all the same I side to the opinion that the Bjorni children should be investigated. I shall go to conduct the inquisition on them and to find the signs of dark magic, if you will my liege.”

“Yes, and thank you.” Malius said. A serving maiden swung over to his side and offered down to him to refill his glass with wine, but he briskly refused the offer.

“If it matters all the while perhaps if you could seek out from who the boys learned the magic they're rumored to be dabbling in.” he handed the wizard the scroll he was reading and added: “Perhaps we may figure out why so many cats have gone missing. We will need to get their rat-catcher compensated.”

Damakuneta, Akataneka
It is a particularly hot night in the capital city of the Nochi on top of the already highly saturated marshland air. Around the city are massive stone walls, rising several scores above the ground, being partially a levee to keep the marshland from encroaching on the drained-out capital. At the center of the city is a large tiered castle, rising up eight stories, truly the pinnacle of man's dominion over nature. Outside the walls of the palace-castle torchlight burns in a massive display, some odd two hundred lights in all, shouting out with the same voice.

Nearing the end of his life, Emperor Ramaki lies in his sickbed, surrounded by a cast of servants watching over him, ready to fulfill his order. The protesters outside the walls call for the start of the new dynasty. The present emperor, like the marshland itself, is a stubborn man; having borne no sons under him, he turns to his daughter who weeps at his side then back to his highest general.

"Taowa," begins the emperor, "Go now, tell the people this. This dynasty does not die so easily. My daughter will-"

"Emperor!" interjects General Taowa, "This goes against the tenets laid out since before the first dynasty! We can't just-"

"I am the emperor, Taowa. If I say that Hanaka is to be the new emperor, then damn it she will be."

"Forgive me, but putting Hanaka on the throne would not only break the tenets of which this empire has been governed for millenia; the green clan will too march their armies on the capital to claim the throne for themselves in accordance of the tenets. It will be war."

"Then we'll just make sure that we don't break the tenets. Hanaka!"

Hanaka nods, "Yes, father?"

"This is no longer your name. You are now to be known as Bokun, Sixth of the Fourth Pink Dynasty."

"You intend me to... become a man?"

"I do. You've never taken much interest in the feminine arts, have you? You're always too busy attending my court alongside me."

"Well no, but..."

"Then it's decided. You'll become the new emperor."

"But why are you doing this? Why prolong the dynasty longer than need-be?"

"You know the kind of emperors the green clan has produced. They're ruthless expansionists, they're responsible for Kitaneka, for the political instability in the northern hills. It is our duty to postpone their dynasty at all costs."

"Of course father."

"Very well, leave me now and tell the people I've found my long-lost son."

Taowa holds his arm across his chest, bowing lightly at the waist, "As you will, my liege."

As the servants leave his bedchambers, the Emperor sits up, looking out over the city at the full moon,

"Because they'll learn the truth if they ever go back to Kitaneka..."

A chill north wind rattled the banners, bitter incense smoke scented the air, and the hollow thrumming of taut leather drums played a sober rhythm slowly as the priest spoke.

"Hear his voice and see his motion!" the priest cried. "Close your eyes! Close them and see! Close them and know."

Bone rattles began to play and the scent changed. The drums sped in tempo before slowing back to where they were before. And then all was quiet, save for his voice.

"The Black Goat came down from the Mountain of the Wind and mounted the River Wolf. The wolf crawled beneath the skyward breeze and labored for seven years until the Godskin was born. The Godskin, father of the people! The Godskin, who made war on the sea! The giants of the forests and the owlmen of the marshes raised him, teaching him to hunt and to see, and to fight when the need was on. When he was still but a boy, he enamored the daughter of the river with his nakedness, and they lay in the fields and gave birth to the first of his endless children. The Godskin, who wrestled every bear! The Godskin, who sampled every fruit! Together they lay until the time came for the infant to be brought into the world, and they remained bare and made for the Mountain of the Wind with the newborn and named him Childaric. And there was the first prince, and the promise that was to be."

The drums stopped. She opened her eyes.

She was kneeling in a field of wet-green grass perched on the edge of a mountain. Around her the Ceorls and Retainers of her husband and family. Men with bronze helmets shaped like slouched hats, or simpler conical helms made from iron. Rusted chain mail, banded bronze, and boiled leather peaked from behind robes of fur and capes of colored wool that whipped in the wind. Some men leaned on spears or long axes, while others patted their belts where swords and maces hung, and their shields bore the devices that identified their clans. The Brown cross on blue meant Wetbreeches, and the pure white with curving grey lines meant Hardwinds. There was the goat balanced on a pebble that stood for the Suerfoots, and the burning tree that stood for the Greatfires. Some where circular, while others were shaped like eggs that thinned in the middle. They were hers and his, loyal to them. She felt safe among friends, but nervous for what happened next.

He stood next to her, a short man with greying black hair and the hint of a beard below his chin. A thick fur robe covered his body. She held his hand, and it felt like an invisible wall had been put up around the two of them, unassailable by any who would wish her harm. Even with the cold mountain wind prickling at her skin, she felt warm.

They had married in a distant spring during their youth. She was a Firenight from the edge of the Skrael lands, and her blood had Skrael in it. She wore it in her bushy red hair, and her pale northern eyes. It seemed so long ago, when they first met, though in reality it had been little more then fifteen years. She was thirty now, and her husband and King thirty five. Yet somehow she felt older. Not physically - her youth was still on her, though her skin had darkened a shade and she had thickened at the hip. It was in her mind. She felt like a wise old woman who had seen more moons than could be counted.

"Who comes before?" The priest cried out. He was covered in mottled thick furs from head to toe, with only a small opening for his face.

"Bergen of the Stoencliff clan, King of Rock and Sea"

"King of Rock and Sea. The rest said aloud. Some pounded their shields for emphasis, and that annoyed her. She wanted to get on with this. The time was coming, and she could feel a twisting knot in her stomach. Of course, she had stood here before, when she had named her first three children. Moli had remained silent, but Nenna and Horic had screamed the entire time. She had worried each time that the cold would hurt them, and Horic had came down with a flu the week after, but they had all survived. Even though she was a veteran in this, she could not help but to worry.

"Bergen of the Stoencliff, King of Rock and Sea." the priest answered back. "You have brought three children here before. Molivia, who has reached her seventeenth year and is your heir. Horic, who has reached his twelfth year and is your first son. Nena, who has reached her eighth year and is your second daughter. Who now do you bring?"

"Six moons past my wife gave birth to a son." Bergen spoke. "He shall be my second son, and we have came to give him his name." He squeezed her hand. Her heart fluttered. It was time.

"Wife of Bergen, you bring a son?"

"I am Asla." she said. "Of the Firenights, and now of the Stoencliffs." Her throat felt hoarse, and numbness cooled her limbs. "I bring a son who shall be my second son, and we have came to give him a name."

"Very well." the priest said ritually. "It is time that this new son have a name."

It was time. In her mind, Asla swallowed her fear and shrugged off her robe. She heard her cloth fall alongside her husbands, and the light of pale skin flashed at the edge of her vision. She felt the wind tease at her exposed femininity, and she felt their eyes. Her breath faltered. She was cold and open to all their friends. Grasping for comfort, she looked over at her husband. If he was uncomfortable, he did not let her see. Wiry black hair covered much of his body. He stood confident, and it made her feel brave enough. Naked, they both approached the priest.

A young Ceorl leaned forward, putting her baby in her arms. It was pink from the wind and the cold, but it did not cry. He pushed his cheek into the palm of her hand and hiccuped contently. Seeing his face, she forgot where she was and all of her apprehension faded.

"What name has been chosen?" the priest asked.

"Beorl" Bergen said loudly. "Beorl shall be my second son's name,"

"Beorl!" The priest gently took the baby from her arms and lifted it above his head. "Hear it, Gods of Mountain and Rock! Hear it Gods of River and Rill! Hear it that this is Beorl Stoencliff!"

"Beorl! Beorl" the gathered said in unison. She heard steel play against steel as they unsheathed their weapons and held them in the air. Calls for "Stoencliff", "Borgen", and "King of Rock and Salt." joined the cacophony.

All at once it was over. Ceorls tossed their robes over their shoulders, and Asla wrapped hers tightly around her body, drinking in the warmth. A swaddle of fur was wrapped around the young infant as well, and it was placed in her arms. She tickled at Beorl's cheek and smiled.

"Beorl" she whispered. "Little Beorl."

Damarskan, The House of Lords

Jaesyn stared across the Council chamber at a guttering candle, a bored expression on his long, dark face. One could imagine that he found the dying candle more interesting than what was currently being discussed. He drifted in and out of the conversation, sometimes drumming his elegant gloved fingers on the glossy table-top. Every few minutes, he would shift in the uncomfortable wood and leather chair, leaning on an elbow and placing his chin on his palm, smoothing out the wrinkles in his new silk tunic, or rubbing sleep-robbed eyes. The candle finally winked out with a tiny, almost embarrassed wisp of smoke, and he sighed, turning enthusiastically back to the matter at hand.

Thirteen men sat behind a long table, in twelve large but simple wood and leather chairs (Some draped with furs) and a gorgeous throne of lacquered, gilded wood with a cushioned seat and arms. The walls were built of solid slabs of old, rough granite, blackened by generations of smoke from torches and candles; to the left and right they were hung with tattered banners, broken shields, rusted swords, and other trophies of past victories. Behind the councilors hung three banners; a massive red, gold, and black banner proudly displaying the flame-burst, sword, and eagle of Ordov was in the middle, flanked by two banners of pure white trimmed in shimmering cloth of gold. On the floor were many fine rugs, worn by the tread of thousands of feet. The table itself was worn and bare, with a simple red cloth thrown over it; an ordinary fare of wine, bread, and cheese was spread atop it.

Sitting in the grand throne was Tia'Gevor Karnak del'Vemeron, high king of the Dominion. Sixteen years old, Karnak was a tall and slender boy with violet eyes and ash blond hair, rakishly dressed in a black leather vest over a long-sleeved red satin tunic trimmed with gold and red leggings tucked into gold-tooled black leather boots; around his waist a black belt was cinched, its golden buckles studded with rubies and black diamond. Sitting on his brow was a simple circlet of the finest steel, plain an unadorned save a single ancient Ordovin rune. The Tia'Gevor was the only armed man in the room, aside from the guards, an elegant saber hanging at his side. Occasionally, he tapped the pommel of this sword when irritated, which seemed to be growing more and more common.

To the Tia'Gevor's right sat Urrag vel'Meskemos, a middle-aged man built like an ox. Dark blue eyes glowered out of a face that seemed to carved from stone by some savage god. His head was shaved, though his brick of a jaw was concealed by a thick scrub of black beared streaked with gray. All knew the Grand Marshall to be a heartless and brutal man, a stern judge of character able to spot the weakness in any foe. And everyone in the Dominion understood that this general was the true ruler of the nation, he and the Tausar'Luysi, not the stripling beside him. It was Urrag who heard and answered most of the greivances brought before the Council.

One by one, lords great and small, rich and poor, they brought their issues and reports to the Grand Marshall. Occasionally, Urrag would turn to Karnak and quietly, politely, ask him is opinion or for assent on some matter. The Tia'Gevor would usually nod brusquely, or mutter some compliance. At one point he glared venomously at the Grand Marshall and said nothing, but Urrag did not seem to notice or care, simply taking the attention as agreement and turning back to the ghekhav with whom he spoke. Finally, Urrag nodded to the Seneschal, who banged his staff on the stone floor. "Court is adjourned for today!" he cried in a ringing voice. "If your matters have been resolved satisfactorily, you may return next week." There was some grumbling, but the remaining folk who had not even had their cases heard yet left the hall.

When all was quiet once more, Urrag beckoned to one of the Marshals. The man, Reichyn ne'Skamos, reached under his chair and pulled out a large vellum roll. He laid it on the table and unfurled it. One corner kept trying to curl back in on itself, so the Keeper of the Keys, Malek ne'Torem, set his wine goblet down on top of it. Displayed on the rich vellum was a map of the Vale of Ordov and the immediately surrounding regions, perhaps a hundred leages beyond every border. "Let us discuss the summer campaign," Urrag said in his rumbling, gravelly tones. There were nods from the Grand Admiral and seven of the nine Marshalls. Karnak, Malek, Jaesyn, and the Marshall Revek ne'Hulik seemed disinterested.

"Most of you seem in favor of marching on the easterlands once the spring floods have subsided. We would sack the realms of Geir, Russk, and Starig, put their people to the sword or the chain and add their lands to ours so that we might have more room to settle our people." Four of the Marshalls and the Grand Admiral nodded. "Some would have us march north along the coast and topple the castle of traitor Taelyc, who grants himself the royal style del'Krasymos." Stern nods from the Grand Admiral and nearly all the Marshalls, save Jaesyn and Revek. "Why?" Revek proclaimed, now sitting up straight and looking annoyed. He was a very handsome man, richly dressed and sporting many precious stones on his neck and hands. "These are Ordovin folk we speak of, fellow countrymen of mountain and Vale." Urrag gave him a cool look.

"The Dominion must expand to meet the needs of its rapidly growing population," he explained, very slowly as if to a young child. "And they are traitors. The ghekhav of the east should have bent the knee to the Tia'Gevor, or their households should have overthrown and abandoned them." There were many fervent nods of assent, though some looked forced. "And Taelyc dare name himself Gevor," added the pious and pompous Marshall Andros vel'Orbansk, possibly the richest man in the room though his clothing was stained with grease and wine. "His folk follow the Old Way, embracing the darkness when they could -- and should!! -- follow the Light!" Several Marshalls pounded their fists on the table, shouting in martial agreement as if to say they should march then and there. Revek held his hands up for silence, and his fellow Marshalls slowly, reluctantly, fell quiet.

Revek stood and looked around, brow furrowed. "We should be securing the future of the Dominion economically, not through military might. The army has already swollen to such a size that it is difficult to outfit and train them all in the national manner that you wish, and your aznvuygun have bankrupted the treasury, Urrag." The Grand Marshall remained stoic, calmly watching the younger man. For once, Karnak seemed very interested in the proceedings; he leaned forward in his chair, staring intently at Revek. Jaesyn sighed and shook his head. This idiot was going to get them killed. "I say that the reannexation of the eastern territories is uneccessarry," Revek went on. "The Geirlish are our best trade partners in horseflesh, the Starigmen guard the headwaters of the River Rann, from which much of our gold flows."

"All the more reason to make them ours!" spoke up Kas vo'Eadwyn, the ancient and eternally angry representative Marshall of the northern clans. While stoop-backed and gnarled as an old oak, he was still strong, and filled the chamber with his angry shouts. "Why should we trade for that which we could own? And as Urrag said, these are traitors, malcontents waiting to happen. The other ghekhav will look at these men and think we are weak, and they can do as they please. We should burn Taelyc's estates to the ground and sow his lands with salt as an example, and then march east." Several of the other Marshalls began to speak up until they were nearly shouting over each other. Jaesyn rolled his eyes and laughed under his breath, slouching down in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. Revek sat back down next to him, looking utterly nonplussed.

"Idiots," Revek said, completely disbelievingly. "Total and utter idiots. We should be securing silver and iron mines with our neighbors, or building new ships to begin trading overseas. At the very least, if we're going to make war, it should be against the Vydari, not fellow Ordovin." Urrag's eyes met Revek's for a split second, holding him there. Revek felt naked underneath that cold, iron-hard stare. Then the moment passed. Urrag turned away and nodded towards the Seneschal. His iron-shod staff banged on the ground several times, piercing through the conversation and bringing it to a halt. Everyone turned to look at the Grand Marshall as Urrag stood, impassive. "We shall put it to a vote," he said calmly.

"Shall we march north on the traitor Taelyc del'Krasymos and put his lands to the torch?" There was a chorus of ayes from Andros, Kas, Reichyn, Tadeos, and Haykaser, and the Grand Marshall himself added a quiet aye when they were silent. "Or shall we hold off on the summer campaign against our neighbors and persue non-military interests?" Karo, Ishkhan, and the Grand Admiral all murmured ayes, Martiros in particular looking rather uncomfortable. Revek was louder. "Aye suppose so," quipped Jaesyn, earning himself a glare from his friend. Malek leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, signalling his wish to abstain. "The vote stands at twelve for war and seven for trade," the Seneschal proclaimed, and looked towards the Tia'Gevor. Two by two, each pair of eyes in the room turned towards him.

Urrag looked expectantly down at the young high king, his face completely neutral, but his eyes were hard and cruel. Karnak stared at him for a few seconds, then turned to Revek and Jaesyn. "So...who do you think would make good trade partners?"

Monavdu, Aylsfyn

With polite bows Skulding and Veada excused themselves from their king's side. Leaving the lightly built man to his own devices as he continued to recline in comfort in the shade of the overhang. The weather was fair and warm, and he saw no reason to abandon the feeling for the stifled interior of the castle. If there was any man that sought the need to make direct counsel with him it would be overlooking the pearl city and bright blue city. It was his world here. Gull song and the distant beating of drill drums were a soft dream song.

Pulling aside a serving woman, he summoned for paper before excusing the lot to his thoughts. With the young fair ladies gone the king set his scroll on the ground and rolled onto his back. His body felt tired and weak, an effect of the affliction his physicians promised was minor. It was a worm they promised, and it needed only to be starved out. To feast only on bread and wine until the day it decides to evacuate.

Though a diet of bread and wine was a modest thing that made for good talk, it did leave him hungry.

The moments passed by with the thrumming of the distant waves and the ceaseless drilling below. It was all a dream, and he was warm. Diet catching up, he closed his eyes to nap.

He lay on his couch, restless and alone for the better part of ten minutes. Not a servant approached him or disturbed him without his request. It felt good to sleep.

“My lord.” a soft feminine voice said, stirring the man from his nap. The frail inquisitor king sat up, looking down with the door with a expression of mixed bitter anger, and an impatient curiosity. His chest was already hot with bitterness, but cooled and dulled.

Standing by the entrance to the large stone porch was his wife. A long tall woman. He held in her hands a think stack of parchment. A bottle of ink and a quill in her hand. Her smile was soft and warm as she stood in the door.

Malius sat up from his recliner and sighed in relief. His smile was a warm one as she walked to the table with the materials. It was a wonder that for the twenty-six years they had been wedded and through two children she looked the same as the day they were introduced. Her long dark hair tied in a bun behind her head. Skin soft, she and her parents kissed by the sun. Dark brown eyes stared in his blue eyes with the sort of light shared by the same bed for the greater part of their life.

He had been sixteen when they wed, and she twelve. It was a political affair, like many others. And it sired two heirs for the both of them.

“I heard you needed paper.” she said, her voice was a song to him and he felt better for having been interrupted by her and no one else.

“I did.” Malius groaned, “I have an order I must write, and a warning to dispatch.”

“I would ask who it is.” she said softly, “But it's probably for the best I do not.”

“Likely.” he said. There was no lack of trust between them, and both trusted the other with their secrets. But all the same both through their twenty years had learned to recognize what one needed the other to know, or what would be the best to keep in their own circles. Though the actions of Malius would inevitably come to be public, it rarely ever spoiled the unspoken understanding.

“Your color has returned.” his wife commented, sliding next to him. Gently placing a finger under his chin she lifted his head up to get a good look at him. He was still sunken and tired, and plain as ever. “Maybe you can start actually eating again.” she said with a hopeful smile, “No more bread or herb water.”

“You know as well as I do Engela that it will need to wait until the surgeons see me next.” said Malius.

“I say damn the surgeons.” she laughed, “You're looking fine, the worm must be on its way out.”

“If it was I am told I would know.” Malius commented, with a hand she pushed her hand from him and leaed over the paper.

“Have you heard the wishes of your son Bern?” Engela asked suddenly. Her husband deep in writing the arrest warrant of the Bjorni lads. The scroll he had set aside reopened to present the list of names and evidence for the warrant.

“I'm afraid not.” Malius replied, looking to the old scroll with an emotionless expression, “Has the boy picked his teacher?”

Engela nodded, “He expects that he should go under the tutelage of the Prince Haalenstern.” she said.

Malius was silent as he wrote. His lips unmoving as the hawk-feather quill scribbled along the page declaring his order, “No.” he said suddenly. Stopping to turn to his wife.

“As much as I respect Haalenstern for his abilities I do not think it'll be safe to put Bern in the guardianship of a foreign house.” the words came on a deep sigh, “Even if said house has a member of their own on our soil. He may perhaps enjoy discussion with the the Haalenstern prince if it suits him. But I do not feel that he should be his tutor.”

“Then who would you have teach him if not Theodocis?”

“I was thinking lord Wen of Westshjore. He is as good a man as any, and he has sons his own age. It would be healthy for him.”

“Lord Wen?” Engela said shocked, “But is he not stricken with Deadflesh?”

“He is, which is why I feel for his own justice he gets to teach as much he knows upon some other before he goes. I still recognize him as a master of coin. And as I have seen of him the physicians have ordered his guard to not lay a hand on any living person to risk spreading his curse. And a silk veil keeps his breath to himself. There will be no danger, he can still sit upon his throne and is an intelligible man.

“And he has many old war stories as a privateer. I do not doubt it will keep Bern satisfied.”

Monavdu, Alysfyn

Thick leather boots lined with the fur of some northern beast clacked against the polished tiling and resonated through the high ceilings of the Monavdu palace; their echoes accompanied by the telltale jingling of chainmail armor. Honor guards standing with statuelike rigidity looked on from either side of the corridor as the trio made their way to the King's chambers. Flanked on both sides by towering, stoic northmen, Prince Theodocis Haalenstern swaggered down the hall with purpose. Though he was a royal son, Theodocis could have easily been mistaken by the more civilized courtiers for some manner of northern warlord. Indeed, the palace guard had tensed noticeably when they had been allowed in the doors; Vedic warriors were easy enough to spot, and the reputation of the sons of Veden preceded them. Veden was, as all those acquainted with the peoples and customs of the world, was a land of wild, turbulent men. Their skill with the with the axe was unmatched, and their qualms with finding use for it few in number. Those who desired peace and order were always on edge in the presence of the sons of Veden.

For a man of Veden, especially one of royalty, Prince Theodocis was rather short in stature. The sons of Veden were known among other things for their respectable height, as one might imagine looking upon the warriors accompanying Prince Haalenstern. Theodocis, though, stood a full head shorter in height than the guards at his flanks. Even so, he was formidable enough. His physique was that of a bear - giant shoulders covered with studded pauldrons swung to and fro with every step and barrel of a chest beneath that. A mane of coarse yellow hair fell down his shoulders in a single braided column upon a cuirass of leather sheets interstitiated with swathes of chainmail armor. A thick goatee of the same blonde hair curled around his mouth and hung in an angular, trimmed beard off of his blocky chin. Underneath a hanging brow, gray eyes looked over each of the armored guards contemptuously. If only he had been born a few inches taller, the Vedic prince might almost qualify as a giant.

As he was every time he visited the palace at Monavdu, Theodocis was deeply impressed by its exquisite architecture. With every visit, the northern prince discovered some new detail of the edifice. Be it the gargoyles, the vaulted ceiling, or the skylight windows beaming warm golden sunlight down from above him; the palace had fascinated him ever since he had first laid eyes upon it nearly a decade ago. Even after becoming so familiar with the structure's magnificence, Theodocis made it a point to notice something new about it whenever it crossed his mind. Prince Haalenstern was thoroughly convinced it was the greatest edifice in all the world. Even if it was not, certainly there was nothing in Veden that could hope to match its majesty.

As the trio came to the end of the corridor, Prince Haalenstern and his companions came to a massive double door guarded whose handles were guarded by a final pair of honor guards. Standing directly in front of the door, a guard draped in a loose cape. With mechanical precision, the captain of the guard stretched his hand out toward the approaching prince and extended his palm to bring the him and his guards to a halt several meters from the door.

"In the name of his most noble majesty - our glorious King Malius Enywyr - halt now and state thy intent!" The caped guard demanded from the bottom of his throat. His hand fell back to his side, but now hovered noticeably close to the pommel of his sheathed blade as if he expected the need to draw it.

"I am Theodocis Haalenstern, son of Dragan Haalenstern, Lord of All Veden. Your King has summoned me to this hall, and I come now to make good on his command." The Prince's voice boomed through the hall, as if he spoke from inside of a barrel. Satisfied with the prince's response, the guard captain stepped out of the way and permitted the two guards manning the doors to draw open the door. The guard captain led Theodocis through the doors into the interior palace, leaving his companions alone in the corridor as the doors were closed behind him and his escort. A brief, silent tour through a series of colonnaded hallways brought the two out another door into an opulent patio overlooking a manicured lawn and the harbor beyond it. There, seated upon his lounging chaise, was none other than King Malius himself lounging to the song of crashing surf and gullsong.

"Your majesty." Said the guard captain as he dropped to his knees, allowing his cape to pile in bunches upon the floor of the patio. "Prince Theodocis Haalenstern of Veden, as you requested." With that, the guard turned on his heels and left the two in privacy.

"Noble King." Prince Theodocis acknowledged in perfect though deeply-accented Sphili, offering a respectful bow of the head. "Word has reached my ears that my services are to be of use to once again. How may I serve thee?"

Unshod hooves splashed in murky, shallow water as Revek ne'Hulik, Jaesyn ne'Parajos, and their escorts crossed Taggan Stream, a vassal stream of the holy River Rann. Ordovin legend said that the Rann was formed when the Horned Lord slew the dragon Rannokl; the river was the beast's heartsblood as he lay dying up in the Mournskull Mountains. The stream was joined by rivers formed by the tears of the Lady of the Water and Wind, and became the mighty River Rann, holiest of rivers and the lifeblood of the Dominion. It allowed Ordovin to traverse the Hyryyn with ease and made the Vale verdant and lush, providing massive pastureland for massive herds of horse, cattle, and sheep. Goats were raised in the upper passes; pigs were not raised, but hunted as pests in the scrubwoods of the foothills.

Jaesyn had suggested such a hunt as a distraction, and many of his retainers had agreed. He'd been surprised when his friend had adamantly refused. "The sooner we get this done with and get back to Damarskan, the better," he replied with startling brusqueness, spurring his mount across the river. Jaesyn sighed, looking down. This was by no means the Rann; the Taggan was a broad but shallow, slow-moving stream, choked with reeds, rotten logs, and sandbars. A boat-captain's nightmare of a river, it was abandoned this morning save for the mounted party and a few lonely coracles, fishing for eels and river crab. The peasants watched the group with mixed interested and suspicioun. Even with the Dominion flags flying overhead, they could easily be some ghekhav's raiding party, or striking out against a neighbor with ambition or vengeance in mind, and they wouldn't paddle back to shore until the horsemen were well past.

The Marshall stared at his reflection in the water. Jaesyn was a plain man, swarthy-skinned and weather-worn, with short dark brown hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. He'd born in the southern marches and had joined Urrag's army as a scout when the Vydari had invaded, rising to command his own corps of recon equites. While the Grand Marshall retreated, Jaesyn's unit had raided the Vydari's own scouts and outriders, sometimes clashing with goblin warriors astride monstrous rats, spiders, and wolves. He'd earned a scar across his left jawbone -- which he'd grown a scruffy beard to partially cover -- a sack of gold, a small estate on the coast, and the command of four hundred cavalrymen. This year, he'd fought a battle against a traitorous clan-leader on this very river, about twelve miles upstream, and earned himself a recently vacated seat on the council. Six months later, and he was desperately glad to be back in the saddle.

"Ruling is dreadfully boring," Jaesyn proclaimed to his guards and friends. He and Revek had both brought twenty sworn swords from their personal retinues, and a dozen "courtiers" and perhaps thirty servants and slaves accompanying them as well. Ordovin courtiers weren't really nobles. They were officers in the army or the sons and daughters of ghekhavs, princes, captains, and masters, and all of them had grown up with Jaesyn and Revek or attached themselves as retainers or supporters to their families. Jaesyn was aware that the merchant prince to his immediate north had an eye on him for a politicaly arranged marriage alliance, but the Marshall enjoyed the single life. When not at Council sessions or hunting rebels, monsters, and boars, Jaesyn and Revek could usually be found at pleasure barge or one of the hidden smoking dens on the border. There were illicit rumors about their habits in the bedroom, but no evidence whatsoever of anything "untoward."

There were nods from the courtiers, a few of the nobles' children even looking sympathetic, but the guards more or less ignored their liege. All were mounted and heavily armed, but their weapons weren't really at the ready. Bows were unstrung and slung across their backs with their hide-covered shields, axes strapped to their saddles, and brightly-colored pennons flapped from the ends of their lances. Their shields displayed the arms of Hulik and Parajol; a green serpent on light blue and a red scythe on gold, respectively. The Grand Marshall had gifted the party with new equipment, so each guard wore a brand new hauberk of heavy leather with iron scales, an iron helm with a bright red crest, and iron greaves on their legs. He had wanted to display the wealth and power of the Dominion over its disparate eastern neighbors.

They crossed the Taggan's ford and emerged dripping with water and muddy reeds on the eastern bank, the shaggy horses shaking themselves off and flicking their tails in mild irritation. A guardsman took a handful of mud to the face and coughed and spluttered as his fellows laughed around him. Jaesyn shook his head, muttering "Keep your helmet on next time, you fool." He didn't have to worry about flying mud, as he rode at the head of the party, whereas all the guards were tightly packed together. About ten miles down the road -- which was really more of an earth track with the occasional stone mile marker -- they decided to make camp. It was an orderly, well-defended affair which Jaesyn oversaw. While they were still in the heart of the Dominion, he didn't want to take any chances.

Jaesyn ducked in to Revek's tent, a gaudy affair of layered blue silk and green canvas, with a silver-crowned tent pole in the center. Furs covered the ground and the leather and wood camping chairs, and weapon rack in the corner contained Revek's armor and weapons. He owned a set of silvered steel ringmail over blackened leathers, a suit worth more than its weight in gold in this part of the world, a steel straight-blade, an iron-headed mace, and an elegant recurve longbow decorated with silver and ivory. Jaesyn wore a long hauberk of iron mail himself, looted off some Vydari corpse and patched over with bronze plates and leather. Tucked under his arm was an orante bronze helm with an Ordovin rune on the nasal bar and a spray of red and yellow feathers on the crest, and a basket-hilted scimitar swung heavy at his belt. He sat down heavily across from Revek, who lounged casually behind his camping table. Revek's personal slave, a hulking, scarred deaf-mute from the slums of Damarskan, poured pomegranate mead in to a pair of gilded goblets set with garnets.

Revek leaned back, drinking deeply and staring at Jaesyn over the rim of his cup. He set down the half-empty vessel and beckoned for the slave -- who they both called Lump -- to top it off. "So, what do you think?" he asked to break the silence. His voice was light, carefree, but there was a hard edge to it. Jaesyn shrugged and sipped sparingly. It was not his drink of choice, too sweet and syrupy with a tart aftertaste, but he drank to be polite. "I don't know. We already trade with the Geirlish, as you already pointed out, and the Starigmen control a good third of the gold industry in the Vale. The Russkl have refused trade at this point, and have already been arming themselves. There's reports of unaligned clansmen marching in to Russk, and a Russkl ghekhav was seen in Lord Taelyc's court." Revek shrugged, pulling a bowl of grapes and goat cheese over.

"It won't come to war, though. And if it does--" Revek spat out a grape seed. "I doubt the realms will unite against us. If they'd planned on it, they would have done so already. Geir will meekly dip its banner when we march on their heartlands, the Starigmen will hole up in their mountains, and the Russkl can't stand against us. They may be able to rally upwards of ten thouand men, but I doubt all the ghekhav will show up to fight us if we march in force." Jaesyn nodded; he knew all this to be true, but he didn't like it. Ordovin shouldn't be fighting Ordovin. He spread a chunk of cheese on a slice of soft black bread, saying "True, but don't count Taelyc out. Our scouts claim that a dozen ghekhav have sworn their swords to him, and the nearby mountain clans could make his army forty thousand strong--" "Which is still a tenth the size of the Dominion Legion," Revek cut in. He drained his second cup. "Taelyc isn't a fool. He'll see reason."

Jaesyn stared across the table at his friend. "Didn't you hear Kas and Andros?" The night after the council session, Kas had left the city with his retainers, riding north for his homelands. He'd sworn to rally the clans behind him and lay waste to the false Gevor's lands, slaughtering his people or dragging the cowards who surrendered back to the capital in chains. In particular, he wanted to burn Taelyc at the stake in the square outside the House of Lords, a "testament to the fate of traitors." Andros was still in the capital, but he'd summoned his norrakoch and they gathered even now on the northwestern shore; Andros was a bardzr'ghekhav and a Marshall, and could assemble near fifteen thousand men if he wished, more if all his ghekhav answered the call. He couldn't march until the Tia'Gevor and the Grand Marshall consented to it, but he could certainly call his troops to "protect his lands" if he so wished.

"Even if Taelyc and the eastern realms see reason, our own fellow councillors will not," Jaesyn went on, his voice weary. "There will be another vote in a week. Our representatives will vote in our favor while we're gone, but without us, the Tia'Gevor won't have the strength of will to resist Urrag's wishes, and war WILL follow. Once we crush the eastern realms and turn Taelyc's domain in to a smouldering ruin, do you think the other clans will be quick to join us? What of the southern city-states, or the coastal holds, or the lake kingdoms?" Jaesyn finally finished his own cup, glanced over to Lump, and then back to Revek. "We need to get rid of Urrag and the rest of the hardliners that back him." Revek hushed Jaesyn with a sweep of his hand, looking anxious. "Silence yourself!" he hissed. "If we're caught in such treason, our own guards will drag us back to the Grand Marshall, in chains." Jaesyn shrugged again, though he was much more worried than he showed.

"Martiros will back us, and I think Malek will too. If Urrag, Kas, and Andros can be taken out of the picture, the rest will follow us." Revek still looked worried, but now he looked thoughtful as well. "Yes, but these are the three most powerful men in the Dominion that you speak of. And Urrag and the Tausar are as thick as thieves." Jaesyn nodded, but now his eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, voice a whisper. "Yes, but what if we had the Tia'Gevor behind us? If we could make him more than a symbol, a puppet in the hands of the Grand Marshall and the church? If we have him on our side, this isn't really treason, now is it?" Revek considered the notion, his face pained. "I'll think on it, Jaesyn," he said, finally. "For now, we must try peace. We must! If we can forestall an invasion of our Ordovin borthers and sisters, we can eventually add their territories to the Dominion without bloodshed."

Revek waved a hand, halting any further conversation and dismissing Jaesyn from the tent. Jaesyn watched him for several long moments before he shrugged. "Thanks for the drink," he muttered, draining the rest of the cup and dropping it back on the table with a clatter. He left he tent without another word. There's always bloodshed, my friend, Jaesyn thought as he wearily made his way over to his own tent, much smaller and humbler than Revek's. The only thing that distinguished it from the others was the household guard that stood outside it, leaning on his spear. He straightened up and lifted his shield as his liege approached; Jaesyn clapped him on the arm before sliding into tent. Wriggling out of his armor and unbuckling his sword, Jaesyn rolled on to his back and put his hands under his head, staring up at the canvas ceiling.

His friend couldn't understand. Revek had been born in to a prince's family and his elder brother had married a ghekhav's daughter. Both the ghekhav and the elder brother had died in the Vydari invasion, and when Revek's father had died, Revek found himself a rich and powerful noble with little to no ambition or direction. Urrag had placed him on the council to have another empty voice, but Revek was appalled by the dictator's actions. If not for his money and skill with words, the Grand Marshall would have arranged an "accident" for the young Marshall in no time at all. Revek was reasonably well-trained at arms and had been educated in tactics, but had a better head for trade than war and had never drawn his sword in anger or seen real bloodshed.

He will soon enough, were Jaesyn's last thoughts as he drifted off in to uneasy sleep.

Damakuneta, Akataneta
The streets are oddly still today in the capital city of Akataneta. Crowds line the sides of the cobbled streets in the pouring rain. The sound of footsteps in unison, the clanking of metal plates, the hard solemn sound of a deeply resonating woodwind instrument fills the streets. Rank after rank after rank of soldier marches through the streets, grasping tightly their spears, their eyes locked forward they dare not look to the side for fear of losing control of their emotions. It is a still day, the day an emperor dies.

After many ranks of soldiers pass by a man dressed in fine silk, an emerald brooch securing it firmly at his breast, moves opposite them towards the castle-palace. He cocks his head as the emperor's funeral casket is carried past, otherwise he seems unaffected by the procession continues on its journey to the labyrinth of the emperors; the final resting place of emperors past, present, and future.

The emerald-green dignitary stands at the entrance to the castle-palace as the doors part for him, the palace floors are of a fine marble, imported from the northern territory, large pillars of a semi-precious stone rise up periodically leading to a eight-tiered platform, atop which are fine silk sitting-pillows, a throne of sorts it would seem. A young boy, no more than fourteen stands midway from the entrance to the throne.

"Emperor Bokun," begins the emerald dignitary, "I am Narune, first-in-line for the fourth green dynasty. In accordance with the laws this empire was built upon, I have been brought here to become the sovereign of Akataneta until such time as you come of age."

"Yes," replies Bokun, "I was expecting you... It would appear my father's death was most untimely."

"Yes, quite. But when is it ever precisely when you want it? Do not worry, I will not disregard your authority, as long as it is logical."

"Very well, I will be off to my quarters then."

"Right, goodnight sweet prince."

With this, Bokun is led off by an array of servants upwards to the eighth story of the palace. Once out of earshot, Narune moves to the throne, ushering to a waiting servant,

"Fetch me Taowa."

The servant rushes off, returning momentarily with an upright Taowa, dressed in his formal armour for the wedding, he speaks, "You wanted to see me, Regent?"

"Yes... There's a matter of import I want your council on. Follow me."

Narune leads Taowa into a room, a large table sits in the centre, with figurines to represent all of the various forces positioned throughout the empire and a map of the explored world. Narune moves along the width of the table and taps gently on a small island to the south of the empire,

"If I'm not mistaken, there was a colony here, correct?" he says.

"Yes, there was."

"And... roughly twenty years ago this colony mysteriously goes dark, no?"

"That is correct."

"Not only that, but twelve years ago, a small fleet was sent to this island to discover why. When we finally caught sight of that fleet, only one ship remained and naught twenty men aboard. But why?"

"The captain and the crew committed suicide at the shrine in Bakuneta, they left a note saying that the city was overrun by the marshland. It was so repulsive that the other ships and the rest of the crew drowned themselves because of it."

"Yes, well, doesn't it seem odd for a few hundred men to kill themselves for sight of a swamp?"

"I am no philosoph-"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Taowa! It's odd, isn't it? ...anyways. I called you here to see which troops we can suffer to send to this island, I want the truth."

"But, Emperor Ramaki-"

"Ramaki is dead, Taowa! I am your lord. Which troops can we afford to send to Kitaneka?"

"The majority of the garrison in the central provinces here... minus the capital guard. A total of seven thousand heads."

"Right, I want fifty guardsmen from each of the seventeen inner townships, also, the entire standing army of Hironeka."

"But that'll but us well over two-thousand!"

"I know. Issue the order, I expect them to meet at Bakuneta within the fortnight. We're reclaiming Kitaneka."

Styrian Corridor, the Western Outpost

Two men of not so impressive body design, being somewhat toned in muscle but nothing particularly out of the ordinary with slightly tanned Caucasian and dark brown, hair that flows out from under a shiny grey steel helmet whose top curves into a spiky tip. Their dress and facial hair styles are nearly the exact same, but the two guards are not identical twins, for their height is different and one has brown eyes while the other has hazel. The shorter guard, named Izsar Ifac shows more sign of age than the taller guard named Csab Ifac.

The two guards stay strictly at their guard tower on the edges of the styrian corridor. Their outpost is simply known as the “Eastern Outpost”- a creative name is it not?

The out post is situated between two large slopes, both really large, hard to climb hills and the outpost itself is very much like a gate with stone brick walls and two guard towers on both ends of the out post. The guards keep a lazy watch, but never stop watching. Determined and dull in their ways, they stick to their posts lest they want their families to suffer by having their future children became peasants.

The two guards being talked of are on the northern guard tower that watches over a incomplete road which leads into the vast road network that connects the edges of the Styrian corridor to the Keletrian forests and the rather calm, slow flowing Lustaramian river that connects to the sea that is so calm in flowing traders from far away lands have come through the river to the far lying cities of the Thernopolesian empire in the name of commerce and the unparalleled metal crafting of the smith caste.

Guarding the gate itself are another two guards who wear armor and wield the finest steel of the Thernopolesian Empire, in all its bluish tinted, ornate hilted glory. The guards are golem-like in their stillness, despite the sweltering heat in the armor and having to stand hours on end only ever leaving to the side to go to the bathroom or eat a loaf of bread, a bit of lamb and drink a cup of water from the supply garrison. Their shifts still have three more hours.

Watching, Csab Ifac starts humming from boredom, making a hum that sounds somewhat like it came from the gut and atonal in its pace and pitch. The humming continues to get harder to ignore, irritating his fellow guard Izhar. Izhar starts getting irritated by Csab’s dissonant humming, and proceeds to rhetorically ask, “Do you intend to disturb the muses?”

Offend by the question; Izhar near-instantly ceases humming, and aggressively claims, “I intend to please them.”

“The only way I believe you could possibly please them is not to hum.” Csab tells Izhar with an annoyance that can only come from long periods of silence interrupted by dissonant humming. However, Izhar too proud of his humming to take this crap from someone nearly a decade younger than him in his own caste tells Csab, “I believe instead you have a poor sense of hearing.”

“Yet I am a guard.” Izhar tells Csab, seeing the caste he was chosen for as proof his hearing is good- a guard with bad hearing wouldn’t have been chosen to be a guard, would they have? “A guard must have good hearing.”

However, Izhar forgot an important part of the caste system that Csab remembered. Sighing a bit than laughing deeply Csab with his better knowledge of the system the empire uses points out the following, “Izhar, when you were chosen to be a guard like me, you were chosen because the choosers needed more guards, not because they thought you talented as a guard. You could be a great smith, but if they want guards, you must be a guard. It is not a perfect system, but it is what keeps the empire together.”

However, all this is lost of Izhar, who simply states “Your humming is still shit.”

Monavdu, Alysfyn

Malius looked over to the entrance from the porch entrance. Standing by was the north-man of his court, Theodocis Haalenstern. Prince of some deep kingdom on the mainland. Raising his hand to wave him in closer to sat up. "Good afternoon your honor." he started, "I have something I'd like you to do for me. The coin will be delivered as it is always.

"But that aside," he said with a light cough, "I have some men I want investigated, I've drawn up the warrant for their arrest on the suspicion."

Monavdu, Alysfyn

"Investigated?" Said Prince Haalenstern with an amused snort. "I am a son of Veden, not a judge. I will drag these troublemakers to thy feet squirming in chains. Allow the tribunal to decide if they are guilty or not, but rest assured that any antics they may or may not commit will be a nuisance to this realm no longer. Tell me where they may be found and I shall deliver them unto thee."

Vidna, Veden

Falling water roared as it fell upon the rocks; a soothing din that sounded in the background against the workings of the town. Hammer pings, cowbells, clucking fowl, and the creaking of rocking boats joined into the song of the town nestled cozily into the notch carved by falling waters. Though people of the more cosmopolitan parts of the world might consider it but a village, to the people of this land Vidna was a port city vital to trade in the region. The waterfall around which the town was situated constituted the northernmost point of the navigable River Istrid; from Vidna on down to the Three Inner Seas and beyond them to the ocean, all waters could be sailed by smaller vessels. Situated in the heart of Veden and only three leagues from the Haalenstern seat of power at Ersthaal, Vidna was crucial in linking this remote hinterland to the wider world.

Creaking jetties extended into the choppy pool where Vidna's waterfall deposited its frothy, turbulent flow, tethered to which were a score of sailing boats built in the traditional kalga form. These wide, low draught vessels were ideal for traversing the often-shallow waters of the Istrid River and beyond. With their low draught and relatively light weight, even heavily-laden kalgas could sail across the fordings downstream. Even in the driest summers, the vessels were light enough that a modest crew could drag them over shallow riffles without great effort. Despite their light weight, most Vedic kalgas handled well enough in the open water beyond the coast. As such, kalgas bearing Vedic merchants and adventurers had sailed to the Great Eastern Delta, Damarskan, Monavdu, and hundred ports in between. Despite the versatility of these boats, the spring - half a moon after the vernal equinox when snowmelt from the mountains filled the banks of the Istrid - was the most favorable time to set out for long voyages.

On the cliffs above the town and tucked into a clearing of the giant firs and spruces that grew along the waterfall, a slab of worn granite carved with ancient runes was set upon a ledge overlooking the rude harbor. Beard-sporting boathands from one of the boats below stacked a neat pile of tinderwood upon the altar as another scooted soggy mats of pine needles off the slab with his boot. Once the altar had been cleared, the half-dozen of them stepped away from the great stone and stood in solemn silence around its mossy edges.

Into the clearing came another two. One a tall, broad shouldered northman much like the other boatmen; the other a pale, ancient looking man with skin gnarled with deep wrinkles and a beaklike nose. He dressed in a dark gray robe with a black minkfur cap atop his balding head. Sauntering along behind the two with a cord of rope around its neck was a young calf that followed blithely toward its doom. The eyes of all the boatmen followed the reddish-orange heifer expectantly as the fitter of the two led it up onto the altar. The younger man beckoned for one of the boatmen to join him on the dais while the he-crone stepped back among the ferns and crocuses of the grove. He produced a scroll of goat parchment as his companion took the leash of the calf from him. The gathered northmen stood in solemn silence for a time, leaving only the roar of the Istrid falling down the cataract and the soft hum of wind blowing through the pines.

"O Krammeg!" The man with the scroll in his right hand proclaimed, stretching his arms outward as he interrupted the silence. "Lady of Fortune! Hear me now! My companions and I entreat thy aid!" The calf mooed dumbly as the man with the parchment paused briefly.

"I am Breitur, and they my companions Oveyn, Ganeg, Kron, Eoric, Bosiigr, Negar, and Joten! We set sail tomorrow for the lands to the west seeking fortune and adventure on distant shores! Our aim is righteous and has been ordained by our mortal lord Dragan Haalenstern!" He called out into the clouds, waving the scroll in his hand up to the sky. "Today, on the vespers before our voyage, we come to ensure our journey be ordained by our immortal protector! Preserve us upon this venture, and bestow upon us what fortune thoust see fitting!"

Breitur tucked the charter scroll within his leather vest and turned to the man holding the leashed calf. With a nod of understanding, he leaned over the young beast and wrapped his arms around its midsection. The heifer kicked and mooed with unease as it was hefted over onto the bundle of sticks and branches. On the tinder pile, Breitur's companion held the calf down onto its side while he unsheathed the dagger upon his hip. Breitur grasped the cow's head with his free hand and stretched the neck outward such that the throat was exposed. With a simple, graceful stab, he pushed the knife into the panicking calf's throat and slid it free with a deft outward slice. Bright red blood spurted out onto the sticks and down onto the stone beneath it as the dying calf thrashed helplessly against her subduers. A trickle of blood slowly drained out from underneath the tinder pile and pooled into the grooves of the carved runes.

"See now, Lady of Fortune, this show of devotion!" Breitur exclaimed, raising his bloodied knife into the air once the life had faded from the calf's eyes. "We offer this beast unto thee, that you may bestow upon us your great fortune and wisdom!"

The two stepped off of the altar while another with a torch in his hand assumed their place. He laid the burning end upon the foot of the tinder pile and then joined the others in watching the tongues of fire consume the slain calf. Their supplication and the spirit of the sacrificed beast joined with the bluish gray smoke as the wind carried it upward to Krammeg's haunt in the heavens.

Monavdu, Alysfyn

"Your enthusiasm is appreciated, as is your energy." Malius complimented flafty, "Though in truth you are not the one to perform the official arrest. I have issued that task to Skullding, who you'll be travelling with to guard him and to secure our would-be black mages." he added in a crumbling voice. Reaching down to the table he picked up the warrant and raised it to the Vedan prince.

"You and Skullding are seeking out and bringing in Refnir Bjorni and Mathis Bjorni, Od's second and third son's respectively. I have a suspicion that Od could attempt to resist the warrant, which is why I need you and a handful of men to go along. Intimidate him at least, or fight your way to Refnir and Mathis. But give Skullding the room needed to lock the boys up and investigate the hold for evidence on their conviction.

"Once he has what he needs, bring the boys here in one piece and we'll put them on trial and the tribunals will handle the rest."

Hall of Elders, Homestead, Lumenor,

The Hall of Elders was the most iconic structure in all of Homestead. It was a black, towering stone monolith, with sharp, straight edges and an architectural precision that mirrored the dedication to order that characterized the Lumen. The exterior of the building was windowless and featureless, spare a massive wrought-iron door that by law remained closed, locked and guarded during any and all meetings of the Elders. The featureless, soulless rectangle was a perfect representation of the ideal of law: clear and hard as rock, empty of emotional susceptibility or abstractness. Sadly, what went on inside of the Hall was rarely as orderly and structured as the exterior hoped to impose. Each of the Elders had their own goals to meet and agendas to see realized, and more often than not, one Elder's agenda might conflict with another. It was a guaranteed recipe for conflict.

"The project is advantageous to all..." began one tall, well-dressed member of the Hall as he rose from his seat. The Hall was organized so that there were fifteen members on either side of the Kuunin's seat; totalling thirty-one in all. Three of the seats were granted out by the Guildmasters of the Guild of Sailors of Silver Port. The Guildmasters themselves rarely occupied the seats. Usually they were filled by lesser-ranking representatives of the Guild, given clear indication beforehand of the Guild's stances on whatever topics were due to be discussed in the Hall. The Guild's seats were on the Kuunin's left side, accompanied by ten elected seats and two seats occupied by members of the Faith of the Light. The Faith was heavily involved in Lumen politics, integral to Lumen society as they were, and were granted two seats on either side of the Hall. Their seats on the Guild's side of the hall flanked the Guild's own seats. Similarly, their seats on the opposite end of the Hall flanked those granted to the Lumenistic Order. The Order, historically a militant component of the Faith, had evolved into Lumenor's de facto military force. The Kuunin held direct authority over the Order, capable of sending their men out as he saw fit, regardless of actions demanded by the Hall of Elders. The Guild had no likewise direct connection to the Kuunin, acting as an independent civilian trade organization that merely happened to have a reserved position in the Hall of Elders. Despite their independence, though, the Guild was at a political disadvantage due to their cool relations with the Faith, an organization that the Order had always been able to easily warm up to. This left the Guild dependent on the support of the elected officials in the Hall in order to get a motion passed. While in less scrupulous countries it might have been easy for a rich trade bloc like the Guild of Sailors of Silver Port to win the support of politicians, that was not the case in Lumenor. Any identifiable tie with the Guild would make the official in question very, very unpopular. The discipline of Lumen society made corruption a rare and scandalous occurrence. This usually meant that the Guild ended up having to use its silver tongue rather than the silver in its pockets to get the political wheels rolling.

The Guild representative continued with a handsome grin, "...Guild, Faith, Kuunin and Order alike. The economic advantages of the operation alone would facilitate a massive expansion of infrastructure in the country, which in turn would allow for an increased dividend of royal funds to be given to the Faith and Order, to perhaps allow another military excursion into the e-" A man on the opposite side of the Hall stood up and glared at the Guild representative, and at once he stopped speaking and rolled his eyes. The newly standing man was seated in a spot reserved for the Lumenistic Order, and his outfit made that all the more clear. He appeared dressed for battle, bereft only of his sword (weapons of any kind weren't allowed in the Hall) and his helmet, which rested on the small table in front of his seat. "I will have the Hall know that the Lumenistic Order does not require an increase in funds, and certainly not at the expense that the Guild is offering. Our men could have all of the Steppes conquered and subdued in a year. Furthermore, a monopoly on trade in Lake Etala would only further stunt the growth of enterprising independent merchants and fisheries in the Lake, and allow this corrupt farce of a trade union even more undo influence over the Lumen economy. Kotka won't stand for this. Let the Guild try to enforce a monopoly without Order men on their ships". The Guild representatives all narrowed their eyebrows as the warrior finished speaking and sat down. His two compatriots were clapping in support, alongside the Faith representatives and about half of the elected members of the Hall. The Guild and Order had a long-running feud.

The Kuunin rose, and immediately the Hall of Elders was silent and all eyes were upon him. Eetu Nevalainen was his name, and he was an eagle-eyed young King, with bright white short-cut hair, brilliant golden eyes and the most honest determination of any man in the room. Eetu's voice was slow and deliberate, but calming, and just authoritative enough not to seem patronizing. He was a perfect orator. "The Lumenistic Order has a duty to serve aboard Guild vessels enforcing their trade rights wherever the Hall has deemed them to exist. The forces that be in Kotka can not and will not ignore their obligation to the Kuunin, and in turn to the Guild of Sailors of Silver Port. With that said—I am opposed to the institution of a Guild monopoly on trade in Lake Etala. Although their monopoly in Lake Lairreen has been to the benefit of not only the Guild but all of Lumenor, I would not support the extension of such privileges to another region. Smaller fisheries and sailing outfits must be allowed to develop outside of Guild patronage, or we'll end up with a completely one-sided market and total Guild control. I cast my vote against the extension of the Guild trade monopoly to Lake Etala, but would like to reaffirm that the Lumenistic Order has a duty to grant its power of enforcement to Guild vessels operating within the confines of their legal privileges. It's time for a final count; all in favour and all opposed?"

The count numbered nine for and twenty-two against. The Guild representatives grumbled, but in discontentment rather than defiance. It didn't take long for the doors of the Hall to be swung open, and the Elders to quickly file themselves out. Another day in the Hall of Elders.

The ride down from the Mountain of the Wind had reminded them where it had got its name. Banners fluttered along with robes and capes. The whistle of the mountain winds played past Asla's ears, and made it difficult to hear. She could hear voices, but she could not make out words, and she could hear drums but not their tune. It stung at her skin, and she pulled her fur cloak around her for protection while tangling her fingers in the mane of her mule.

Her husband was called the King of Rock and Salt, at the title was apt. Stone overwhelmed the terrain in the forms of thin daggers and bloated boulders. They rose and fell like mountains, but they did not have the simple elegance of the snow-tipped cones that foreigners knew. These mountains fell suddenly in some places, and rose above the clouds in others, but there was no order to their shape, and water made it worse. Thin streams and rushing rivers carved their paths, forcing deep gorges and thick canyons. In some placed, they left arched bridges thick enough to pass over.

There were no true roads in this land either, only thin trails squirming alongside cliffs between smooth mountain meadows and rocky plateaus. Some said that in this land, it was the goats that made the roads rather than the people. Looking at them, worn smooth and often so narrow that only two men on muleback could pass abreast, it looked likely that goats had a part to play.

Bergen rode ahead of her, caught in awkward conversation with the fat lord Barbic Wrenseer. His shield and its bearers followed them often, wielded by visiting sons or cousins. The Wrenseers courted their King as often as they could, and their company always came down to the same thing. Barbic claimed that men in a far away land had wronged his distant cousins somewhere in the south. It was a land of wonders, Barbic would say when he was drunk enough, where totems as high as true mountains kissed the sky with monkey lips, and the decendents of apes still built their cook-fires under its ruins. And it was a land ripe for plunder, he always made sure to add. When she was younger, Asla had feared that her husband would someday listen, and that he would gather a host and sail away never to return. As the years went on, however, it became clearer that he had no interest in treasures on the other side of the world. Bergen was a man who never made bets he was not certain of. Where other men simply acted, Bergen planned.

"Mi'lady, you'll want to hold tight to 'im, now" the man leading her mule said. He was a simple looking man, dressed in dirt-stained wool and wearing a hat ringed with fur. His face was crooked, and his teeth were missing half of their number, but he was pleasant enough. "The road gets a little closer now. Just hold on."

And she did. They were crossing a natural bridge as it passed next to a roaring waterfall. Its spray wettened the stone and made it slippery. She held on, staring anxiously at the drop below. She could see where the canyon opened into a valley filled with fields and orchards. It was peasants who lived in the low places, but their food fed the rest. When she had been a child, Asla had wanted to live in the low places. The thought of living amongst green and calm waters had seemed like a beautiful dream. Age had made her grow used to the stone of her homes, but that childhood dream still lingered in the back of her mind. When she looked down the falling water and saw smoke rising from a wooden hovel, those pleasant thoughts of youth came back to her mind.

"We are over it now, Mi'Lady." the mule-lead said. "I been over it plenty time. I am a Suerfoot on my mothers side, I am. Got some o' the goat in me, if you get my drift." When he smiled, she could see the blackened roots of his teeth, but he looked happier then most people with full teeth ever manage to be.

Their path snaked up the side of a cliff until they entered a mountain meadow. Sweet smelling lilac and pale flowers in red and yellow filled the white-green pasture. In the distance, a line of deep-green pines stood amongst a clinging mist that spoke of a pool. There is green up here too. Asla thought.

Somewhere over the rise, a hunters horn blew. A herd of wild goats came charging through the procession, bleating and crying in fear. The site of more people scattered them. One ran in front of Asla, frightening her mule and causing it to kick. The goat, startled beyond hope, lost its footing and fell from a nearby cliff. She watched as it turned its head to bleat once more before plunging to its death. A second goat passed, an arrow in its shank, but it changed course and headed in a safer direction.

Braying mules and whining goats caused a wave of confusion to flow down the Royal procession. The hunting horn blew once more, and the hunters came over the rise. They were clad in furs, and the shields on their backs were pure white with grey lines waving across. Hardwinds she thought. This is their land

And elder Hardwind came riding up to the front to exchange harsh words with his Kinsmen.

"Tres, you young fool. You could have injured the King." the old man blustered. Asla watched as his cheeks turned a bright red, as did the bald spot in the center of his scalp. He was more angry for being embarrassed then he was for whatever small danger the hunters might have caused.

"My apologies." the young fool answered. He was handsome - the type of man Asla would have dreamed of in girlhood. His jaw was thinly haired and chiseled, but his skin looked soft and perfect. A wave of thick black hair flowed from his head, and his pale grey eyes made her feel warm. Broad shouldered and tall, he looked more like a warrior from a song then a warrior had seen war. No scars Asla thought, Has he ever been hit before?

Tres the Lover, he was called. He had a reputation in the Hardwind clan as being having bedded more women then even Rober the Bastard-Maker had in old times. Seeing him now, she could see how he had convinced so many.

"Apologies won't do." the older Hardwind shouted. "This is your King you have offended! Kneel and beg!"

"That won't be neccessary." Bergen interrupted. He looked at the young man in that soft, commanding way that he did. "Tres did no harm, unless mountain goats are to be counted as casualties."

Tres bowed his head and smiled slyly. "You are too kind, my King. I cannot offer much in apologies, but I can escort you to the home of my kin."

Bergen patted the boy on the back. "This is a kind offer, and I accept it."

Tres and his men rode next to the King, sharing jokes and talking of landmarks along the way. For Asla, she enjoyed lagging behind well enough. The mountain flowers gave her plenty to look at, and when they passed out of the meadows she found attention in the rocky crags and trickling streams.

"Look." her mule-leader said. "Hardwind Hall."

A lonely knife of stone shot out of the rocky hillside. Stairs led up to its doors, and windows and balconies were carved into its side. Along the flat slabs of stone around it, stables had been built, as had temples and houses and many other buildings. They had just left this place a few days before, but returning to it felt sweet. Soon, she would meet back up with her older children, and they would have a feast.

"YOU GET BACK HERE YOU NONPAYING SCOUNDREL!"
The flutter and squawks of birds were followed by the exit of a young man of 20 years, with his pants nearly on and the shirt still being worked on as he dashed through the open alleys. An old woman with a broom, short and stout, followed out the door, screaming swears. However, the young man had the advantage of age and the knowledge of town. Taking a detour, the sun-haired elf rose to the rooftops, around 10 feet high (being 5 of Gons, the local measurement). He thought about his training, the days in the courtyard fencing. Light on your toes, ready for anything. He dashed and jumped from rooftop to rooftop, most adapted to be a garden or a porch for inhabitants.

The bustle of the town were at his feet as the noble dashed through the market district. People of all kinds, all colors, buying from (Mostly Savian) merchants. He grinned. His city to be so bustling was so happy to him. At least, he considered it to be his city. His family owning all of the largest markets, and his dad ruling the country, definitely helped. The market district soon passed, the buildings and rooftops growing bigger, and the gaps to jump becoming smaller. He was upon the senators' abodes, and must be even more fleet of foot. He started slowing, every step becoming focused on the foot. As he looked up, the senate house approached, it's dome conquering his city's skyline. Sanctions were passed that no building must block its view or be higher than it. The spires rising around it were all inhabited, all diplomats, chieftains, governors visiting. It was packed because today He was aiming for a specific one: The Consul's Spire, pointing south towards the city. He stopped at the edge of the building before the spire. He judged the distance. 10, 15 Gon maybe? He backed up, and threw his whole weight into it. Lifting his legs and reaching his arms out, he brought the best of Savian athleticism into play. He hit the wall, hands grasping the sill. As he pulled himself up with great effort, a voice way too familiar to be good called.

"Well, isn't it a pleasure seeing you here." Nimbus stuck out his head and grinned. The man smiled back. "Come in my son! It's hot outside, and I wouldn't you want to hurt your royal skin!" Nimbus and his bleach blonde hair reentered the spire, laughing with all the heart of a drunkard. The man, Cumulus, pulled himself into the second floor, dropping to the floor. He panted.

"Hello Consul Nimbus. I would like to request some..." He panted a few seconds. "...Amnesty."

Nimbus burst out laughing again and pulled his son to his small elven feet. "Amnesty granted, my good boy. Let me get you some drink. You must be exhausted running from the brothel here." He pulled one string of many that were on the wall, and the resistance showed that somewhere, a servant was notified by a bell. "How hard is it to pay for a whore?"

"I pay her with my love. I understand the idea of paying for pleasure, yes, but... I love her. It's different." Cumulus responded, flopping himself into a chair of woven wood. "How do you know?"

"One: You are my son, and I know you." Nimbus threw Cumulus something more regal: a toga, to contrast his peasants clothing, a blouse loosely stringed. "Two: I was the same way." He smirked and sat, while he heard the servant climb the stairs. Cumulus threw the shirt into the corner of the floor, as the servant, a young female adolescent elf, climbed up. Her head emerged from the spiral staircase, and immediately turned away and blushed, still walking. Cumulus smirked and looked down at his toned body.

"Come, nothing worse than what some of your older peers have seen." She giggled nervously and placed the water upon the coffee table. She turned and looked at his form again before rushing down the stairs normally.

"Please, put something on. We're going to the senate house soon. Meeting on the future of trade companies." Nimbus finally responded. He was stern, but the memories of his young adulthood shined in his eyes. "You cannot be young forever. Your whore chasing and free sailing days will come to an end as my eventual heir. It may be a republic, but you are assured a throne. No doubt." He looked down and said it again. "No doubt."

"I understand your worry." He threw on the toga and clapped his dad on the shoulder. "I'll get there. Sometime." They both smile, a familial connection known only between fathers and sons. "Let's go. You are never late."

"And I am constant." He rose and clapped his son's shoulder back. They, together, walked down toward the senate house, not politicians, but family.

Damarskan, The Temple of Light

Erinye stared in fascination at the two aspet guarding the entrance to the Temple. Each of them wore a heavy bronze and leather hauberk, knee-length, with elaborately engraved and gilded iron plate covering their arms from shoulder to finger tip and their knees and feet. Their helmets were grotesque, which Erinye found passing strange considering their roles as champions of the light. Each had an iron face mask designed to look like a snarling demon, frightening and disgusting in its intense leer. The aspet on the left had a pair of gilded bull's horns, ending in sharp tips, protruding from his crown; the other's was encrusted with jagged chunks of garnet and obsidian, making the helmet look like it was covered with horrible boils and pustules. Each leaned on a two-handed, spiked longaxe, the blades decorated with symbols of blight and ruin.

These are the warriors of the faith? she thought, repulsed but fascinated as she walked forward, the hems of her white and silver robes whisking around her slender calves just above the polished cobblestones of the Grand Avenue. Trying to appear aloof as opposed to nervous, she smoothed the wrinkles out of her sleeves and straightened her bodice, looking casually around the square, at the passersby, anywhere but at the aspet and the door they guarded. It was made of ironwood, a rare and extremely precious material in the Vale, carved in simple but elegant geometric patterns and set with fire opals, pearls, and tiny diamonds that winked and flashed in the sun. That door represented more money than she and her entire home village had seen in her lives. Intimidating, but not nearly as much as the message she'd received a week ago.

She'd been in her home village, the place she loved most, Sitsagr'rok. It was a place of stone and spray in the northern mountains, barely even in Dominion territory. The village was built over a series of rapids from which rocks like angry teeth jutted, great arches of stone with little houses built directly on top of them. The clansfolk grew gardens in brightly painted boxes that hung out their back doors, over the river, and hung out lines to catch salmon during certain parts of the year. Fir trees surrounded the village on all sides, and massive blue-grey mountains towered above to breathtaking heights. A little over a hundred souls lived there, and most of them had kept the Old Way until roughly a year or so ago. They hadn't even had a ghekhav, just an old shaman by the name of Kardem. Then the Tausar'Luysi had come.

Her eyes lost focus as she thought back on that day, eleven months ago. The aznvuygun had gathered the villagers, including Kardem, and shuffled them out of their homes to a small clearing nearby. One by one, they had knelt and offered oaths of allegiance to the Tia'Gevor and his Marshalls, knowing that refusal meant not only their death, but the execution of their families or the seizure of their livelihoods. After that, they were made to forsake the Old Ways and name the Horned Lord and the Lady of Wind and Water as demons. This was harder, but again, nobody refused. All but Kardem. He'd just solemnly shaken his head when his turn had come. He was asked one more time. Again, that silent shake of the head. Without any further hesitation, the aznvuygun next to the Tausar'Luysi priestess had lowered his spear and driven it through the old man's throat. Kardem had died with barely a sound, staring up at the priestess, who'd looked back down at him dispassionately, uncaring.

Erinye would never forget that moment in time. The blood gushing down Kardem's face, his accusing eyes, the way his body had bonelessly collapsed to the ground when the spear was withdrawn. She still dreamt about it sometimes, waking up in a cold sweat and staring at the sky or ceiling she'd been sleeping under, remembering. Part of her hated the Tausar'Luysi for murdering Kardem. However, she had grown to love the Path, its purity and sense of order and purpose. She knew that she was a small part of something far more important than her family, than Sitsagr'rok, or Kardem even.

After the folk of Sitsagr'rok had sworn the oaths of allegiance and given up the Old Way, the Tausar'Luysi priestess had begun walking among the villagers. She had stopped and stared at each turn, fixing them with a penetrating gaze. Her eyes had almost seemed to glow with some inner power. For some reason, she had saved Erinye for last, and when she had finally gotten to the young woman, she had lingered there for nearly five minutes. Then she nodded abruptly and turned to her escort. "Take her," the priestess had said, her voice somehow serene yet curt. The aznvuygun had moved in, roughly seizing Erinye, who cried out at struggled until receiving a sharp blow across the back of her legs with the haft of a spear. Several villagers surged forward to protect her, but stopped before a wall of glittering spearpoints. They'd dragged Erinye, crying and screaming, on to the back of one of their horses and ridden off south with her. Her training had truly begun when they'd reached Damarskan, but she viewed this as her first trial.

In Damarskan, she was brought to a small abbey for initiates of the order. She was examined, poked, and prodded -- most embarassingly -- by several withered old crones of the Tausar'Luysi. When they had determined to their satisfaction that she had never taken a lover, they shaved her body, scrubbed her down, and gave her simple, pure white robes of linen, with scratchy wool undergarments. Her training began with the simplest of meditations and prayers and learning to read and write. She'd just been learning the most basic principles of ritualistic magic -- something she'd actually been fascinated by and eager to take up -- when her superiors had sent her back to her village. Erinye had still been novice in the the order, only six months into her initiation. Apparently, the priestesshood was stretched thin, and they needed her to spread the word of the Light to "the farthest, darkest corners of the Dominion."

It had been a bleak homecoming. Nothing was changed visually -- Sitsagr'rok was just as beautiful as she'd left it -- but her reception was chilly. There was no one to greet her, and everyone treated her as if she was invisible at first. Two aznvuygun had made the journey with her, and when their backs were turned, the villagers made the sign of the Horned Moon when they passed, the ancient symbol to ward off demons and evil spirits. It was difficult to educate the people of her village in the ways of Enlightenment when they considered her a witch -- Light-blinded, they muttered under their breaths -- so most of her time was spent teaching the handful of children in the village what little she could of reading and writing, and administering simple cures and remedies to the very young and very old...those who didn't care who or what she was, in other words.

This had gone on for four or five months -- the days blend together in a place like Sitsagr'rok -- when a message came from the capital. It was terrifying in its brevity and authority; Return to the Temple of Light at once for reassignment, or face Pacification. "Pacification" was the polite term the Tausar'Luysi used for the public execution of traitors and "demon"-worshippers. She had left as soon as possible, with more than some regret. The villagers had just started to accept her back within their ranks, and she was sad to leave all the little ones behind. But orders were orders, and she and her escort were riding through the dark hills and valleys of the northern mountains before the sun had set. Their journey through the Dominion heartlands was as swift as possible considering the increased foot-traffic; war was on everybody's lips, that or the news filtering in from the east about the growing power of Geistarussir.

Being in Damarskan was a dizzying experience for a girl who'd grown up in a village of one hundred and twenty souls. As far as she or anyone else knew, Damarskan was the largest port in the world, a sprawling, teeming edifice to mankind with a population of two hundred and fifteen thousand Ordovin citizens. Sailors from Savian, Reinamm, Fenia, Aylsfyn, and even as far away as Lumenor and Akataneka, and a dozen other free city-states, crowded her dockside warehouses and marketplaces. Outside the city the Grand Marshall's army was encamped and ready to march, a second city in its own right, but far more orderly, nearly thirty thousand men all in all. Where they intended to march was anybody's guess, but most bets were northwards, to crush the rebel Taelyc. As they rode past, Erinye stared at the camp. It was difficult for her to imagine all those lively bodies rushing at a similar number of men and women with the intent to kill each other. The thought of thousands of people dying, all at once, their flesh cloven and rent by bronze and iron and steel, was too large for her to really grasp.

They passed through the shanty towns and farming communities that ringed the inner city and under the city walls, still scarred by the Vydari assault. They were covered in many places with scaffolding, or had earthern ramps leading up to them, and the entire thing was aswarm with masons and the slaves they directed. It was rumored that the Grand Marshall intended to make the walls twice as tall and four times as thick as they had been, with bastions and towers manned with war machines at the intersections. The money and manpower for such a construction would be monstrous, but well within the Dominion's capabilities...especially if it was fueled by plunder from Lord Taelyc's realm, and the silver mines he controlled. Whenever the Dominion absorbed another clan by conquest, there was always a small influx of slaves and goods. With the fall of Taelyc's land, which was the size and prosperity of a small Gevorin, the walls might be completed within a year.

Erinye snapped out of her reverie as the door opened, and an older priestess stepped out. She wore the ornate, sumptuous robes of one the Artak'in, the second highest rank in the order, her face and hair concealed underneath a pristine white cowl, trimmed with cloth-of-gold. Pearls clacked together at her sleeves and hem. An aspet trailed behind her, gauntleted hand resting lightly on the hilt of his scimitar. Unlike the other two aspet she had seen, his mask was a serene, gilded face, the brow decorated with a silver disc. "Quickly, child," said a rasping voice from within the priestess's hood. "You took long enough getting here." Erinye bit her lip, knowing better to voice protest, and followed the Artak'in and what seemed to be her personal bodyguard in to the Temple of Light.

The Temple was a hushed place, a sanctuary of white walls hung with white tapestries, white rugs muffling the steps of white garbed sisters. Aspets stood still as statues here and there, eyes gleaming from behind their monstrous masks. The Artak'in led Erinye down a series of hallways, past many closed doors. All of Sitsagr'rok could fit comfortably in this place, Erinye thought, looking around with silent wonder. She was finally ushered in to a vast chamber with vaulted ceilings that disappeared in to shadowy crevices. The room stretched away to all sides, and a lack of windows cloaked the room in darkness. The only light came from a beautiful golden candelabra, set with moonstones, on a round marble table veined with gold. Around the table sat ten women. Erinye gasped when she saw that they wore the pure white, unadorned robes of the Dalch'argik, the Inner Circle.

"Child," said one of the Dalch'argik, a surprisingly young woman whose skin seemed to almost glow with good health. "The Light blazes within you." Erinye fumbled for words, uncertain and afraid. "What do you mean...?" she asked in a faltering voice. She looked behind her, and saw that the Artak'in and aspet who had brought her here were gone. "You possess the gift, child," said another of the Dalch'argik, a stern-faced woman with straight black hair streaked with silver. Her skin was incredibly pale, almost luminescent. "With training, with the right nudge, you may utilize the Secret Art. Magic." Erinye stared at her.

"I...I see," she said slowly. She realized that she was nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of her robe, and stopped at once. "What...what would you have of me, Your Graces?" One of the women pulled a tiny glass vial out of her sleeve. Erinye stared at the vial, and felt dread rising within her. "Service, Erinye," the woman said softly. "The Dominion needs you."

"...what must I do, Your Grace?"

The first Dalch'argik spoke, her beautiful face smiling and calm, but her eyes were like chips of flint. "Kill the traitor, Lord Taelyc."

Zivaria – Jawr, Zeven

Ariad stumbled as the soldier shoved her forward. Cuts and bruised blemished the pale skin of her arms and legs and her peasant clothes were torn and ragged. Tears wet her face and puffed her eyes. She was so very frightened. All she wanted was to go home. The girl wiped her eyes to get a clear view of what – who – stood before her.

Steps led to a high dais upon which a throne was set. It seemed to be worked from iron, and festooned with a dark green seaweed with leafy fronds. Depictions of a monstrous shark devouring men and beast alike engraved the backrest and featured again on the arms as bustlike shark heads, jaws wide open displaying rows of jagged metal teeth. A large figure sat down on it as Ariad looked and peered down at her through cloudy white eyes. It was not human.

The air caught in the girl’s throat at the terror of the situation and she sobbed again.

Another of his species stood in front of her and talked in an alien tongue to the one on the throne. As their conversation and Ariad’s weeping continued, she heard the jingle of metal on metal and saw through tear-soaked eyes the glimmer of silver. This seemed to interest the one on the dais and it uttered a word she understood. “Sil-ver.” The arr sound rolled out like the deep growl of one of the great wolves the goblins took to ride.

Their discussion ended after what seemed like hours to Ariad and the emissary stood to the side, exposing the girl to the leader’s gaze. She trembled and let out another wail.

“Do not cry, child,” a voice like steel on a grindstone rasped. “Tell me what I want and you shall be spared.”

It shocked Ariad to hear it speak in her language. She somehow found it in herself to stop crying and look up again at her captor. He – she guessed – was like a cross between two creatures: shark and elf. Its ears were long and pointed and features generally humanoid like an elf but the shape of its neck and scalp was elongated like a cat’s and facial features sharp. Its eyes held no colour, the pupils only slightly distinguishable by a circle of milky white. Ridges ran deep through the sections of visible ear and slitted either side of the neck like gills. Wait – they were gills. Ariad hadn’t noticed them on the bodies of the ones that had brought her but as she wheeled around hysterically they had them too. What in the names of the Horned Lord and Lady of Wind and Water are these monsters? she wondered.

“Now then,” the figurehead continued, ignoring her lack of response, “Where were the soldiers of your village when the Zivar raided it?”

Ariad looked back to the circumstances that had brought her here. It had been a normal day, she’d helped her mother bring in the catch and wash the cockles for the broth. Then those creatures had come – the Zivar, was it? – bursting in through their door and grabbing and hauling her off by the hair as she screamed and the village burned. She’d been thrown in a longboat, gagged and tied up with rope and left to shiver and cry quietly as the ship left the shores of her home. Many hours later, she’d been dragged up the winding steps of a hilly island and through blood-stained streets towards the castle she now lay in.

“I… I don’t know… The men were called to the court of Lord Taelyc. To arms.”

This seemed to interest the Zivar. “Tae-lyc? I know not this man. Who is he?”

“He is our lord… my lord, the saviour who led us from Ordov.”

“Hmm…” The shark-elf rumbled, stroking the underside of its chin with a webbed hand. “Ordov I know. Why does he call soldiers?”

“I… I don’t know.” Ariad burst again into fitful crying. “I… I don’t know, please believe me!”

He looked at her with an unreadable face through Ariad’s watery eyes. There was a painful pause as she cried and cried.

“It matters not. I, King Ga’ap, thank you for your aid. You are free to go.”

A rush of relief washed over Ariad as she floundered before the king. “Thank you… Oh, thank you, gracious king!”

The King spoke again in the strange language to the soldier behind her, for escort. She turned just as his jaws clamped around her face, spraying her blood and tissue across the court floor.

The river flowed swiftly to the city of Priroda, splitting in a perfect 45 degree angle around the magnificent city. the water glistened with the shin of the sun and fisher men were out in their boats, they looked like they would tip into the rapid flow and get pushed east towards the hills. If you look closely, you notice that the river split three ways, two created by nature and one by man, flowing into the city to provide water to the people. This is what Nicandros noticed as he looked upon his magnificent city, he would do nearly anything to protect this city, it was a perfect blend of nature and mans' work. The streets were littered with flowering bushes and trees lined the sidewalks. Many of the houses had gardens in the back and in the center of the city, there was a glorious tree. that is suppose to be as old as the city itself. Nicandros knew that the city would fall if the Dominion of Ordov attacked. He couldn't imagine the city burning and the followers of the Old Way executed.

The council meeting was unscheduled and called quickly, man of the council members had to abandon their current projects to get to this meeting. They wondered what was so important that the high king had to call a meeting when the next one was only a week away. "We shall have to start without our sister from the Sisterhood of Water and Wind, this matter needs to be discussed now."

The members that had arrived were the Head of the Horned Protectors and the lords of the three tribes. They all had the same thought, "What is this matter of discussion?"

"Now, I'm sure you are wondering what was so important that I needed to meet you now." says Nicandros "As many of you know, the Dominion has always been at our borders and have always planned to invade us. I believe-" Nicandros erupts into a nasty cough and his guards at his side are forced to make him sit in his chair, a servant comes in quickly handing him a glass of wine. "Now back to business, I believe they are planning to attack us as Seleukos as spotted a unusual amount of increased patrols. Our land and this city itself would be in the direct path of an attack, it would also affect our trade as they are also a major trade partner and are attacking their northern neighbors and a small trade partner, Taelyc. This are the matters that have forced me to move up our meeting."

"I don't see how this is a problem, my majesty." says Bogdan "They have always been threatening us, but they have also been a great help in many efforts."

"My dear sir, I understand that they have been a great help, but they have also never attacked their northern neighbor, yet they have now." answers Nicandros

"I am sorry my king, but I cannot support this." says Seleukos "They provide much of the income to my part of the kingdom."

"I have to agree with Seleukos." says Bogdan

The meeting was a failure and everyone was getting up to leave, Nicandros had grown old and no longer had the usual effect on his council. Mamigon was heading for the great door, bejeweled and covered in gold but also natural branches sticking out as if it was alive when Nicandros grabbed his arm. "Please, the kingdom needs protecting and you are our last hope."

"My king, I serve only the Horned Lord and you. I will try my best to station men at our western border."

The Church of the Divine Family, Homestead, Lumenor,

The night's moon reflected her faint light upon the capital of Lumenor, basking the sleeping city in the faintest of Valo's rays.The Faith of the Light's central church, the Church of the Divine Family, reflected the moon's light off of her stained glass windows to gently illuminate the dark shadows that hid in the crevices of the massive church. It was the second largest building in all of Homestead, matched only the Hall of Elders itself, but five or six times as splendidly decorated and many hundreds of times more frequently visited. The dimly glowing crowds of the streets of Homestead led a constant trail of light in and out of the Church's ornate wooden doors, the engravings of Valo and his wife Kaikki on either door beckoning the solemn citizens of the Lumen nation inside. Their engravings were indented with golden leaf and silver lining, but the rich entryway offered only the faintest clue of the glories that could be found inside. Those who entered the Church of the Divine Family found themselves welcomed by two grand pillars on either side of the Church's interior, the marble monoliths carved into the effigies of the Divine Marriage; strong and forboding Valo on the right, and Kaikki's slender form and tender smile on the left. Hung between the two massive statues was a tapestry depicting the birth of the Divine Daughters; rays of sunlight on top and the articles of existence, rivers, forests, plains and mountains, below. Between the sun and the earth were the five daughters, floating in divinity, their bodies covered by flowing white robes that sapped wisps of cosmic energies from their parents above and below. Beneath the painting were the pews of the Church, two equally endless rows of stone seating, upholstered in golden coloured fabric on one side and silver coloured on the other. The pews were occupied by massive crowds of Lumen, the populace of Homestead being an ever faithful lot with a strong dedication to the Faith of the Light. Attending to the church, caring for her decorations and patrons were the Priests of the Light, Lumen dressed in fine white fabric that echoed the dressings of the Divine Daughters depicted in the entranceway's painting. They were a solemn and quiet lot, but together with their masters they wielded more power in Lumenor than any merchant or general. Though this influence often grew numb with disuse, the Faith found reason every so often to exercise their power for the betterment of Lumenor. Sometimes for the benefit of themselves as well.

"Word back from Kotka, finally!" spoke a priest in a back-room of the Church, his tone uncharacteristically spiteful, and his eyes trained on a second priest, who sat at a plain wooden table, wearing out both his hand and the ink in his quill as he wrote, recited and transcribed.

"Good news, I would hope?" replied the studious priest, his attention not truly faded from his work, but his voice seemingly sincere.

"Indeed. It would seem that Daughters Tuli and Laki have seen fit to bless our purpose. The Lumenistic Order's grand staff have accepted the proposal, unbeknownst to the Kuunin".

The priest dropped his quill and smiled widely, looking upwards and making a short prayer. "Bless the Daughters. And bless you too, Priest Uisset, for delivering this news".

Uisset joined in the priest's gladness, straightening his robe, preening himself as though he were in some way responsible for what was to come from the Order's acceptance. "The blessings be unto you, Father Huono!" he relented. "You were the one responsible for drafting the proposal, after all. Erm, speaking of which though, have you gotten acceptance from the Arkisto yet?" Uisset spoke the penultimate word, Arkisto, with a due amount of restraint. The Arkisto was the central authority of the Faith of the Light, responsible for every major decision made and every important policy adopted. Their numbers were drawn from the ranks of the Fathers of the Faith of the Light, of which there was one for each and every Church throughout Lumenor. Huono, as the Father of the largest Church, had more pull in the Arkisto than most. What the Lumenistic Order had just accepted would require more than just Huono's approval to sway the Arkisto, though. Father Huono knew this—the soldier in plain clothes that walked into the room and closed the door once Uisset had finished talking, didn't. For him, the reasoning behind his being ordered to stab Uisset to death would always be a mystery, and so would be Huono's lack of reaction. With Uisset's screams muffled by the soldier's hands, and his blood cleaned up effectively by his brilliant white robes, all that Huono had to be concerned about now was finishing his address to the Arkisto. He'd always felt that Church officials were in need of a little more personal security...

The North Sea – West of Zivaria

In the great blue, a lone Zivar dove. It dolphin kicked downwards, surging forward its powerful body. The dorsal fin acted as a rudder to maintain direction. Deeper and deeper it swam, down where the filtered light from the sun entered a twilight zone by the seabed. Seaweed and coral danced in the current as crabs and lobsters scuttled around their gardens. Here the Zivar alighted, planting its webbed feet on the sand, sending up a light dust cloud. It expelled the air from its lungs to establish negative buoyancy, the bubbles from its mouth spiraling upwards towards the surface. The elf then walked, fronds licking at its thighs.

Her name was Viza, a princess of Zivaria and the fourth daughter of King Ga’ap. She was sixteen years old, the same age as her three older siblings. They’d all hatched from the same clutch; however Viza was released from the womb a few weeks after her sisters. Only by the human oppressors’ whims were they born. The colony needed more slaves, both for servitude and trade. Zivaria, or Abvor as it was named up to ten years ago, had a great economy in the slave trade. Zivar thralls were shipped off far and wide, from the moors and marshes of the Western Hill Region to the icy climes of the far North. They were good labourers, gladiators, and soldiers; easy to manipulate and possessed of a robust physique. There still existed slave communities of Zivar in certain cities around the world, much to King Ga’ap’s ire.

The ‘Slave King’ as insolents dubbed him, was a guardian and champion of his people. Ruthless and powerful, he was the epitome of the Leviathan faith, the apex of the race. His martial brilliance was testament to the superior intelligence he held over his subjects; only through his guidance and coordination were they able to overthrow the human colonists. He had roused the once-fearsome Zivar from their centuries-long slumber, sparked the fire within their hearts to claim what was rightfully theirs. Viza only wished she’d been old enough to remember the rebellion, human screams tearing through the night, their blood running like rivers down the streets of Jawr. Her loins quivered at the thought. She loved the King, more than as a father.

Oh yes – Viza often had incestuous thoughts of King Ga’ap. It wasn’t uncommon for Zivar to mate within their family, much as other species frowned upon it. Their love wasn’t monogamous; it was won by displays of power and violence and shifted from suitor to suitor as quickly as a strike could be landed. There were no social barriers such as family, race or affluence. To be strong was to reproduce.

Viza hoped that this venture would make her father recognise her abilities, and her. She had been tasked with spearheading the trade envoy initiative, which involved keen supervision and coordination. She’d had to check all the cargo, crews and ships were in order for all four fleets. It was exhausting work and had preoccupied her for months but it didn’t bother her as it would do the King proud. Finally they were on their way, each fleet currently bound for their specified destination.

The envoys were to be a showcase to the nations of Ordov, Romeq-Intik, Saviana and Graeg displaying the vast arrays of goods the kingdom of Zevaria had to offer. Iron, copper, fish, shellfish, lead, gems, seaweed, steel; the country had a lot to offer. The King had revolutionised all sectors of their industry, introducing zonation of sea territory for designated fisheries and seaweed gardens, better equipment for miners and mapping of the tunnels, and educating the sharper citizens in craft capacities. Production had boomed to provide Zevaria with all it needed and now it was time to expand to other regions. If the initiative was successful, a constant supply train could be secured and Zivaria could benefit too from other regions’ exports.

They hoped the seaweed would become something of a national specialty and evoke interest. The large varieties they had came in all shapes, sizes and colours, some dull and others vibrant, some rare and expensive and others common and cheaper. Many were fried to crispy snacks while others were fresh to be eaten like legumes. They had been tried and tested for human consumption, though forcefully, and the subjects seemed to approve.

The move towards international trade had raised doubts within the country. It contrasted with the warmongering nature of the race and many were anxious their cultural identity would be lost. They’d certainly built this reputation for themselves in the surrounding waters, and the King feared they may become further stigmatised if nothing was done. Trade meant prosperity and influence in the world as the many fools among the Zivar failed to realise. He was not becoming soft. It was all for the greater good of power and conquest.

Viza returned to the task at hand and treaded the seafloor, careful not to step on the abundant crustaceans. Soon, she found what she was looking for. Twisting from a gap between two boulders was a thin bright violet seaweed. Its laminas corkscrewed towards the surface, extending almost five feet from the bed. These radiated out from a singular stipe as thick as a bamboo shoot.

Viza’s hands fastened around its holdfast and yanked the algae from its anchorage. She searched for another for another good half hour to no avail then launched off for the surface, seaweed in hand.

Bursting from the water, Viza took a few minutes to adjust her breathing from gills to lungs and looked around her to find the ships. They sailed in the near distance and she glided gracefully through the surf to join them. Her fingers found the handgrips in the hull of the largest and she hauled herself up – tucking the seaweed under her arm – onto the deck. Her arrival was met with a coarse chuckle.

“You found it, my jreker!” the sailor exclaimed in Zivarian, “I knew it would be growing in these parts!”

“Your instincts were correct, Theth. Put this in storage.” She handed the elf the tall seaweed and he set off graciously below deck. The cog had been salvaged from their colonisers, one of the seafaring vessels that had brought them to their land. It would become a valuable tool to the Zivar if this enterprise was successful.

Viza walked to the bow, water dripping from the loincloth and tight cloth wrapping that concealed her privates and breasts. A tall Zivar and his colleague stood gazing over the waves, ahead of the rest of the flotilla.

“Captain, when do we reach Saviana?”

“We will be there in six hours, my jreker,” the tall figure said, turning his battle-scarred head.

Satisfied, Viza turned towards the cabin, looking out at the vast blue horizon as she strode.