There is little opposition and I sweep aside the few undead who dare to try to oppose me. I open my mouth wide and scream in an explosion of sonic force that shatters undead bones and clears the first of the islands in the lake of the skeletal minions of one of the Tyrant’s many lackeys. Gazing down at the island I see that it is distant from all the others and that the island itself is held down with chains. It is clear what that means. And I feel a burning anger fill me at the sight of one of my brothers chained down beneath the lake of the damned.

My black wings beat as I dive again and smash at the first of the chains with all three of my tails. The links shatter at the impact and I feel a vibration and see ripples running across the water as the whole island shudders. Another pass breaks the second of the great chains and I see the ripples and shuddering growing stronger. I pull away rising on my black wings as exultation fills me and the chains begin to snap on their own.

“Aldaril First Born of Lymaeus!” I cry out in the voice of the depths, and joy fills my cry instead of loss. “The Tyrant is dead! Rise!” And as I cry out I see the last of the chains snap. Two great arms like mountains themselves rise and then plunge into the water again to push as the island rises and a smaller one breaks the surface in front of it.

Slowly a giant of stone rises up from the water. I weep for his suffering as I see the scorch marks that cover the stone but Aldaril was always the strongest and he endured.
“Sister.” I hear his voice thunder back like the crash of falling rocks as he rises. But there is a strange echo to his voice as if something is missing.

“We must free the others.” I call back. There is no time to dwell on conditions; I have to free them all. I haven’t waited through the Tyrant’s entire reign to stop now. “Aldaril!” I cry out again as he stands chest deep in the lake motionless. “Help me.”

Finally I see him begin to move, and one of his arms reaches out to brush aside hundreds of the gathering undead. I dive for a new island, one that holds a single massive tree wrapped in flaming chains. I scream again and the skeletons shatter as my wings strike the water and send it washing over the island to quench the fire that burns along the chains. I land upon the island and again my tails lash out to smash and break the chains.

“Glissa Fifth Born of Lymaeus!” I call to her as the last chains break. “Sister, the Tyrant is dead! You are free.” But there is no answer to my glad cry as the great tree just sits there burnt and battered before me. I begin to despair even as I hear Aldaril’s voice thundering out Marra’s name. Then I see the blackened bark and burnt wood beginning to peel away. In a moment it is all gone, leaving only a women made from wood who stirred weakly behind.

I wrap one of my tails around her and lift her as I take to the air again and glance up. The Derevi still flock above the lake and I have not seen many fall so I turn my attention back to the lake. Standing atop one of Aldaril’s mountainous shoulders is a shimmering maiden made from sparkling water. Marra lived as well! I rejoice inside, only Nyxis and Lloris still remain. I am so close, but I’m worried.

I dive towards a final island as Aldaril’s great strides take him to another. My scream shatters the undead again as I descend and then land. This island holds a great jar and I lash out with my tails to shatter it. As it shatters I hear a whistling sound and a gust of wind whips past me. It was faint but I know it is a sign that Nyxis is free.

It is Lloris who worries me most and I rise again and soar to the last island that Aldaril now stands beside. I see a loathsome creature like a worm of smoldering ash and then feel horror at myself as I recognize it as what remains of my brother. But they are free, and they live. I rejoice even as I surrender’s Glissa to one of Aldaril’s great hands.

For once, the god of debauchery did not smile in public. He did not revel in excitement, or anticipation, or under the effects of alcohol. In the great courtroom he sat, sipping with unheard of reserve, his attitude sure to draw the attention of the others. One hand resting at his brow, elbow to the table. Down below, in the mortal realms, trouble was brewing. It was not like the drunken god to interfere with the petty squabbles of his siblings and sister gods, but rather to partake in the victory celebration with relish. However, this time there was cause for it, and his servants did his bidding without question.

Within Caesilinius

The vampires who had feasted upon the blood of hapless mortals grew ever thirsty within the doomed city. Beyond the usual thirst which plagued every night-stalker, the desire for blood drove many of the lesser and newly turned almost mad, many deserting and finding more mortals to feast upon. The older remained wary, but grew stronger for their want, finding themselves able to rip apart those who opposed them, while sensing the presence of even the smallest drop of living blood. They did not know who had bestowed this temporary curse, or blessing, upon them, but relished in the heightened delights of the blood they consumed, and soon began to call and roar with terrible desire. It was evident that the vampires of Caesilinuius were now a near uncontrollable but far more deadly force.

Outside Caesilunius

The souls of long dead warriors may have seemed beyond the arts of Morios. However, it could be considered a mistake to bring an army of warriors who were the most blood-thirsty of their peers, excellent in battle but weak to the prospects of their individual glory. When the battle lust took them, it took them with a fury with which they had never felt before. They revelled in it, and when the time came for battle to be joined they would fight harder, and more fearsome than ever before, but they would be uncontrollable in the throes of battle. Many innocents would die to their blades, lost in the face of beserker rage; perhaps even fellow allies would be cut down, as the pleasure of battle washed over them. They would be drunk on it, the fighting would make them mad, and Morios would grow ever more powerful while his fellow gods lost control of their pretty little armies.

The outer provinces (countryside)

The Drunken Wanderers came not soon after Lefredias drove the oppressed to revolt. When guard towers were broken asunder and the houses of lords pillaged, it was the nature of those involved to pilfer and loot. The Wanderers only encouraged such behaviour, pulling out their own alcohol to season that which the peasantry took from the lords. As one could imagine when night fell and the fighting was done, each town grew merry at its own success. Very merry indeed, as many a man fell into a drunken stupor and remained paraplegic for days hence. The party would continue for many days for the less fanatic of the peasants, who were happy with their minor and relatively blood-less victory. It would be far harder now for Lefredias and his followers to rouse the peasants into a battle where they were doomed to die.

Daeros watched from afar as the battle for Caesilinius went on; it was with awe that he observed the arrival of Sileon - the Fallen King’s brother streaking across the sky in the form of a massive, flaming bird. Impressive. The God moved from his watching place - atop a mountain overlooking the great city - to moving amongst his gathered mortal army with a single blink of his eyes; after all, he was a God; if he needed to move, he would move.

“My children,” Daeros rumbled, his voice carrying to every ear of those in his army - even above the din of horses and men alike, readying themselves for battle. The deity's voice would likely be heard by the other immortals that had chosen to reveal themselves, to come down to the mortal plane to fight for the control of Aroseus’ Great City - and announce to them, finally, his presence. “We fight, today, not for personal gain - but for stability. We fight for what Aroseus stood for before he went mad; we fight for stability, for the continuation of mortal life. Certainly, you will have glory and honour for ensuring the stability of this great city - and your leaders will rule it, when we are victorious. But do not allow yourselves to become carried away; do not rape, do not pillage - you are saviours; heroes, come to free Caesilinius from bloody ruin!”

When the God finished his speech, his words were greeted by a collective roar from the amassed body of his army; warriors from various nationalities standing side by side, armed to the teeth and ready for war. A resounding crash filled Daeros’ ears, and it was if the sun itself had descended to the ground when Samael made his appearance - blasting into nothingness the dark forms of vampires and the undead alike; clearing the way for Daeros’ army to enter the city. A small smile began to spread across the God’s lips, as armour began to cover his previously half-naked form - seemingly of its own accord.

When the magic had run its course, Daeros stood with a pair of golden pauldrons strapped to either shoulder, a chainmail mesh covering his legs down to his knees; chest bare, save for a well-made guard covering his heart, crafted from the finest silver and inset with priceless gems. He held a chain-mesh net in one hand and a golden-tipped spear in the other, and he was surrounded by snakes of all shapes and sizes, hissing and rattling at his feet. “We fight for honour, for duty, for justice!” Daeros bellowed, pointing the tip of his spear towards Caesilinius as his army rushed forwards. “For Caesilinius!” The God roared, the cry taken up by the throats of thousands of mortal men as they rushed towards the sacked and burning city; charging through its destroyed gates, and doing battle with the servants of darkness; made mad and vulnerable by the insatiable thirst that had been cursed upon them.

Rather than join the army himself, Daeros sent his serpents to be his eyes and ears - hundreds of them surged forwards, appearing seemingly out of nothingness; joining the mortal men in their struggle against the dark power that had invaded Caesilinius. Daeros was no warrior, and he had other business to attend to - the matter of the other deities who had decided to turn up at Caesilinius’ door when he had been about to claim it as his own.

The God willed himself to appear at Avanid’s side, in the midst of a marching immortal army. “Avanid,” Daeros greeted the woman, his voice smooth as silk - eyes soft, engrossing and addictive as always. “I thank you for your timely arrival; and any assistance in taking the city back from these dark scum would be appreciated. My men have already entered the city, and will deal with the task of fighting back the vampires from their side of the city. If you could tend to and defend the temples, that would be much appreciated; I’m afraid I do not, as yet, have the manpower to handle them myself.”

A man in black made his way from a bawdy, crowded, feast hall on an otherwise cool evening. Meat and drink had been shared by all, before the meat was replaced with stories and new drinks were passed all around. The skies above were smooth and ebon, beset with countless twinkles of silvery bright light from stars far above, themselves dead besides. And though dead and extinguished, their lights shined on forever far from their home in the vastness of creation.

After the man in black relieved himself at the base of the nearby tree, his dark eyes settled on the sky above. There he lost himself in the thoughts of the moment. Even he did not sense the presence approach him. "How fares the celebration?"

The Dream King's thin lips smiled even as he stared up at the heavens. "Aroesus feasts, drinks, laughs, and knows little more than he is at a feast."

"A Feast that never ends."

He shrugged, before finally turning to see the image of his sister between he and the feast hall behind her. It appeared made of stone and wood, but in reality it was made of will power and dreams. Aroesus had been called to the Nightlands, allowed to escape within and be free from the influence of so many. "And what is it that's been happening away from this feast?"

His sister did not move, save for a slight narrowing of her eyes. "There is a battle for Caesilinus." Surprised, the Dream King roared in laughter. He laughed loud and openly, until he was holding his sides and barely able to see his sweet sister. His sister simply stared. "Our young fiery brother has awakened. The dead King's wife treads water."

"I should speak with her."

His sister's brow perked. "Speak to her of dreams?"

"Dreams, and fires, and nights, and husbands, and brothers." In truth, his concern was closer to Krona than Caesilinus. "Something should be done about Caesilinus, but what? And how?"

"Ask the reveler."

For a beat, his head turned to the feast hall, his mind to the feast within. To the revelers. "I have. His words were wise, even if he was unaware of the true nature of my questions. Ask his wife?"

His sister looked uncomfortable at the suggestion; even if she did not move and gave no outward suggestion to discomfort. He could see it still. The Dream Queen was a solitary, quiet creature. So are you, a voice echoed within his mind. And it was true. But in the absence of order, it would be difficult to carry on with even simple duties. The bloodshed in Caesilinus alone had plagued the Nightlands with nightmare after nightmare. With death and terror.

Dream understood the nightmares and the death and the terror. All things had their place, and in their place all things needed to be. But that natural, organic order to things had been shaken by the actions of Aroesus and other gods of the Pantheon. Did change need to come? It was a question that had all but plagued Dream endlessly for a longer time than he'd want to admit.

"I would sooner ask our youngest brother."

His starry eyes jerked to his sister's appearance once more. By saying so little, she had said infinitely more. "So you should, sister. Find our brother and ask him what you need to. It is I who will approach Krona and see what has become of things." By the time he finished, she was already gone, leaving him with only the night skies above and the distant sound of laughter and cups coming together in cheer.

So Aroesus would stay, and feast. And the Dreamers would escape the night, their long dream coming to end as the former God King's endless dream had just begun. For a moment, Dream felt not but jealousy and spite and resentment. It was Aroesus' fault. All of it. If Vael was ready, but Nys was not? Or if Nys was ready but Vael was not? What then?

No answer came. When the Dream King was gone from that endless dream of the dead God King, he appeared in the cracking halls of Krona, his black starry eyes upon the throne of that had once belonged to Aroesus, to the younger brother. Aroesus had taken to the trappings of godhood, while Vael and Nys had escaped into dreaming, and learned of a god's power in a harsh, darker, way.

Could such a strange god matter? None were more ancient than Dream. The image of Vael considered it, his clothing little more than black robes and black sandals, his skin ashen and his dark hair wildly affixed this way and that. It was only after Aroesus' throne had turned black as night that the elder brother took the few steps, turned, and sat upon the throne of the God King.

While the younglings squabbled, The Dream King would simply rise. Dream, King of Gods. It had such a strange sound to it...he could at least appreciate it, even if his own ears did not love the sound of it.

"My lady, the evacuating parties in the eastern gates are being wiped out. We're also losing formation cohesion for a reason we don't yet know." Another adviser came to report to the Crimson Queen.

The flash of light in the sky a few minutes before had already told her well enough that their plans were beginning to fall apart. Though she stood her ground, the Crimson Queen now trembled in worry. This attack was not meant to go this way. If only he had been here, this attack could have been successful. For now, she had to salvage what she could from this operation. Foremost, she had to save her own skin and get back to Vaslonya. The Bloodchiefs and other leaders of the vampire tribes were a lost cause, they would have to be spent for her personnel to make it out of the ruined city.

"Get me two null-herders. I need them to gather as many as they can in near the northern gate, and send my carriage with them. We'll evacuate to the south." She said, after some deliberation.

"That's a bit hasty, don't you think?" Asked a coarse male voice behind her.

The Crimson Queen whipped around to behold the man who had not been there only a moment before. Hair of gold, eyes of rubies, skin like porcelain, and a wicked scar encircling his thick neck. This could be no man other than Vova Eztli, Hero-King of Vaslonya. His expression was somewhere between bored and mildly amused, though he did give the Crimson Queen a polite smile. Her already milky skin turning nearly translucent from shock, vampiress dropped down onto one knee before the king, leaning on her blade and averting her eyes.

"F-father, I thought that you had forsaken us." She said, trying her hardest to maintain her composure.

"Not at all. I merely had a few other commitments to attend to. They ran longer than I predicted." He lead her back onto her feet by gently caressing her chin before deeply kissing her. As they broke away, a strand of blood-tinged saliva still connected their lips. "It is good to see you again, Mina." He said, his tone soft and warm.

Mina Eztli, Queen Regent of Vaslonya and True-Blooded Queen of Vampyres, again tried her hardest to keep her bearing. She cleared her throat and sheathed her sword, before taking a brief moment to try to explain the current situation to her father. It was under his orders that this attack had commenced, orders that she had been waiting on for her entire life. She was not the oldest child of the Pariah King, not by a long shot, but for some reason he had taken particular interest in her. After having been thought dead for centuries, he made himself again known to the people of Vaslonya and had her instated as Queen to better serve his will. His near-absence had very nearly triggered an existential crisis for her, but now all would surely be well.

"Worry not," he eventually said. "Let them come with their armies. I am ready for them." He raised his head to face the heavens and boom with unworldly volume, "Do you hear me? I am here, avengers of Dead-King Aroesus!"

Vova cracked his neck and knuckles. He was more powerful now than he had been in centuries. This city, its people slain by his brood in his name, now fueled him. Worship was certainly a good means of empowering a god, but it was not the only way, or was it the most efficient. Sacrifice had long been looked down upon by his "civilized" peers, but their snobbery would be their downfall. Every life taken with his name upon their killer's lips gave him strength in such a way that their prayers never could. After all, they each had only one life to give, and it had been gifted to him. What else was there to take?

"This is quite a fine temple," He mused softly, looking back to the gutted building behind him. "I suppose it's mine now, isn't it?"

The icons of Aroesus had all been removed from it, as ordered, and the city had been claimed in the name of the kingdom which he ruled. A city which had just been sacrificed directly to him. Overnight, this place had become the focal point of his power, and the other gods had been too blind to realize it. Soon they would come and realize their grievous error, but by then it would already be too late for them.

"You there," He called to a nearby sorcerer of his daughter's entourage, who hurried to the First Vampire. "Sanctify this temple in my name, and do it quickly." He said, biting his thumb and smearing his blood on his face in a vague pattern like a bat.

As the newly-minted priest rushed off to his task, Vova prepared himself for battle. He wore no armor, his chest adorned only with gaudy, gold jewelry, and some vague cotton garment resembling a kilt covering his lower half. A blade came to be in his hand, quite unlike the one wielded by his daughter, this was a hefty tool meant for chopping and smashing, rather than slicing and stabbing. Its blade was a black void which reflected no light, yet seemed to almost quiver, perhaps in anticipation of coming bloodshed.