Although Windbeach has only in recent times become a sovereign nation in its own right, it has a long and storied history as one of the richest provinces of the erstwhile Empire. The Windbeachmen have ever been far-ranging mariners, plying the Near and Far Seas for trade, adventure, and fortune; this spirit of exploration is well reflected in their cuisine, which even in times of imperial dominion was well known. The chronicler Vicus once remarked, “Give me a cup of Yellowpoint red and a rind of Tolmen cheese and I shall know happiness.” Indeed, Windbeach red wine, renowned for its peculiar floral notes, rich, stout body, and capacity to withstand long sea voyages, made it one of the most widely distributed vintages in the Empire and the favored libation of the elite. The imperial patronage of the Windbeach vineyards spurred the development of larger and swifter ships. And the returning mariners, having tasted the spices of Modi in the great ports of the imperial heartlands, developed a keen appetite for the stuff, and began to desire to trade in it themselves. Thus was the trading aspiration and pioneering spirit of the Windbeachmen born in the crucible of technological advancement, and both were inextricably bound up with cuisine.

Being chiefly a maritime province, the staff of life in Windbeach is fish, along with other varieties of seafood. The warm, relatively shallow waters of the Windy Sea teem with life, and offer up bountiful harvests to Windbeach fishermen. Perhaps the most common of all Windbeach dishes would be the humble fish stew, which is subject to infinite variation depending on seasonal availability and the creativity of the cook——it is said that every fishwife in Windbeach has her own recipe. The basic principle, however, is the same: rend the oil from a portion of fatback and duck sausage; sauté garlic, onions, and parsnips in the rendered oil until golden brown; deglaze with young wine, then add anchovy broth, a splash of wine vinegar, salt, spices (if desired; there are infinite mixes that are utilized), and a heaping portion of white beans (some like to include leafy greens and root vegetables to make the dish heartier; beans, however, are indispensable); let cook for some time, roughly six or seven hours; then, when the stew has cooked down considerably and the vegetables have dissolved, add the seafood of choice, usually some portion of white fish, fresh or dried, whole sardines, prawns, and blue rock crabs; bring the mix to a boil, and once the seafood is cooked through, serve. There are a number of common condiments for the stew: garlicky pepper sauce, garlic confit, a variety of herb sauces and pastes, crisped shallots, red basil, and many more. Another indispensable addition: a hunk of crusty Windbeach sourdough flatbread, and a glass of good wine (if it can be found) or crisp small beer. The stew is eaten at all hours of the day: breakfast after a night’s simmering for fishermen before going out for the day’s catch; luncheon, along with a number of salads and cold dishes; or for a late night dinner.

Although the noble fish stew is the most prevalent of fish dishes, the number of ways in which the Windbeachmen prepare the fruits of the sea are as innumerable as the stars. Octopus braised in beer and doused in white pepper; sea urchin infused porridge with grains of paradise; seaweed soup with shark fin and grain; crab roe, carrot and pork skin fritters; cold pickled swordfish; grilled eel brandied and set aflame; whole fried squid; gooseneck barnacles boiled and served in a sauce of butter, cinnamon, mace, clove, and a number of herbs; sweet clams with beans, sausages, and smoked paprika; prawns fried in garlic oil and smothered in pepper sauce; an infinite variety of recipes for steamed mussels; live octopus swimming in wine; squid ink bread, the famed “black” bread of the Windbeachmen; the grand panoply of preparations would be nearly impossible to catalogue. A common tavern nosh are whole pickled sardines (for the bold: pickled fish eyes), and a spread of goat cheese and sturgeon roe on flatbread is a favorite morsel in the afternoon.

But Windbeach is not only a place of broad coastal plains and windswept promontories. The interior rises in verdant, low-lying mountains, terraced hills where the famed “Yellowpoint” grapes are cultivated, and deep river gorges. Here the climate is cooler, though the infamous Windbeach summers still strike the whole country dumb for three months out of the year. The food here is heartier, and, as is only natural, has a greater focus on meat and vegetable dishes, though the influence of the sea is still keenly felt, for no part of Windbeach lies outside of eighty kilometers from the coast. The Sweetfall Valley, known for its rich earth, is for all intents and purposes the agricultural center of the country. Wheat, barley, and beans are cultivated in abundance, along with great groves of almond, hazelnut, pistachio, chestnut, olive, apple, citrus, fig, plum, and apricot. In the hills, goats and sheep are herded, and every farmer keeps pigs and chickens; cattle is quite uncommon, for there is so little room to graze them. Pork especially is the prince of meats, and of supreme quality due to the pigs’ diet of chestnuts and whole wheat berries. And just like fish, it is prepared in an unreckonable number of ways; of particular note, however, are the prime sausages and exquisite hams made by the people of the Valley. Chickens, ducks, and other fowl are likewise abundant, and some of the most famous dishes of Windbeach are poultry preparations originating here. Meats are most often stewed in alcohol (wine or beer), as is the Windbeach wont, along with nuts and dried fruits, or grilled or roasted over an open flame. A wide variety of goat and sheep cheeses are made by the hillfolk, which are exceedingly fine in quality and incorporated in a vast array of dishes, particularly in vegetable preparations and cold dishes, or served alone with pickles and fresh wildflower honey. Unlike the coast, the interior does not often use spices, relying on the quality of their meat and produce and the twin flavor giants of garlic and onion.

The number of famous dishes are legion, to the point that the interior, rather than the coast, is known as the gastronomic heartland of Windbeach. Whole fried eggplants stuffed with duck eggs, almonds, dried figs, and pork cracklings and drizzled with honey; stewed sheep’s brains spread on bread with roasted garlic and soft cheese; pork trotters stewed with chickpeas and sausage; white bean paste with pork cracklings, scallion and pepper, used as a dip for bread; pork tripe stewed in red wine with bacon; sparrows, drowned alive in wine, roasted and eaten whole; roasted chicken rubbed with olive oil, garlic, fennel, rosemary, chives, and ground almonds, stuffed with oranges, green olives, and onions; spicy chicken feet braised in beer; duck braised in beer with prunes and stuffed with chestnuts; duck tongues stewed in honey; cold pig ear salad with garlic oil; pork cheeks braised in wine with turnips, chickpeas, and figs; fried lamb’s testicles or goat’s livers, a common tavern food; stewed spinach with mace, lemon, chickpeas, and goat cheese, one of the few spiced dishes widely eaten; mashed chestnuts with butter and goat cheese, a common side dish; chickpea flour flatbread; and finally, the famous whole roasted suckling pig or whole roasted lamb or goat, a necessary dish for any feast. All these and more are amongst the pinnacles of Windbeach cuisine.

It is said that the people of the Sweetfall Valley, “Eat well, drink well, fuck well, and die young.” This author can attest to all of those assertions.

But one would be remiss to speak of the gastronomy of Windbeach without mentioning their fabulous desserts. Just as the rest of Windbeach cuisine, the sheer number of desserts boggles the mind, and the Windbeachmen have an infamous sweet tooth. But with such fine honey, such sweet fruits, such creamy milk, such alluring spices, how could they not? Most Windbeach cuisine is made up of stews, roasts, soups, and braises, with a few odd fried dishes here and there. However, Windbeach desserts are known for being rich, slathered in honey, lavishly spiced, and, at least a great deal of them, fried. There a vast number of sweet fritters, mostly sticky with honey and splashed with sheep’s milk cream: carrot fritters, fig fritters, pumpkin fritters, hazelnut paste fritters, almond paste fritters, prune fritters, goat cheese fritters, sheep cheese fritters, and on and on. Fried chickpea flour rounds with honey, cinnamon, cardamom, and pistachio; fried dough balls stuffed with prunes and drenched in cream and sweet wine; deep fried pistachio cakes laced with orange flower water, nutmeg, and spread with plum compote; goat cheese cakes with cloves, sweet wine, and honey; these are just a few of the rich, and, at least in the opinion of this author, stomach churning Windbeach desserts.

But there is lighter fare to be found, much preferable after a gargantuan Windbeach repast. Richly spiced goat milk custards with duck egg yolks; cool fruit puddings; pistachio and almond flour sweetmeats; apple or apricot cakes; whipped goat cheese with orange blossom water, cinnamon, and slices of blood orange; simple compotes, jams, and fruit pastes served on bread or with cheese; and, reserved for the wealthy and the powerful, fruit and wine ices, made from blocks of ice brought in from the high ranges of Aedria, which are said to be of a quality unmatched anywhere in the wide world.

And, as is typical in Windbeach, dessert is always washed down with a glass of fine, sweet wine, or the famous Windbeach plum brandy, the perfect end note to a perfect meal. Such are the gastronomical pleasures, and life in general, in the pleasant country of Windbeach.

Silver blade met silver throat,
and the Blessed Spear broke with a snap.
Afore the room thought to stir,
Killer's arrow pierced queen's heart.

And the Wolf fell,
And the queen died,
And the kingdom heard the silence.
And the moon wept,
And the stars blinked,
And the golden lives were severed.

The righteous howls were silenced.
The laughing children orphaned.

For my homeland, and its eternal glory,
spake the killer of kings.
The martyr of his people,
who set arms upon the floor,
and bowed his head toward the end.

The Ynddryron guard leapt forth,
and the killer's soul was quenched,
but not in time. Not enough,
as the Wolf lay dead upon the floor.

Times had become for the lord a matter of great melancholy, not least of which due to his age, as he had very nearly reached the status of an elder among the tribal confederacy. But furthermore, just as the soothsayers had predicted, the construction of the canals brought only temporary tranquility to the lower farmlands, carrying in their wake more questions, concerns, and complications. All these things flowed upon Seedsewer's shoulders like the very water the channels carried down from the melting mountain caps, and certainly did few favors for his weakened health. Chiefly among these stresses, the workers hired to dig the canals, mostly farmers from the same lowlands which would benefit from the project, initially had leapt at the opportunity to perform work which paid more than the planting and harvesting of rice paddies. They did not wish to return to their fields when the project was finished, and Seedsewer earned many grudges when he ordered them back to these fields, back to the pittance of growing and storing food for the coming winter. Besides the men whose backs had given out under the toils of cutting and moving stones for the canals, others simply did not want to return to work which, while equally miserable, paid back a mere fraction of the wealth; unemployment rose among the tribes, despite the guarantee of larger yields from future harvests.

All the while, Seedsewer's favorite general, Khirgesh, demanded an audience, and tried to warn him many times of the project's strategic ramifications. The witches, he argued, if ever they decided they coveted the ancestral lands of the Bronzespear, would need little more than a few barrels of poison to kill, at their leisure, either the men who drink the mountain water or the crops which soak in it during the season of floods. Not one to be fooled by their current passivity, Khirgesh desired a preemptive strike, one which would drive the witches from the mountains, securing the safety of the tribes who lived in their shadow. Seedsewer conceded, but insisted too that because he would not let himself be seen as the aggressor of this war, he needed a casus belli before he would levy an army from the tribesmen. He left Khirgesh to create it, giving the general free rein to provoke the Witches as he saw fit.

This power, however, was unnecessary, as the general chose a grassroots solution, a matter of simply convincing the tribes that they thirsted for war. He accomplished this through the fearmongering of a foreign invader, a technique which transcends time and place. With the aid of oral storytellers, and when they cooperated, the soothsayers, Khirgesh easily spread rumors that the Witches, jealous of the tribes' success, soon would seek to destroy the irrigation canals if they could not be captured and commandeered. For those who were less fervent, slower to thirst for Witch blood on the merits of tactical positioning, Khirgesh appealed instead to religious ideals, declaring that, although they had hated the Bronzespear pantheon for centuries, the canals gave the patient cowards, at long last, an opportunity to wreak destruction upon the superior tribes at little to no cost to themselves.

Soon enough blacksmiths had stopped making plows and trowels, forging instead the blades for spears and swords. The tribes demanded battle. Seedsewer needed only rise to the challenge and lead them into the mountains. It would be, quite literally, an uphill battle, and although the commanders knew they outnumbered and outclassed the witches greatly in battle, they knew too that the terrain rendered their own warriors vulnerable, particularly the horseborne, so all their prowess would be nullified if they could not coax the Witches away from the mountainsides. They could not predict, however, what devastation the coming stalemate would bring to both sides.

I am loath to record these events, for they are the most painful of all my memories, and to recall them brings tears to my eyes and great dolor to my heart. They come back at some times in fits and starts—blood-stained images in bold relief, perfumed with sulfur and bleary-eyed with smoke, imbued with nothing but naked sensation: the putrescence, the disembodied howls, the fires viewed through filthy canvas, the flashes of gore-smeared steel—and at other times as clearly as if carved in intaglio upon my mind. But I must, for none have yet chronicled how the Bronzespears came to be Bronzehammers, and what happened to those who refused to renege upon the faith that they had kept for thousands of years, since their ancestors still roamed the steppes, and to all of that I was a witness and beheld it with my own eyes.

I was a captive, a prisoner in the household of Chief Thimblehorn. To detail how I came into my thralldom would be an onerous enterprise, and I have not the ink, nor the parchment, nor the patience to narrate it. Suffice it to say that I was young and far too bold and brash for my own good, and the Bronzespears took kindly neither to outsiders nor to impudent scholastics with a genuine interest in learning their culture and language. I was discovered, beaten, tortured, and eventually kept as a thrall, a slave in all but name. Believe me when I say that that slavery is a yoke greater than any should have to bear; that it is the deepest of humiliations, the most hateful of outrages, the cruelest of pains. Yet it also afforded me a theretofore unparalleled opportunity to learn their language and their ways, although it was learning by the lash. And so within a matter of years I could speak the tongue of the Bronzespears, Ilwadi, as well as any of their warriors, and had even taken a wife—a woman-thrall captured from the Tollscythes, for it is very amusing to them to play the matchmaker and wed their thralls together. Thimblehorn found us all very diverting, and had us perform tricks, spar with one another, recite poetry, and cast us in lavish dramatic productions. But despite my mastery of the language and earnest attempts to reach out to him, he never saw me as anything other than a thrall, something lesser, something filthy, something weak, though others were more willing to express themselves in my company. Theirs is a culture predicated upon strength and might; to submit, to succumb, is the ultimate disgrace. The moment I was captured and impressed into thralldom vouchsafed my status amongst them. And no matter what I did, I was, and always will be, a thrall.

Thimblehorn was outraged when he learned that Goldenhand, their chief, had taken to a heathen religion, had even had the temerity to call himself prophet. He had abandoned the old ways, even claimed that they were weak, and that the Hammerfaith had the mastery. And it was then that he resolved not to accept the iniquity and perfidy of Goldenhand's conversion, and raised his banner in rebellion, along with a confederacy of other chiefs. The thralls remained at Horsehome with his wives and daughters, and heard nothing of the course of the revolt. Somehow, though, we knew that we were doomed, and that the master was never coming back.

We fled, along with whole tribes, to the north. The Hammerfaith had triumphed, and Goldenhand would do all he could to ensure that its victory was total. Rumor had drifted into Horsehome from the east of the slaughter of entire tribes at the hands of the Bronzehammers. It was said that they had even butchered the horses, and left them to rot beneath the open sky, so tainted were they by the "heathen". And they were coming to the west, coming to put down all of the Old Believers, all for the greater glory of the Heavenhammer. Goldenhand claimed that he had been visited in a dream by the Hammer's majordomo, the Lord of the Anvil, who had told him that judgement had been handed down by the Hammer and that it augured doom and damnation for any who held to the old ways. He ordered the massacre of all those who did not submit. But to submit was to be a slave, and thus, even if it would result in the extinguishing of their lines, the loss of their households and of their lives, even if they knew they had no chance to contend with Goldenhand, the Old Believers fled (they would have termed it a tactical retreat) in order to find a defensible place in which they could build their strength and strike back at the Bronzehammers. But it would all be for naught, and the mountains to which we retreated would become the tomb of thousands.

They had found us. Silverspear had been slain, and his tribe had been massacred—the children impaled or dashed on boulders, the women raped and then burned alive, the men tortured in an unimaginable variety of manners. And they were coming for us. There was nothing we could do but wait and despair, for we were faced with the wall of the mountains. There was nowhere else to run to.

In the bedlam of fire and blood I escaped, ran like a billy goat into the mountain heights and hid my eyes from the blaze and clasped my hands over my ears to block out the laughter and the wailing. For twenty-three years I had lived amongst the Bronzespears, and that life that I had had, that little, little life that I had been given even while in fetters, was burning far below me through the wind and snow. The wife that I had loved so briefly. The son she had borne that had lived all his life as a slave and known no kindness. I had lost them in the confusion, and I could not help but believe that I had abandoned them to die in the hecatomb, in fear and anguish. I despaired. I agonized. On the crag that I had taken as my harbor, I convulsed and flailed and raged into at freezing air. I boomed and accused. I wished that I had killed them while I still had the opportunity, as so many others had, let them go softly and easily into death. I wished that I had killed myself, and in my throes I almost did. But I did not, could not, no matter how many times I drew my knife or ran towards the precipice as if to leap. I could not, because in the depths of my heart I wanted to live.

By mid-morning they had ceased their revels, claimed what plunder they could find, and quit the killing grounds. I descended the mountainside, to find the bodies of my wife and child. In places, the fires still raged, but mostly they had consumed everything that they could, and burnt themselves to cinders. The reek of death, charred flesh, shit, and seed was overwhelming. I retched, I know not how many times; but still I searched, searched for those precious faces in the mire. There was no sign of life in the camp save for the carrion birds, already grown fat from their repast. I looked all day, until sundown had come, until I was smeared in the blood and the stink of the dead, but still I did not find them. I could not weep, for I had no more tears left to shed. I briefly entertained the hope that they had escaped, but knew by some intangible feeling that they did not live, and that perhaps that was a mercy, for those of us who live must in some part inhabit the world of the dead. Its shadow shall hang over me for the remainder of my brief years, until finally I join them in the mansions beyond the pale of living.

I did not tarry. I fled over the mountains, into Windbeach, that fatherland that I had not seen for twenty-four years, to which I was little more than a stranger. I recollect little of that flight. I remember only the sensation of cold rock and frigid ice and bitter snow against naked feet, of rapacious winds that roared with the sharpness of knives, of the blinding sun and the cool luminescence of the stars. And then: rugged foothills, spare forests of cork and holm oak, fragrant almond blossoms, plains hammered into bronze by the heat, and finally a stone house on a hill, a wizened farmer, a young daughter, soft straw, and sleep as bottomless as the sea.

...And I still live in the shadow of that death march, the Last March of the Old Believers, and some part of me still lies dead and insensate upon the ground at the foot of that cold and cruel mountain, exposed to the wind and the spring snow, with my wife and son (who I shall not name, for all that is left to me of them are their names), and my bones rattle and molder into dust. And when finally my time is come, I shall return there and make of it a couch, and I shall lie there with them, those that I left and I lost and I loved, and we shall sleep together in peace and silence forever.

The last battles of House Sunwalker were melancholy at best. Lord Governer Darius Brightheart was much beloved by his people for his kind demeanor and charismatic face, how quickly things change when a man is thrust into power. Jaeron Sunrise, previously lord and sultan, was receiving guests at his home, leaving to respond to an intriguing letter. It was a number of hours before the guests grew suspicious, striding to his door, they rapped upon it thrice and received only the cold whistling of an open window. The door was forced open, and Jaeron was found then, his throat opened and his lifeblood leaking to the ground in a crimson pool. I saw it then and it continues to pay a haunting presence in my nightmares, yet I did not know then how deeply the house of Sunwalker had been submerged until the next year. That year, Lord Darius took his place on the Sanded Throne, the corpse of the father was given a grand funeral, and the corpses of his two young cousins were pieced together from what remained of them after the assassin's blade bit through their bodies.

Fury quenched thought, and Lord Darius banded together with the similarly orphaned Lord Eriokles. They soon realized that their sowers' deaths had both been under circumstances too close to be a coincidence. Both men had given condemnations of the contemptible Lord Thanesrow, whether by quill or blade, and had been horrifically slaughtered like the very pigs in their fields as a result. Both men approached the Emperor Haedulus, ego only matched by hatred of the Greenlords. Haedulus, not with a care to give on the loss of these mens' beloved family, visualized a plan of action to cripple the backs of the Greenlords once and for all.

With the two orphan lords at his back, Emperor Haedulus demanded compensation for the death of his beloved allies. King Argenon, tenting his fingers and gifting upon the congregation a horrific snarl. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the congregation, and with it any hope of peace with the Ascended Lords. Haedulus and allies returned to Haedulon, many days having passed without contentedness or pleasure, rage wrought on their faces, the Ascended Lords quickly forged a declaration of war, rallying their respective populaces and executing a frenzied march into the heart of enemy territory.

Many expected a hard fought war, especially with the addition of House Oakwarden to the board, but few expected it to be as brutal as it proved to be. The first battles of the war were simple enough, with both sides getting decisive victories on multiple fronts, with Lord Saero, son of Sultan Darius, getting special focus for a lightning victory over the Oakwarden forces at the Battle of Jupulus Fields. Despite Sunwalker victories, the massive military power of the House of Oakwarden was concentrated elsewhere, dealing a horrific defeat to the forces of House Eriokles at the Battle of Greenfall Castle. After the massive Oakwarden army poured in from the jungles and annihilated the meager defenses of the castle, it was besieged and taken within a matter of days. I heard that blood could be smelled across the forests even across a number of rivers. Men were grabbed and hoisted from their homes, wives seized and taken, childens' heads dashed on floors, and hanged from the walls of the castle, riddled with arrows as a demonstration. The heir to the Greenfall was killed in this manner, but the rope was far too great in length, and he fell for a great distance before his head was ripped from his body.

Lord Eriokles' fury was far too great to be described. Already having taken Meadlander territory, he seized all men, women, and children, and had them hung from the treetops and disemboweled slowly, with special care given to ensure death didn't come too soon. Before death could welcome them and give reprieve, they found themselves alight as the trees they were tied to were used as kindling for a massive flame. Lords Sunwalker, Haedulus, and Thanesrow managed to avoid reaching the lows of their fellows despite plenty reason to, perhaps it was for the best, considering what was to come.

The second phase of the war was a grim, brutal affair, with their armies spread far and wide and their homelands isolated, the lords scrambled to seize and pillage as much territory as possible, with House Thanesrow landing their army in the wide Paledune deserts and forcibly marching across. After a loss of perhaps half of their force, they reached Paradise, besieging it and trapping Lord Sunwalker's only son and daughter within the castle walls. Sunwalker spoke to his generals in the Meadlands later that eve after receiving a messenger's tale of the events. He stated few words with a solemnness upon his brow so thick I could almost feel its presence.

"My children are lost this day, I know it to be true, and with them goes the future of my house. I can only trust in Emperor Haedulus to pick up the fragments of glory that my forebears once held in their very hands."

The Sultan shook softly, hands wrapped around himself as his eyes stared out into the open nothing, as if expecting a ghost to suddenly appear in the cool breeze. He was offered a cloak by a handmaiden and took it greedily, wrapping himself and shivering as tears began to work their way down his face.

His children died the next day.

His daughter, housed in the upper floors of her family's castle as to avoid harm, leapt from her balcony on hearing that the walls had been breached. Her ruined body landed in a stream, where it was carried into the marshes, away from the eyes of the besieging forces, a lucky thing, considering the fate that womenfolk suffered as a result of the siege's victory. When the Sultan returned to the city, me at his side, we found her corpse, seated gracefully under an old oak, pale skin shining in the moonlight, white robes stained a deep red by blood and water. She was remarkably unmolested, despite her heavy wounds. The Sultan approached silently, kneeling beside her and placing his head upon her heart as tears fell from his face. He wrapped her arms around him and held her in one last embrace, apologizing under his breath that he was unable to save her, his words tired and stilted due to his sobs. When we returned to the army, the Sultan holding his daughter in his arms with tears staining his face, all knelt in respect, clearing a path as the Sultan walked off into the night, seemingly unaware as to what he was doing.

We never did find his son's body, his head was mounted upon a pike and carried into battle by the Meadlanders, but it was lost in battle, and the rest of his form was never found amongst the mountains of corpses that littered the once golden streets of Paradise.

The Sultan lost his resolve forever, staring into his hands and weeping during briefings and beginning to speak to people that were not there. One night he was heard screaming, but when guards forced their way into his room, all that they saw was the man hunched in a corner, a sickening remnant of a man, drenched in his tears and holding the remains of a severed finger, having bitten it off in a manic episode.

The forces of House Sunwalker retook their castle and then remained there, mourning for the many lost, before again called by the Emperor of Haedulon for one last battle to decide the fate of the land. This battle is known to be the most bloody in our world's history. It is here that I will list the dead among this land's nobility, Lord Eriokles, last of his line, died in a cavalry charge. Lord Douk Haedulon, second son of the emperor, died to an unlucky arrow to the heart. Thersum Fariefriend, King Oakwarden, died in a suicide. Jenyus Hearthkeeper, son of the King Oakwarden, decapitated in a duel. Many others lost their lives, far too many for this one man to list, but suffice it to say, no one battle has had greater repercussions on the world as this one...

I have tried to write of this for hours now, and yet every time I complete a statement my tears ruin the ink and thus my writing. But I suppose I have little choice now, my eyes have run dry and my quill has yet to. House Sunwalker ended on that day.

Sultan Darius, no longer commanding his troops due to his fragile mental state, had sat behind in his tent for the length of the day. Even as his friends among the ascended lords were slain like cattle, Darius remained in his tent, hopelessly attempting to construct an image of his daughter through the use of ink and pottery, he screamed repeatedly of not being able to remember her face, claiming that her eyes were lost to him through a fountain of tears.

It was hours until he finally left his tent, tears dried and face stalwart. With a soft look, he turned to his personal guard and gave them one instruction:

"This is not a world that I belong in anymore, do not follow me."

He mounted a horse, looked back at me and his other attendants, and with a sad smile, rode off towards the battle. His body lays among the many still being removed from that field, perhaps never to be recovered. The battle was a loss for both sides, and the war efforts of the remaining Ascended House, that of Haedulus, and those of King Thanesrow, were forever crippled. But never again were the people of Paradise to see a man of House Sunwalker lead them, never again was Sultan Darius to hold his daughter's hand in his own, and never again was I to write, this is to be my last chronicle, for my purpose has been fulfilled. I can only hope this new era ends kinder than my own.

Goldendew Heithwerd, your brother in the path of virtue, sends greetings to those truly earnest among the hunters of the realm. I ask you, upon which do the cardinal spirits bestow their favor: those that abandon the hunt, or those that pursue the dragons even unto death? Our late elder chief Aseltir Quericon Baldug was a true hunter. He sacrificed his children, his bountiful harvests, and even his own health in his pursuit. He witnessed his loyal servants being taken for their flesh meat, drowned in wine, and made into delicacies by the depravities of those who claimed to be righteous liberators. Blessed was Aseltir Quericon! The valorous four have awarded his sacrifices with a righteous furor among our warriors, yet our new elder chief Werdyun Aseltir Baldug has abandoned his prey. He says we have sacrificed so much that victory is impossible, when those with righteous thoughts all agree that we have sacrificed so much that victory is assured. Instead of slitting the dragon's throat when it is wounded, he has called off the hunt and left our rightful lands to the savage hunger of the wyrm.

Virtuous hunters, do not call off the pursuit! Do not disregard the sacrifices of your brothers. Do not reject the blessings of the dragon slayers. The church's duty is to see the hunt carried to its conclusion, and with our example we will grant the new elder chief the courage to cut off Galimbor's horn.

Brothers, our limited time requires us to strike only at the most sensitive target. The dragons among us who beguile our elder chief with their false counsel must be brought to justice. If their words are not discredited, and the treaty is confirmed, then we may forever lose the opportunity to free our shoreward lands from the terror of the neighboring dragon. Know that if the great beast is given pause to lick its wounds, it will bring its brood mates from Aedria and the steppes with it. If so, then blessed will our children be, for the sacrifices they will make shall put our generation to shame.

I bless all virtuous hunters of the faith the courage to bring their valorous thoughts to action, and await the day when I may yet again call forth the power of the dragonslayers to bless our warriors in the field.

It was, indeed, a most glorious sight, for a momentous day. My master, and his fellows, exited the old halls of the first [international] merchants of Paradise. The Rastava line, once magnificent; now brought low by famine of the coin, pestilence of the mind, and time, the inexorable mistress whom rules as if death. The old building had long been commandeered for use as forum to the merchant families of Paradise.

Word had been spread in the days before: a grand announcement to be made! A decision set to change the course of history. A decision to improve the lives for all in the Paledunes! My master had confided in me little, leaving me as clueless as the others who gathered in the streets.

"Friends! Craftsmen! Future wealthy! Honorable soldiers of the crown!" began Guildmaster Gelonatti, hands spread wide to the gathered. Around the edges of the clearing stood a large fraction of Emperor Haedulus' Paradise Guard. Their faces were filled with such arrogant boredom, as if none could believe these lowly merchants would dare gather without royal permission. "I give thanks to all who have attended this day!"

My master stood with his hands behind his back, watching Gelonatti with careful evenness of face. Gelonatti is young, but filled with fire and charisma. I am not surprised he led the call. "The world is changing, my friends." Gelonatti spoke softly, but his voice carried well in the silence.

"Long have passed the days of yore, when kings and lords unified the nations under one banner. The ancient legends foresaw a golden age! A world of plenty and prosperity, where all were given what they deserved, and none were harmed by greed, by gluttony! Does not every man, woman, and child deserve a place at the table? A chance to feast at the table Heavenhammer, praised be his name! Not merely be given the scraps of life, but to feast on its choicest offerings!" The crowd erupted into approval, and I recall the guildmasters looking pleased. The other apprentices, standing around me, looked as confused as I felt.

"But fear and war have blackened the hearts of once-honorable men. These darkness spreads ever closer to us! Assassinations in the north, where a Thanesrow king fell to Emperor Haedulus' will. Only after decades of conflict was such a victory procured, at the cost of the greatest king the Paledunes has ever known. Though it may seem to be distant past, the true justice we sought for the death of the Sunwalker line was lethargic at best, as if the Paledunes meant no more to the Haedulus line than a dog to its master. As if he feared retribution from the Thanesrow savages! Lesser men rule in Haedulus! Men who care not for your safety and health, as we of the Paledunes Consortium do! We, who see to your every need and desire, who keep you clothed, fed, and sheltered!"

The Guard had begun moving toward the stand now. I found myself unable to move, transfixed by his voice. I was unable to find the logic in these events. Surely this was not a rebellion. But no: men stole from the shadows of the crowd, pouncing upon the Guard with knife, club, and rope.

"Join us, brothers and sisters of the dunes! Separate we are weak, but together, we might overthrow those who ignore our plights! Together, we shall form a better world for our children!"

I looked away until the screams stopped, and the cheers began.

The speech has burned in my mind since. I find myself unable to shake such a stirring tirade from my thoughts, until put to ink. Perhaps the masters are correct: perhaps the Mercantile Consortium will rule wisely and bring glory to the Paledunes once more. My own misgivings must be put aside [until] then, lest I poison the progress my master seeks.