Tramontan, Central Materia - 11AWH

Left, right. Left, right. A million feet marched from the west. The stars, each an image of a celestial being's soul in the night sky, were choked out by fume clouds. The clouds of dust uprooted by a column of men, women, and beasts gathered from across the whole of the West, as it marched through lands of ice, shadow, and sand. Justice had called forth a host to fight the final war, against the great Demiurgic enemy, the enemy that lied in the East, in the decadent halls of dethroned Gods and their followers, clad in gold and silver as they were; coated in all things from bronze to runes telling of past glories better left forgotten.

Through the darkness of night, following the brightest star that shone through the dust, Justinian’s own Pale Star of the West, the host announced its existence as it passed frightened villages, not by courier or messages but by the light of many thousands of torches. It did so with the deafening rattle of armour as they marched onwards. The sound of their feet clashing with the ground, the sound of the friction between their swords, their shields, and their spears culminating in a thousand-column long, hundred warrior-wide, thunderous cacophony of revolution. The waking villagers were met with the presence of the West armed with wood and steel, fire and sword. It was one of the largest armies they had ever seen, and what they lacked in the glittering weapons of the easts elite, they made up for in undying zeal. They saw it, within the eyes of the Western Hordes every soldier, as they marched onwards, one could see the spirit of a new dawn and the flames of the forge which will reshape the world flickering to light.

They were the rebellion, they were the freedom fighters of this modern age, and so they proclaimed, and so proclaimed their newborn God, who led them forwards; the Justinian. In the night skies beyond the thick layers of fumes that surrounded this great host, arrived the soaring Sun made manifest. Beyond the clouds and what would have been starry skies, the golden light of the Justinian’s avatar gleamed upon the army and embraced the land, turning night into day. Justinian’s form was that of a pale ghostly, almost-human like in figure, towering over normal men covered in cloth and unworldly armour. Levitating in the sky with a great halo behind its head and radiating light and heat. In its left hand it held a sword, burning in flames. In the eleven years since its deicidal war in heaven, Justinian had reached the centre of the world personally, now pushing its Western hordes onwards towards the gatehouse of the East, and from there the last bastion of the Old Pantheon; Yuwan and her followers.

The host of Justinian, while marching under the command of Justinian itself, was shepherded by numerous mortal heroes. Lexiticanus Pax, Glorion Rex, Justianus Apollon, and many others... they called these men and women the apostles, the first heroes to champion Justinian’s cause. Kingdoms and Empires had fallen under Justinian’s crusade. Old monarchies and ancient aristocratic bloodlines extinguished. The heroes of Justinian rose from obscurity. Former human slaves to their elven masters. Serfs. Self-declared prophets of the newly formed ‘clerisy’, even powerful merchant-lords, willing to fill the power vacuum in the New World Order to come, one of which was the great Merchant-Lord of Amyrion, newly named Empyraeos of House Gloria.

Empyraeos. A name that even 300 years later lives on as a name of global significance. The to-be founder and first Exaltarch of Archonnen had provided much for this great hosts march. His vast household guards marched with him and the host, the very same guards that in that same year would become Archonnens vaunted Infinite Army. His household guards were armed and armoured like knights, the old elven pantheonist aristocrats armour adorning his human troops. He took pride in knowing that humble merchants and town freemen had triumphed over them in the west, and now wore the spoils of war, the boons of faith and the wealth he had acquired.

He looked on from the left flank, riding with mounted Household Guard and Merchant cavalry, looking out from the artificial daylight towards the strange cosmic event before him and the great host of Justinian. Where along a line in an open battlefield where night and day clashed, so too would the armies of east and west. It was appropriate, knowing that the forces of light would surely triumph over the darkness of the east.

To the east waiting under the night sky stood the armies holding the banners and standard of the lone surviving Goddess, Yuwan. They had risen to face Justinian’s horde, elite armies from lands as far away as Lamash and Yllendthyr joining together. As they looked on to the ever-closer approaching false dawn, their mood grew ever more sombre. Today they make a last desperate attempt to halt the Justinian advance towards the sovereign empires of the East. A pitched, decisive battle. The last battle. Today, the War in Heaven, and Justinian’s Sacrilege War, would end.

The armies of the East assembled, horns and deep melodious music announcing their arrival to each other and the enemy.

The shadows of the Gryffn squadrons from Yllendthyr were the first to make their presence known over the Tramontan soil.Threatening to block the skies Yllendthyr well lived up to their name of Heavenly Empire. Aside from the Gryffn riders with the prestigious Sky Knights at the lead, several other types of flying creatures belonging to an unique province of the great Empire of Yllendthyr each. They spared no resources as the fate of the entire world was at stake. This view was exemplified by mobilizing their entire fleet of Sky Barges, ships utilizing the country’s best kept secrets to magic that allows them to send even entire warships into the skies. With the end times near the army was led by none other than Emperor Ilehnaed IV, riding the mighty white dragon Yldizvleugel. Be it mortal or gods, none shall stop them!

While the world was in awe of the Yllendlen might in the skies, over a hundred thousand soldiers followed them. Advance parties of conventional cavalry scouted ahead, securing the area for the rest of the army. Among them the Arqwyen earns special mention. Minor nobles of Yllendthyr rode on Aewnurin, giant runner birds with speed surpassing the capability of horses. Miles behind them marched the infantry, mostly composed of humans and kobolds. Albeit of low status they were the backbone of Yllendthyr’s grand army. If Sky Knights are the hammer the infantry were the anvil to hold the target in place. Meanwhile elvish infantry stealthily advanced through the cover of woods. Unlike regular infantry the elves on the ground preferred ambushes and mobility. While never remembered fondly by the enemy the methods of Rangers were certainly effective.Behind the infantry a row of carts, attendants, artisans, healers followed them close by. Mixed with them those with keener eyes may have noticed the artillery of Yllendthyr. Ballistae, catapults and arcane warmachines provided an unique sight. What didn’t catch the eye of the commoner were a group of strangely elongated bells called Drakons. They used a recently developed alchemical mixture, not to breathe fire, but to develop enough pressure to hurl large projectiles at the enemy with speed previously thought impossible. These engines had yet to revolutionize warfare but their performance in this war was the beginning of their journey to popularity.

From the realm of Lamash came the army of Padishah Zirgun, answering the call of the Last Goddess. For what will take place this immortal day in Tramontan is the reason of their Ascension. Already battle hardened by -- and fresh from -- their victory over the Naga, the holy Lamashi armies marched under the banner of the winged lion. Rank upon rank of foot soldier armored in scale, mail and plate. Flanked by similarly armored horses and the mighty Karkadanns; the colossal domesticated rhinoceroses the Lamashi have used as mounts since time immemorial -- the beasts that have often won them the day over their foes. Towering Lamashi covered in silver steel carried the holy banners aloft while winged Lamassu (colossal winged lions with human heads), Peris (celestial fairies) and Pegasi flew overhead.

At the head of this large host rode Zirgun in his gilded, lion-headed armor, atop Utuwa, the great armored Karkadann. Behind them came the vanguard, composed entirely of Lamashi, armored and armed as shock troops. Followed by the vast bulk of the army, composed of common humans who fought and marched as infantry. In the rearguard were the Naga, led by Sarhdar Usum, who led the few of that race to have willingly followed Yuwan. The flanks were led by Suh, Zirgun’s favorite daughter, who commanded the heavy cavalry composed of both horse and karkadann, while the light riders were commanded by a host of lesser nobles and heroes of the Empire.
Playing no small part on the Yuwanist side were also the elephant riders of Gushawar and Daggers of the Midbari desert kingdoms, such as Mala al-Tafub, infamous for her ability to invoke suffocating sandstorms.

With the armies of Yuwan accounted for, the marching stopped. A brief and heavy silence on the eastern side followed as the Justinian army continued marching towards them - the western horde outnumbering them at least three to one. They knew the battle was against them, even with all their experience, air-knights and proper equipment. Many of their forces were stuck fighting in Drakma or other rebellions. They are chosen to fight here, despite the disadvantage, because Justinian could not be allowed to take control of Tramontan and the Agur, the broken heavenly sword. The anomalous abomination had to be stopped here. The Justinians were now spreading their columns into lines, so many of them that they stretched across the horizon, from right to left, the false sun’s blinding light obscuring the approaching masses of yet more soldiers behind them.

The Air-knights of Lamash and Yllendthyr, thousands of them, flew forward, their winged mounts gliding across the diminishing no man’s land. The elite Elven swordsmen, forest archers - The Lamashi human and naga pikemen and karkadanns - The Gushawar elephant riders - They looked up and saw two formations like a pincer charging towards that false sun that surely brought certain doom. Those brave knights in the air would be the first to fall.

The air-knights formations, thousands strong on both sides moved closer to the now charging Justinian vanguard. They saw a mob of screaming men and women wearing cloth and leather, others with chainmail or gambeson. Most wielded shields and swords, clubs or maces. The elite air-knights did not bother to engage but instead flew past, pelting the screaming enemy vanguard with arrows and spells. Whole scores of Justinians collapsed under the weight of the arrows. Others screamed as their bodies were sliced open or lit on fire or blasted apart by spells. The air cavalry flew on, dodging the return fire from archers and crossbowmen in the Justinian formations.

Disengaging, the Air-knights turned, reengaging again. Swooping by, yet more Justinians fell. A field of arrows and craters had already spawned across the no-man's land, bodies littered across it. The Air-knights had tested the resistance of the Justinian forces, and knew now their plan may work. They disengaged again, the two formations both flying over the Justinian army, nearing the household guard and its cavalry wings.

The Justinian cavalry, seeing the cloud of enemy pegasi and other flying mounts began moving, but soon after arrows and magic were being thrown on them as well. The Air-Knights realised that the Justinians seemed to have no air cavalry deployed at all, figuring this was due to most of the western pegasi having been owned by Old Pantheonist aristocrats that died at the start of the war. The Yuwanist confidence however was short lived, because just as they were encircling the Justinian cavalry, a bright, white light engulfed them.

Like a comet, The Justinian had shot across the sky. It did not even bother to engage the Air-knights in close quarters. It simply flew through their formation… and the air burned. The charging Justinian army below them, now slamming into the Yuwanist vanguard raised their shields to deflect the burning debris of what used to be the body parts and armour of air-knights and their mounts, now blackened like charcoal, the armour glowing red with heat. Pulses of light and energy foreign to this mortal world soon followed. As the two vanguards’ shields smashed together, they saw on the edge of their eyes flashes of light so bright that their shadows were briefly forced to extinction. Those who dared look in the sky had their eyes burn or were otherwise blinded forever. All of those who survived would be afflicted with strange decay and disease for decades to follow.

What was left of the first Air-Knight formation, shattered. They were given a reminder again of the battle between Justinian’s avatar and the Red God Longthirung five years before, and brutally reminded that grouping together against this celestial abomination was suicide. The Justinian turned, racing towards the second formation of Air-Knights, which also fled. The Air-Knights from then on were fighting an impossible hit and run battle with a flying ball of light and heat, sacrificing themselves to distract the living god. Those that continued to fly on, passing Justinian and the blinding light would instead see an endless stream of soldiers. Monsters and more ominously; titanic giants. Justinian did not need air cavalry. With so many soldiers -- with impossibly large monsters somehow converted -- and with its own impossibly powerful avatar in the sky, Justinian appeared to have secured victory.

The Air cavalry fled as the flying Lamassu, ever the most enduring and elite, retaliated by pelting the Justinian with bolts of lightning. Though their spells and projectiles were ineffectual and they quickly turned to withdraw with the other air units. The formation while fleeing Justinian was ‘retreating’ further behind the Western Hordes frontlines, towards the towering figures of titans in the distance. If they were to die distracting Justinian, they may as well force the god to destroy its own army with its immense attacks.

Justinian was pursuing them with determined single-mindedness. They had no time to reform their formation or attack the ground forces, and instead took part in a one-sided dog-fight, where The Air-knights dared not look behind them into the glaring pulses of light, dared not look as members of their formation one by one were picked off by an accelerating ball of fire, its sword striking their members down like flies, waves of heat and spears of light incinerating those too slow to evade.

Yet of those remaining Pegasi and Lamassu, their elusiveness kept them alive, their ability to evade a god… seemingly beyond the power of mortals, for try as the Western God did, he could not manage to hew down a single one. They dodged explosions in the air, Justinian’s spears of light with ease, dipping low to the ground, forcing Justinian to either fire upon his own followers or draw closer.

Of those Air-knights who had miraculously survived, those who had no idea what they were doing and only following the lead of their commanders insane strategy, it seemed impossible. How were they actually doing this? How were they succeeding where ten Red Gods failed? Their commander, showing powers far beyond what they remembered her capable of, fired off arcs of lightning and blue and green flames upon the Justinians, killing hundreds in seconds, even as the enemies god chased them, its own magical attacks missing them entirely, exploding harmlessly in the air or even hitting the troops on the ground.

Others of the formation had joined in now, showing impossible power, throwing away their enchanted bows and casting magical strikes from their hands. How? How did they do it? Half of the formation had since run out of magical reserves and were depending on the last residue of theurgia contained in gems crafted into their armour. Were they heroes, champions of Yuwan? None of the Air-Knights ever remembered any heroes in their formation. Certainly not their commander, their elven commander had even performed the normal ritual sacrifices before the battle, to gather theurgia.

The commander now was, impossibly, speeding up. Her Pegasus was reaching speeds that no Pegasi had ever reached before, speeding ahead to the front of the formation, heading straight for one of the Western Hordes’ titanic giants, the naked fur-covered thing reacting in anger, stomping on its own allies to charge the formation and the speeding commander. The titan… did not stand a chance. The commander somehow fired a spell so powerful, it lit the titans entire head on fire, going berserk and crushing more of its own allies as it flailed.

The Air-knights, those who had since run out of theurgia and were also now reaching speeds they knew their own steeds could not reach without any intervention of their own, realised something. They realised just as the Western God realised. Their commander, something had happened to her, something that hadn’t happened for those who followed Yuwan in a long, long time.

Those same Air-knights watched as members of their formation broke off, members that similarly had endless reserves of theurgia and remained eerily calm throughout this struggle of life and death with a god, acting completely alien to how they once were.

Suddenly, the commander was slowing, as were they all. Their mounts no longer listened to the Air-knights’ commands, doing whatever the commander did. Perhaps they had been doing whatever the commander did the whole time. They looked to their commander who was turning around to face Justinian, ignoring the blinding light. What they saw confirmed their prior realisation. Her eyes glowed green. Her skin was also glowing, a tint of gold growing stronger, Aura of light shining off of her. While as an elf, the commander was already considered beautiful before, but now it was beyond mere beauty.

‘’Y-you are Yuwan?”

The commander did not speak, instead smiling, before vanishing like vapor. The air-knights that had broken off from the formation too vanished into vapor, just as Justinian had flown into the middle of the circle they had formed.

Emerging from the vapor where the commander once was mounted on her pegasus, now stood a giant, levitating in mid-air. A woman, skin of pure gold draped in otherworldly garments, and six dark moth wings sprouting from her back. A crown floating above her head made of what seemed to be green stars. Hundreds of relics orbited around her. Ornate gems, staves, staffs and scepters. Urns and bejeweled containers. With them were yet hundreds more wards and magical shields, layers of blue transparent light surrounding her.

Yuwan stood before Justinian, gods facing each other in the material plane for the first time in perhaps all of known history. With her, the vapor clouds of the others forming the circle revealed ascended celestial beings. To her right was, Arkshtrân the Bright Angel. And behind him Iallril Iorthoniith Isyranshara, Archpriestess of Yllendthyr. And Malice, Mistress of Courts. And Neferhata, Acolyte of Dusk and so countless other heroes of past Cycles.

The Justinian had stopped charging, floating in the middle of the circle of Yuwanist divine beings. The fiery ball dissipated, revealing the levitating form of the New God, clad in ethereal robes and armour, still burning and shining with light. The Justinian raised his flaming sword, pointing it at Yuwan.


The JUSTINIAN spoke, and its… no THEIR voice echoed for miles. A clamouring of a thousand voices finding an eerie harmony with one another. The voices of old men, bitter by ancient losses. Young men, heroes of millennia past that died too young. Maidens, crones, beggars and lords. Ancient Elves, stout Dwarves and even the raging cry of Dragons. The united, collective consciousness of many thousands of mighty souls.

The Justinian turned to the left, and then to the right, as if to glare at its many nemesis’ surrounding it.



The Justinian raised both its arms, apart, as if in praise.



The Justinian lowered its arms, bringing its burning sword down again to face Yuwan.



Yuwan gave no reply, but motioned to her Celestial retainers to prepare the spells she had previously laid out for them. It is time for the Justinian to be driven back to the Celestial Plane. And they set on Him like a pack of heavenly wolves. They fired bolts of thunder and whirlwinds of ice. But it does little to deter Him.
The Justinian moved calmly through the aether. Its fiery form and blinding light returned, golden wards absorbing the strikes of thunder and ice. Yuwan turned her head to look behind her, seeing her onetime mortal companions-in-arms looking upon her in religious awe.



The Air-knights, whose eardrums were already shattered from the booming voice of the Justinian were awed to hear their goddesses light, musical voice ring firmly through their minds. Speaking to the very instincts of the winged mounts, they cast off carrying their riders to safety, for they themselves were paralysed by the godly theatre in their mortal gazes. They would be the last mortal eyes to ever lie upon the form of the Goddess Yuwan.

The only one unimpressed by Yuwan’s disposition was her anathema, the Justinian, and he soared at her with a fell swoop to strike her down. Yuwan’s ascended pantheon-to-be however proved ready to fight the New God even in its realm of domination… melee combat. United, they charged, firing spells and incantations as they went. Harassed and slowed, Justinian was forced to halt his charge, instead turning to cut down the nearest Celestial - the first to move against him.
The celestial servant, wielding an ornate scythe saw his weapon deflect the Justinian’s fiery sword, but the force of the strike was such that the scythe’s blade became deformed, bent inwards and molten.

The second Celestial servant’s strike was deflected by Justinian, and the third, and the fourth. The celestial servants maintained their offensive by virtue of striking together, The Justinian’s sweeping blade of such strength that some of the servants weapons were cleaved in half or lit to flames. The Justinians golden wards buckled under the sustained fire of many dozens of spells, one by one.
Surrounded, the Justinian attempted to ascend to the stratosphere. The celestial servants did all they could to pin him down. Yuwan fired a barrage of spells above Justinian, blocking him further from ascending. Even if the Justinian’s goal was to lure them out to slay them all at once, by keeping the Justinian low to the ground, he would be cautious to avoid destroying his own followers in his army below them.

Struggling to make room for itself as its wards fell, The Justinian struck with even greater might. Its sword cut through a second celestial servants weapon, this time a sword, cutting through the celestial servants wrist as well. The Justinian took this moment to grab hold of one of Yuwan’s celestial servants by the neck. The Celestial struggled frantically as the Justinian's inhumanly tight grip strangled her.
At that moment, the Justinian flared with light. The Celestial screamed as her body was lit in an inferno of a thousand suns, a great burst of light and flame engulfed her. As Justinian had done to the air knight formation, as the Justinian had done to Yuwan’s own retinue of Celestials. The sky lit up with white light, the shadows cast across the ground disappeared. The still marching Justinian armies were blinded by the light, many thousands that survived the battle would die in the decades to come of an unknown affliction given to them that day.

Yuwan’s Celestials, most having survived but with shattered wards, others singed, retreated slightly from Justinian giving it the space needed to ascend and accelerate upwards. Having recovered a bit, the celestials gave chase, Yuwan the first among them, already firing devastating hurricanes again at Justinian's wards and healing her servants.

Justinian ascended, higher and higher. Dodging and weaving as Yuwan’s increasingly powerful spells detonated in the aether. The clouds parted as Justinian and Yuwan pushed through them, followed by a trail of Celestial servants, all ascending in chase with great speed to the very roof of the universe.
The engaging Gods looked down upon the bowl-like world from the stratosphere between the material plane and the endless void it floated within, Justinian held steady and waited for its challengers to meet in this distant place far from the mortals that fought below. Behind Justinian, only one star shone, the Pale Star of the West.

The first Celestial was in sight now, rushing towards the Justinian. Unrestrained by earthly matters, the Justinian battered the Celestial aside with such force he spiralled erratically until disappearing into clouds. Three more Celestial servants followed, immediately engaging in close quarters. Another burst of light, incinerating heat. More fantastical buckling wards, yet no mortal’s eyes to see.
Justinian struck quickly, cleaving a Celestial in half just as the majority of the others arrived, followed by Yuwan, who had held behind as she charged another spell. Justinian’s own wards were finally being reduced to their final layer, who instead depended on regular bursts of light to defend itself. Yuwan chose this moment to fire a green comet from the palm of her hands, breaking through Justinian’s wards entirely.

Justinian was struck by the comet; cracking his armour and knocking him backwards, which was soon followed by Neferhata, one of Yuwan’s Celestials, successfully stabbing Justinian’s shoulder, running a golden naginata through it. Justinian, seemingly undaunted, grabbed hold of Neferhata’s wrist and then runs her through with his sword. Swinging her body around as a bludgeon, now lit on fire, Justinian forced the servants back.

Pulling the sword out of Neferhata’s chest, Justinian dragged out a trail of blood; blood that levitated in the air. The stream of levitating blood circled around Justinian, followed by expanding out as more blood flowed from the burning, screaming Celestial. The blood moved in the air by the will of Justinian. It took shape, a perfect circle with geometric shapes within. In one hand, Justinian swatted away other Celestial, and with the other held its hand out above the circle of blood.



The Celestials watched on as the blood circle glowed, spinning, the geometric shapes within becoming ever more intricate. Yuwan saw the transmutation circle, one of a complexity she had never seen besides her or Eudeye’s own machinations, how the abomination knew to make such a circle was beyond her -- but right now it did not matter. Yuwan in that immortal moment, understood what had to be done.

“Let Knowledge be Thy Power!” Yuwan shouted to her fellows, knowing full well that whatever it was that Justinian meant to do; it must be stopped. She fired another comet at Justinian, this time Justinian dodged it, the circle moving with him, blood spiralling and stretching as the stream continued from the now dead Neferhata’s partially charred corpse, her eyes glowing red, the same shade as the transmutation circle.



Justinian shouted, its many voices proclaiming to Yuwan, now desperately trying to shoot the Justinian down. From Tramontan far beneath, a red dot appeared, crimson light gleaming through the clouds.

For on the surface, where the battle over Tramontan raged on, the Justinian warriors began to glow red. The battle ever since the gods left had become a chaotic struggle. Justinians that had managed to mount the gryphons of slain Yuwanist riders duelled against the remaining Air-Knights and Ilehnaed, the Yllendlen Dragon-riding Emperor. The Titanic giants of the West stomped through the two armies, kicking aside elephants and golems; crushing friend and foe alike. Piles of horse and knight laid on the side, remnants of charges hours ago where Empyraeos and Suh of Lamash battled, now the household guards and Lamashi aswaran fought on foot. The heroes, knights and endless number of mere men and women watched as a red glow emanated from the eyes of every single Justinian in the battle. Those who had their consensual curses tattooed on their faces or otherwise visible had those symbols glow the brightest -- the curse symbols bleeding and crackling with deathly energy. The Justinians became silent then. Eerily, impossibly silent. War cries, shouted orders and screams of fear and even of terrible pain faded away. They fought in silence as their red glowing eyes and markings deepened, blood emerging from the sockets behind their eyes as though they were tears. A deep, low throbbing hum shook through the earth.


the Justinian army all chanted together, in collective unison and to the bewilderment of the Yuwanist forces, who gazed upon them in the dread of disbelief. Red light started to tint the sky, like a pillar that rose up into the clouds.

From the stratosphere, Yuwan and her remaining celestial servants watched as the single red pillar emerged from Tramontan.


Yuwan whispered harshly in disbelief.


Yuwan stopped then. For she saw on the horizon another red pillar that rose up through the clouds. And another behind it. Across the western hemisphere of Materia, red pillars were rising through the clouds that smothered all sight, save for the fierce Pale Western Star blazing through as a solemn eye. Huddled together in temples, hundreds of mediating Justinians all glowed red. In villages, glowing men and women sat gathered around the idol of Justice, awaiting paradise and the final battle. A young boy, dreaming to be a paladin looked up in the red sky and smiled as his eyes bled. With so many sacrifices… Yuwan realised there could only be one possible reason the Justinian would dare give up this number of souls.



Justinian and many millions of red-glowing mortals spoke in unison across the Material world.



Yuwan cried with a tempest, now desperate to stop what would surely be a cataclysm of irreversible consequences.

In the interstice, the unknown unworldly plane between planes, a hole was beginning to form. Aether spilled through, swirling energy of the celestial plane. The first of the glowing Justinian's were dropping as their sacrificed souls powered the opening rift.

The celestial servants charged Justinian. Justinian parried and deflected them, while some successfully slashed its form. Justinian, as if in a trance, ignored the damage. Even as Yuwan successfully blew off Justinian’s sword arm, the flaming sword vanishing into the clouds, Justinian did not seem to care.

Yuwan knew then that to avert catastrophe, she had no choice. The Goddess placed her hands together, open palmed. A whispered, melodic chant followed as her orbiting artifacts gathered before her open hands. Urns divulged their contents, translucent, colour-changing water seeped out. Infused with theurgia harvested from the celestial plane, Yuwan crafted a ward; a ward stretching as a half-sphere before her. She walked towards the scar in the interstice, red light gathering around it as it grew. The hint of a vast and cataclysmic mass of power on the other side, but moments from coming through.

Her celestial servants assailed the now swordless Justinian, leaving the lone Goddess to do what she came all this way from the Celestial Plane to do. And she stood before the rift. Moving the ward forward, raising her hand to touch the rift already emanating a power that so decisively vanquished the Old Pantheon a decade ago.

She saw Justinian racing towards her. Somehow, impossibly, the Justinian had broken free of its assailants. A celestial servant, a hole through its chest caused by a hand being pushed through it fell behind Justinian, dead. The Justinian itself raced on, one-handed, one legged, its head being blasted in half and dangling on a strip of throat.

But, thankfully. For Yuwan. For millions of souls and the entire world, in Yuwan’s eyes at least… Justinian was too late. In that moment, Yuwan, clad in the translucent light refracting ward, touched the rift, pulsing the greatest counter-curse that all her collected knowledge had given her. In that instant, a white light engulfed her, Justinian and any celestial servant nearby. An explosion akin to a supernova detonated high above Materia, parting not only the clouds but the air. The avatar of Justinian, Yuwan and those others engulfed in the blast vanished, the red glow across the world dissipating away. The two gods left the Material Plane once more.

While their forms were destroyed, the gods continue their war. On that day of 11AWH -- Justinian and Yuwan -- the great gods of this world fought for the destiny of Materia. Their struggle remained inconclusive. No Great Reconvergence occured imminently after, nor did Yuwan’s Emerald star in the east fade. Another 289 years of bitter conflict and never ending struggle as the mortals of this world carried on that all consuming conflict.

The War In Heaven was over. Now is the age of Sacrilege War.

This post no longer exists.

294 years ago. Sadra Piresh.

Sadra Piresh stood on the delta of the Salmen river, Mahdidi to its soon to be Lamashi rulers. A city built in three rings. The inner section being of planned streets, sumptuous palaces, amazing theaters and arenas, large temple-gardens and beautiful parks surrounded by an imposing dark green wall decorated with frescoes and statues of heroes and legends from the Naga's rich history. There lived the great generals, high priests and nobles of the Ugalli Kingdom, lording over their social inferiors, each one of them owning vast estates and veritable legions of slaves spread across the Kingdom.

The second ring was where the dwellings of the free citizens stood. Nagas who did not had notable titles or estates, foreigners and great merchant lords. None of these groups were as powerful as the inhabitants of the Inner Ring, but their opinions and wishes still carried some weight inside Ugalli. The Middle Ring was a far cry from the wealth and opulence of the Inner Ring, but what it lacked in outward, conventional opulence it more than made up in size and colorfulness, "as many colors as a Naga's scales" the saying went, even the wall surrounding it was painted in literally dozens of colors. Contemporary travelers also claimed that the area had an innate "charm" of its own.

The Outer Ring sat between two sets of walls, inhabited by the poor and the slaves. A sorry clump of slums, wrecks and ruin. There lived the poor and desperate who worked themselves to death in the port of the Middle Ring or in the large farms and plantations that hugged the banks of the Salman. There was little of positive that could be said about the Outer Ring of Sadra Piresh or its inhabitants, except that it provided those in the bottom rung of society a place to sleep away their suffering during the few hours in which they weren't being worked to death by their serpentine masters.

But that was before the War in Heaven and the destruction of the Old Pantheon, when the Naga could count on the protection and guidance of gods and their celestial servants to empower the Kingdom. Now, the only true divine being active in the East was Yuwan, and her armies marched against the Naga. Ranks upon rank of soldiers marching under the Golden Lion of Lamash descended upon Ugalli and washed away its hosts and defenses like a storm coming upon a fishing boat in the open sea.

Truth be told, both slaver empires were already at war by the time the Western Abomination killed the gods. Just the latest round of skirmishes between two hated neighbors that would probably end indecisively, like so many other conflicts between both in the past centuries, had Justinian never ascended. When it did however, the situation changed. The Naga lost their divine patron, depriving them of their greatest source of Theurgia while the Lamashi now had a Goddess free of the need to appease fellow divines and desperate enough to give Her faithful worshipers an extra hand in this war.

And so the Lamashi finally achieved the final triumph in this final war against Ugalli. The Naga queen for her part had firmly refused any notion of negotiation with Lamash. At first it would mean bowing to their oldest enemy, something the prideful Naga would never accept. But as more and more armies were crushed by Padishah Zirgun and the earthly avatar of the Bright Angel, the terms evolved, and by the time Zirgun's army laid siege to Sadra Piresh he wasn't even pretending to entertain the notion of a negotiated peace. The Lamashi had gone too far to accept anything less than total victory. Ugalli would be destroyed once and for all and the arrogant Naga put in their proper place.

Now, the city burns. The Outer Ring fell fast, the Naga couldn't and wouldn't spare the troops for a proper defense. The teeming, impoverished masses of the Outer Ring, further bolstered by waves of refugees seeking illusory safety from the war, now served their new Lamashi masters. Thousands upon thousands reduced to slavery and used to fuel the Lamashi war machine, either as cannon fodder to sap the strength of the Middle Ring wall or sacrificed by the hundreds to fuel the Lamashi Magi.

The Middle Ring was by far the bloodiest to take. Three weeks of struggle to breach the walls and fight through the cobblestone streets before treason won the day. Not all Naga were willing to throw away their lives in a doomed last stand, specially those not belonging to the ruling class, instead they turned upon their fellows and sped up the fall of the Middle Ring. For their troubles they would be raised in station and many would intermarry with the Lamashi, their descendants would become the staunchest supporters of the new Lamashi overlords, for they knew that if ever the Golden Lion fell, they would fall along with them.

The fall of the Inner Ring was anticlimactic. By this point the Naga lacked both the numbers and the will to put up a proper fight. Specially against the Avatar of the Bright Angel and the Lamashi magi powered by so much blood sacrifices. The royal palace was taken rather easily and the great temples defiled with much gusto by the conquering humans. The very presence of a non-Naga in these streets was sin and heresy to the Naga, but why stop there? Their centuries old enemy was finally vanquished. It was time to enjoy the moment before the Goddess' took the Lamashi to fight the real enemy in the West.

Sadra Piresh would not survive the night. Hordes of footmen walked away with their arms laden with loot, Lamassu ripped apart snake priests while using their magic to tear down the temples and relics of the Naga, the Peris gave in to their bloodlust and fell upon the cowering masses like giant birds of prey, Aswarans sent lines of chained Naga back to their camp while bragging among themselves to see who had managed to claim the better bed slave (more than a few ended up poisoned). Even the turncoats joined the orgy of rape, theft and murder, most of them having grown resentful of the nobility that had led the nation to ruin and wishing to show their new masters just how dedicated they were to the cause. The sack spread from the Inner Ring into the Middle one, the Outer Ring was only spared in the sense that there wasn't anything worth to take from there to start with, and the Lamashi themselves had already razed the place.

The only area truly spared from the sack was the eastern wing of the royal palace. Though that was no comfort for the hundreds of prisoners gathered there. All that could be snatched from the highest stratas of Naga society, nobles, priests and any surviving member of the royal family had been placed there by direct orders of the Angel. In life they had been Lamash's staunchest enemies, and for that they would pay with their souls.

The earthly avatar of Arkshtrân, the Bright Angel, had gathered to him the highest ranking members of the Lamashi force. Lamassu priests, Peris sorceresses, human magis and of course, the flower of the Lamashi nobility. They had been ordered to gather around one of the recreational pools of the palace. Arkshtrân stood at one, flanked by the mages and priests while Padishah Zirgun himself stood at the head of the nobles on the opposite side of the Angel. All had been made to strip while the ritual was being carried out.

Slaves and apprentices dragged the Naga to the edge of the pool, cutting their throats and letting the poisonous blood mix with the water while the mages sung and played their instrument. Arkshtrân acted as the conductor of this macabre choir, his heavenly voice eclipsing even that of the Peris. All the while more and more blood continued to be added to the pool. Halfway through the singing, the magic started acting. Searing winds tore apart the chained Naga, siphoning their blood straight into the pool, whose water had long since turned viscous and black due to the blood.

The music reached a thunderous crescendo as the last Naga was ripped apart and his blood added to the pool. Then the Angel motioned for the Padishah to step forward. And that Zirgun did without any hesitation, Arkshtrân had given him the general idea of what was about to happen, but even if he hadn't, the Padishah would still do it. For if he couldn't trust the Angel, then who could be trusted?

He walked into the pool, letting himself be submerged by the magically-enhanced mixture. The assembled nobles waited with baited breath for their ruler to reappear while the Angel continued to lead the magical choir. Bright golden light shone from beneath the viscous surface of the liquid, allowing the onlookers to track the progress of their ruler. And then he emerged to the shocked gasps and muttered praises to Yuwan. For what emerged on the other side clearly wasn't a simple man anymore.

Zirgun now stood tall, as tall as the Angel's avatar, who towered over all men of Lamash. His skin was smooth and golden, all signs of age and wounds of war gone with magic. His hair, once gray and balding was now black as the void, lustrous and silken and full on his head. His eyes shone like scarlet coals and his teeth had never been whiter as he turned and smiled to his assembled vassals. And when he called his daughter Suh and his son Bahram to join him in the Goddess' blessing, his voice echoed like the rolling thunder.

And so brother and sister stepped forward, adoration clear in their eyes while their hearts were overtaken by the sheer, irresistible lust for that power they had seen granted so freely before their eyes. The two stepped into the pool, hands clasped tight and the process was repeated. And then again and again as noble after noble received Arkshtrân's Gift. The Angel's choir sang through the night as the city burned and died around them. In her place a new city would rise; Tari-Illim, the City of Ascension. Second only to Oracheos itself in holiness to the Lamashi.

The process would not stop there however, for there were still many the Angel thought worthy of Ascension. Over the following months and years many Lamashi made the pilgrimage to the holy pool. Great nobles, heroes, priests and anyone with any meaningful power in the Empire would step into the pool to receive the Gift, so that they and their descendants would stand above common men as Yuwan's chosen people.

Kasabi Island, just off the coast of mainland Uudhin. Though similarly bleak as the Uudhinite mainland, the Island is considerably habitable and compared to wartorn Ouroborasia a safe haven for life. The place’s sharp rise to power in the past few centuries has been a cause for concern in the southern ocean, with piracy and vicious oceanic monstrosities having beset the ocean as an unholy plague. But the city itself looks unassuming – there are few impossibly high buildings, and certainly none of the splendour and décor that graces the Exaltarchy or Lamash. The most significant of the large buildings with some grandeur to them would be the Daveithai Manor, which is the family home of the Metropolitan. But the majority of the city consists of slums and new-built suburbs to house the steady growth of refugees from dispossessed Red Pantheonists of the mainland, particularly at the hands of the Justinians. And the skies above are perpetually grey and windy, locked in an overcast tempest -- the city couldn’t look any more sombre. Yet for all its soberness, this day the city is aflame with festivity and celebration, the domes of the towers are lit with brilliant fires and flowers imported from Gushawar dress the window, the lanterns and the roofs.
The cause for the celebration is this; the leader of Kasabi Island, the Despot from the Daveithai family, has successfully arranged a marriage to link his bloodkin to the Ouroborasian imperial caste.

‘’Principe Synogchouta Daveithai! Congratulations on your wedding. Ouroborasian women are quite beautiful. But one from the Imperial lineage? Many patricians will envy you for sure!’’
Synogchouta replies surly to his visitor with a short: ‘’Thank you.’’ Already looking to the next guest to have gathered, in rows, to meet him. Each come from wealthy Patrician families in Uudhin’s largest (and some would say ‘sole’) great City, and Synogchouta is the host of his family Manor to receive each on behalf of his uncle... His uncle that did not have the decency to make an appearance himself. And each of the visitors come with gifts for Synogchouta to present to his bride-to-be. Chouta sits behind a long refectory table on a high upholstered and elaborate seat, with only his retainers as company.
The young heir of Kasabi is slender built, dark haired and olive hued as descendants of Edukesh generally are. Their menfolk come generally with beards, long goatees and moustaches, though Chouta and his uncle are an exception to the norm as they seems to have established a lasting grudge against facial hair and thus always shave. As such Chouta normally has a youthful boyish look to his face, despite being well in his twenties. He wears a richly embellished wine-red cloak and a black tunic, and a silver bejewelled ring on each of his fingers as though he himself were royal, for Synogchouta certainly has the prim imposing attitude, and grace, of one.

Another young man about Chouta’s age came before him, a Patrician and sailor from the Miamai family, and he presented the Principe with expensive Gushawari spices.
‘’It’s sad your noble uncle couldn’t attend. The Despot Metropolitan is the one that set up this diplomatic escapade! And it bore fruit in the end, full and ripe. Just how I like my women. I’ve travelled to Ouroborasia a lot on behalf of my father, and by the Salten God, the women there have some buxom teats. The Kasabioi floozies we have? Or anywhere in Uudhin that isn’t a Ghoul-infested hellscape? Eh. They lack substance. Anyway, you lucky devil. -- this is a cause of celebration!’’
Synogchouta feigns a polite smile.
‘’Thank you for attending.
…
You goatfondling primate.’’ He angrily mutters as follow-up, inwardly enough that none would overhear. The Miamai man had just left, and is already replaced by a series of three women from the Ormaoth family. It is a name associated with depravity and hedonism, and their distinguished ties to Gushawar are not entirely unrelated as to why. The Principe is already bracing for yet another debauched conversation.
‘’Oh my Salt! I am so, so, so happy for you, Chouta-boy! I just love Ouroborasian lady's fashion. It’s the best in the world I say! No disrespect to Kasabi, but honestly us being linked to Azagôde only causes people to regard us as freaks and cultists or whatever.’’
The second woman speaks up.
‘’So what is the lucky lady’s name, Chouty-booty?’’
‘’Princess Cassiopeia, and please don’t call me Chouty-booty.’’ The Principe retorts with a solemn grunt.

This would go on for the better part of the day, and the Principe grows weary and frustrated by it all. Not only because he despises these people, but because for no reason is he being married off voluntarily. Synogchouta was already engaged to another woman, someone he loved dearly, but with the death of his cousin – the Metropolitan’s son – Chouta was a year ago anointed by his uncle as Principe of Göl Kasabi. The heir.
Synogchouta was never an ambitious person, and his elevation in status has only been a source for ire. Now to be married off with some Ouroborasian slut, the very people who were so recently the enemies of Göl Kasabi. Who had killed his father, and his father’s father. And now his uncle gets to call the shots and decrees he is to marry one. As if that wasn’t enough, the Ouroborasians also expect the Principe to come to Ouroborasia and pick her up too, as they themselves don’t have ships to spare for transportation across the strait of Uudhin.

Soon another guest enters the receiving hall of the Daveithai manor. A man in windswept and frayed garments laced with white fur. The Principe did not recognise him at first, but it’s Yaldbaw Daveithai, another of Synogchouta’s adventuring cousins, and from the looks of it he just arrived in Göl Kasabi from overseas to meet with his cousin. Unlike the other generally clean-shaved Daveithai, Yaldbaw dons a full and elaborate beard and stache, though understandably so to keep his face warm in the cold climates he is exposed to, down in the icy deep-south of Materia.
‘’Chouta! My own cousin the Principe! You look stronger since last time we met. Why so dour, my friend?’’ He exclaims with a voice loud and stentorian with arms outstretched.
‘’Ah, Yaldbaw. A welcome sight to see a family member. A sign of civilization, despite you being dressed up like a swashbuckling barbarian.’’
‘’Ha-ha! Well, I have become sort of a swashbuckling barbarian in recent years, to be frank. In my station it is an inevitable change. Erimachaf holds no place for the weak... The things I’ve lived through, well, princely greenhorns as yourself couldn’t imagine.
But my own heroics aside, I am not here to patronize you this time. I have a gift for you, and I think you’ll appreciate it!’’
‘’Hrmpf. Judging by what I’ve been presented so far, I am skeptical of that.’’
‘’Trust me -- It’s from Hypernotei.’’ And Yaldbaw presents the Principe with what appears to be a curved sword of a shotel format, nothing out of the ordinary. Chouta accepts the thing reluctantly and observes it for a moment, unamused.
‘’Remove the scabbard.’’ Yaldbaw adds.
And Chouta does as instructed, and the sword reveals its metal. He now understood why his cousin spoke of the sword so reverently. Its blade is pure white and gleaming with mystifying sparkles. In matter of fact; it’s not even made of metal. Chouta places his finger on it, and immediately retracts. It’s bitingly cold to the touch. It’s ICE.
‘’Unbelievable… how is this… Is this – is this from the Kasabioi outpost our family helped finance 2 years ago? Erimachaf? I had heard rumours of progress, but were always skeptical. For what is there to find in Hypernotei beyond cursed ice, frostbite and certain death... But it seems I was proven wrong once more.’’
‘’You are correct though. Hypernotei indeed offers those things, but there are untapped riches there that only the bold – such as myself – dare lay claim to. We call it Eternal Ice, harvested from the abominals at the edge of the world. Immeasurably rare, only few in Materia have had a blade forged of the material. You are now a proud owner of one of the few Ice Swords.’’
‘’So what am I to do with it? Present it to the Ouroborasian dynasty? It’ll be bound to impress them I suppose. No way they’ve ever seen anything like it, even with all their newfound witchcraft.’’
‘’You misunderstand. This isn’t a gift for the Ouroborasian royals. May the Salt Prince damn them to His deepest abyss. This is a gift I am giving to you, YOU and none other.’’
For a moment Chouta’s spirit is lifted. He looks his cousin in the eye with gratitude.
‘’Thank you, Brother Yaldbaw.’’
‘’The pleasure is all mine. I was certain you’d like it.
Now, if I may take that seat to your left.. I see it is unoccupied, and my legs have gotten stiff from the journey.’’
‘’Don’t let me stop you.’’

---

For the remainder of the day, the still-melancholy heir sits quietly at the head of the table of the merry feast, passing most of his time inspecting the mystifying Ice Sword while he obliges to receive further guests. Some came all the way from Eudaz and even Yuwanist nations. Synogchouta, his retainers, family and guests are served plates of exquisite dishes imported from as far away as Lamash, and spices from Gushawar, yet none of it can lift him of his own deep shadow -- more than Yaldbaw's gift did, anyway.
And when the doors to the manor finally have shut, and the Principe was certain there’d be no more guests – he was proven wrong once more.

The door flung open and an eerie chill enters the large hall. A gaunt old man in rags and a very long grey beard going down all the way to his waist, steps in.
A sentry cries at him: ‘’Hold it. No beggars are welcome into these premises. Who let you through the courtyard?’’
But the guardsman soon recognizes the idol and elaborate insignia of the Salt Prince that emblazons his robe, and did not speak or act further. A group of Axohar clergy with horned masks and pitch-black robes followed him into the Manor, not uttering a single word and more-or-less doing nothing beyond look intimidating. Which is something Axohar are very good at, actually.

‘’…With unholy impatience. To vanquish the anti-cosmos and drive them anew into the crypt of creation. The shadowmoths move us about as pieces of chatrang for their own leisure -- and stratagem. To mar them one can only set course for the God of the Northern Wind.’’

Synogchouta rises up from his high seat, intrigued as he looks at the ancient man. He was about to speak up, but his crude cousin Yaldbaw spoke first.
‘’God of the Northern Wind? This is not how an Antimagi would typically refer to Axohaan. This is unbecoming of a Hierophant, even one as inane as Soghba.
Finally left your ramshackle cottage, old fool?’’
Synogchouta speaks up. ‘’Quiet Yaldbaw. A Daveithai is obliged to receive his guests with hospitality, whether he likes it or not.’’
The air of festivity was smothered in a layer of darkness invoked by the mere presence of this ancient Prophet and his followers. And now everyone in the building, the hundreds of them, looked at Principe Synogchouta and Hierophant Soghba both as they converse. A deathly silence fell. The prophet spoke, his voice ringing through the stone foundations of the manor.
‘’Blood of Baltaogliac. I bestow to you my boon.’’ The man approached the table where Chouta sits, and stretches out his arm to him.
In reaction the Principe reaches out to receive that which the old man clutches in his hand.
‘’What gift do you wish me to present to the Ouroborasians, Hierophant?’’
‘’..Trail the rivers under the frozen sky. Swallow the ghost of the lucid dream… and Silent will be the mournful beast.’’ And he opens his hand. An amulet, a charm in the shape of a bell with a white gleaming crystal at the top.
‘’Harness it to resist the weary eye.’’
‘’Wait, do I give it to the Ouroborasian princess? Pray tell me. Soghba!’’
But the old man turned around as abruptly he had entered, and so did those men who slavishly tread in his footsteps. Leaving Synogchouta and his fellows in bewilderment.
Yaldbaw mutters under his breath.‘’Is it such a part of their dogma to be as cryptic as possible? ...Religious nutjobs tend to be like that -- worthless. Just accept his little trinket as another gift for your bride.’’ The celebration continued, though the spirit of merriness had left the manor for the rest of the day. Many of the guests that had come to the Daveithai manor were Axohar themselves, and Soghba’s appearance and ‘gift’ could only be an omen...

Angel's Kiss Inn, Port City of Llanfrid, Talgarth

The afternoon sun hung high into the sky, beaming it's warm light into a darkened room in the local Inn of Llanfrid, the room itself was a complete mess, clothing, shards of clay and glass scattered about on the floor. The bed was in no better shape, ruffled up and wrinkled, two human-shaped lumps underneath the cloth. An elven man was first to emerge from the bed cloth, letting out a loud yawn and stretching his arms as high up as possible, his facial expression was that of a very hungover man. "Oh by Justinian...what happened..." He scanned the room, having little or vague recollection of what occurred last night. He turned to his right to see a red-haired human beauty laying besides him. "Ahhh, that's right." He said with a satisfied tone followed with a matching grin. "Yaten you sly dog." He congratulated himself as the memories came flowing like ale.

Yaten Aurvanal, a Bard with big dreams in Aberys, had came to this bustling city to hone his skills and to of course, win over the hearts of the local women, unfortunately that particular dream would put on hold for a short while, the Realm of Talgarth is openly known as the Crime center in Aberys, as such, many settlements within the realm have some form of unsavory elements of the underworld, in Llanfrid's case, a local gang run an underground Gambling ring, something an overconfident, greedy and starving bard would be attracted too. On that night, one thing led to another, eventually developing into a drunken stupor for many, Yaten had won some, but mostly lost quite a bit coin, in his drunken stupidity, he assured the owner he would have his coin sooner then he hoped.

"Oh shit.." He said to himself, his stomach sinking from the sudden realization of the debt he's in now, he leaped out of the bed, grabbing the closet thing he could to cover up his manhood, a small towel and with haste, begun to collect his clothing, piecing them together as he was presentable...mostly.

His panicked pacing around the room woke up the young lady, still half-asleep, but was aware Yaten was present in the room, giving off a pleasant smile. "Oh Yaten, last night was just wonderful..." She said in a soft tone.

Barely paying attention, Yaten focused on his things, such as his trusty lute a. "Glad to be of service my dear lass!" He said hastily. "Sadly my lass, I must be go-" Yaten was interrupted as someone fiercely banged on the door. "We know you're in there bard!" A boorish voice rang out from the other side, followed by several more bangs, more powerful and fierce. The woman, frightened, slowly crawled against the bed frame, pulling the cloth to cover herself up.

"Oh nonononono.." Yaten whimpered, he was cornered, trapped like a rat, he desperately looked for an escape route, and took notice of the window to his left, he let out a heavy sigh at what needed to be done. With most of the essentials gathered up, the door was broken down as three burly men entered through the battered doorway. "It's time to pay up, knife-ear.." the lead man said in a threatening tone, but quickly took notice of the woman on the bed, his eyes widening. "Elin!?!" He exclaimed, the woman blushing out of embarrassment, hiding her face.

The man turned his gaze back to Yaten, fury in his eyes. "You slept with me sister you knife-eared whoreson!!!"

"Boss wants his coin. Now." Another thug spoke up.

It was now or never.

It was time to charm them, or at least distract them, long enough to escape. "Gentlemen! Surely we can discuss this over like civilized men!" He cheerily said, slowly making his way towards the window. "Now I admit, I may have made some rather outrageous promises to Colin, but In my defense, I was piss drunk, as were all of ya!"

He was closer and closer. "We can just laugh it off.." he finally made it, grabbing a still intact clay flower vase. "Catch!" he shouted throwing the vase at the three men as they flinched, the lead thug hit by the vase, falling to his back. With this momentary distraction, he crashed through the window doors, falling downward on top of a empty wheel cart, a rather rough and sore landing, but was still alive, some passersby were stunned at what they just witnessed and just stared at the stumbling elf as he made his way down the streets.

Back in the inn, the two men helped their fallen comrade as he regained his composer. "Forget me you dolts! After that cowering whoreson!"

Yaten ran through the busy streets like there's no tomorrow, in his case, literally, as the two of the thugs had quickly catch up to him, making a quick move, he turned left, making way for the port area, passing over and dodging an assortment of crates and dockworkers in his attempt to lose his pursuers, but they give chase as they are still in sight. What came next would be both a blessing and a curse, due to his poor lack of attention of his surroundings, Yaten took another left turn as he ran straight to the end of the port, falling over what he thought would be water...was much worse.

A fishing boat had been docked in the port, carrying a full cargo of freshly caught fish, and Yaten fell right into the cargo. Yaten emerged from the pile, covering in slim, water muck from the fish. Luckily however, the thugs lost him, overhearing them. "Damn it all we lost the bard."

"Nah, he won't get far in this city, we'll tell the boss, we'll get his head for sure."

After waiting a few more moments, Yaten climbed out of the boat, the unpleasant fishy oder wafting the air, catching the attention of any who passed. He looks up in the sky, knowing full well Justinian is probably watching. "Ok...I deserved that."

The elders of the various tribes lingered, their escorts keeping a close eye on the outside world. Several of the elders of the lesser tribes were getting impatient. What if a Justinian raider party found them all? Such a meeting would easily draw an army, to cut the head of the tribal structure.

Finally, the Macnamiar tribe arrived. With a delegation consisting of Abelard, the wielder of the Spear of Adalgar, and three Adalgar’s Lodge hunters, eliciting a reaction from Oielan. He said, “You are late, Abelard! What kept you? Every second we remain together is another second risking discovery!”

Abelard responded, “Raiding parties marred my path. I had to take care to avoid gathering their attention. It took much longer than I expected to avoid being followed by them,” as he folded in his wooden magically-tuned wings. In one hand he carried his trademark spear. He walked to the rest of the delegation, motioning for his fellow hunters to stay back.

“You should see to it that you are not beaten to the confederation gathering by Iuoes,” muttered Jealon, a grumpy snort emanating from the seeker. Abelard simply waved him off. Now that they were all present, each eldest from each surviving tribe, Oielan began the meeting with a few sharp movements.

Ulysei began, “The Aberys raiding parties, those wretched noble houses, have increased as of recent. My tribe has killed off many, but they are a flood. We need more people in the steppes,” he paused, looking at Abelard, “I hope you can provide?”

Abelard hesitated, thinking for a moment, before accepting with a, “Very well, as long as the hunters I send are well-fed. The days grow shorter and the cold seasons will soon be upon us; we cannot afford to lose more of our kin to such a menace as simple cold.”

Ulysei nodded, and Zealon spoke up next, saying, “There are bad omens in my tribe, our enemies surround us, and I fear that the monsters below may become more active. Should Jealon fall, then we all will fall as well. I believe these are the end times for our tribes.”

Oielan cut him off, “There is no place for doomsaying in this confederation, it only separates us further. We will stand together or fall apart. We will persevere, and we will keep our homeland. No matter how many raiders come for our heads. If they send an army, they will lose much; we will assure that.”

Watching from a fair distance, an out-of-place and posh-looking gentleman watched the gathering ahead, hidden by the tall trees and bushes, behind the man was several dozen soldiers, all carrying the colors and banners of House Nudden, one of several contributors of troops in the Northern Campaign, and the same house of this young man, Phillip Nudden, Heir to the House and its lands.

One of the more well-armored soldiers moved ahead by the noble's side. "Great Justice, never seen this many Artiuns in one place..."

Philip grinned. "Heh, all the more tempting Captain." He said, his pompous tone and arrogance ever present. "Ready the archers, I won't let this chance slip through my fingers."

"Yes, my lord." the captain responded as he turned to face the rest of the crouched troops, signaling for the archers to advance forward, before long, twelve archers moved ahead into position, and were ready to rain death upon the heathens.

To the men watching, the Artiuns spoke in guttural gibberish, however, to themselves, they were perfectly understandable. One of the Adalgar’s Lodge warriors tensed, with the thought of having heard something, but he didn’t do anything yet. Meanwhile, the meeting continued as the elders argued with each other.

They spoke of various things, ranging from current events to their tribe’s individual histories. The archers, when they got closer, could clearly tell it was getting heated between the Artiuns, but beyond that they were unable to grasp the language the creatures spoke.

Philip drew his blade, ready to charge at any moment's notice, and in that very moment, he gave the order. "Fire!" He screamed as the archers let loose their arrows upon their unsuspecting enemy. "Charge!" he quickly ordered as he rushed out from the trees, quickly followed by his troops as they emerged from the forest.

The moment the order was loosed from Philip’s lips, the Adalgar’s Lodge hunters dove into action, with several sharp cries of warning as they flew to intercept the arrows with their wooden shields before they could reach the elders.

The elders, meanwhile, took to the air, some of them rapidly flying away from the situation. However, Ulysei and Abelard stayed behind, joining the elite hunters’ ranks. They took to the air as well when Philip’s men charged into the clearing, and Abelard, with his hunters, shot past the heads of the soldiers, intent on the archers.

The rest of them remained in the air, flying over to the soldiers and beginning to jab at them from the air with their spears.

The Archer line was quick to break once the hunters struck, scattering as several of them fell, literally as the hunters would impale them and drop from up high. Back in the clearing, once the Artiuns took flight and begun their assault, the spearmen among the raiding party's ranks begun tossing their own spears up into the air, with some hope of striking down one of the hunters. The Captain and a select group of swordsmen stood close by the Nudden Heir, keeping his head where it should be.

A few hunters fell to the spears, but many more of them remained, blocking the spears with their shields. They struck down the spearmen who had thrown their spears quickly, before they could draw another weapon. They began to surround the raiding party, with Abelard and the three other hunters coming up from behind after dealing with the archers.

Abelard shot through the lines, attacking the swordsmen around the heir. One of them attempted to parry his spear, the slash of the spear cutting right through the sword. He yelled, in Elvish, “Surrender or you will all be killed!”

"Damned Savage!" Philip shouted out, tearing away a sword from one of his guards and once again made an attempt to fruitlessly thrust the blade towards Abelard's gut out of desperation.

The blade was met with another slash of the spear, this time at the base of the sword, chopping off Philip’s fingers. He then batted away the swordsmen with the end of the spear, causing them to jump back in fear from the tip as he waved it in their direction. He yelled, again, in Elvish, as he suddenly rose the spear to Philip’s throat, “Call off your dogs or this will be your last sight!”

In that brief moment, as his fingers fell to the ground, the young prince screamed in pain, clutching his bloodied hands, the Artiun was not one for sympathy as it appears, suddenly being held at spearpoint as he raved in elvish. Philip couldn't afford to care to clearly understand what the savage spoke of, but he clearly could see he no longer had the upper hand here. "S...s...stand down!" He struggled to get a word out.

In that instant, the surviving soldiers dropped their weapons. The hunters quickly surrounded the surrendering soldiers, holding them at spearpoint as well. Abelard said again in Elvish, “Do you understand me, boy? Does anyone in your party speak Elvish? Speak up!” he looked around as he held the spear to the prince’s throat.

“Oh..I can understand you, savage.” Philip responded, his eyes seething with pain and anger towards this heathen. The Artiun narrowed his eyes, keeping the spearpoint at the man’s throat as he said, “Then you and your remaining raiding party will carry this message; this material realm, while its life ebbs low in the furnace of war, will be delivered by our tribes. Heed these warnings, for ruin will come to those who bar our way.” with that, he barked an unintelligible order to the hunters.

Each of the surrendering warriors was grabbed, a single swipe of the spear removing their fingers similar to the prince’s. A cacophony of screams filled the air, and after it was finished, Abelard continued, “We will fight for her, our mother’s survival. Tell your wretched, sneering kinsmen of that.” with that, he barked another order at the hunters, who all took to the air. Within moments, they were out of sight among the trees, leaving the raiding party alone with their dead.
Without much to be said, besides the cries and moans of pain, Philip and his surviving men made their trek back to the frontline encampment, a journey that would take three days. Unfortunately, over the course of time, one by one, the number dropped as soldiers collapsed and eventually died from either blood loss, infection or were picked off by local predators. Those that persevered through the pain were the fortunate ones.

The few that remained finally returned to the camp, fallen at the entrance as healer clerics rushed to their aid. A group of soldiers started to encircle the scene, much to their shock and horror. Philip was quickly under the care of one of healers as he grew more aware of his surroundings. "By Justinian...what happened?" One soldier muttered. "Savages...." another muttered.

"Those monsters took my fingers...that bastard dared laid his heathen hands on my pure flesh...he will burn for this..this whole realm will burn for this..."

Collab between Gold and Sigma.

Aberys-Ouroborasia Border
Town of Gryke

Gryke, one of countless examples of the dreary and mucky atmosphere in Ouroborasia, a stark contrast to their northern neighbors, the Aberysian Principalities. The townspeople of Gryke went about their daily business, trying to survive in their new and harsh reality...but, even in these dark times, a ray of light always finds it's way into the endless darkness, as children run and play amidst in the misery, splashing the puddles forming in pitted sections of the eroding down streets, a charming, if temporary distraction for a few. But that ray of light would shine even brighter today.

Almost without warning, mostly due to the more hushed reactions, crowds begun to form along the side of the town's streets as armed soldiers begun to march through the wet street, their sudden arrival met with curiosity and enthusiasm, taking notice that these men were not marching under the Imperial banner, no, but of the House of Weshland, another wave of reinforcements from Aberys had finally arrived to aid the Rightful Emperor in the fight against the Eastern Witches. Children put a stop to their games as they looked in awe of the arriving soldiers, at the forefront of the soldiers were a trio mounted on horseback, a lovely, if deadly-looking woman at the front, and flanking her were members of the Gryph Knights. The young woman's features was quite distinguishable for the townspeople, her locks as bright as the rising sun, skin so fair and smooth, and an aura of elegance and authority filling the very air.

The townspeople continued to stare in awe, one even yelling a stout, "give 'em hell!" As the woman and her troops made way for the town center, she and her knight escort rushed ahead as their steeds sped up, the Town Elder being quick to act as he and his entourage gathered to meet the trio. As they climbed down from the backs of their horses, the soldiers behind continuing their march until they too reached the center. "Company halt!" A grizzled voice cried out as the soldiers froze and stood at attention.

The Town Elder was a middle aged man of salt and pepper, the previous having passed due to illness just weeks ago, but at a ripe age. He wore a worn look on his face along side the ever present tattoo of a Ouroborasian veteran on his left cheek.

"We have no more lads to give," he started, voice ironically dry, "the Citizen's Militia marched through just two days ago and took our eager. We have only the weak, old and unfit."

The Young woman chuckled, followed by a friendly grin, the elder mistaking her intentions. "Fear not, citizen." She begun. "We've not come for your men and boys." She paused." But first, introductions are in order. I am Rosella Weshland, Princess of the Weshland Principality and Chosen Champion of Justinian, by order of the Rightfully Elected King and the Round Council, I and my fellow weshlanders have come to lend aid."

"If it's aid you wish to give, then who am I to doubt someone sent by Justinian himself," The elder nodded, trying to match the woman's smile, "I am the town elder, elected by the people. You may call me Bujar."

"A pleasure." She said. "Elder Bujar, I came here to both offer and to request." She first took a deep breath. "The trek to the frontlines will be long and perilous, and we've come as far as the eye can see, my forces require a place of rest." She turned around, waving her hand as if giving a signal, a few men nodded back as they broke formation and disappeared among the ranks of their fellows. Moments later, several large grey beasts, the Umuro, emerged from the masses, hauling large carts filled with food supplies.

"I know much will be asked of your town to tolerate our temporary stay." She said, her tone sympathetic. "So, in return, we offer your town a share of our supplies, I'm sure these dire times makes one suffer from hunger."

"With so many gone, we have room to spare," Bujar agreed. "You may very well stay in exchange for food, but I'm no stranger to war or marches," the elder eyed the soldiers behind Rosella, "I know what kinds of hunger men of war gather and we will have none of it here. There will be no scenes made, and no women or children harassed. We may be weak and few, but we are still Ouroborasians; Justinian guide us." He added a short prayer, whether in deprication or spiritual fervor remained unclear.

"You have my word." She said, slamming her armored fist against the breast plate." My Officers and I will keep our men in line, the last thing we need is to make enemies of fellow brothers and sisters of Justinian.

"Justinian bless you then!" Bujar clapped his hands together, "as he surely does us."

It had all come together, Rosella had guaranteed her troops would rest easy for now, ready to make another long march to the frontlines.

It was dark. Here and there, scant patches of luminescent lichen dimly glimmered overhead, but their feeble glow was no more than a scattering of small islands amid the black ocean of subterranean shadow. The daylight had remained far behind - hours, days, maybe years. Nothing here could so much as remind of it; certainly not the patches of lichen, which were unfit to be even a bleak imitation of the sun. But nor was the darkness akin to that of night. There were no stars, no moon, no light, fresh breeze. Worst of all, there was no sense of rest or safety. This was not the darkness that offered a long-awaited moment of respite from toil in the fields and the vexations of the master. This was the stifling black breath of another universe, crawling and festering beneath the earth; a world that, in Justinian’s righteous rule, should never have left its foul lair.

But it was not the darkness that was most terrible in that descent. It was the silence. In the real world, the one that was not clearly a loathsome nightmare come to life by some sorcery, captives were escorted by files of men-at-arms with clattering weapons and crackling torches, who spoke and laughed among themselves, cursed and spat at their charge, even sang if they had had enough ale beforehand. Here, there was nothing of this sort. Only the scraping of a claw on stone now and then, and the low whistling of giant feelers sweeping through the air before his face. And yet, it could have been far worse.

Justinian be thanked, he had never fully seen the monsters. All he remembered was that the ground had shaken and rumbled, someone had called out from behind the rows of wheat, and hard, cutting manacles has closed around his wrists and ankles. Then something behind him had pulled down, towards the soil, and there had been the dark. He was beginning to doubt whether any of that had ever happened, whether it was not that that was the dream and this reality. For indeed, this had to be a dream, a foul vision brought about by the tales of the old men and a tankard too many at the inn. The things from below had not come to his village in many years, if they existed at all. What were the odds they would just appear like this, all of a sudden? Besides, he could not even say what they looked like. Was this not proof that none of this was true, and that he would soon wake up on his bed of straw, pale after the fright the nightmare had given him but ready for the new day’s work?

They came to a bend in the tunnel, and the claws dug painfully into his flesh as they tugged him sideways. Warm streams trickled down his arms, and were lost among his rags. No, this was not the dream. Nor had been his life in the fields, distant though it seemed now. All was damnable truth, and the grip of the inhuman limbs on his wrists was too painful for him to be capable of being truly frightened. He thought he would never be able to move his hands again, but that remark led him further into what he would certainly never do again, and he threw it away with horror.

In spite of himself, his body drank in the noisome sensations that surrounded him. There were darkness and silence, occasionally broken by a glimmering stain or a scratching of monstrous paws on stone; there was also the feeling of the coarse soil he was being dragged over, and the thing that was holding him. The warm, unpleasant taste of blood in his mouth. And there was the stench. It was not only the damp smell of the deep earth, the rot and all the filth that grew fat over it; the monsters also had theirs, and it was unlike that of any animal he had ever seen in his life. Dry, sharp, bitter. It could not belong to anything that was good. It was known to all that dogs and horses hated the things from below, and now he clearly understood why.

Further and further down he went, carried by the invisible and noiseless procession. There had been more bends and twists than he knew how to count, and still they bore onwards. It occurred to him that, while the things did not think like men or other beasts, even they must have had their home, and they were taking him there. He did not like the thought, but there was nothing else left to him.

At last, there seemed to come from somewhere far ahead a red glimmer, spreading over the walls of the tunnel. It was weak, but grew ever stronger as it approached, and he closed his eyes so that he would not see what was swinging its feelers before his face. He could still see the light shining brighter, now a lurid glow made even more blood-like by his eyelids. Suddenly, he felt that he was no longer moving; then, he was roughly turned about and pushed forward by something sharp, managing by some miracle to land on his knees. He did not want to look, and, clenching his hands, fought with the rising urge that was rising to overpower him against his best reasons. It was too great. His eyes agonisingly pried themselves open, and he saw.

The Prophet had bid it, and They had come, for the will of the Prophet was that of Vex’xalar. All of Them, great and small, swam in the great stygian ocean that was the One Mind. The Prophet had swept a limb through it, birthing many small waves which flowed along with the mighty breath of the divine tides, and all those who were close enough to be caught in them heeded their call. Great and small, through earth and water, the bodies of the Swarms had crawled, dug and swam to join the sacred ceremony of veneration, to celebrate the One Will that moved all of them, and they had brought an offering.

They were massed in a great vault, swarming over the floor, the walls, the ceiling, suspended in the air, looking out of the many tunnels that opened into the chamber. Between and under their creeping black shapes, meaty red fungi spread their sanguine glow. The cavern seemed a gargantuan stomach, through the walls of which filtered the distorted rays of the sun. The charnel light shone over the assembled masses and a point, near the further end of the chamber, where the ground sloped down to a lower height, or a greater depth even than the rest of it. It was there that would be the focus of the rite.

The Prophet stood, great, dark and swollen, before a wall adorned with the signs of the ceremony. Twisted symbols of the olden writing of Zattdrok, harsh and misshapen by civil standards, but far less dry and angular than those of Kralhk. They had not been used in their full capacity for centuries, but, so ran the thoughts of the Prophets, it was therefore that they had never been as holy as they were now. And the Prophets could not be wrong, for all thoughts had but one Source. In the midst of the sacred writings there was the effigy of Vex’xalar, and below It that of the potent unmaking; They awaited in hunger. Before the Prophet, two warriors flanked the offering, a soft-skinned being of the surface, servant of evil. It would bring satiatiation.

The Prophet raised its claws, and all was silent. They waited. Then, They began.

“One Below, One with Us. We conjure strength and summon life to be unto You.” rose the clicking, screeching accents of the Prophet.

One Below, One with Us. We conjure strength and summon life to be unto You. They repeated in Their second voice, which was manifold.

”We are the Swarms, as one with You. Your life is Ours, Our strength is Yours.”

We are the Swarms, as one with You. Your life is Ours, Our strength is Yours. They chanted.

”The will of the All is worked through You, who grantest Us the true sight of what must be made, and the guidance to make it. You bear the great gift of the One from the sky and the abyss. None is as powerful as Us who bear it. The earth is Ours, the world is Ours. Bear Us in the journey of the soil and the motion of the hunt, in the cunning twisting of artifice and the unbroken lavine of war, and We shall conquer as One.”

The will of the All is worked through You, who grantest Us the true sight of what must be made, and the guidance to make it. You bear the great gift of the One from the sky and the abyss. None is as powerful as Us who bear it. The earth is Ours, the world is Ours. Bear Us in the journey of the soil and the motion of the hunt, in the cunning twisting of artifice and the unbroken lavine of war, and We shall conquer as One.

”Your body is vast, Your hunger unending. We bring the blood that feeds into Our fold.”

The two warriors seized the offering’s arms and hoisted it up. Akin to a snake, the Prophet’s head darted forward. Its mandibles bit into the soft, exposed throat, and a stifled gurgling rose from it. Then the head spun aside, tearing out the chunk of flesh it had seized. Dark, thick blood spouted from the gash, splattering the wall and covering the effigies and part of the inscriptions.

The Prophet intoned:



This was not something the walls of the vault had ever heard until recent times. It was the speech of deep Kralhk, one that had not been heard on the surface since those Riglir tribes, who now were Riglir no more, had carried it deep down with them. They had become the Abominations, loyal thralls of Vex’xalar, and their words spelled out the divine mystery.



Their words, chanted in perfect unison, echoed between the bleeding walls, slithered up the tunnels, through the darkness and the silence that had accompanied thousands of doomward journeys. And the earth trembled.

They always said Ouroborasia was a miserable place filled with mud, rain, and dead people. That it wasn’t a place worth fighting for. Looking over the battlefield, seeing the corpses half concealed by dirty swamp water and the muddy, sludge coated men hitting each other with any weapon they could find, Tatiana, forced to the front lines and having to endure this damnable weather had to agree. They were winning sure, but looking how close she was to the enemy, the price… the price was far too high.

“No, not that low you damn oaf!” The young witch almost yelled; the armoured familiar she was riding on almost lowering her into the swamp's water. The audacity of that damn bitch, sending her out here. When Solomonanţă sent its students to experience the ‘frontlines’, they did not mean literally metres away from the melee!

The oaf she referred to halted, almost unnaturally, before his body lifted itself ever slightly. The familiar was a large man. His dirty blonde hair and grim, depressed eyes barely noticeable between the mud stained Bucket helmet and Bevor. Apparently, he was once a sergeant of the imperial army. Even if he was somewhat rebellious, her control was near absolute, her small form riding on top of his shoulder would have been far harder otherwise. Anything to avoid getting wet after all.

For all the woes of my life, I am glad at least I was fortunate to not be born one of them. Tatiana thought, momentarily pitying him. A once proud man chained to her whims, his body forced as if on strings to do as she commanded. Even as a child, Tatiana was considered a genius with curses, particularly the Familiar Curse. Back at Solomonanţă, Tatiana was feared by her fellow young witch peers, the prodigy already possessing a small army of familiar slaves.

Turning back to the task at hand, from atop the kneeling man-turned-familiars shoulder Tatiana began chanting, no longer worried about getting wet. The injured soldier her familiar was holding down struggled frantically, his screams muffled by the leather gloves of her ‘faithful’ puppet.

‘Mmmmphhmm, mphhmm!’

Tatiana glared at the annoying man, seeing the tattoo on his left cheek. It infuriated her knowing that while she sacrificed this man, that corrosive, evil bastard of a god Justinian got something too.

She tried to concentrate. At first it didn’t work. The screaming, clatter of steel and distant explosions too much for her young, child mind. As mature as she thought she was and acted, biology couldn’t be helped. Looking up at the distractions, she saw one of the enemies actually blow himself up with his own grenade. Attempting to stifle a giggle, she squeezed her eyes shut.

'Just ignore, just ignore it. Focus on the sacrifice, you don’t want to die' she muttered to herself.

Don't want to die.

The melee of familiars and purple-trimmed enemies disappearing as she closed her eyes, quietly muttering her personal mantra of survival over and over. As her awareness of the outside world faded, she calmed and entered a trance. The occult Old Eudaz chant returned then, the blood painted on the panicking soldier now glowing.

Time slowed. Even as droplets of rain fell atop of her red hat and face, she remained unfazed. In but a few moments the ritual would be complete, the sacrifice dead and her theurgia recharged. She had her Familiar puppet raise his sword to complete the sacrifice ritual and,

BOOM.

An explosion of purple light, the blast forcing Tatiana to open her eyes and halting the sacrifice ritual. Sparks and particles of burning debris flew out from the purple explosion in wild arcs, including what appeared to be the burning remains of some unidentifiable body part splashing nearby.

‘What are they doing now? Can’t they see that the enemy is over there’.

Tatiana stopped as she saw that no, the enemy was not ‘over there’ fighting familiars, and to her sudden and horrified realisation instead was charging directly at her. The enemy looked frenzied. They were screaming as they charged, their leader a chipped sword wielding man bellowing at the others as he pushed a familiar aside, throwing the armoured man into the water to be trampled by the other charging madmen.

‘Get up! Get up oaf, They’re after us!’ Tatiana’s familiar stood up, using one armoured boot to pin the struggling soldier to the ground as he did, shifting his sword and shield to face the charging Justinian tattooed freaks. In that moment she saw one of the charging men throw a grenade directly towards her.

Using her last reserve of theurgia, Tatiana formed a ward in the air. The grenade’s explosion curved around the ward, and while blocked, the blast wave knocked Tatiana’s familiar down into the swamp's water and sent Tatiana herself sent flying backwards, also landing into the murky shallows. Drenched in the swampy water and her red dress and petticoats covered in mud, Tatiana pulled herself out of the water in time to look on in terror as the chipped sword-wielding leader rushed towards her.

Splashing through the water, the chipped sword-wielder was none other than Yarold, who charged at the young blue eyed girl in the red dress. The shimmerings of the ward hung in the air, faded and residual. Crumbs of dirt and water rained down from the explosion around it.

Fiery adrenaline pumped through Yarold, it was clear the child was a witch. His heart raced and pounded against his ears along with the blood-curdling screams of battle. He was almost hesitant to continue his attack, but the familiar energy of the battle flowed through him, cutting his mind off from his thoughts as he lowered his sword’s point at the enemy before him.

Tatiana, drenched and out of theurgia had barely enough time to even scream as the sword came right before her, inches of distance and less than a second away in time before her untimely demise. Tatiana closed her eyes as she flinched, preparing for an imminent death that never came.

Slowly opening her eyes again.

She did not see Yarold until she looked down into the water, the man having seemingly, tripped? A sensation of enormous relief rose through the young girl when she realised that her familiar had grabbed the mad charging man’s ankle, dragging him into the water as well.

While Yarold and the familiar struggled against each other as they both tried to stand up, Tatiana used this moment to try and get herself away from the madman, dragging her petticoats as far away as possible, that being a few metres or so.

Through the splashing water, Yarold heard the faint blast of a horn and his stomach swelled. The feeling rushed to his arms and with a swift elbow he knocked the flopping familiar off of him and straightened himself back to his feet, brackish rivulets running down his face. His grip tightened around the basket-hilt of his broadsword and with an urgent swing he brought the blade to the surprised familiar, the strike bouncing off a ready shield with a distinct clatter, lost to the sound of a retreating battle.

The familiar was slow to respond with water flowing from the gaps between the pieces of plate-mail, but steady, unnatural sturdiness keeping him up despite the drenching of water and mud dragged him down. Even in her panic, Tatiana knew to keep her familiar strong. Following Yarolds sword deflecting off his shield, the familiar struck back, using the shield as a weapon in an attempt to crush Yarolds throat, but the man was quicker as he brought his sword down suddenly.

Tatiana however, was too distracted to notice her familiar losing his hand, and yet still fighting on regardless. She was busy instead glaring at the approaching figure of the man she had almost sacrificed, having now stood up from the water, free from her familiar's boot. His chest was still covered in blood symbols, the sacrifice having been aborted at the last few seconds. Tatiana realised he had long since lost his sword, not that it changed anything.

The man had a spiteful, revenge-hungry smile creeping up on his face, knowing the child witch was out of tricks.

‘You look frightened, girl’ the man wheezed. While he was grinning, he was also tired and wounded. If it was not for the mud and lack of magic holding her back, Tatiana figured she could even outrun him.

This was not the case.

‘Ha! And you look dead you miserable pawn’ she spat back.

He, having walked up to her faster than she could step backwards, responded by punching her directly in the face. Flung backwards and back into the water, she survived the punch through virtue of having taken the man's gauntlets off before, meaning she now only had large bruising, split lip, blood and black eye rather than her face being torn off.

‘Looking a bit different now ya’little bitch. Not so strong…' he coughed, The familiar and Yarold were still fighting, the familiar somehow keeping Yarold back even with only one weapon, though Yarold was clearly winning, pushing the silent man back towards her.

‘After all…’ he coughed again, slowly approaching for a second punch.

Tatiana was up again, whipping away the blood on her face. She knew she needed to do something or she was going to die very, very soon. She needed a plan, it was what she was good at, the other students feared her because of it. Tatiana was a prodigy, she always won.

At that moment she had an idea. She started to walk, sideways as well as backwards, circling around the man, closer towards the fighting familiar and Yarold, the latter pushing the former towards the two circling enemies.

Tatiana laughed then, knowing this fool was falling for such a simple trick. Her laughter was silenced shortly thereafter as the grinning man caught her throat with his outstretched hands, picking her up into the air to choke her.

‘Why you laughin’?' was the man's final words as a sword pierced straight through his armour, the end of a sword poking out the front of his chest.

The man's grip slackened, then fell, with Tatiana landing on her feet as the man fell to his knees, gasping for breath as he realised he was dead. Entirely disarmed after pushing the sword through the grinning man’s chest, the Familiar was quickly defeated by Yarold, who swiftly beheaded the familiar, his head flying to the side.

The familiar's body stood upright even without a head, the Familiar Curse keeping the body upright in its final moments. Tatiana however, rather than defeated looked triumphantly at Yarold, an impish smile breaking through the girl's ruined face as she raised her arm up and hand out, directed towards the now dead kneeling man's chest, where the sacrifice symbol now had a sword piercing through it.

‘My goddess, I do hereby complete my sacrifice to you, the highest of all witches.’ Tatiana declared, her voice somewhat muddled as she was speaking as quickly as possible and speaking through a split lip. The symbol on the dead man’s chest was lighting up bright red, as was Tatiana’s eyes, an aura of red light gathering around her.

‘I beseech you, give unto me the power to smite this Justinian dog’.

Radiating light, Tatiana then walked calmly towards Yarold. Yarold, quickly realising what had happened let out a huff of breath and suddenly charged towards the girl, his legs under heated strain as he forced them through the water. Tatiana did not flinch or fall back, or even changed her pace this time, instead simply making a cutting motion with her arm. A creeping aura stretched across the water, sparks of energy discharging.

A sword came out from the edge of Yarolds periphery of vision, he only just reacting in time to block, the force strong enough that he had to sidestep as sparks flashed off his sword. There, to his side the Familiar stood, headless and glowing. An aura of red surrounded it, particles of red light flowing periodically out of its open neck like little wisps of light.
Somehow, the Familiar had managed to pull out the sword in the sacrifices chest fast enough to stop his charge. As he witnessed the beheaded familiar’s arm spasm, retracting its sword with inhuman speed, he realised how.

‘Why were you raising your sword at me? Your fight isn’t finished yet’.

The little girl witch in her muddy, dirty red coat was laughing as the battle had so quickly turned around with the simple addition of just a little bit more… magic. The headless familiar swung its sword in strange, mechanical motions and sudden spasms, with strength beyond human men. Strong, but sloppy. Each clash of their swords caused Yarolds already chipped sword to strain further, slivers of brittle steel being shaved off. This is why Yarold hated magic.

The girl witch was just behind the familiar, unseen except for the glow and her moving feet, her voice clear as she sung a wordless lullaby of some kind, her actions unclear as Yarold was too busy fighting off this bloodthirsty corpse.

‘La lala la’.

The familiar struck again, and again. Yarold tried to disarm the thing, but it seemed to react quickly whenever he tried to aim for its arm. The corpse seemed to care only to use the sword as a bludgeon, forcing Yarold back by the sheer force of its unnatural strength, invigorated as it was with the aura of magic.

Yarold, faster and more flexible than the thing tried to weave around it and its monster blows. A swing at his soldier was side-stepped, the familiar's sword slashing into the water next to him. He slashed at the familiar and it continued as if nothing happened. Yarold knew this was going nowhere; he knew what he had to do. Kill the witch, and the fight is over.

Dodging the Familiars strike again, Yarold pushed it to the side with his shoulder as he went for the witch, only to be intercepted by another corpse, this one physically leaping as it threw itself at him. It was the sacrificed man, now with occult symbols drawn on his forehead in blood, now also trying to kill him. Cutting through the leaping corpse, Yarold was able to right himself as the leaping corpse of the sacrificed man lost a whole arm from the shoulder before falling into the water.

The headless Familiar, sword dragged beside it was walking towards Yarold.

The one armed sacrificed man's body wriggled and spasmed as it got used to its missing arm, pushing itself back up.

Both were encircling Yarold and the witch; the witch seemed to be out of sight. A third corpse once again marked with occult symbols came forward, wielding the upper shaft of a broken polearm. In these apparent final moments, Yarold looked around; the battlefield was silent. There were no explosions or cries of pain. There was nothing but him, corpses and the swamp. He did not know how long the battle had ended, but it was clear he would be the last Justinian standing.

Yarold fought with the last sliver of strength he had. The sacrificed man gnawed at his shin. The headless familiar shattered his sword in half, even as he dug his sword into its shoulder, disabling its sword arm for good. The polearm wielder had pierced Yarolds thigh with the polearms spike before having its hand crushed by the frantic Yarold. A fourth and fifth corpse arrived. One a former heavily armoured familiar with a sword hanging half way through its neck and upper chest. The other was one of his own comrades, Agron, his former comrade burned horribly and missing an arm, his tattoos desecrated by the same occult symbols.

Yarold could not fight them all and succumbed under the weight of numerous animated corpses.

But he did not die, no, instead he looked up to see the monstrous little girl in the dirty red dress, her hat back on her head and a ridiculous, almost insane Cheshire grin on her face.

‘I hope you were aware Mr Justinian Dog. I always win.’

Yarold gritted his teeth, heated breaths blowing the water from his mouth as he attempted to thrash under the weight. The corpses were holding Yarold down, his movement entirely cut off. The maniacal girl reached out, placing her palm on his forehead.

“Don’t worry. You killed that oaf of a Familiar, and I’ll need to come back looking like I never lost one. Trust me, it won’t hurt…’

There was a bright red light then, shining in Yarolds eyes.

‘Much’. All went dark.

The spectre of night had long plunged the dawn far beneath the horizon, and the tumbling seas were shrouded in thick mists. The blinded Justinian captain came onto the deck of his ship, named The Watchman. His was accompanied by another ship and a smaller boat, tasked with navigating the eastern seas ahead for any sign of hostile elements, before the Justinian fleet of the Domain would enter the Gulf of Ouroborasia in full force. The sky and sea turned from the calm sunlit cerulean to sombre grey, sailing for the shores of night. Torch-lit, the vessel glided gently on the haunted waters; a vanguard of a small candle through the vast dark.

Clad in the ocean’s mists, hostile shadows are closing in on the crew. Dark motions. A boy-sailor alerts the Captain, Therus Faldrow -- a wizened grey man a couple scores of seasons past his day. Unknown vessels are upon them, their masts and heathen Red Pantheonist banners, though barely visible, wave in the eastern wind as omens for death. Therus gives the signal to retreat. And so his ship, named the Guardian, abruptly manouvres about to set course for the opposite direction again, and warn the main force. The Scout ship follows. What remains is a single vessel of Magna Excelsiorum, the smallest of the three, the Watchman, to buy the others time to get away and stand against the impending attack. Its captain understands he is tasked with a heavy burden. The unknown Red Pantheon fleet come ever nearer, and the Watchman manoeuvres sideways and prepares its sole cannon; all the while the captain prays that the Guardian will make it to safety, and their own sacrifice not be in vain. Though the captain also knows he needn’t worry, for the Guardian is a battle hardened ship and the agent of many a good ship's doom.
Meanwhile the Second Mate of the Watchman, a human woman, pointed a blunderbuss at the rows of silhouettes from the strange people awaiting her on the opposite deck, now only meters away from the bow of their ship. But ominously still silent as the grave, and the mist between them is so thick that it cannot even be said whether she is facing Humans. She fires with her blunderbuss, and the intense bright spark therefrom lifts the fog, if only for a second. A scream is heard, and it sounded human. At the very least, she now understands that what they’re up against are not the alien creatures the southern oceans are notorious for. Yet all the same, her effort to stave the enemy off is vain – their lone vessel is hopelessly outmatched. And having opened fire at them already, the Justinians can expect no quarter.

Then came their response.

A hellish blaring of castanets and the beating of drums rings through the dark fog and through the eardrums of each man and woman in vicinity. The Red Pantheonists came on steadily with a vicious clamouring of masculine roars and jeers towards the three Northern ships, rowing fast. The sound of beating drums and the braying of zornas spread across the nearby water as the first corsair ship cast hooks attached to rope at the scouting vessel, while untold numbers of other corsairs closed in. It was impossible to make out just how many of them there were, but as they were all chanting and screaming it sounded like a great many hundred bloodthirsty men, making noises as feral beasts to invoke the demon of war. Perhaps they were thousands.
As the clamouring and encroachment went on, they were blasting holes through the hull of the Watchman with their cannons, and water from the salty brine poured in through the holes.
‘’Don’t waste your powder. Go and warn the others before they take the ship!’’ The captain cried at her frantically. The Second mate looks to him and she soon agrees. The signal is lit, though it is far away enough that the bulk of the Northern Justinian fleet might not even perceive it in the ocean’s dark and misty veil. There is only the hope that the other two scouting ships will make it back safely.

Then a voice is heard in a language the northern Justinians did not understand. A cloaked man of swarthy complexion with a strange symbol on his garments, and armed with a curved blade, a pistol and clad in black lamellar mail, had boarded the ship. He looked at the Second Mate with a fickle glare, blood visible between the bleeding gums of his bare and grinding teeth. He was, without a doubt, one of the Axohar from Uudhin.
‘’Yield.
Or.
Kill you.’’
The Axohar man spoke to the northern Justinian crew in Sancthiyin, with a very thick accent.
The boat was already sinking as more Uudhinites entered the deck to seize the northern sailors and any possible loot stashed away. Meanwhile the other corsair vessels were hot on pursuit of the two ships that had evaded capture, where they are led to an uncertain fate.
Artros the boy sailor, an elven migrant and ship's cleric, stashed and hid his Canonica in his satchel. With bowed heads, he and his comrades were dragged onto the Uudhinite flagship.


The mist had partially cleared away, and the sun’s dimmed light graces the Edukeshan waters through the grey and sombre clouds. The Northerners from the scouting boat captured in yesterday’s skirmish, were tied up and gagged – sealed below deck with no clue as to where the Axohar will be taking them. Above deck, captain Yaldbaw of Daveithai stands atop the bow of the Uudhinite flagship as he narrows his eyes firmly at the western horizon. An island had appeared, and his lips curve once more into a vicious grin.
‘’The Island of Arban. These infidels have no right to the Islands of Edukesh.’’

The Uudhinite fleet navigates its course to remain out of sight of the watchtower flanked on Arban’s eastern coast, lest the fog is completely gone, for making use of it was essential to their strategy. At the south of Arban, the Uudhinites were well aware the area is barely populated, if at all, and an organized assault would cause any of the remaining Ouroborasian garrisons to succumb. Or so they thought.
Four lone carracks split off from the massive corsair fleet, heading south to take roughly 300 Uudhinites to the southcoast, while the other roughly eighty ships circumnavigates around the island towards the western coast armoured in fog, from whence the Ouroborasians would expect the relieving force from Magna Excelsiorum.

After several hours, a flare was seen coming from the island. The corsairs from the four carracks had seized one of the towers from overland, and lit the beacon. Through intel they gleaned from Axohar locals that had lived on that island since the time of Axohaan’s Second Rebellion, the Uudhinites learned how to communicate the arrival of allied ships to the Ouroborasian garrison. They would believe, falsely, that the fleet of Uudhin is the one from Magna Excelsiorum.
Now Yaldbaw knew the time had come to move in the remainder of the fleet. The corsairs lowered the sigils of the Salt Prince and hoisted up those they had captured in raids against the Justinians, now with the Watchman in addition. The banner of Magna Excelsiorum was depicted on the Flagship.
So far, everything is going according to plan.

The fleet rowed towards the north-eastern beaches towards a castle positioned there. The fog had mostly dispersed by then, and the ship’s Justinian banners flew proudly in the wind for the castle garrison and Arban’s other inhabitants to see.

---

‘’The Northerners... are far away foreigners in a strange and distant land. Our peoples might both be Justinians now, but they know nothing of us, our customs or our history. They have no knowledge of just what they are up against.. They have never seen them. The Demons of the Deep – the Ghouls of the Salt Prince.’’ An old fisherman spoke, smoking a pipe as he cast a gaze outside through his bushy eyebrows, and through the window of his old shack out over the sea. Pitch black clouds were drawing towards the land from the horizon, and the wildlife has migrated deeper inland. As the wind was setting up, dogs were barking anxiously at the cloud and the waters. Beyond that, it was eerily quiet. It is as though the seagulls had sensed the impending catastrophe and completely dispersed.
‘’Delin, tell the other children to get to the lighthouse on the hill...’’
‘’But, grandfather. How do you...
Alright, grandfather’’ Delin, the young grandson, rushes through the ramshackle door to reach his friends frolicking at the beach, where they gaze with wonderment towards the distant skies, and what is already happening there.
One of them speaks with enthusiasm, oblivious to the supposed dread that is about to befall their home.
‘’Da says that an evil phantom known as the Prince of Salt lives over the horizon there! The dark clouds appear because he is belching the seawater. And that he has an army of horned octopuses that eat sailors and drag kids into the waters... Prolly why every fisher here’s forbidden from drifting further from shore than about a mile, huh?‘’
‘’Horned octopuses? I want to see one!’’ A young village girl speaks up with a cheer. ‘’My uncle once reeled in a HUGE fish! But it wasn’t really a fish.. More like some.. monster-creature? It was covered in spikes and had at least 5 eyeballs and fins growing on places there shouldn’t be any... It was pretty freaky. But also pretty awesome.’’
‘’Bah. T’is all stupid lies I tell ya! Just tales to keep us kids away from the beaches.’’ A boy says.

‘’Guys! Guys!’’ Delin catches up to the quarrelling children.
‘’My grandpa says we need to get off the beaches! It’s not safe out here!’’
A boy replies. ‘’What are you talking about? -- the seas are mostly cleared of vessels! No corsairs or other of them pirates will raid us when the weather’s THIS bad! They’d be insane! Just look at the thunderstorm that’s brewing over there!’’
‘’Yea, this happens at least once a month remember? We’ll definitely survive some rain, that ain’t never bothered us!’’

The black clouds drew closer. The scent and vapour of the wild salty brine entering their nostrils.

‘’That’s not what my grandfather .. I mean.. it’s not the weather or pirates we should be afraid off. This isn’t natural weather.. this is.. I think he meant to say the Salt Prince is angry that our families haven’t been bringing him sacrifices anymore. And now he’s going to flood the land, and the only place we’re safe is the Lighthouse!’’
‘’Come on, there aren’t any windows in that damp old lighthouse. I don’t want to miss out on the action…
...
Alright, alright. I’ll come.’’ Sighs the boy, ultimately caving in to what is sensible.

Inside the lighthouse, it appears the grandfather for his part had busied himself gathering and evacuating his fellow fishermen, together with all their wives and families, and most other folks that lived in their coastal community. It was cold, damp and dark inside, and certainly not meant for this number of people. Many of them huddled in corners or climbed to the small balcony on the second floor from whence they could look out over the forested hills and the ocean. The dark clouds were now directly upon them, and from above was heard the distant murmuring of slithery and baneful words. Strange new birds were flying overhead, high and far enough that none of the Ouroborasian villagers could recognise what they actually were, but strange sounds were coming from them -- some of them resembling words of actual speech that, to some of them, might’ve been faintly familiar.
The lighthouse was outwardly a square-shaped stone building, sturdy built to withstand many a storm or hurricane. Above the entrance hangs a wooden ornament, depicting a sigil of sorts. At the centre of the domed roof a small tower, narrow enough that stairs wouldn’t fit in its interior and so it can only be scaled by a rusty iron ladder from the outside, from the balcony earlier mentioned. Since only one person can fit on the tower (and because the lighthouse is incredibly crowded), the children weren’t allowed upstairs lest they be seen by the birds. The grandfather watched in the tower, with a look of concern on his face. Yet not one of fear or surprise. He looked at the waves of the Edukeshan sea, who have gotten greyer.
‘’Hey! There are still some people at the beaches! Someone needs to warn them to get out of there, and fast!’’ Cried a village senior watching from the balcony.
‘’No. Don’t!’’ Responded the grandfather to the man below him. ‘’Those aren’t people.’’
‘’Come on Gencian, you know better than to say that of others.’’
‘’No you fool.’’ The grandfather sighed with a hoarse and monotone voice. ‘’Take a better look at their proportions.’’
‘’By Justinian… They’re coming out of the water.’’

On the beaches were indeed crowds appearing, seemingly washed ashore and grasping onto the white sands, as they pulled more and more of their fellows onto land. And they weren’t gathering in one place, either. Looking from the top of the lighthouse Gencian saw new people appearing on the Ouroborasian shores for as far they stretched, and as far his failing eyes could still see.

The further they moved onto dry land, the more they resembled an endless array of angry and swollen, bloated people. And each new one to rise from the water is less human than the next. And just when one thinks a creature couldn’t appear more horrifying, the following one is worse. From closeby one can tell there is not a shred of conventionality to them -- creatures completely alienated from Materia’s mortal races, all resembling grotesque animals. Horrible. Ugly. Angry. And each was different; no two looked alike…
When they came out of the water, they were raging and smashing and stomping around, including at each other, and hissing and gnashing and screeching. Yet strangely, they completely bypassed the homes of the local villagers and touching close to nothing of their property. Their soggy feet only sauntering through the narrow streets and alleys.
At the sight of them, words as ‘’unbelievable’’, ‘’horrifying’’ and ‘’ungodly’’ were oft repeated by those humans in the lighthouse.

‘’Hey Delin, how come they aren’t coming this direction? What does your grandfather know? Who IS your grandfather, anyway?’’
‘’I... I’m not sure I know.’’



The villagers of Bajarë dared not leave the lighthouse; all they could do was wait out until the Ghouls had left. It took hours, soon a whole day. The sun went and came. The grandfather stood watch from the tower and saw it all. Even deep into the night; their unholy clamouring was heard, resounding in the cool night air. There was no end to them. Yet they came not to destroy or ransack their homes, nor did they even notice the buildings comprising their village. They did not ravage the crops, or nibble the fish hung outside to dry. They cared for none of it but rather moved straight forward, bypassing the lighthouse, further inland where they disappeared into the hills. Screams were heard in the distance.
The Ouroborasian villagers were confused, and only few, such as Gencian, dared guess what is happening, or going to happen in coming days. The warriors of the Salt Prince returned to renew their ancient war in Ouroborasia. And this time; they are there to stay.
In the days that follow, they would spread out quickly and suddenly across the countryside, rallying outside every city’s outter walls across the southern vicinity, where they raise the Salt Prince’s sigil on their tattered banners as a direct challenge to the Ouroborasians, and their right to inhabit these lands. It was the same sigil that hung above the entrance of the lighthouse. The creatures form ranks to something resembling armies; that now there could be no mistake as to their intent.

"I suppose I should start with the obvious." In the not-quite twilight of early dusk, a single grizzled man sat upon a wooden stool besides the rickshaw wooden fence outside a home of peasants - a husband, wife, and their six children gathered around, sitting and standing in the yard with various degrees of apprehension and interest. The adults, perhaps rightfully so, stood stock-still with pallors to rival that of the moon accompanied by expressions of barely concealed dread. The children and adolescents, while anxious, were nonetheless attentive and relatively unconcerned.

Their guest was a warrior, though his visage was unlike any of the Orders of Knights seen in Aberys. The plates of his armor looked like molten stone, as though crafted from molded chunks of the earth itself and reinforced with ribs of blackened bone. His blade was a savage and unrefined, a double-edged, curved sheet of solid iron with a menacing spike on the back-end of the blade's tip. Beneath his thick and grimy beard, the man's faces was grossly disfigured, nearly every spare patch of skin covered in hideous burns and keloid. Despite his terrible markings, his eyes were perhaps the worst part of his appearance - they had a peculiar dullness to them. Though the man moved and shifted as would a normal sort, with the regular quirks and habits of nerves to be expected of one tired from strain and work, his eyes betrayed an emptiness normally reserved for the dead.

"The Lord of the Turquoise Scheme is a Red God, and yes, that means they are aligned with the likes of Ephemem as well as Axohaan, down Southeast. Which means my master is at least partly to blame for any troubles your lot may have had what from the witch plagues and attacks." The man spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, the words like chalk striking flint. "Not gonna pretend they aren't responsible for some of the woes in the land, but they are fighting a war with your god right now. All I ask you generous folk, who have graciously permitted me to speak with ya here at your home, is to give me a fair chance to explain their lot."

The husband and wife continued to say nothing and to not move. The man's fists were clenched tighter than a clam. The woman had not blinked during the entirety of the warrior's spiel. Their children, less reserved and somewhat more oblivious, ranged between intrigued or, in the case of the eldest, considerably annoyed at having to listen to more talk about religion. The very youngest amongst them had the gall to punctuate the warrior's pause with a declaration.

"Mah says the Turq's the one begets all the monsters and night vermin!"

The warrior just nodded, the faintest of smiles playing beneath their mud-caked beard. "Aye, that's somewhat true. My master is a very old Red God you see. Thousands of years old, you know. Back in the times when they were still young, the world was different. A lot more dragons for one thing! A lot of other fantastic creatures too. So a lot of their servants bear forms and shapes that are like those kinds of people and things that were around in those time, and a lot of them are pretty monstrous." He nodded cheerfully to the child who had posed the statement. "They aren't responsible for all the monsters though, lad! The world has plenty of them that respect no god at all. It can be hard to tell, but for one thing - there aren't any monsters around this fair land here that heed my master's will."

The warrior looked back up to the parents, squinting his empty, hollow eyes slightly. "Uh. You alright there? You look like you've scarce drawn breath."

"They're afraid they'll be killed just for talking to you." The eldest son said, looking equal parts annoyed and bored.

"Well that's right rubbish!" The warrior slapped his knee in exclamation. "Killed for trading words with the people who saved their lives? What rot. I don't mean to tell you all what's right and wrong, but life isn't anything like that in Ouroborasia. The Red Gods don't care one whit what mortals say to each other."

"The anathema pollute the minds of men with lies about the world. They want everyone to suffer here in the material world instead of ascending to the heavens." The wife's chin and cheeks trembled as she spoke, but her words were steady and clear. The strangely armored warrior just nodded in response, still smiling faintly.

"You're half right, but if you would permit me to say so, all that stuff you have probably heard about the Justinian's 'Heaven' is pretty much the exact same thing the Red Gods want. This whole...war between us all, here and there? It's all a bunch of politicking and the like between the celestials. They all want the same thing, Justinian and the Red Gods both." The adults' expressions were positively mortified. The husband's drew a sharp intake of breath, his teeth slightly bared in a mixture of outrage and shock, but he stood still regardless.

"Oh come on, that's so dumb! Everyone knows the Reds want to conquer the material realm while Justinian wants to have everyone ascend to the celestial realm. What kind of sense in there in saying that's the same thing?" The eldest son demanded.

"A fair question, lad. See, what both the Red Gods and Justinian want is to reshape the universe to make it better, somehow. Now don't ask me how exactly, 'cause I'm not some scholar or theologian and I'm not going to second-guess celestials, but they all pretty much agree that the way things are currently is bad and needs to be changed. The difference between them is that your Justinian wants to reshape the universe around the celestial realm, while the Red Gods all want to reshape it around the material realm."

"Isn't the celestial realm better than the material one though?" One of the middle siblings asked.

"I wouldn't know. What I've read of your scripture suggests Justinian wants to really change the celestial realm too though, and that's no lie. Ask a clergyman sometime." The warrior indicated cheerfully. "The key difference is that you would have to die to get into Justinian's heaven. The Red Gods want to create heaven here in the material realm, without having to kill everyone."

"You've read Justinian's holy scriptures?" The husband's voice contained mixtures of outrage and complete, dumbfounded shock.

"Of course!" The warrior laughed, a deepy, hearty sound that clashed with their otherwise harrowing appearance. "The Red Gods don't murder people just for reading the scripture of other celestials, and in order to become a Mountebank Knight I had to fully accept and embrace the Turquoise Lord's own ideals after reading and thinking about the views of every other celestial being!"

"Every other celestial?" The youngest child inquired with awe. "Do you know all their names?"

"I should well hope so!" The Mountebank Knight replied as he turned his empty gaze to the youngster. "There is Axohaan and Ephemem, Ishnanneh and Uturr, Longthirung the dragon-celestial-"

"Wait, what about the Turq?" The eldest interrupted. "They're supposed to be your god, right? How come I've never heard their name?"

"The Lord of the Turquoise Scheme's proper name is obscured from the knowledge of mortals." The Mountebank answered simply. "It's not recorded anywhere, not even in the oldest libraries in Gushawar, and they have not told anybody what it is. This is because the Lord of the Turquoise Scheme has dedicated their existence to the transformation of the material world. They-"

"Enough." The Mountebank's voice halted as the husband brashly cut him off, their voice filled with barely-veiled contempt and rage. "You may have saved us from that beast, and you and your fellows may be strong of arms - but you and your disgusting, anathema teachings are not welcome in my home. My children will not be listening to any more of your heretical lies, and your lunatic celestial will be smote and destroyed utterly by the Justinian!"

There was a momentary, poignant pause. The man's wife looked between him and the Mountebank, her face dominated by open terror. The eldest son suddenly looked wary, his eyes drifting worriedly towards the Mountebank's queer, curved iron blade. The remaining children simply looked upset and confused.

The Mountebank, though clearly caught off-guard, quickly smiled again. "Well alright. I was hoping your lot would be a touch more open-minded, but I get it. If I'm not welcome, I'll leave." He stood up from the stool, idly sweeping up the curved iron blade in his offhand and turning towards the opening in the yard's fence to leave.

"Just one last thing though," He said, turning his head back and giving the man a fey look. "Next time any of you lot think your Justinian has a chance against the Turquoise Lord...just take another look yonder North." He swung the iron blade to point emphatically at the horizon.

Even in the fading light, the object of reference was clearly visible. A great tower loomed over the horizon, an impossible structure of such immense proportions that even the fainter details and textures of its mass were clearly distinguished in the distance. It was far, far off, hundreds of kilometers or more, and yet it still managed to convey its unfathomably immense width and height from the land of Tramontan at the center of the material world. While grand in its immensity, the structure had clearly seen better days, as its sides were riddled with gaping, jagged holes and flaws as though struck by flung stones. Visible as they were, even at such a great distance, it was apparent each hole was more than a kilometer in size.

"The Fount is the Turquoise Lord's Holy Domain upon this world. Now you can clearly see your Justinian's efforts to take it down - which have fallen well short. Know this: So long as The Fount stands tall upon yonder horizon, there shall be no doubt as to who the true master of this land is." The Mountebank's voice was less cheerful now, having assumed the same matter-of-fact tone he has born at the outset of the discussion. "It has stood tall for a hundred and two-score years. If Justinian could have 'smote' my master as you put it by now - they would have."

He began to walk away, leaving the yard and heading towards a camp-site in the distance, the beginnings of evening fires starting to glow amidst the pitched tents. "And when they come to ask who saved your lives, let them know the Turquoise Lord's Mountebank Knights are heading there to meet those who would estoppe it in battle! And while we march, we shall seek great deeds and acts in the name and for the glory of our master, and all shall come to yield to the True nature of this world!"




"It is called the Impermeable Zone." The master-at-arms explained to the artillery crew, pointing to the perfectly circular area of the map-diagram helpfully crossed through with a large red X. "I am certain you have all already heard of it, but it is more of an obstacle to our particular duties than what it would seem to be. No being or thing may intrude upon the Impermeable Zone, but for unknown reasons it actually emits, radiates a peculiar kind of light. Which is why you can even see into it, one supposes."

The Sacrosanctia Artillery Crew, responsible for managing the nonmagical ranged munitions of the Northern fortress, was reviewing the various points of interest mapped across the Southern Wastes separating the chain of Justinian controlled border-forts from the vast, palatial sprawl of the Stray Palace surrounding Tramontan, and the Fount. The Crews were regularly screened and cycled in and out of each fort, in order to deter any slight possibility of subversion on their part as unilluminated - and therefore vulnerable - engineers and soldiers.

"The Impermeable Zone is a perfect sphere, which means no firing in light arcs above it. Parabolic trajectories only with the big mortars." The Master-at-arms continued, indicating green-dotted lines of fire across the top of the circular diagram. "That does not happen to often, as we usually require precise sighting from the other forts to the East and West in order to zero in on Stray Palace forces taking cover behind it. Light comes out, but light from the other side does not cross it, hence why it looks so distorted when you look right out it. More than just getting in our way, the way its boundary interacts with the space around it has a tendency to throw off trajectory calculations in unpredictable ways. Any shot with an arc passing within five degrees of the boundary is always assumed to be a miss. Shots that hit the boundary bounce if they are solid or combust immediately if flammable before falling down the side. This is all important to keep in mind because Stray Palace forces love to make charges from just behind the Zone, where they are effectively invisible from our specific sightline. They like to launch diversionary tactics against the other Forts to prevent any kind of accurate sighting reports. Sometimes we get good spotting coordinates on them anyway, sometimes we do not. So you have to be prepared to fire right at the zone's base at a moment's notice. If they are coming from across its sides or top, you have to be ready to fire at the Zone so that the falling shot turns from a near hit into a near miss. It's a tricky science."

"Did Justinian create the Impermeable Zone, sir?" One of the new members of the Artillery crew asked abruptly.

The Master-at-Arms paused for perhaps a quarter of a second. That was very much an aberrant question. Proper Justinian engineers and soldiers should not have even thought questions like that, much less actually asked them. The Master-at-Arms mentally ticked off the man's name in their head. Somebody was going to be very thoroughly questioned and chastised later, but for the moment he had to produce a suitable answer that would not spread further aberrant thought in the ranks of the artillery crew.

"The Impermeable Zone was created during The Devastation of 157 A.W.H., during the battle between the previous Exaltarch and the forces of the nameless Anathema." The Master-at-Arms replied curtly. "The Justinian's power is great and unquestionable."

Not a lie, and a very strong, favorable, implicit answer. The new crewman even looked satisfied with it. But the question had caught in the Master-of-Arm's own mind. He knew full well what the truth of the matter was.

The Impermeable Zone had been created by the nameless Anathema, as part of the same, single act that had slain the previous Exaltarch outright along with a million men. It had remained there since then, utterly impenetrable to any and every attempt to do away with the infuriating obstruction. In the grand scheme of things it was but a minor irritation -

But another part of his mind could not help but dwell on the fact that it was something not even Justinian itself had been able to do away with. Much like the Central Overlay at Tramontan. Much like the Fount. Much like the Turquoise-

He shook the near-heretical thought from his head. That settled it. As soon as the review was over, he was getting an Epiphany and making a full confession and renewal. Such thoughts were indicative of a chink in the bulwark of the mind, and absolutely no weakness that the nameless Anathema might exploit could be tolerated.


"He is called Karthe the Eternal, according to the Drakma Scholars of Veritas." The jet-haired elven woman gestured pointedly to the horizon in the direction of the Fount. She and her companion stood within a large-open aired courtyard of the castle, overlooking the ocean. It was one of the more distant extremities of the structure, remote and distant enough that there would be no regular foot-traffic to overhear. "You cannot see him from this distance except with very precise instruments, but he has made his lair in the second crevice up from the bottom. He has resided there for several decades now."

"AM I TO FIND EITHER HIS AUDACITY OR OUR MASTER'S ALLOWANCE OF HIS BEING SURPRISING?"

The being with with the elven woman spoke was a terrible creature massive beyond the boundaries of civility. Their body was a stocky and sinuous mass of muscle and fearsomely arranged spines. They had four arms with spines rippling across them and dark fur growing across them near the joints, each extremity tipped with four powerful, talon-tipped claws. Their head was a worm-like protrusion with a grossly protruding, everted maw that hung limpy, countless quivering, needle-like protruding along its inner length. The voice that emerged from the terrible darkness within its folds, while tremendous in proportion, was akin to the sound of a distant echo in a vast cavern. No eyes were present anywhere along the terrible demon's body, its very seeming more unnatural than even the likes of the Vex'lir.

"Its dwelling there serves a purpose. Particularly as to the task I have for you and your students." The elven woman replied. As far as elves went, she was striking but not exemplary. Her black, wavering hair fell as a mane across her carmine cloak, itself drapped over a simple crimson red tunic of rich silk. Her eyes were an unusual golden-orange in coloration, and her brow was adorned with a golden circlet bearing a brilliant Turquoise gem upon its center.

"Longthirung has been most receptive to the presented ultimatums, but there is no reason at all to make their task easier for them than is strictly necessary. Their motivation, while useful, is by itself not all that would be preferred." She continued on, her voice clear and firm like a roiling riverbed.

"SO THIS ETERNAL KARTHE, HIS INTRUSION WAS TO OBSERVE THE EXTENT OF DRACONIC SENSES?" The toweing beast's voice, by comparison, was akin to a distant cycle. An unfathomably tremendous roar, rendered dull and hollow by vast distance.

"Correct. It took some doing, but I arranged to have a polymorphed semblance with a marked anatomical map arranged for your examination. As expected, the original flesh is that of a Kobold, so be sure to inform your little helpers of the differences to be expected."

"HURH. THIS PROJECT IS BEYOND THE ABILITIES OF THE REGULAR CHATTEL, BUT THERE ARE A FEW PROMISING PROSPECTS WITH THE DISCRETION AND POWER TO DANCE WITH DRAGONS. THEY ARE UNCERTAIN TO SUCCEED, BUT THEY ARE CERTAIN TO CREATE PRESSURE THAT MAY DRIVE THE DECREPIT MASSES TO EPHEMEM'S PET. I CAN TURN LOOSE THE HOUNDS. BUT THEY NEED A SCENT. THEY WILL NEED THE LOCATIONS OF THE REMAINING UNKNOWN DRAGON LAIRS IN OUROBORASIA."

"They are dragons, Chalarensis." The elf indicated drly with a raised brow. "Ask anybody. Ask the massive swaths of burnt vegetation, the conspicuous piles of waste, and the trail of scattered wayward cattle."

"NO. YOU UNDERESTIMATE THEIR DISCRETION. I HAVE NOT BEEN STANDING IDLY. SOME KNOW THEY ARE BEING FOLLOWED WHEN IN THE OPEN. SOME ARE WARY BEYOND THEIR OWN KNOWING."

"Well it's not something I can help you with." The woman said dismissively. "I have more important matters to attend to. Surely there is somebody, or some obscure coven that is responsible for surveying and mapping and knows what you need. Better yet, just ask some students to do it. The vicious little beasts might do anything with a bit of appropriate motivation. Maybe some of our eavesdroppers." The last comment was met with the abrupt sound of scattered, receding footsteps from around the corners of the raised rooftop-paths leading to the open-aired courtyard where the monstrous Chalarensis and the elf stood.

"Before I depart, what is that...malingering, recalcitrant spot I detect?" The elf asked, actually looked up with a perplexed expression up Chalarensis' everted maw.

"THAT IS ENMITY'S GET. THEY WERE SENT HERE SOME TIME AGO. THEY ARE NOT ALWAYS HERE, THEY COME AND GO AS THEY ARE CALLED BY THEIR KEEPER. DO YOU HAVE ANY PARTICULAR NEED OF HER?"

The elf glanced back at the walkways leading to the courtyard in thought for a moment. "No." She said, louder than she had spoken earlier. "She is to be granted no special dispensation whatsoever. The headmistress is already aware of the situation and is will overlook any untidy occurrences."

"SO THAT IS NOT FOR MY OWN BENEFIT." Chalarensis bobbed their worm-like crown in understanding. "I SHALL OBSERVE WITH SOME INTEREST."

"Yes, well. Observe without circumstance." The elf replied flippantly, a disapproving scowl crossing her face.



"I must say, this is...not really quite our regular fare." The accountant to the Sacred Prostitutes of Ishnaaneh remarked as he examined the manifest that had been presented to him by the newest trader attempting to illegally enter Gushawar via the temple's edifice. "I mean, slaves are not illegal there, but...you may have a hard time finding buyers. They have entire cities there populated by caste slaves. Unless these chattel are exceptional, they will see very little reason to buy from you. Quite frankly, moving them into the markets via the edifice is also...very unusual, and takes away from our normal shipment load. The only reason I am even considering it is because the Edifice Denizen demanded your shipment be included in the manifest.

"Assure you." The merchant the accountant was speaking with was quite unusual, even for the Temple of the Covenant. Their skin was ghastly-pale, their neck was twisted about at an odd angle, and they moved with a curious stiffness. The accountant had seen something eerily like that before, but they could not quite put their finger on what it had been. They clothes, although fairly rich, were caked in dirt and mud, and the front around the belly looked like it was soaked with dried blood. That last part at least was nearly average for the Temple of the Covenant, the other features not so much. The Sacred Prostitutes either frowned upon such detritus or else would have indicated there was not nearly enough of it present for their tastes.

"These are. Quite exceptional. Chattel. Once they. Have. These specimens. They will. Realize." The merchant gave the account a toothy smile. Their mouth was full of writhing maggots. "They know. Nothing. About what. Slavery actually. Is."

Collab between Me and Terminal.
Weshland, Light's Passing Inn
Light's Passing Inn. A seemingly average establishment set up as a unassuming rest spot for any weary travelers, yet...this rundown Inn would play host to a rather odd event, outside the Inn stood two opposing armies, on on end was an conscript army authorized by the Aberysian Oratorium, consisting of local levies provided by House Weshland and members of the Gryph Knightly Order. On the other end were what are now known as the Mountebacks, a rather "altruistic" band of freelance knights so to speak, wondering aimlessly, at least to the locals, engaging in the occasional acts of heroism or simple good deeds to any who are in need.

However, disturbing facts soon arose regarding these Mountebanks, their heretical connections to the Red Parthenon made public, catching the everwatchful eye of the Oratorium. Now here they stand, waiting, as representatives from the the two armies converse within the Inn itself, their actions and words deciding the outcome of this confrontation.

The Inn, once dimly lit, was slowly growing more illuminated and bright as the sun begun to rose, two lone men sitting at a table in the center of the Inn on opposing ends, the Orator Hunter, Gabriel Othun, sat and gave a blank stare to his heretical counterpart.

The so-called Mountebank Knight, who had introduced himself as Pate Calor, had returned his gaze with an equally blank stare, though not in the same sense. The man was of a decidedly sprightly temperament, with an easy smile and soft, rounded cheeks. He sat with a faint slouch and one arm across the inn-table - but as for his eyes, they were dull and terrible things. As though some devil with shears had came and shorn and plucked their depth from them. As those empty vessels met those of Gabriel, he felt stung by their unnatural aspect, a creeping chill streaking down his spine.

"So," Pate began after gracing Gabriel with a brief, cursory examination. "Do you think you brought enough guys?" He broke into a deep, throaty laugh, his eyes remaining locked with Gabriel's own.

Gabriel was silent for a brief moment, still shaken by Pate's unnatural eyes, but was careful not to let such weakness be easily exposed. "I've certainly brought enough to put an end to whatever wicked plots you and your ilk have schemed."

"Wicked plots? My good man, whatever perfidy you expect of us, I do not see what we have done to earn such suspicion. Have you found our conduct in these fair lands wanting?" Pate was still treating Gabriel with a toothy grin, his fingers tapping idly on the table surface. As far as Gabriel could discern the man appeared to be unarmed, though there was no telling if he had managed to conceal a dirk or the like beneath the queer, stone-like armor he bore.

Gabriel was perplexed with such "innocence" on display by this man. "Word spread rather quickly, and we know enough that you serve the vile Red Gods." He paused, taking a small breath. "That, is more then enough to suspect you."

"Is that truly a problem? Aberys coexists quite comfortably with the Dynasty of Eudaz as I understand it. This seemed like such a tolerant and open-minded place. The people are quite intelligent you see, ask many questions, listen intently." The Mountebank's fingers stopped drumming, and the smile faded from their face - becoming somewhat stern. "Though it not be my place to dictate morality, it seems curious that we should earn your animus for performing the necessary acts and protecting the people whom you supposedly watch over. Are you truly here to kill us all to a man for the crime of maintaining your shoddily cobbled peace?"

"Quite frankly, yes, the spread of your heretical nonsense is more of a danger to the land then a mere wild beast or bandit." Gabriel, although maintaining his composure, found this man to be rather irritating, his facade of innocence starting to wear thin in Gabriel's eyes. "Oh? Do tell. What harm have we perpetrated, then?" The Mountebank was smiling again, though it was more grim than before.

"...." Gabriel was to give Pate a response...but, a disturbing thought has crossed his mind, and remained silent, there was some truth to Pate's words, although the Mountebanks were clearly loyal to the enemies of his God, in actuality, they haven't done bodily harm to the subjects of the realms. This alone terrified him.

There was a poignant pause, and Pate laughed darkly. "Alright, alright, I'm not some high-faulting inquisitor!" He held up his hand briefly in a sympathetic gesture. "You want us gone - we'll be gone. Border is not too far, after all, and it would not be right if you did not at least try to stop us. We have done no wrong, but it would be a shame to have what I would presume to be a mostly innocent man like you killed because you did not have the gall to turn your hand to murder. So...I would like you to formally deliver a request for trial by Champion to your host. Win or lose, the Mountebank knights will gladly 'retreat' afterwards." Pate emphatically tilted his head from side to side with his last comment.

Gabriel thought over it...something he shouldn't even do in the first place, he's a member of the Oratorium! For a man in such a position to even consider a heretic's offer would guarantee him a painful death by his fellows. However, his consensus wouldn't allow him to slay a man who clearly displays innocence of any crimes, even if such innocence is but a ruse. But...surely these men would no longer be my' problem to deal with, that would be someone else's problem now, so his own mind said to justify his later response. "...Very well, I accept."

"Splendid! Oh, and of course, I suppose a civilized exchange of gifts is in order-" Pate shrugged one of his broad, armored shoulders and divested a strap from a small satchel just out of view. He sat it on the table, carefully and openly undoing the drawstring before pulling out a single, familiar book. "This was my personal copy of the Golden Biblicon, during my tenure of training to serve the Lord of the Turquoise Scheme. It is a bit worn. Few particularly earmarked passages. I have most of it memorized, so I have little need of it, but perhaps you know someone who might be in need of guidance." Pate pushed the book across the table to Gabriel.

Gabriel slowly extended his hand towards the book, he knew damn well he shouldn't, but he did so anyway. "This could prove useful in combating the turquoise lord..." He thought to himself, once again justifying his weakness. Pate looked to Gabriel expectantly, clearly unconcerned by their hesitance. He took the book, immediately pulled out a dagger, placing it on the table.

Pate flipped it into the air by its handle, briefly inspecting its length before nodding absently and standing. "Send your Champion and two witnesses out in front, we shall do the same. Although we must be enemies in this time, I nonetheless wish good health upon you and your family. I do pray we never meet again, lest the needs of our respective lords might force our hands. Be strong." He then turned and strode out without another word.

Gabriel existed the Inn, approach the host that stood ready on his orders, he turned to a group of knights, pointing his finger at a close-nit trio. "You three, come with me, we're dealing with this problem in a different matter." Much to the three knights confusion, the three nonetheless, followed his orders and accompanied Gabriel for the duel.

Upon Gabriel and his retinue's return to the Light's Passing Inn, two men and a woman stood waiting for them, out by the well and stables to the side of the entrance.

The woman was very clearly dead, missing the lower half of her right arm, with fractured, splintered shards of bone protruding from the gore-stained stump, her whole body bearing a deathly pallor. There was strangely no scent or insects about her person, and her midriff seemed swollen and bloated, but she - or it - was clearly a Servitor of the Turquoise Lord, here to serve witness for the celestial itself presumably. Its expression was blank, both of its eyes milky-white and blind. The two men were both Mountebank Knights - wearing the same, curiously molded stone-like armor he had bore. They both carried strange weapons, pieces seemingly wrought of solid iron forged into foreign shapes.

After a brief moment of silence, one of the two Mountebanks strode forward and spoke. "I am Karnat Ireman, son of Fallon Ireman, Mountebank Knight under the Lord of the Turquoise Scheme, sent forth by my kindred brothers in arms in the role of Champion to stand trial by combat. With the celestials as my witness, I greet you with honor. Which of you shall face me?"
The man, though strangely armored, did not seem the like of a Champion. Indeed, he was thinner and had less bulk to him than the other Knight or Pate had, and his armor was definitely thinner than either of theirs, with fewer plates. His face seemed somewhat on the sallow side, with raggy, dull-blonde hair and the same, stinging, empty eyes.
He appeared unarmed for the moment, though his compatriot notably carried with him a tied bundle of multiple examples of the solid iron weapons.

Gabriel looked to the three knights, picking the largest of them, a well-built men who towered over the Orator. "Baron Atmis, if you please?"

"Gladly" He replied, stepping forward to meet his opponent. I am William Atmis, Knight-Baron of these lands, I shall be your opponent in this duel." Atmis pulled out his blade, and readied his shield, bracing for combat.

Karnat looked William up and down, twice, before giving him a brief moment of consideration. "The Geyser blade, if you please." He called back to his compatriot. The larger man untied the bundle, and handed off to Karnat the presumed weapon.

As with the others, it looked to have been wrought from a single piece of iron. A curved sword, edge on both sides and with a thin, triangular spike protruding from the back of the blade's tip. Its sole ornamentation was the shape of the iron hilt, in the form of cresting waves. The blade was perhaps three and a half arrows in length, and immediately William could tell that the weapon had to outweigh his own by at least three times - and so it was perhaps somewhat disconcerting when Karnat simply accepted the weapon and hefted it with but one hand, leveling it smoothly to point at William.

The Servitor opened its dead lips and spoke. "The Mountebank Knights assent. Act freely upon the first step." William made a slow approach to the mounteback, sword ready in hand as he struck first, thrusting his blade towards his enemy. Karnat's free hand moved fiercely as he shouted a single word of evocation, and the molten, stone-like armor adorning his left arm seemed to flow like a fluid as he reached out and slapped the side of William's blade - the stone flowing between the two and solidifying once more around the weapon. The Mountebank's Geyser Blade raised into the air like a hammer, prised to fall like a Dragon upon a farmstead.

William was overwhelmed in shock and awe as he saw the stone melting and melding around his blade, the sheer weight of it was too much for him to bare and dropped it. William had almost lost his life, were it not his quick reaction to the mounteback's counterattack, and countered with his shield. He had barely escaped death.

Barely, and it looked to be nigh upon his heels - the Mountebank, seeming to have expected William's counter with his shield, allowed his blade to hammer down on and bounce up - whereupon he twisted his wrist, flipping the blade so that the thin spike upon its head was facing inward of William's face, slammed the weapon down atop the shield once more, and slashed to the left in an effort to take out the Baron's eyes.

In that instant, the spikes of the blade had pierced the Baron's eyes, dropping his shield, grasping his face as he screamed out in pain, blood creeping down his face. William felt a weight in his midriff as the Mountebank kicked him firmly in the gut, sending him tumbling to the ground. Karnat looked grimly up at Gabriel and the remaining two knights. "Your compatriot has been incapacitated. Which of you is his second?" The Servitor, standing idly by, had started laughing hoarsely.

The remaining two knights were hesitant, and refused to step forward, despite the overwhelming rage they had felt seeing their comrade in the state he is in, there was little that could be done..if only Princess Rosella was here...

Karnat raised an eyebrow at them. "Are you truly to leave him to fight me in his current state?"

"Damn it all, do we need to say it?" Gabirel snapped. "We yield!"

Karnat stared with his terrible eyes at Gabriel. "They will kill all three of you if you return and claim you yielded. Him as well." He gestured with the tip of his blade to the crying and bleeding Baron on the ground. "Somebody must die today. Let us not add to the count."

The three stood in silence, they knew what must be done. "Do it." Gabriel said with a heavy heart. "And then I want you to leave these lands, never to return, or we will not be so merciful." The Mountebank scoffed. "You honestly expect me to strike down a defenseless man? Come you craven curs! You are supposed to be sworn knights of avowal! You shame your comrade and your god with your words and brazen cowardice! I will fight two of you at once if that is what it takes for you to discover your courage!" In the background, the Servitor's laughter rose ever-higher.

The two remaining knights gladly obliged as they pulled out their swords, the Orator willingly joining, drawing his own blade. "Very well, if you wish to die, then so be it you filthy heretic." Gabriel spoke. Karnat smiled and held up a hand. "No. Only two. One of you must live." His fellow behind him burst into uproarious laughter, the heavy sound intermingling with the Servitor's.

"Orator, stand aside, we will avenge the Baron." One of the knights spoke, a young woman.

"We'll cut down this bastard." The other said, an older man.

The two knights charged, splitting off as the made their first move, attacking at two different points on both of his sides. As the two knights split off, Karnat uttered a single word of command, and a nearly indiscernible, pulsating wave of force rippling through the air, passing by both knights without harm. Nodding almost imperceptibly as he confirmed that neither of the knights had any wards of other forms of magical protection, Karnat raised his Geyser blade, catching the older man's own blade on the reverse side by the iron weapon's thin spike. Without even looking at the woman, he extended his free arm back, fingers undulated as the Mountebank uttered another word of command, this time releasing a tumultuous, conical shockwave of force that barreled at her.

The woman had lost her balance, but manage too throw force herself out of the way of the shockwave, rolling out. Although she was without a sword, for now, she quickly drew her dagger and made another attempt to strike at her opponent. The older man doing the same as he dropped the sword and pulled out his dagger.

The Mountebank deftly tucked his free arm in and shoved, aiming his stone-armored elbow at the woman's face before coming around with a sweeping strike at the older man, trying to catch him with the Geyser blade's reverse side and the faintly-extended reach of the spike at its head.

The Knight took notice of this, backed off, making use of his limited paladin training as he conjured strains of lighting from his finger tips. Meanwhile, the other knight, the woman was thrown off, barely conscious from the counter strike, blood dripping from her now broken nose.

The Mountebank briefly glanced behind himself to look at the woman and check she was not about to attempt another strike, and in that brief turn of his head completely missed the old man's brief preparation for his spell. Karnat turned his gaze back to the old knight just as the streamers of lightning struck, dancing across body. The stone that served as his armor thankfully proved to be particularly resilient to the arcs of light, but as his armor had fewer plates than those of the other Mountebanks the voltaic magic nonetheless crackled across his flesh in several places, burning the flesh beneath. The Mountebank's lower left arm in particular was severely burnt, as he had disposed of a plate of his stone armor with the first spell he had cast against the Baron. The individual fingers on his hand smoldered, the skin melting and blackening into a mess of visceral charnel fused together in an unusable mess.

In full-on shock, Karnat dropped his Geyser blade and let out a pained roar of anguish. "Do you yield?" Wilfred, the Knight, spoke, panting from the fight. Karnat took a moment to suck in a breath of air before turning his head back up with wide, empty eyes and a mouth contorted in pain. He raised his right hand. "I can still fight." The fingers of his right hand bent inward as he barked out a preliminary word of command for a more complex spell. "Justinian preserve us..." He said.

In the few breaths he took to speak those words, the Mountebank finished his spell. The earth itself beneath Wilfred's feet parted as the ground beneath him fell and the stone about him rose, the world itself trying to devour him whole.

Without much time to think this through, Wilfred made a blind run for it, trying to escape this trap, but with every step he took, the ground was becoming more and more loose and unstable, it was a matter of time before he would be encircled by the Earth itseld, in sheer desperation, Wilfred blindly fired off another lighting strike from his hand.

The lightning strike grounded into the Earth, but created a fulgur of glass in the shifting ground that resisted the effects of the Mountebank's spell and created a flaw in it, opening a passage of escape from the imploding would-be tomb. Wilfred took this chance, and fled out of the trap before he would lose that opening, along with his life. Behind him the earth receded before flattening out, leaving no evidence of the disturbance save for the uniform, circular absence of vegetation and its own unnatural smoothness. Standing directly before Wilfred, Karnat had retrieved his Geyser blade and was stalking over, cradling his left arm beneath his body.

"Your condition worsens, yield now and we can both leave alive."

"Do you know what the battlecry of the Mountebank is?" Karnat posed the question almost conversationally as he took a longer, near-leap of a step towards Wilfred with a looming overhead strike. His voice was strained with pain, but clear.

Wilfred was prepared to distance himself from the wounded knight, but humored him. "I'm afraid I do not." As he made the strike, he threw himself away from the blade.

As Wilfred threw himself away, he noted that the Mountebank had flipped the blade in his hand again in a near-reflexive manner after it hit the ground in a disturbingly similar fashion to what he had done during his brief fight with the Baron. If Wilfred had dodge to either side as opposed to back, Karnat might well have then immediately slashed him with the tip of the blade's spike.

"Slay me thrice." Karnat answered. "I would worry more about your own wellness, my adversary."

The Mountebank then charged forward with a diagonal strike from Wilfred's left. He noted that Karnat's good arm seemed peculiarly tensed. "If you say so." Wilfred said as he dodged once more, and once again had shot out a bolt of lighting directed at the other arm, perhaps disarming him will finally put an end to this battle.

The tension in the Mountebank's arm was released as he carried through with his charge, the blade's trajectory abruptly changing and cutting to Wilfred's right in a curious semicircular sweep. His lightning arced across the blade's length. Karnat immediate dropped it, his hand shaking from its the momentary residual charge that had rushed through the whole-iron weapon into his arm. Unfortunately that was hardly the end of it. Even as his arm still shuddered, Karnat tucked it in and carried forward in order to body-slam Wilfred.

Growing more tired, Wilfred simply clutched his armed together as he braced himself. The sheer weight from Karnats armor was enough to send both Wilfred and Kanrat crashing onto the ground. Looking up to find Wilfred again, Karnat raised his good hand once more, fingers bending as he uttered a word of command in order to create another conical shockwave directed at the older knight.

This was over for Wilfred, his strength was fleeting, and he could no longer run from this attack this time. However, salvation would come for the knight, in the battle, Karnat has failed to pay much attention to the younger knight, Elmia. In the final moments of the confrontation, Elmia, barely conscious, picked up the dagger, and quickly charged for Karnat's back. Just as Karnat began to stand again, drawing breath in order to laugh over the fallen Wilfred's battered body, her dagger slid between the plates of his stone armor, penetrating his ribs and sliding neatly through the upper mound of his heart.

Karnat fell again to his knees, his strength quickly fleeing him. "Slay me...thrice..." He whispered. His eyes turned milky white, and abruptly, just as quickly as he had fallen to his knees, he was getting up on both feet again. The ground ceased to tremor, much to Wilfred's relief. Elmia however was staring in awe as Karnat stood back up, the state he is currently in would no doubt debilitate any man.

"Oh, little motes, how rudely you treat this rind." Karnat's voice drifts eerily through the air, undulating in a dissonant, sing-song manner, with a foreign pitch and timbre. He then casually strode forward and raised a foot to stomp on Wilfred's face, apparently completely oblivious to Elmia's presence.

"How is this even possible?" Gabriel spoke.

Wilfred, abruptly raising himself up as Karnat stepped upon his face, bloodied and angry. "You unnatural bastard!" He shouted out. "Nothing so natural as form my dear, nothing so natural as wit." The Mountebank's body uttered in its new sing-song voice as it vaguely waved its right hand, sending the stone armor around its leg to flow and seal itself around Wilfred's head. The walking corpse then turned around to face Elmia. "There you are." It said, all color gone from its face.

The expression of the corpse sent chills down Elmia's spin, all she could do was shuffle away from the creature. All the while, Wilfred let out panicked screams as the stone begun to envelope his head. All Gabriel could do was look in horror.

The walking corpse gestured again, and all sensation fled Elmia as the previously dropped Geyser sword levitated and flew through the air, neatly slicing beneath her legs and disemboweling her as it flew into the dead man's hand. "And that one gets to live." The Mountebank's body exclaimed as it walked past William's still body, gore from Elmia's gut dribbling over him as the thing shook the Geyser blade in passing. He had, thankfully, fallen unconscious from the pain and blood-loss. "And you-" The body's voice dropped to a whisper as it approached Gabriel. "Will tell all what has transpired here."

Gabriel was paralyzed in fear, this was the power of the Turquoise Lord? Truly frightening. Not a word could be uttered, he simply made a nod. "And as was promised, we shall now leave. We do have a promise to keep. Of course, it shall be the border of Lytton we cross. It is also nearby." The thing's dead face twisted and gave Gabriel a sickening smile. "Mortal knights may grant you mercy, as is their way. The dead shall not, little mote. Be sure to remember that."

It turned and walked away without another word. The second Mountebank had tied the bundle of weapons back together, and he and the Servitor followed the reanimated thing as it went. As the trio left, Gabriel looked between the Servitor and the clearly very dead Mountebank.

Though often the topic of sick jokes and rumor, all educated members of the Oratory knew that the Servitors of the Turquoise Lord were all women, but it was the only possibility. The Mountebank had died - and its body had been reanimated as a male Servitor.

And if its words were to be believed-

Every Mountebank could potentially rise from death to fight anew.

"A truly terrifying enemy.....even if we fought them here and now..." The realization sunk even deeper. "No...this can not be left alone. What was I thinking?!" Gabriel took the book and tossed it to the ground. "I must return to Lorimir, they must be stopped at any cost!" As he turned and ran, the dirt from his hasty egress was thrown across Pate's copy of the Golden Biblicon, now stained and dirty on the ground.

Atop one of the great spires of rock that emerged from the dense jungle below sat a fortress. Like its 4 siblings, the regal bastion that had once been home to the proud elves now echoed with the scrambling pattering of tiny feet as goblins, kobolds, Rodant and myriad of other species, including a noticeably disproportionate number of Corvant, went about their day, all working to try and keep the young nation from being overwhelmed by threats both internal and external.

At the heart of the administrative complex was a large chamber that had once been a gladiatorial arena that had had its floor cleaned and stairs leading from the pit to the spectator stands. Around its 4 walls where stepped benches resembling a parliament upon which a sparse body of scribes, beancounters, advisors, priests, inquisitors, the occasional spectator and other onlookers looked down into the center of the room where the masters of the nation sat. or rather, where 5 of them sat. The center of the room was occupied by a battered antique round table surrounded by 13 seats, the official meeting place of the Council of 13.

At what she managed to make the head of the table though shear holy presence, despite it’s equalising shape, sat Gwendolin Sliverton, head of the Union’s Oratorium and one of the two people in the room more than 5 foot tall. A middle aged human woman who looked older than she truly was. The marks of the stress she was under in her appointed task of keeping the nation of runts together where clear to see, her chestnut hair was streaked with grey, her face marred with wrinkles and stress lines. Despite this, she made an imposing figure as the embodiment of the holy land’s power within the Union, dressed as she was in her gold and white painted enchanted plate armor.

Other than herself, the less than half of the other council members were actually present for the meeting. They were:

Rorshash Fi-Fold, the aging head of the local priesthood, or more accurately shaman-hood. The wrinkled goblin was dressed primarily in bones and teeth of a wyvern, fashioned into symbols of justinian. He was an example of how the Unin prospered, despite his age the old priest still full of fire and religious zeal that could still rapidly mobilize the capital's sprawling populace into zealous militias that would then storm off to enmass to wherever they where needed. Yet he also exemplified the Union's main flaw, in that despite being 15 years younger than Gwendolin herself, Fi-Fold was reaching the end of his days.

Trin Log-Set, the mayor of the city the council met in. He was a young goblin wearing leather pants and waistcoat decorated with a tigerskin as a cape and the last elven ruler of the nation’s crown. He had only recently gained his position as a result of the city’s annual elections that had been held 2 months ago in the largest square of the dilapidated elven city below. Trin had won mayorship because his supporters had chanted his name the loudest, as had been tradition since the conquest of the city 130 years ago. He was the youngest member of the council, full of new ideas and ambitious projects that, even if they did get agreed upon by the council, would probably never be finished during his short stay in power. The ever shifting whims of the populace would see to that.

D’ave, a red scaled Deth-thu wearing a loincloth primarily for everyone else's benefit, was the representative of the untold numbers of Deth-thu who were part of the Union, despite the fact that most of them lived in the oceans around it rather than within it’s borders. Like her, he had been sent to sit on the council by the actual leaders of his group. A collective of unknown organisation whom no surface dweller had met, the sub nautical rulership preferring to govern from their deep sea city and keep their identities obscured from the rest of the Union. Gwendolin often made use of the Deth-thu’s personal opinion on events in the Union’s north to balance out the generally self serving reports from the other council members in the region.

Finally there was Reston Fairheart, a extravagantly robed and stunningly handsome member of the old elven aristocracy who, 130 years ago during the fall of the elven yawanist’s grip on the region, had revealed to the revolutionary pre Union revolutionary mobs that he, along with all the residents of the titan’s pinky finger, had infact been Justinian worshipers all along. The fact that the other 4 fingers had been overwhelmed at this point had nothing to do with this sudden revelation of hidden loyalty. Gwendolin was pretty sure that his subsequent passing the Epiphany of the Perfect World was confirmation of his willingness to throw away old beliefs to save his own skin rather than proof of prior loyalty. The man was considered a useful and consistent feature of the union’s leadership by the Sacrosanctian expedition and so since his appointment 100 years ago, and so, along with herself and her 3 predecessors, he acted as a stabilizing element for the ever changing lineup of the council of 13.

Other than D’ave, who she was pretty sure was like her in resenting being sent here every two weeks, the other members of the council present were the ones who actually lived in the city they were in and we're primarily here in order to jostled with each other for authority over the local populace. The other seats where currently occupied by messengers and minions of the council members who, unlike her, had not had the time to make the journey to the capital for the fortnightly meeting.

As for the meeting itself, after the first hour it was finally moving on from local matters to the state of the Union at large, which meant they were going to be listening to the various messenger's reports. These rounds of reports where all the Union really had when it came to organising its various regions and deciding where the Aid of the capital should be sent. First to give a report was an apprentice of Neser Zagrad, who was head of the alchemist's guild and one of the 13. When addressed the young rat-woman, who looked like sho would be much more comfortable in a lab back in Barby instead of infront of 5 of the 13, stood up from where she had been restlessly sitting in her master’s seat for the last hour and, after perching a pair of spectacles atop her snout, retrieved a few pieces of parchment from a satchel and cleared her throat. Before she could begin however, she was interrupted by Mayor Trin, to whom one of the bureaucrats, a Deth-thu, from the crowd had darted forward to show a document.

[color=grey]“Did you get that thing we sent you?”

The Rodant looks perplexed at the Goblin’s very brief summary of what the Deth-thu had spoken with him about. She fumbles with her notes trying to work out what the thing is while Fairheart leaned across to read over the bureaucrats shoulder. Recognising the issue he then gave the Rodant a more descriptive version of question.

[color=grey]“Has the alchemist received the shipment of Theurgia infused crystals that was sent over a month ago? We were expecting absent council member Nast’s request for viper Bolt Throwers built using them to have passed through by now, weapons that were supposed to be sent north to secure the conquests made in the aftermath of the death of the red god Zul”

[color=grey]“Yes. Those. did you get them and make them yet?”[/color] the slightly irritated Trin added unhelpfully

[color=grey]“Well. you see. um.”[/color]

[color=grey]“Been up north, have seen those godless hoofbeast barbarians shrug off bullets, are too big for cannons to be kill more than one. Bolt throwers good middle ground. Less waste. Need those defences before they reorganize”[/color] D’ave, whom had toured the northern warzone recently, added

[color=grey]“Zagrad has used the supplies for his own projects, hasn’t he” Gwendolin muttered to herself, then gave an exasperated sigh and then cut the others off before they could renew their onslaught on the messenger “Enough of this. I will look into it when I return south. Just give your report” [/color]

Released from the pressure the apprentice alchemist began to hastily rattle off the report she had been designated to give to the council, consisting of a long list of casualties reports, requests for more minions, mages and machinery and glowing praise for the head alchemist's great victories over the invading Vex’lir Swarms.

---

Neser Zagrad, head of the alchemists guild and member of the council of 13, was in the middle of hs latest and greatest work. Within a vast chamber situated below the Guild his many apprentices and laborers were putting the final touches on a massive contraption. Mounted upon a ginormous cart, whose wheels were taller than a man, was a contraption of bronze inlaid with runes and glowing stones, forming an immense octuple barreled lightning cannon. Mounted behind this was a ginormous hamster wheel contraption intended move the weapon and atop that on a sturdy platform a miniature shrine to Justinian, used to focus the magic required to power the creation. The many crystal’s the guild had received earlier that month were used as either components to the canons or as an array of mana batteries for powering the weapon.

The Rodant mage paced back and forth muttering to himself on a raised catwalk, mounted precariously halfway up one of the wall opposite the great entrance to the hall, waiting as the final rites were performed.

[color=grey]“Soon, soon, yes, my greatest work shall be complete. Then. Then! We shall crush the nasty bugs and we shall be the Masters of the Underworld! As it was meant to be.”[/color]

[color=grey]“Until Justinian re-makes the world you mean…. I think your cronies are done sir” [/color]

The head of the alchemist's body guard, a female Gnoll named Rishnosk dressed in plate mail who towered over the others in the room despite standing at just below average human height, interrupted his inane tittering.

[color=grey]“Huh. yes yes of course. IS IT READY?”[/color]

There was a call of confirmation from one of the mage’s apprentices below, causing anyone with half a brain to begin to scamper off, trying to put as much distance and masonry between themselves and the machine as possible.

[color=grey]“Excellent! Begin charging the device!” [/color]

The various Rodant priests standing around the shrine began to chant, the self sacrificing tattoos laid into their tails beginning to glow as they changed Theurgia from the crystals into the weapon. Energy flowed from the shrine, into the runes, stones and metal, electricity arching along the copper barrels.

[color=grey]“Open the doors!”[/color]

More and more power flowed into the weapon, lightning arcing across its surface as the front of the chamber opened, revealing the savanna beyond. Beyond could be seen the domains of two of the Unions foes. To the east was the immense tower and palace of the Turquoise Domain, the barren blasted wasteland between it and the Justinian fort line even now was lit by the light of the spells hurled by the Sacrosanctian mages. Oh how the Alchemist evied their holy guests power. To the south was the chasm of unfathomable odds, the source of the subterranean horrors that flowed like an unending river towards the Fortress of Barby. The gateway itself faced directly east, a side entrance to the Union’s fortress from which it’s engines of war could emerge, or in this case, be tested out of.

[color=grey]“Do it. Throw the switch!.. For Justinian!”[/color]

Neser’s belated call to their god was haphazardly taken up by the others as prayer, either to the success of the experiment or simply that they would survive it.

The apprentice standing with the priests eagerly complied, pulling an almost comically sized breaker switch, which mechanically forced touched a rune inscribed lever to the top barrel, completing an inscription that would cause the discharge of the stored energy. The chamber was filled with light as the barrel discharged, sending a blast of lightning out across the plains beyond. Then the light ceased stopped and the barrel configuration rotated, bringing the next barrel to the firing lever, causing it to discharger. Then the next. This process of changing barral began to increase in speed, till the spinning mechanism was a rapidly rotating blur and the shots a constant stream of destructive energy that blasted and tore at the land beyond.

[color=grey]“Yesss, yes! It’s working Ah hahahaha”[/color]

And then Rishnosk noticed that part of the weapon had caught fire.

[color=grey]“Get down sir!”[/color]

She threw herself on the maniacally laughing rat just before the machine exploded.

---

[color=grey]“No! No no no no! gah!”[/color]

Rishnosk regained consciousness to find her master screaming his head off, the hall a smoking ruin of fire and rapidly cooling molten metal. Of the weapon the was nothing left but splitters, rapidly cooling metal and the bloody smears on the walls and ceiling where all that remained of its crew. Punctuating it all was the din of the bells, warning that the outer defences of the Union’s defencive parameter near the edge of the Chasm had been breached and that a considerable threat was now heading straight for them. Something in the Vex’lir swarm must have spotted the disaster, for a detachment of skittering Swarm Spawn and flying marauders were streaming towards the site of the calamity. They were ignoring the barrage of cannon and gunfire raining down from the battlements of the fortress as they dashed forwards to secure the opening Neser had made for them.

Simultaneously, unseen to those inside inside the halls, a slower moving contingent of earthbreakers and warriors emerged on mass from a second defensive breach, heading directly towards the chasm facing wall of the fortress. This considerably more durable and stronger force was sent as a distraction that was not expected to reach the walls, let alone break through them. It did however cause many of the artillery crews to fire upon this more obvious threat instead of the fast attach contingent, unaware of the disaster that would result from the Riglirs managing to take and hold the broken gates on the east side.

Rishnosk picked herself off of Neser and then helped him stand. The ratman dusted himself off and said dismissively.

[color=grey]“Ah well, we got some valuable data out of that. Back to the drawing board!”[/color]

The rat began to turn to walk back to his lab, found deeper in the fortress.

[color=grey]“Sir. the bells?”[/color]

[color=grey]“What. oh. Right!. CLOSE THE GATES!.... Oh, the gates are destroyed... Crap! Rishnosk, we need to hold that entrance! Rally the troops! I will repair the hinges and remount the door!”[/color]

The bodyguard sighed at how long it had taken him to act and then, while the pair rushed down the stairway leading to the floor of the hall, unsheathed her serrated sword and clanged it against the catwalk’s banister to get the survivors attention.

[color=grey]“Servants of Justinian! Get your asses out of that rubble on the double! Form lines and hold the entrance at all costs. For The Union! For Justinian! For the end of this world and the beginning of the next! Stand and fight, do not let them take the gate!”[/color]

The impromptu militia pulled itself from the rubble and, armed with knives, clubs, worktools and the occasional matchlock pistol, they began to form a barricade before their master, who now stood atop his still burning failure, channeling energy. Onward the horde of chittering swarm came, their losses horrendous as lead, lighting and iron rained down upon them, yet despite their casualties the unbreakable Riglir reached the entrance. Their enemies having cleared the region that could be safely bombarded the Union forces sent out their own air forces to engage the marauders. Various goblins, kobolds and others of the smallest races armed with spears, pistols and firebombs launched themselves down from the fort’s battlements mounted atop huge Killer bees.

In the savanna beyond trumpets sounded as Gatherfolin Plumstruth’s Thundering Herd, massive elephants upon whose backs batteries of lighting cannons had been mounted, and a pack of hyena riding warriors, lead by a Gnoll matriarch and her husbands mounted atop lions, swept around from the rear of the fortress to pin the swarm’s second wave of attackers against the fort’s walls. Inside the footsoldiers of the Union, varying from leather clothed fighters as poorly armed as those already inside to a few plate coated veterans, were arriving in the far end of the hall, rushing to aid the militia at the fallen gates.

As the swift moving monsters of Vex’xalar crashed into the Justinian mob’s hastily erected barricade and the battle for air superiority commenced, the alchemist himself raised his arms to the sky, drawing from the power still stored in the remaining pieces of the machine and from the the Theurgia granted from the (accidental) sacrifice of the Justinian's who had just had died in the explosion. In doing so, the gates began to rise painfully slowly back to their original position. It would be a long, hard, bloody fight.

---

[color=grey]“Once again, I can assure you that Neser Zagrad, head of the alchemist guild and trusted member of this council, is in no way engaging in unsanctioned experimental weapon development and that the Fortress of Barby is 100% safe in his hands”[/color]

Concluded the apprentice. Before her colleagues could drag this part of the meeting out any further, Gwendolin told her to [color=grey]“Good. Expect my presence at the fort next week to verify those facts.”[/color]

This drew mutterings from the stands:
[color=grey]“A Sacrosanctian at Barby. There's a first” “Maybe they’ll take the Vex’lir threat seriously after this” “ha. Doubt it. Humans don’t understand that the world has depth.” “Only time they go underground is after they die” “well they do have miners...” “oh shut it Penfold” [/color]

“Silence!” roared Gwendolin, slamming her armored fist down onto the table and bringing the talk in the stands to a strict conclusion. There was a brief pause as the room awaited to see if there were to be reprisals for their misbehavior, but Gwendolin pushed on with concluding the matter instead, giving orders to her colleagues to deal with the problem as best they could.

[color=grey]“Now then. Log-Set, see if you can rally up some more volunteers for the south, D’ave, speak with our merchants in Roc port to see if the west has sent any more materials that can be spared in the south. Also try and convince Kensu to actually show up to the next meeting. Log-Set, Fairheart see if the local mages and craftsmen can make something to take the place of the bolt thrower shipment.”[/color]

After a hasty chorus of affirmations from the other council members she moved the meeting along, the Rodant apprentice gladly taking her seat once more to make minutes of the meeting for her master. The rest of the reports where as to be expected, vague if optimistic reports from the northern front, reports of a disastrous attempt to kill one of the local dragons which Woston the dragon hunter had once again survived, complaints from the southern tribes about the amount of sacrifices the Sacrosanctian expedition required for their seemingly eternal bombardment of the Turquoise Domain, various minor internal squabbles and disputes that the involved parties believed the 13 needed to intervene in, requests for aid with dealing with red god and yawanist bandits and a hundred other issues that the council really didn't have enough control to deal with.

She was glad when it was over and she could step out of the packed room onto one of the nearby balconies for some air. It was but a brief respite however, as once her flock of waist high guards and inquisitors had come down from the stands to join their leader they all set off together to begin the journey back south. There she would briefly pass by Stage to report to her superiors in the Sacrosanctian expedition and get some well needed human contact before she went to Barby to remind the Alchemist that he had to share his toys with the other children.

Tari-Salummatu. The Golden Palace.

The weather was pleasant, a cool breeze blew through the Golden Palace's corridors as Suh made her way to one of sumptuous solars where the Padishah would soon be holding his war council. His firstborn daughter strode through the luxurious halls, paying little heed to the host of nobles, bureaucrats, priests, soldiers and servants that scurried through the marbled halls of the Golden Palace, her own set of guards following at a respectable distance. More of a question of image than anything else, nobody would dare raise a hand against a member of the Imperial family within the confines of the Golden Palace. And if they did, well, Suh had been old enough to fight by her father's side ever since they first marched against the Naga. However, it simply wouldn't do for a woman of her standing to walk around without retainers in number and bearing befitting her status.

Eventually, the Princess and her guards came to a stop before a set of ornate black doors flanked by two imposing golden statues, animated by magic and armored in plate and scale. Their shiny obsidian eyes locked upon Suh and without further prompting the set of thick doors opened magically. The Princess crossed the threshold, leaving the silent guardians behind as her guards closed around Suh. The hallways of the Padishah's private quarters were smaller than those of the rest of the Palace, but no less opulent.

If the Golden Palace complex was a city within a city, then the Padishah's quarters were a palace within a palace. A separate world reserved for a privileged few. Not even the usual serving slaves were allowed within these walls. Instead, a select group of Lamashi servants and animated constructs attended to her father. One could call it excessive, arrogant and self-absorbed for a single man to hold himself in such way. But her father wasn't a single man. Zirgun Agazi-Haster was the supreme overlord of all Lamash, the greatest among the Lamashi and by consequence the greatest among the race of man.

Still, a small part of her - properly ignored for the time being - longed for the olden days of her childhood in the old capital. Back in those times when her father shared his chambers with his family and didn't distance himself from his kin.

"No point in that." She grumbled to no one in particular, irritation welling up inside at her own childish foolishness. She was just succumbing to rose-tinted nostalgia. Her father just had a heavy weight to bear upon his shoulders, that's all.

Eventually Suh emerged from the halls into a beautiful garden, already occupied by a few other high nobles, no doubt there to attend to the council, and pretty servants in the finest of silks. On the other end of the garden stood a tall white marble wall, with a yellow door flanked by two more animated statues. The Princess moved into the garden while her guards withdrew back into the corridors, to wait for her summons in one of the anterooms where the retainers of the other nobles were no doubt already waiting.

It did not take long for her to start mingling, exchanging greetings and kisses with the perfumed nobles and commanders. Truth be told, it was not often that her father called a war council, specially not one with that many representatives from all the corners of the Empire, something big was going to happen, of that Suh was sure ever since she got word of distant generals being summoned to the capital. For the past decades the Padishah had decided to focus the Empire's energy inwards. No major offensives or campaigns, just the concerted effort to strengthen the Empire, with the occasional support lent to their fellow faithful around the world.

For that Suh was glad. Despite her reputation and the image she herself cultivated, the Princess had no love for the battlefield. It was her duty and nothing else, something that had to be done to protect the Empire and serve the Goddess against the Western crusaders. And since the Infidels themselves had remained mostly to themselves these last years, she felt no guilty for enjoying this lull in the fight. Specially when it gave her time to spend with her children and grandchildren, to finally get to know and bond with her descendants. Even if for some of these relationships it was already to late to truly salvage any meaningful bond. That was one of the things that kept her awake in those nights when she was unable to fight off the guilt.

It did not take long after her arrival for the yellow doors to open by themselves. A clear signal as any. And due to her status, Suh was the first one entering the council room, followed closely by the others.

Inside she found her father sitting in a golden sunburst throne atop a raised dais between two carved marble columns. Large silken banners hung in the walls behind him. They all bowed obsequiously before the Padishah and took their places around the low table of shiny black placed before the Padishah's dais. Suh herself settled on a pillow at the right hand end of the table, closest to her father.

The Padishah was as imposing as he had ever been. Still looking the same as he did when he emerged from the Angel's Pool in Sadra Piresh 300 years ago. Now he stood, as regal as ever, regarding the assembled grandees of Lamash as he would any other gaggle of servants.

"I bid you greetings, my servants."Zirgun started, he did not shout and yet his rich voice filled the room, rolling like thunder through Suh's ears. "I have summoned here the greatest among my warriors and generals for the time has come to once again look outwards." And just like that all of Suh's fears and suspicions were confirmed.

"For too long the servants of the Goddess have allowed themselves to grow complacent, their efforts paltry and uncoordinated while the Western Abomination grows ever stronger. We have done what we can, even now an army sails to the north to support battered and weak Evernyx against the depredations of savages and infidels. But that is not enough. If we are to save the world from Western savagery then the servants of Yuwan must stand as one. I have summoned all noteworthy Yuwanist powers for a conference in Oracheos, and I shall soon be travelling there myself to join the talks and, if the visions have been properly interpreted, forge the disparate armies of the Faithful into the force that will turn the tide of this war.

But regardless of what happens in the Holiest City, Lamash must prepare itself all the same. As the Chosen People, that's our burden to bear. Even if all else fails, specially if all else fails, the Lion must wake up once again to shake the world with its roar!" The Padishah finished with a triumphant gesture of his arms, sitting down amidst applause and cheer. He silenced the room with a wave of his hand before continuing:

"And that's why you have been summoned here, my loyal servants. Many of you have been writing to me over these past years citing your concerns over our continued complacence and offering plan after plan, suggestion after suggestion. Now you will make your concerns and ideas known before this council. Today we take the first step into mobilizing our great empire for war."

Month: Ostrob
Year: 300AWH

NORTH

• The Artium Confederacy tribal elders gathering at the Great Pines is interrupted by raiding skirmishers of the Aberysian Northern Campaign under the command of Phillip of House Nudden. Greatly underestimating the significantly larger Artium force at the gathering, Nuddens forces receive a major defeat. Phillip Nudden, the heir of House Nudden is maimed in the attack.

• The Meeting of the Union’s Council of 13 concludes with reports noting the dangers of the encroaching Bloodied horde to the north as well as various other conflicts.

• Current reports show the Unions subterranean forces and the defenders at Barby are under siege by the Riglers of the Vex’lir Swarm. A violent assault is underway by the Vex’lir following a catastrophic backfiring of a Union artillery piece.

• Resident Orator of the Union, Gwendolin Sliverton is to march south, first to the Sacrosanctian Expeditionary Forces citadel at the Stage, then onward to relieve Union defenders at Barby.

EAST

• A Lamashi relief force marches north, destined for Evernyx, hoping to reinforce the principality currently fighting in the three-way conflict known as the “Northern War”.

• The Padishah of the Empire of Lamash, Zirgun Agazi-Haster and He Who Brings Benefits proclaims his intent to form a grand council of Yuwanist Powers to address the current state of the Sacrilege War and Yuwanist inaction. Messages are sent out to the East’s greatest states and asks them to attend this grand council at Oracheos.

SOUTH

• The Battle of the Pripat Marshes concludes in East Ouroborasian victory. Western forces are routed while a minority are taken as prisoners. The overall conditions of the frontlines do not change. It is suspected that those taken prisoner by witches at the battle will likely be taken as familiars or otherwise transported to Solomonata.

• A major gift-giving ceremony takes place in Göl Kasabi, the ceremony a prelude to the future marriage of Principe Synogchouta Daveithai and the Duchess-in-waiting of Vlachia, Cassiopeia Dragcumir. The best of luck to the ‘happy’ couple.

• A host of Aberysians, including Gryph Knights, arrive in Western Ouroborasia through the town of Gryke. They are currently under the command of Her Holy Grace, The Princess Weshland, Champion of The Justinian. The reinforcements may be the much needed help that the people of Gryke have been searching for in these trying and ever darkening days of Ouroborasian history.

• The Ghouls of Uudhin launch a major naval invasion from the Eudekesh Sea, many thousands of Ghouls rising from the coastlines waves to march onto the southern shore of West Ouroborasia. The navy of the Kasabioi also join the invasion, its ships attacking ships of the Excelsiorum Expeditionary Forces. The South may never be the same again.

• The Kasabioi Navy, masquerading as Excelsiorum forces using commandeered ships from the earlier initial attack arrive at the island of Arban, allowed in by the defenders as they fly the flag of the Holy Domain of the Excelsiorum. As the morning fog settles, they begin to make their move...

• Parchment pinned in the main hall of the Black Academy of Solomonata announces that Prof. Charlarensis is offering extra-credit for aspiring students, either witches or squire-blackguards that are willing to take part in a dangerous mission to persuade certain individuals to join the cause. For more information, report to Charlarensis’ chambers.

• Gushwar-Ouroborasian Slave trading continues as normal.

WEST

• Mountebank Knights of the TQLR arrive in Moramond, South-Eastern Aberys. They mostly are in small numbers and are spreading the word of their great turquoise master as proselytizers, while also performing random altruistic acts. Word of their presence, as well as their proselytizing, spreads quickly.

• Attempts by the Aberysian forces to execute and later repulse the Mountebanks end in a humiliating duel, The Aberysians are soundly defeated.

• The Blizzards of the Far-Northern Subcontinent briefly subside, allowing weak rays of light to gleam down upon the permafrost and tundra.

• Following the Padishah's declaration of forming a council concerning the Sacrilege War, the price of weapons and iron rises in the Far-east as speculators predict a high increase of demand in the near future.

• The Eye of Justinian gaze turns southward, glaring now over Ouroborasia. [Divine intervention may interrupt IC posts in South]

• In a small hovel, somewhere nobody really cared about, someone saw the end.

No, everything felt wrong. The light moving through the thin slits at the top of the wall was strangely faded, grey instead of golden. The room was a complete mess, paper, parchments, painting tools and canvas' scattered across the dingy room. Water had clearly flown down from the cheap alternative to windows, and judging by the thin but wide puddle of water stretching across the floor, someone had forgotten to change the rain-catching buckets. A price the inattentive paid for living in a basement room in the urban sprawl of Petrix. Whoever lived here must have left it for hours.

That someone, an adult human man with messy, curly hair was busy looking around his ruined living and workspace, wondering what Demiurgic force did this, remembering that he was indeed that someone and he did, in fact, live here. What was I doing last night... He wondered. He looked down at his hands, even with his sight blurred. They were shaking erratically, so much so that when he moved to pull himself out of bed, he slipped and fell to the floor. Dyes and chemicals had mixed into the water, forming strange swirls of colour.

'What was I doing last night'... he wondered again.

He crawled, then brought himself to his feet even if barely standing. While the morning light from the window was impossibly grey and faded, a bright, blue, light glowed instead from the other rooms entrance. The man, who then realised he did not even know his own name, knew something was deeply wrong.

A small part of his mind told him to flee, to go to the door that led out into the city street. But the glowing blue light was so beautiful and drew him to shuffle closer. he shuffled again, near the turn to the next rooms entrance. the blue light changed to gold in a flash, the light streaming through even stronger. He neared the turn.

He hesitated, filled with a sudden and overpowering sense of terror. Luckily, he remembered he lived here and everything was fine and walked into the light, now blue again.

The next room was even worse than the last. Paint covered the walls and furniture. The floor was littered with brushes and tools... and what seemed to be maps?

Dry blood covered the top of cabinets where a headless chicken lay. Some of the brushes and droplets of paint and blood seemed to be levitating, floating as they orbited an object on the far side of the room, immensely glowing in blue, gold and now red light. What ought to be peculiar if not an impossible sight was ignored, for the man knew that he was a mage. A mage and, and that's right! A mage and an artist.

The chicken was clearly a sacrifice. There must be some curse he placed somewhere last night. He didn't know if he even knew how to make curses though and couldn't see any anywhere. But he was certain that was why. As he drew closer to the glowing object more and more became clear to him.

He was an artist that lived in the city of... Pridos? or was it Petrix? He wasn't quite sure, but he knew he was an artist. He worked as a contractor for the clerisy. He was put in a team of artists, paid a commission to make a... Fresco. He knew now that the glowing object was a canvas. Justinian be blessed, his concept piece was something holy, even radiating light.

He was relieved. He did not know what happened last night, but he knew he was immensely stressed. He had little time and the Clerisy were not forgiving if he came up with nothing. He decided to use magic, looking back at the chicken. He played his strengths. Magic and, and...

and a one of a kind inspiration. One of the traders he met (ah, he must live in Petrix then!) showed him a picture. He said it was made using pigments from a place far to the south. Hypernot? Hyper, well he forgot. But it was a painting, unlike anything he had ever used. It seemed to move and glow even without magic... just like this one.

He smiled then, knowing that he had created a masterpiece. He ignored that what should have been a quick walk of a few seconds instead went on for a whole twenty minutes. He ignored that more objects, previously stationary had now begun to levitate as well. He ignored that beyond the room, perhaps the entire universe no longer existed.

The glowing canvas was covered by a thin sheet. The last barrier between the nameless man that no longer was and the perfect painting for those clerics Mural. The nameless man gripped the sheet, ignoring that his arm was see through and distorted, his fingers floating in mid-air. As he and the room faded away, he saw his painting.

To his horror, it was not the beautiful painting that the merchant returning from Hypernotei first showed him. That inspired him and gave him hope. Instead, it was a message. A message given esoteric and yet physical form. A message that perhaps only a single being in this entire world truly understood.

The nameless man could not possibly accept nor perceive this message, so instead, he only saw a swirling torrent of darkness, filled with the screams of endless souls.

Within the old wall of the Imperial palace three northmen gather around an old pine table with a map of the northern counties. Around them were the various trophies and tributes from many different campaigns throughout Ferreumin history. Like many other days, the members of the Triumvirate were arguing with each other.

"All that I ask for is several thousand men and I can bring those tribals to heel." Manus Cappadox Varro demanded slamming his gauntleted fist down onto the table glaring at his fellow member of the triumvirate. "And waste valuable resource chasing through those caves and mountains. There are more pressing matters for us to deal with." the watchman quickly responded stroking his beard.

"Then do tell where do you say is more important."

"The civil war in the Ouroborasia still drags on we can send aid to them."

"That enough! There is no point arguing about starting a new war when we are still battling Evernyx and the bloodied. Messor cut both off. He gestures to the map on the table "Focus on the matters at hand. I will soon be traveling to the union to generate support for a campaign against the bloodie. Meanwhile Verro I want you to oversee increasing the raids at Evernyx to keep pressure on them." the Monte Dominus order his eyes not even leaving the table. "I will see to it" with a bow Manus Varro left the chamber.

=====



Legate Artamo Crassus thought the chain of events that lead him up to be sailing through the air. Several hours ago, he and his men were sent into a nearby forest to clear out a group of dryad harassing the lumber jacks of the nearby. Simple assignment go out into the woods find the dryads kill or drive them off go back to the village to drink. But it seem that the dryads were protecting a sacred grove and proceeded to summoned a large wood golem. The wooden constructed wasted no time in charging into the Ferreumin warriors scattering them.

"Gorgines, Trachalio burn that thing. Everyone else distract it!" Crassus order his command as he charge at the golem. As Crassus and his warriors attacked he notices the dryads began to climb the trees. Seconds later the northmen were being peppered by bolt of magic being hurdle by the dryads. The Legate quickly ducked behind a nearby tree to avoid a barrage bolts being fire. Checking a look out of his cover he witnesses Trachalio getting cut down by a volley of bolts as he tried to light one of the warbands firebomb to throw at the golem. 'Dammit all,' he thought dashing out of cover. Dodging several of the bolts he was half way to the firebombs he felt something impacted his side sending him into the air.

Imptacting hard onto the forest floor Crassus groan as he got back onto his knees to see the golem charging towards him. With only feet, away from him a large fiery explosion washed over the construct. This distracted the golem long enough for the legate to doge out of the way of the flame golem as it collapses as the fire ate away its body. Seeing the death of the construct the remaining dryads fled from the Ferreumin warriors. "Report." Crassus order as he got to his feet.

"Trachalio, Abelus, and Georgius are dead. The rest of us are took some hit but nothing a little rest can't cure," Optio Romanus said as the rest of the warband set to destroy the grove. "Prep the dead for transport. We will leave once this place burns." Romanus simple gave a salute and left to carry out the order.



Arriving back into the village there was a flurry of activity. With the fallen northmen being hand over to the local priest for a proper burial, the legate himself informing the mayor that the forest has been cleared of dryads, and then had to local tavern to drink away the day.

"It looks like you are holding up well Artamo," the Legate turn to see the familiar face of Consul Sylla. "Don't get up Crassus I not here for a social visit I got an assignment for you." the consul said taking the seat opposite of the legate. "And what does this assignment entails?" Crassus asked taking another swig of Ferreumin vodka. "The Manus has requested any warband willing to head to union to be raiders." the consul informed him. "It beats patrolling the forest for some dam Dryads. Sign me up." Crassus grin. "When do we leave?" He asked as he finished his drink. "Soon, once you and your men rest up meet Castra Martis from there we head to the union. I will see you their Legate." With that the Consul left the young legate alone at the table. 'The Manus himself is overseeing this. Whatever it is it will far more interesting than fighting Dryads,' Crassus thought to himself downing another mug of alcohol.

Artium Tribal Lands
A month had long passed, Prince Philip and his small host, still licking their wounds after their humiliating defeat at the hands of the Yuwanist savages, the occasional scout group returning with one or more less men then there were before, a grim reminder of how woefully unprepared the young, arrogant prince and his men were. Within a large, very noticeable tent, it's fabric much more...refined then the raggy and dirty materials of the tents used by the peasant levies. Prince Philip and several of his most veteran soldiers gathered around a table, it's surface decorated with daggers, candles and a large map of the region, provided by their generous allies. "My lord, we've scoured the border, nearly all of our patrols taking losses.

The young prince sat at the very edge of the tab, paying little mind to his officers as his attention was more focused on his maimed hands, the small stubs where his fingers once were, quite frankly, it was a miracle he and his surviving men had not died to infection like the others, the local Priests in the camp ensuring survival once they arrived. His expression was sour, the bitterness and anger festering every time to gazes upon his maimed hands.

"My lord?" One of the Officers spoke, taking notice of his unattentiveness.

Philip shook his head and looked up. "Yes, yes?" He said.

"Uhh..As I was saying, the savages seemed to have a solid grip over the border, our troops unable to effective in any sort of fight."

"Those heathens...." Philip hissed.

"My lord, I strongly suggest we fall back, we can no-"

"NO!" Philip snapped. "I will not be beaten by these savages! I will be satisfied, I demand it!" The fail skirmish was a real impact on the prince. "They will not so easily be sparred of any retribution, as Justinian as my witness, I WILL conquer these lands!"

"My lord..it simply Isn't.." Before the man could even finish, some commotion was going on outside, the men chattering and hollering. "What the devil is going on out there?" Another Officer spoke.

"This will have wait." Philip said, standing up and leaving the tent, as he lift up the flaps, he took notice as soldiers begin to crowd near the camp entrance, this caught his curiosity. He simply moved forward, the levies taking notice of their lord, and by instinct of their class, cleared a way through for him.

He reached the Camp entrance, his brows raised to the sight before him now. A small company of Gunners stood before him, leading said men was a an aged man in his sixties, the Captian of the Nudden House Guard, Atharan Homwell, he rode atop a white stallion. "Captain?" Philip spoke in bewilderment. "What is the meaning of this?" He asked.

"Greetings my prince." The Captain said. "Forgive me, but unsavory rumors had begun to spread, and...it seems they were not far off." He paused as he dismounted his steed. "Your father feared the worst, and had me personally lead an expedition to the Northern Lands."

Although this could be taken as an insult of sorts, or perhaps not, either way, Philip's pride has already been bruised at the hands of the savages, however, the situation seemed to improve, Philip now had his Father's best warrior and the elite riflemen of Aberys at his disposable."

"..I must thank you and my father for this assistance...but I must ask, is this your whole party?"

"Goodness no." Atharan said with a hearty laugh. "See for yourself, my prince."

The Prince moved forward, going pass the Captain and gunners, looking down the hill his camp had been set up on, his eyes widened. Before him was a marching aberysian host, their banners flying under the House of Nudden, the sight itself brought a tear to his eye. By Justinian, this truly is a gift! Philip's expression switched from awe, to a sinister grin, followed by a small chuckle "I care not if this is an insult from father or not, I now have the means to which I can enact my vengeance." He said, turning to the other spectators. "Know this! These savages will be no more soon! I will conquer these lands in the name of not only Justinian, but in the name of my House, these lands will soon be ruled by House Nudden, it is now mine by birthright!"

Cheers soon followed, moral has risen, and it seems the twilight dawned upon the Artium tribes.

The fog lay heavy upon the island, coiling up from the sea to flood streets and smother palaces, houses and shacks. It was not thick, not for the southern seas, at least, and would soon be gone in the morning; yet, under the dark night sky, dimly lit by the nearby red star gleaming over Uudhin, it appeared as impenetrable as a tide of quicksand that had suddenly descended upon the slumbering city. Had anyone walking through one of Kasabi's myriad passageways lifted their eyes, they would have been unable to see the very wall a few steps to their left, and the lights above were but a faint memory save for that single red spark overhead, glistening malevolently through the fog like a distant, yet watchful eye. But those that were abroad at such a time had no business looking at the sky, or else found themselves fully at home in the shadows.

Under the pale shroud, the city stretched far inland, from the ominously murmuring sea to the heart of the island, harsh, but not as forbidding as what lay beyond the waves. Along the shore ran rows of docks and wharves, by which stood, nodding slightly in tact with the rippling waters, the wooden, sail-draped pillars of Kasabi's power. It was not uncommon for many of the docks to be empty, but now, with part of the fleet having sailed to Ouroborasia, the absence was all the more palpable.

Yet there were places where the differences would not have been felt had every ship abandoned the island all of a sudden. Places where the wharves were rotted and crumbling, where no shapes hurried here and there across the embankment and no torches burned through the enveloping darkness. Where the buildings themselves, cramped and misshapen, bent towards the earth and the black waters under the weight of age and the secrets they concealed. Where mazes of narrow, winding streets crawled in perpetual shadow through grime and filth, and the air was poisoned by wafts of untraceable stench.

There, in foul corners, by malodorous rivulets of strange fluids, over puddles and pits, there moved vague, indistinct shadows. These were not the industrious inhabitants of the docks: their movements were wary and sluggish, their backs stooping, their voices unheard. They shuffled among the dirt and foetor, casting quick glances at the dark awning windows as they passed or staring stolidly before themselves. Some muttered to themeselves as they went, others were deathly silent. In these far, forgotten reaches, the blood of Kasabi was thick, rotten and touched by strange diseases that have no name.

Deep in this labyrinth, at a crossroads of twisted paths surrounded by faceless walls of stained stone, three cultists stand in heated theological debate.

''The doctrines of the Salt Prince are crude and dubious. Doth he not seek the usurp the Celestial Plane? Be he truly a Red God, or another Justinian?''
Speaks a female cleric donning the robes and emblem of Ephemem.
''Bite your tongue, whore. For instead you bite the hand of the host that feeds you. Were it not for Yitizer's Mercy, your lands would have been naught but reduced to slavery to the New Pantheon.'' A cultist wearing a horned mask and wearing grey robes depicting the emblem of Axohaan, responds indignantly.

''You are one of Soghba's muppets, yes? Than surely you understand this 'alliance' is on paper alone. We know you Uudhinites are little better than the New Pantheonists. You're a heretic.'' She replies.
''Heretic? Please; flattery will get you nowhere.'' The Axohar cleric replies with a vicious smirk.
The third cultist only nods awkwardly. The cultists of other Red Pantheonist sects pay little heed to him and his fellows. Because his robes depict a much obscurer and less esteemed, perhaps even insignificant faith. Insignificant in so far that few enough people recognise the logo, and it does not rouse theological debates or swollen historical slights in contrast to the deeply notorious and stigmatized logo of the Salt Prince.
The sign emboidered on the earthen-brown robe under his ragged, worn cloak, a raiment unseemly for a cleric even in the lands of the Red Pantheon, was akin neither to the angular emblems of Axohaan nor the cryptically abstract devices of other southern deities. Instead, his garb was emblazoned with a curious and sinister figure of deformity: the body of a horrid being, at once a monstrous crab and a face distorted by a fiendish grin, surmounted by a second inhuman head with a snarling, fanged mouth. Gnarled limbs radiated from the entity's form, and the whole was surrounded by the likeness of a dusky halo or a black sun.



As the cultist shuffled in place, his fingers intertwined while his fellows argued the merits of their respective patrons, one could have noticed something hanging around his neck and swaying along with his motions like a large pendant. However, had even his cloak not been enough to fully conceal it, the mist and darkness hovering in the nook were too thick for it to be discernible. Indeed, little of what was under his mantle was visible at all; his face was a vague inky blotch between the drapings of a cowl.

Soft, yet audible steps sounded from behind him, and three other indistinct figures emerged from the fog some steps away. Either hearing their approach or detecting it by some other means - someone observing him closely would have noticed he had begun to move his head an instant before the shuffling sounds preceding the newcomers had come - the adept turned to exchange a glance with them, then motioned shortly with his hand, and the shapes withdrew back out of sight. With a slight nod, he returned his attention to the discussion before him, and spoke.

"Let us not descend into discord, my friends." his voice was low and slightly grating, as though his throat were dry and parched. He continued, raising his bent, bony fingers, unpleasantly similar to the legs of the crab on his emblem, "Our strength lies in our unity, do not forget it. The forces of false gods would fain prey on us like worms, and only if we hold onto each other in a strong bundle will we be safe from their vexations."

''You, new man, can't delude me into thinking that the Red Pantheon is anything but solitary. Our cause is not yours -- or even 'hers'.'' The Axohar nods towards the Ephemite. ''So who are you even? Garments as yours have been recurring in this district of late. Which faceless deity has you ensnared?'' spoke the devil-masked cleric to the vexed browncloak.

"I?" A whistling sound, like a low tatter of laughter, came from under the cowl. "I serve no one god. I am but a keeper of a universal force, as old as the world. A force that has always sought to bring together what was divided, and mend what was broken."

The hooded cleric drew his cloak slightly apart, revealing the sigil underneath. "This seal you see embodies life, strength, vigour, all the things our time so sorely lacks. Things we must work to restore."

The Axohar grunts. ''Your tone is the same as that of the Old Man. Gibberish over universal power. Some minds must have been slowly warped by the proximity of Azagôde. There's something foul in the air of these suburbs. I have no interest in any of these delusional prophecies.''

"Power and unity are one and the same. But come," the figure gestured broadly towards the mist where his companions had vanished. "I see you, as many others, are not convinced by words alone. And it is well you should not be. Come with me, then, and I will show you that which is worth more than words."

''Clever. I see we've learned our tricks from the same old book. That much we have in common. I recall telling a witless tourist or another that I would escort her to a holy site, which I did. But more specifically it was a sacrificial altar!'' He says, following with nonchalant laughter.
''I am not your fool, but I appreciate the gesture all the same.''

The cloaked priest nodded. "In times and places as those, it is well to be wary. But your mistrust strikes blindly at the hand that reaches out to support you. See then..."

With a swift motion, he produced from the folds of his robe a long, recurve knife with a strangely jagged blade. Drawing back the edge of his garment to expose the back of his right hand. Holding the dagger in the left, he drew a long, thin line across his skin, and blood was not slow to well from under it.

"By the power I serve and the flesh I thus mar, nor I nor my kin shall spill your blood, tonight or evermore." His voice was unchanged, as rasping and even as before. He lifted his dripping fingers in a beckoning gesture.

The devil-masked cleric turns to silence. His face might be amused, or unsettled, or with a raised eyebrow to this cultist. He gives reply with a shrug. ''Such vows are sacred. I won't get much divine inspiration hearing the Old Man's murmuring. So I might as well give ear to yours, instead. It is all the same -- so grant me insight to the universal power you claim to herald.''

''Umm.. Right.'' The Ephemite says, putting up an effort to conceal her discomfort. ''As the only representative of the Goddess of Witches, I must glean intel to your new cult and its practises, likewise.''

Without as much as another word, the hooded man turned towards one of the streets running into the thick of the slanted houses and walked forth into the mist, leading the way through the twists and turns. After but a few steps, the group was joined by the three acolytes who had briefly appeared earlier, and seemingly stood waiting in a nearby nook. Up close, they seemed even more similar to the one that had spoken. They wore the same old cloaks, watched from the shadows of the same cowls, strode with the same slightly shuffling gait. More so - it might have been a trick of the faint reverberations between the overhanging walls, but they sounded as though all the four of them were walking precisely in tact with each other.

They moved on, delving into the penumbra under the old buildings, street by street. It seemed already that they had come quite far, but nothing in their surroundings hinted at this. The walls, pavement, windows, air were equally dim and worn. If anything, the stench was growing faintly stronger, and the houses more hoary and battered by time. Stone gave way to putrid wood, and the puddles became rarer, but denser and wider.

At last, the leading cultist stopped before a door in no way different from the dozens they had passed before, set in a wall as foul and ungainly as any other. He cast a rapid glance to both sides, then scraped the panels with his nails, unafraid of any splinters or insects that might be caught under them. There was a moment of silence, then, from the other side, echoed a similar scratching, and the door creaked open. Beyond the threshold, nothing was visible but looming, almost solid darkness.

The three silent adherents were the first to file into it without making a sound. The one with the wounded hand took a step, then stopped in the doorway to motion for his companions to follow, and disappeared as well.

''Why the secrecy? Surely you understand there is religious freedom in Göl Kasabi. What practises could be ill and so depraved enough that your kin are compelled to hide them from common eyes?'' The Ephemite speaks up after a long and eerie quiet, her hushed voice disrupting the smothering silence and darkness inside the building.

From the dark interior ahead came a response in a voice somewhat alike, yet unmistakeably different from that of the first priest. It clearly belonged to another person, yet it was veined with the same low, hoarse tones.

"Our mysteries are such that they must be held in the deep, near the heart of the world and far from the light and the sky. Come, and you shall see why it is so."
The three of them tread further, though for those unfamiliar with the Cult the decision came only after a moment of hesitation. Under their feet, they could feel hard, though roughly chiselled stone stairs, leading downwards. Somewhere far, far below, a point of red-brownish light flickered faintly, appearing and vanishing at intervals. Behind them, the door slammed shut, and only that spot remained visible in the pitch blackness. Shuffling steps moving away indicated that the guide was descending into the unseen abyss.

The way down could not have been long, yet it seemed that their progress between unseen walls of humid, breathing earth was excruciatingly slow. Ages could have passed in the silent blackness that surrounded them like the depths of a stygian ocean, and the distant light, a lone island in the smothering shadow, did not seem to draw any closer. While the night they had come from had itself been dark, this subterranean realm was another world altogether - a world of cold stillness and unspoken menace lurking close by.

Yet, strangely deep though it might have been, the bottom of the pit approached. The point of light grew larger and larger, reaching first the size and strength of a torch, then a brazier, then a bonfire, until it pushed back the encroaching dark. Through the subterranean quiet came faint echoes of far-off sounds, soon becoming whispers and rustling motions. Then, the steps gave way to even, hard ground, and, following the now visible guide into the luminescence, they saw.

Beyond the stairs lay a large vaulted chamber dug out of the soil. Its converging walls were slightly crumbling here and there, yet oddly smooth, as though whoever had carved them had been a master of their craft. Most astounding, however, was the fact that it was not lit by torches or braziers, but by large stains of glowing, living matter spread over the earthen surfaces. It was akin to some of the curious efflorescences spotted by daring seafarers who reached the far shores in the east, yet, at the same time, any who had seen both would have known these growths were different. It was nothing that could be seen, or even felt; but their lurid, charnel light spoke in accents not hoary and mystical, but dim and feral.

Gathered in the dungeon were about a score of acolytes, all draped in worn cloaks and brown robes. When the group emerged from the shadows of the stairway, they interrupted their hushed conversations and turned upon the newcomers their unnervingly faceless stares. Each of them donned under their cowl a mask that concealed their features. Among that crowd, there were crude, nondescript veils of stitched cloth mingled with more elaborate wooden visages and even some animal skulls; no two of them were alike. The guide threw a backwards glance at his guests, revealing that he as well had covered what little was visible of his head with a visor of hardened leather.

Presently, a low, metallic sound, akin to the strike of a gong, came from the further end of the chamber, and the masked figures' gazes swung thither. Across the circle of the floor, a tunnel opened into the room directly opposite the end of the stairs, gaping in the dimly lit wall like the mouth of a tremendous worm. Before it, there stood a low stone altar, almost crude in its simplicity. Upon the altar rested something that appeared to be a large square tablet of black rock, but the etchings on it could not be distinguished from that distance.

A wave of whispers coursed over the acolytes, and a large form issued from the mouth of the tunnel. It was another of the cloaked priests, but as unlike the others as they were different from the followers of other gods. The figure's cloak was quite clearly a funereal shroud, frayed at the edges and covered in patches of mold; yet the robes under it were clean and opulent, adorned with what might have been either jewels or sparse pieces of ceremonial armour. Its hands were covered in some sort of bizarre claw-like gauntlets, and the mask under its cowl was not of cloth or wood, but metal exquisitely fashined into the likeness of the head of an insect, with dully glittering gemstones as its eyes.

At the sight of this apparition, the assembled cultists bowed down as one, then rose in similar unison. The high priest, if such it was, stopped behind the altar, then abruptly raised both hands. All fell silent. The insect-headed figure lifted the tablet from the altar, held it up high, and intoned a chant. Its voice was only rasping and hissing; it could not even be said whether it was a man or a woman.

The two visitors, all the while, had not spoken a word. The both of them were unnerved, while normally they shouldn't be. They are certainly familiar with rites as these, or even more extravagant and sinister. Yet despite it the Axohar and Ephemite still felt not in their element. The best they could do was keep up a smug facade that this shoddy ritual was insufficient to have any self-respecting, veteran Red Pantheonist impressed.

The chant rose still, growing in intensity. It was not formed of any discernible words, or even what could have been sounds of another language, but a medley of clicks, screeches and snaps that barely seemed to come from a human mouth. For all its chaotic discordancy, there distinctly was a rhythm to it. The bestial cacophony wove itself into cadenced patterns, the same snaps and clacks recurring at the end of what might have been abhorrent verses.

The moment in which the other acolytes joined the litany was so rapid that anyone not expecting it would have failed to notice it. Many voices rose as one in perfect synchrony, welling up to the vaulted ceiling and carrying the monstrous hymn as an overflowing river. The impression was not that of a choir, however large, chanting in unison; it seemed as though a single monstrous being were droning out its unnatural song without a mouth. A forest of gnarled hands rose from the gathered crowd towards the tablet, and their limbs did not appear to be hands at all.

The high priest lowered the stone upon the altar and fell silent, though this could barely be noticed amid the cultists' uninterrupted chanting. They continued even as their leader stepped aside from the entrance of the tunnel, revealing a group of three figures that had approached unheard and stood waiting for an unknown time. Two of them were masked priests, faces concealed by metallic visors; the third, held between them, was little more than a bundle of rags loosely wrapped around a starved, battered body. Their head was covered with a sack, and their whole frame seemed to tremble slightly, only ceasing for a moment upon being roughly prodded by one of the masked guards.

At a gesture from the leader, the two dragged their weakly stumbling captive before the altar and withdrew to its two sides, leaving their charge to collapse to its knees. No one saw how they were produced, but suddenly the insect-headed prelate was holding two recurve daggers like the one with which the first cultist had sealed his oath in its hands. Then, with preternatural agility, it plunged the blades into the prisoner's chest from two sides, as though they had been the extremities of a pincer. The violence of the strikes was such that the victim's entire body was lifted from the ground and flung onto the altar, steel crushing bone with a sickening sound. The dying gurgling from under the sack was drowned out by the hymn, which rose higher than ever as the carnifex screeched out some unintelligible words in an altered voice. The rag-draped limbs twitched a few times, then fell still.

The high priest tore out the daggers from the body, and once again its strength was such that the corpse was cast to the ground as the serrated edges turned its ribcage into bloody tatters. A dark, thick pool covered the altar; yet, inexplicably, it was growing smaller and smaller, though little of it dripped to the ground. A sharper look revealed the astounding cause of this marvel: the blood appeared to be seeping into the dark stone of the tablet, which drank it in hungrily as though it were alive.

Suddenly, the chanting ebbed and ceased, and the chamber feel eerily silent. There had been no visible signal, yet every cultist had stopped intoning the strange words at once, even as they had begun. The leader cast away the bloodied daggers and motioned with a hand, and four of the cloaked figures stepped forward. The first withdrew the folds of their clothing from one of their arms, and the wrist was revealed to be a handless stump; the other three stopped behind their comrade's back.

The insect mask nodded, then a gauntleted hand darted forward, and a brief burst of sharp, scrreching words rang through the air. A shadow seemed to pass over the dim light of the subterranean growths, engulfing all in the room for an invisible fragment of an instant. It was certain no time had passed, and, indeed, there had truly been no darknening; yet, when the guests regained their bearings, the scene before them had become unrecognisable.

Five figures still stood at the center of the chamber, but a nameless change had come over them. The high priest appeared to stand as tall and immobile as before, but the body under their robe seemed to have unnaturally swollen and struck by spasms. Something pulsing and amorphous beat beneath the clothing around the figure's stomach, and occasionally the outline of a sharp edge or spike could be seen through the fabric. Two of the supplicants who had stood behind were now on their knees, where they remained motionless. The third was nowhere to be seen, but a small cloud of yellow-grey smoke coiled and hovered where they had stood. One could have sworn that now and then the dim outlines of something much too large to be hidden by that fog emerged from it.

Yet the gazes of all were gathered upon the one who had held forward the mutilated wrist. The figure was now standing in its former place, and seemed slightly taller than before. It slowly turned away from the center and towards the stairs, as though it knew the visitors were there, and held up what had been a flat stump.

Now it was no more. Up until the wrist, the arm was that of a human; yet upwards from it began something hideous. A hairy, viciously sharp pincer had appeared in the stead of the missing appendage. It was covered in some sort of foul-seeming carapace, and black ichor oozed from it. But worst of all, it clearly was alive. It twitched and snapped at the air, gnashing and grinding with a horrid noise. Its bearer kept it aloft for a few moments, then lowered it and stepped aside without a sound.

The gathering seemed to be finished. The insect-priest and the cultists with the iron masks disappeared into the tunnel, and the others began to file away up the stairs, the one healed by that abominable miracle among them, without exchanging as much as a word. The strange cloud and the uncertain shapes within it had vanished.

Last of his kin left in the chamber, the acolyte who had guided the Axohar and Ephememite into this den of horrors looked at his guests through his inexpressive wooden visage, as though he were expecting something due to him.
The Axohar gives prompt reply:
''That was fun.''

''...What exactly were we just witness to?''

"The heart of the world has beaten" came the voice from behind the mask.

The cloaked figure turned in silence and was gone in the shadows of the stairway.

The far north east, the Concillo union, land of the downtrodden outside its most northern fortress Norsal an old enemy moved once again.
For the last five years the region had been unusually calm, after that massive firework in the sky and the battle for the triskellion, no one had made any real ventures into the former empire of Zul, the realm falling apart after its vaunted lord was vanquished by his successor, Kraam.

The task had been more difficult than he imagined, who knew there was such a thing as logistics? He had heard Zul mention it, sure, but to do it himself was a whole different thing entirely.
The massive fir forests of the lands covered in a layer of heavy snow, the sun shining on the forest making it shimmer lightly. Unusually mild for the region.
That was to change very soon.

For Kraam had not been idle the last five years, the bloodied had lost many in the battle of triskellion, and even more in the ritual that followed. A lot of the time had went into going to tribes of minotaurs, to bring them the news of Zul's death and to ask them to send warriors to join the bloodied. The first time in their histories someone had asked.
Usually forced or expected to, if warriors were not given, they were taken. Something Kraam wished to change.
Luckily for him, the minotaurs of the empire were warlike in their nature, many wanting power and thus, willingly joined the bloodied horde.
The bloodied now numbering over two hundred thousand warriors, most of them cursed minotaurs with massive cleavers. First one, then two, then dozens followed by hundreds began to walk out from the forest tree line, forming a sea of warriors that just kept on coming. They marched with lazy but typical heavy footfalls.

A roar echoed from the forest, a purple lightning bolt going into the cloudless sky and seemingly impacting on nothing, the energy of the bolt formed a dark cloud, which expanded and began to swirl. It grew rapidly and the roiling dark clouds signaled the arrival of the bloodied as they reached over the fortress of Norsal. The defenders inside scurrying to prepare for something, this was highly unusual and many had never seen anything like it.
The entire region now covered in a swirling dark sky with lightning which danced across its uneven forms as some of it shot down and struck trees, buildings and towers.
As a great thunder echoed over the region, the entire bloodied host began to chant in unison.
Kraam, Kraam, KRAAM KRAAM KRAAM!!!!

Another massive thunder roiled, with a lightning strike cleaving the biggest tree outside the Norsal fortress. Falling in two parts to either side, bearing its splintered innards.
And with that, the rain began.
As the defenders realized, many were horrified, some were simply spooked. As the sky rained blood which congealed on the ground and everywhere it landed. Forming pools of stinking red goo.
The chanting now turned into a crescendo as the form of Kraam came out of the tree-line. Clad in blackened steel armour, wearing the red fists of Zul, wielding a massive black and red enchanted battleaxe in his right hand as he marched with motive and direction through his army which parted ways in from of him giving him and his elite bodyguard room.
He stopped on top of a massive boulder and basked in the chanting for a while until he slammed the butt of his axe into the rock with a strike which echoed through the area.
The entire war host became silent. Until Kraam spoke with a voice that boomed like the thunder above and could easily be heard for several miles.
-"I am the lord of the bloodied, manifest god of this land. I am KRAAM, god-eater foe-hammer!" This was followed by a massive roar of the bloodied. Ending only when Kraam struck the rock with the axe again with such force it cracked beneath it.

-"Your puny fortress is nothing against the bloodied war host! It is simple, give me all the loot and food in the fortress, and you live. Or we take it and sacrifice you all... to ME!" Kraam followed the last word with a roar which the entire host joined in on. The thunder in the sky seemingly also joining in and lightning rained from the heavens.

Now the answer awaits.

(Unfinished. Had to edit the post after Goldeagle's posts were retconned.)




The windswept plains of Ouroborasia are beset by dark clouds, their bleak and dominating presence in the sky engulfing the light and casting there the shadow of Uudhin... From afar the demon hordes moved in, holding aloft the hellish braziers and standards to represent the celestial Prince who made them. Sauntering, dragging, clawing, crawling in their myriads of unsightly and ghastly manifestations. Not quite animal, not quite man, and not quite natural even by the contorted standards of Materia. Their clamouring is heard far and wide as the spawn to the fore beat harsh drums, slam sinister gongs and blow on crude, screeching trumpets.

Tactician Kè; a commander of the Ghouls of Ouroborasia, who has been bred with the wit and guile to trample his enemies, addresses the rows of other prominent Ghouls that had gathered to him. Each of them look diverse enough that one would be hard-pressed to think they belong to the same vile race. They are the Tacticians Ghirjûn, Jauka, Eiyzayun and Glûstremm, standing before him. Each of them stoutly built, about the size of an adult man or longer, and of a superiour breed. Kè alone is the one that lacks any physical presence for he outwardly appears unseemingly sickly and gaunt, a plucked bird with an exposed ribcage and limp appendages of a man.



Kè speaks and hisses with harshly guttural sounds.

''Ioïnro kauteran ihzan dûrxa taan, lôhrung ranz...
Axoa Uudhi deikûr sîy reiyharx ung.''
Eiyzayun retorts.
''Ghaok taan lôhrunga razi âth Ourokûra...?''
And the other three seem to agree with him more than Kè, leaving the Ghoul tactician flustered and angry. Scolding at them.
''Tâk ath, ung Axoa deikûr Uudhi taan Uudhin! Cáarath! Baoth! Parokôk!''

''Axoa kâthar! Axoa dûyvil! Axoa kâthar! Axoa dûyvil! Axoa kâthar!''
The tacticians all cry in a hellish choir.

The other Ghouls that march and encircle the city of Iviragne seem to overhear and respond as if by instinct to the cry of Kè, and now screech the same choir in unison. Their tens of thousands of cries produce such a deafening wave of sound that the inhabitants of the city and the garrison manning the wall dread dearly what is to come. In the face of this multitude of foes and the hellish tumult they create, Justinian's voice is smothered utterly; reduced to the nothingness. For years Ouroborasia has been a dark and forsaken land, far removed and forgotten by the Pale Star of the West. Only the Red Stars of the Axohar Cohort grace the soil now. The lands where hope and daylight die.

Eventually from the northern hills resound the horns of the Human Opposition. And not a moment too soon. They are a fearsome Ouroborasian faction of warriors known as the Order of Rosemary. With speed they came to the defence of Iviragne to break the Ghoulish advance. They are led by general Krojan the Lumani, an esteemed Rosarian officer. Clad fully in crimson platemail from spiked-helmet to red sabaton, and always atop a mighty black stallion. The soldiers of the Order of Rosemary are perhaps the finest and most elite troops West Ouroborasia has to offer. Most battles of this Civil War that involved their banner resulted in Justinian victories. Even their horses seem to be of a larger and stronger breed than those employed by regular Ouroborasian cavalry.
They would not give up their homes and lands without a fight. Absolutely and under no condition not...

''Form ranks, and face the scum of the Red Pantheon!'' He roars from under his helmet with a thundering voice as he points his scabbard down the hills, where a thick layer of grey covers the valley with speckles stretching far into the southern hills. It is a layer that they will and must not tolerate.
''SIR!
HOO!-HA!'' The forces nigh him gave response. The Order of Rosemary wastes nor reserves even a second to launch their offensive. They are trained to lash out at anything anti-Justinian wherever they may perceive it, and with no quarter. With a fistful of steel and fire they charge down the hills screaming like maniacs. Infantry in the centre, cavalry at the sides. A red wave dawning onto the grey one. Beasts against monsters.
They know what is at stake -- their homes, their property, their sovereignty, their faith. But one thing they are less concerned about are their own lives; these warriors are fierce and do not fear death, never expecting to leave a battlefield alive or in one piece to begin with. Justinian will deliver them. With the aura of Krojan the Lumani at the helm of the army, they are committed to victory.

A depiction of Hell presents before the walls of Iviragne. The ghastly ghouls facing away from the city walls, the very vast majority of them unmounted and small creatures, were trampled by horses while the Gauntlet's infantry with their signature spiked maces strike out at the malformed heads and frames of the frontlining Axospawn.
The Ouroborasians struck hard, and mowed down many foes in the very first clash. However it appears Kè and the Ghoul tacticians deliberately placed their most worthless spawn at the edges of the legion to absorb the blow.

''ITLÛ RA CÁARATH OUROKÛRATH.'' hoarse shrieks came from the back of the ghoul army.

Serpentine warriors rush to the fore with long lances and stakes. With inhuman precision they aim the narrow and rigid ends straight into each chink and gap in the Gauntlet's breastplates. They begin the process of driving the Ouroborasians back, and some that are not paying attention are outright impaled by the deed of those creatures. This gives the maimed and dying Ghouls that were engaged previously the opportunity to retreat to safety behind the Serpentine cover. Some of them with missing and hewn legs crawling vainfully away from the Rosarians. As the Serpentine infantry go about their bloody and precise work, one very strong Ghoul holds a long stake on which he preternaturally impaled three dying Ouroborasians at once. He lifts it towards the dark clouds, the blood stained and bungling bodies of those three men hanging from it like a standard, bent on demoralizing the enemy by depicting classical Ghoul malice.
The Ouroborasians are hardly demoralized however. In fact, one of those hanging three men not yet dead begins screaming at the top of his lungs. ‘’JUSTICE BE DONE! JUSTICE BE DONE! JUSTICE BE DONE!’’ As he in vain holds the stake that pierces through his abdomen, trying to break it and free himself from it.
But, from on high a sharp rock crashes into his helmet; fracturing his skull. At last dealing to him the killing blow, and releasing him from the anxieties of this world. A flying fishghoul cast the rock at the poor man’s head for sport.

Drifting along the ominous clouds, more of those very same winged fish-like demons descend down to glide over the valley of Iviragne, each holding a heavy, sharply chiselled rock. ‘’SCHRATTÔR RA!’’ One of them gurgles at his fellows, and they each drop the rocks into the valley, before retreating back into the clouds. A next line of flying Ghouls take their place, also holding rocks and casting them into the red formations. This is undoubtly part of tactician Kè’s machinations.
On the ground, meanwhile, the heavy impact of the rocks is tremendous enough that the uniform Rosarian helmet is not enough to protect their heads. Some of them are crushed by the heavy rock’s ridiculous velocity. Other humans orientate themselves to the skies and raise up their metal-coated shields, on which the rocks leave a large dent and a harsh 'CLANG!', yet otherwise do their job in keeping the wielder alive.

Krojan yells at the heavens in fury. ‘’Is that it?! Is that all you got?!’’ Before motioning to the Rosarian huntsmen that stand in long rows behind him.
‘’Shoot those curs down to the earth!
Fire at will!’’ The huntsmen raise their crossbows, their arrows ignited by a fiery spell attuned to the string, and open fire at the winged fish creatures that dance among the clouds. Unfortunately many are simply way too high up for the projectiles to reach them. Some, through a miracle or Justinian’s direct intervention do leave their mark however, and a few of those flying Ghouls tumble down to crash onto the crimson battlefield among the Ouroborasian ranks.

Others of those flying beasts were drifting closer over the battlefield, and seemingly for no purpose. Close enough that some of the Rosarian infantry attempted to use their long pikes to pry them from the air, which the creatures dodged gracefully. What Krojan did not know, however, is that the flying Ghouls are actually looking for him, or one like him. Kè specifically instructed them to find and eliminate the enemy commander and deal his army the decisive and fatal blow.
‘’Master Lumani! Look there! Watch out!’’
‘’BAOTH OUROKÛRA DEIKÛR!’’
General Krojan hears the unholy language of Axospawn from perilously close-by. He looks up. One of the flying Ghouls has indeed found him, and is now descending fast on him with high speed. Before Krojan knew what was happening he was tackled off his horse.
‘’GRAH!’’ He exclaims as the fish-like creature was using its long penetrating claws to grasp onto him, leaving dents in his armour and trying to bite at his throat.
The defiant general held his sword unsheathed at all times, and used the pommel to beat it away. But the creature is tenacious, and uses its claws to sink ever deeper through the chinks of his mail, and ever more frantically continues to chatter its jaws lined with many long teeth for a bite at the general’s exposed neck.
So instead, Krojan gives it steel! While holding the malformed head and jaws away from him with one hand, he used the other to drive his blade through its gaping mouth, felling it. The creature splutters and gurgles angrily, before loosening its grip and falling off. Its lifeless carcass rolls down the hill towards the backs of the fighting men.

A wicked cacophony consumes all the land. The shrill voices of dying humans, the screeching and taunts of Ghouls, the clatter of steel, the neighing of injured horses -- and whichever unsightly creatures Ghouls sometimes ride on.

A messenger runs up towards the general, who is being pulled back on his feet by his honour guard. ‘’Master Lumani, the deployed Saints have arrived from Holy Sacrosanctia itself.’’
‘’…Than our victory is still in reach. Bid them come forward to engage the demons pelting our men. Pronto!’’
‘’Yes sir!’’

Overhead, rays of light emerging from the Pale Star darted through the sky with such velocity that they seemed as though bolts of lightning. The glimpse of them was enough for those on the mortal coil of battle to understand that this was a divine intervention, and Uudhin’s officers knew it too as they frustratingly clenched their teeth.
The winged Ghouls that twirled in circles in the sky lost momentum. Realising just what foe was upon them, they immediately routed at the very sight as though this had been instilled into their very nature. A few of them however flew straight at them in a gambit of self-sacrifice and buy the other aerial flanks time for an orderly retreat. But the Saints would have none of it. The angelic Man charging at the front of the Sacrosanctian Squad yelled sonorously at the top of his lungs: ‘’Have at them and cast them down!’’ As he pointed his silver sword at the first bulging-eyed fish creature that that dashed towards him. The metal of the blade combusts into an intense flame that surpasses the boundaries of its sacred steel and bursts straight towards the opposing Ghoul, who was still many meters away. The ensuing flames obliterated the creature, as well as the one flying directly at its hind.
Eagles draped in light versus gaunt vultures emerging from night’s refuge in a desperate bid to scavenge on Justinian land. The swords of Justice itself has caught up to them at last.
EAGLES OF LIGHT AGAINST BATS OF NIGHT. FRIGHTENED AND UNADDAPTED. NOW WISHING ONLY TO WITHDRAW BACK TO THEIR CAVES.
---Describe the majesty of the Saints flying--
---Describe the leader of the Saints-- The leader of the Saint’s squadron is a formidable man, bald shaven and of a divinely inspired athletic posture. His name is Zenun, and his wings are perhaps the most radiant of them all.
Reacting promptly to Krojan’s command, Zenun shouts:
‘’ !!!!! ’’ As he lifts his flaming sword to ready the charge.

Down the hill, additional fresh Serpentine units point to them their pikes to intercept the new attacking wave. Both the Ghoul formation and the Rosarian infantry previously engaging them have been badly bloodied at this point, and fatigue is setting in. Though to the mind of the Ghoul tacticians; seeing that the Serpentine unit has been successfully the last time, surely they will be so again. However as Zenun charges, the tattoos on his face and body begin to flare up as if responding to his zeal and fiery temper. The marks covering his body shine so radiantly that the light passes through his breastplate and clothing and into the opposing army. And not just Zenun; the other Executioners too seem to bring back Justinian’s light to Ouroborasia… surprisingly literally. Both the Ouroborasians and the Ghouls are astonished, as something as this certainly has not happened prior.
The serpentine phalanx is blinded; they try to concentrate for the interception but to no avail. Thus the Executioners easily bypass their pikes and slam their maces into their skulls. The Executioners break through the pike formation, and any Ghoul that tries to fight back is blinded. Some try to block their attacks – to no avail. Or even land a blow of their own? The creatures can’t even see them. One by one they falter to the sound of Zenun’s inane laughter. It appears the man himself is not even aware what is happening to him, or why the Ghouls can resist him so poorly. But Zenun is already too far gone either way.
Tactician Eiyzayun who oversees the Serpentine unit is dumbfounded to their magic or stratagem. He hisses in frustration to his cohort. Yet he too is blinded.
‘’Ourokûrath itlu deibaoth….
Xajtan! Xajtan pûrgatora!’’
His cohort comprising of tall carp-headed Ghouls are ordered to engage the radiant Executioners. However the creatures feel reluctant to enter a battle where the enemy can’t even be perceived to their bulging fishy eyes. They are only coerced to attack when Eiyzayun starts whipping them with an iron chain. They dashed off into the bright light to their unseen fate. Eiyzayun tries to see them off, but the nauseous light caused him to turn away. Only a moment later the light will come for him, too. The tactician was too distracted to see a Sacrosanctian Saint descending down at him, with burning sword held forwards. Eiyzayun is struck through where his lungs are – or would have been if his creation had not been marred by a Red God’s disdain for mortals. With purifying flame consuming his tarnished soul, he lets loose a terrible and humiliated shriek of fury, before Eidzayun is no more.
His death causes a major opening in the Ghoulish legion. The commissars of Eiyzayun’s battalions each react differently to the strange radiant tattoos of the Executioners, as well as the death of their commander. The Ghouls waver. With some of them already breaking off from the main force as others make a desperate suicide charge to wear the enemy down. Even the winged fishghoul among the clouds, who continue to hail down heavy rocks, can only do so much to silence Zenun’s rampage.

General Krojan, re-adjusting himself back in the saddle of his black steed, notices the discord in the Uudhinite legion in response to the presence of the Saints, and calls for the next push. ‘’ADVANCE! Break through and obliterate!’’
‘’HOO-HA!’’ The heavy Rosarian warriors respond with manly deeds, smashing deeper into the lightly armoured Ghoul infantry. Many Ghouls at this point are already withdrawing towards the southern hills and swamps.

Meanwhile Tactician Kè is taking matters into his own hands by rallying the warriors under him to reform, and brace for a second charge. The fighting is still fierce and ongoing, the Ghouls being defiant to maintain the blockade on Iviragne. However their forces are losing ground fast. He recalls the troops encircling the walls of Iviragne to first deal with the Order of Rosemary on the field. Kè orders the Ghoulish archery to open constant fire into the radiant light and quell whatever rage goes amok in there, while sending a Flying ghoul away to relay a message to the other legions for back-up. He is determined to salvage the battle from the clutches of disgrace.
However something happens he did not anticipate; the garrison of Iviragne found the nerve to leave their posts and stations on the walls and instead come storming out of the gates, exposing themselves yet catching the Ghouls completely off guard! Even more fanatical men in red armour carrying red flags, swords and spiked maces to deal with. The demon horde is now beset from two sides; the front and the rear. And the burning white light stemming from the Executioner’s white marks is still not showing any sign of wearing off, even the other Ouroborasians have to steer clear of them. Kè’s dreams of domination are in tatters.

Begrudgingly he admits there is no more salvaging this battle for Uudhin. He screams at his nearby runners, a number of small Ghoul creatures with rodent like heads, but instead of hair covered in a layer of bristled feathers with proportionally very long and thin legs resembling human legs, though longer and thinner.
‘’*WITHDRAW! WITHDRAW! TELL ALL TACTICIANS TO WITHDRAW!’’ (In Ghoul)
The runners each respond with a mangled chirp and dive towards every direction, evading arrows and hail of fire as they navigate across the battlefield to relay Kè’s command to the commissars and tacticians.
Thus he calls for the full withdrawal of the Salten legion, effectively also lifting the siege of the city (which had barely begun at that point)… yet not before he yells at his enemies a menacing threat. Particularly directed at that self-righteous and pretentious Krojan and his wild little baboon Zenun.

‘’Axoa Uudhi deikûr…’’
OUROBORA-APOSTATES.. YOU HAVE WON THE BATTLE – YOU WILL NEVER WIN THE WAR.’’

Those were the last words he spoke before his oversized rat-mount rode off into the southern marshes, disappearing from sight. A good chunk of the army, frantically hastening off after him.

Victory.

The Ghouls were defeated, the march of the Demon Hordes on Ouroborasian soil, thwarted. Those that remained were either fighting to the death or in the process of routing, while the Rosarians clean the field. Those Ghouls that are too injured to desert the premises in time are shown no quarter for their crimes against the Ouroborasian Empire.

Euphoria fills the air as the bright light of the Executioners finally subsides, as though recognising the dispersion of the enemy. They have fulfilled their task, and may well have been the cause of this victory. Though a halfwit as Zenun deserving the credit for the Red Gauntet’s triumph is certainly not something General Krojan would tribute him with. That light – could it have been Justinian himself?
The general lifts his sword to the sky in triumph, exclaiming:
‘’O almighty Justinian, you who cannot be assailed, who cannot be deceived, to thee we give praise for delivering us!’’
The Rosarians, as well as the garrison and militia of Iviragne cheer to the sky in unison. ‘’JUSTICE BE DONE!’’

But the skies above are still dark and overcast. A running messenger runs towards Krojan.
‘’General Lumani! Grim tidings, master. The Ghouls… The Ghouls…’’
‘’Are slain and dead. This is a blow from which they will not soon recover.’’ The general answers with a harsh monotone voice.

‘’Your forces prevailed, yet not all divisions of the Order of Rosemary incurred Justinian’s favour as much as you did, o master. The cities of Fushaz, Mogilashi, Ballkuq and Bozhigrat have fallen to them.
Unspeakable cruelties are being inflicted on our brethren and countrymen, o master…’’

As it turned out, the Lumani division of the Order of Rosemary could respond only to one incursion at a time. Kè’s final threat proved correct; Krojan had won only a single battle this day. Hardly could his division deter the great entirety of the Uudhinite invasion.
Yet the Ouroborasian civil war has hardened Krojan enough to be accustomed to such grim setbacks. The initial shock for him lasted only a second, if even that. After minimal silence he gives prompt response. ‘’Then our work is not done. One by one we will retake the communes we lost.
Scribe!’’
‘’Sir.’’
‘’Send a missive to Grandmaster Rozarosu of our victory here. Request he approve the reinforcing of Iviragne’s garrison forces. Smoke out any Red Pantheon collaborators inside the city’s confines, too. In the meantime we will march to relieve the city of Fushaz, then Mogilashi, then Ballkuq and yes, then Bozhigrat. We will free them all from the clutches of the false gods. One by one. Sword by sword. So long the eye of the Pale Star is on us, we will never waver. By the Justinian’s own hallowed blade, mark my words.’’
‘’Yes sir. Indeed so sir.’’

‘’Justice be done!’’