The Emerald diplomatic expedition raced across the ashen landscape born by the ponding footfalls of two bestial ents. One shaped like a dire wolf carried two passengers clad in ironbark mail, while the the other grown in the likeness of a Fryper, a long thin beast whose feathers the ent had mimicked using leaves and petals, bore a lone passenger whose human esque appearance was absurdly detailed, so much so that it managed to break out of the uncanny valley that the Dryad’s often lingered in. He looked almost normal, where it not for his green complection. While at first glance it might be assumed this dryad was a diplomat in profession due to his civilian attire and immaculate mimicry he was in fact more akin to a combination of gardener and mouthpiece. The person who had actually come to speak with the emperor was cradled in his arms, a small clay pot holding a freshly cut twig from the Great Tree Yaval that had been magically grown so that it sprouted roots. Through this conduit the de facto leader of the Emerald Empire would be able to speak with the master of Lynn-Naraksh almost directly, Emperor to Emperor.

They carried with them gifts, a tradition adopted from the Shenra nobles they had replaced, to present to the emperor as thanks for receiving them. An amulet that when activated would form a protective barrier of wind around the wearer, a number of scrolls writen by Selzona The Cold on the topic of the ice witch school of magic and finally a sword made of polished bronze that was inlaid with amber runes along its length that made the blade incredibly aerodynamic, sliding effortlessly through air, water and flesh alike, while also reinforcing the corrosion proof metal. This blade had a twin that had been dropped into the ocean, along with a stone tablet, as the ship carrying the party across the bay of lights, in order to inform and appease the elusive merfolk that lived beneath about increased amount of naval traffic their waters were about to experience.

The ash had not subsided. Since they had left the icy hills behind, the landscape around them had grown akin to a vast, charred wound upon the earth, here and there bleeding through in scalding pools of molten rock. Aside from the occasional clutch of huddled shacks, rare crowds of indistinct, lanky figures pointing at them as they passed and the distant rumbling of some great burrowing beast, the dark plains had been barren of life. The only motion over them was that of billowing clouds of ash. It was not content with stifling the soil, but rose up as grasping, amorphous hands to choke the already grim, steely sky, sometimes without so much as a breath of wind to stir it. Nor were there any other shapes to break the monotony of the waste, save for gnarled crags and ridges, and mounds that inexplicably called to mind the thought of barrow tombs.

Of late, signs had begun to appear that they were nearing their goal. Though the land remained ever as desolate, and the ash as ubiquitous, the villages crouching in gulches and vales had been growing larger and more numerous, and the silhouettes of turreted fortresses could now and then be glimpsed over the horizon. There were more of the vague figures here, even in places apparently far from any settlement; while many were just as lean and ragged as those they had seen before, others were noticeably bulkier - some robed, others glinting with the sheen of armour in the feeble rays of the pale sun. Once, they thought they saw an imposing shape with eyes that were points of red flame, but it had vanished as soon as they knew it was not a jutting rock.

Yet the sparse towns did not seem to be giving way to larger cities, and the strongholds remained ever as distant. It was thus a surprise when, seemingly out of nowhere, the outlines of a vast wall, surmounted by pointed towers wove itself from the dusk far ahead. It was immense, appearing to rival some of the isles of the Evergreen archipelago; its grey stone walls, still stading manifestly robust despite their age being evident, met the gaze as an even circle stretching to the sides of the coarsely paved road to the point that the wastes behind them could not be seen, even from hundreds of paces away. Sturdy six-sided turrets rose from them at even stretches, crowned with pyres whose smoke coiled up to join the ash in the heavens. Beyond it, higher yet spires stood to match the wraithly, winding black pillars, casting their creeping shadow like rapacious fingers stretching towards the travellers as they approached.

The darkened road led to a wide gate awning in the otherwise featureless colossal work of masonry. By the fancy of a long-deceased architect, it had been carved to resemble the hungry maw of some titanic monstrosity. Stone spikes hung from its archway like rows of bestial teeth, and its hinges were laboured to resemble tusks with sharp, twisting ends.

In the shade of this petrified mouth stood a loose troop of figures leaning on staves, or else against the wall itself. Upon seeing the Emerald envoys drawing near, they stood upright and grasped their staves, which could then be seen to be spears. The figures themselves were clad in steel and black cloth, their faces covered by helms and their chests emblazoned with the sign of the Three Eyes. The foremost, whose trappings were somewhat more ornate than the rest, called out in a hoarse, worn voice tinged by metal: "Halt! Who goes?"

The two ents slowed their pace before halted some distance from the guards, at which point the mouthpiece responded: “Envoys from the Emerald Empire, we have come seeking an audience with the Emperor of Lynn-Naraksh.”

The guards' leader remained still for a moment, perhaps scrutinising the group from beneath the helm, then stepped aside, motioning for others to do the same. Before the delegation, the road now ran straight forward, flanked by rows of ponderous stone buildings with forbidding square facades, until it disappeared into ashen mist. There, towering over the haze, rose the points and arches of the Throne proper, the fortress among fortresses, resting on the land like the baleful hand of a shade that has lingered there since the ages of myth.



After dealing with the empire's bureaucracy and scheduling for what the rather easily bored dryads felt like was forever they were eventually shown into the throne room. The mouthpiece went in first, plant pot wrapped in one arm, the other hand gently pressed to the bonsai Yaval. He was flanked by the two armored warriors, one male one female, and followed by the two ents who ended up laying down on either side of the dryad congregation whenever they stopped moving.

Though the only stairways they had travelled over had led upwards, the chamber in which they found themselves eerily resembled a crypt, albeit one fit for the corpses of giants. It was as long as a corridor, and its walls rose to a high, vaulted ceiling, decorated with sculptures of gnashing gargoyles and less describable horrors perching overhead as if poised to pounce down at any moment. There was not a single window over all their extension. The only light in the hall came from large three-legged braziers and torches nested in bronze receptacles, whose uneven, flickering light played hideously on the carven monsters above and the scarcely less menacing living occupants.

To both sides of the room, arrayed along the walls in what seemed to be no particular order, stood the finest of all Lynn-Naraksh. Most were figures in heavy suits of plate, adorned to various extents with spines, horns, blades and sinister though arcane etched crests and insignas. Many of the warriors were leaning their hands on a weapon, be it vicious flammards, immense longswords or flanged maces with jagged edges. None had their head uncovered, being crowned with helms as diverse as the rest of their persons; some had spots of crimson light glimmering behind the recesses of their visors where their eyes ought to have been.

Scattered among them were figures wearing the green and black robes of the Order of the Divines, emblazoned with the Three Eyes on their right shoulders. They likewise were faceless, hoods casting their eyes into shadow while masks of dark fabric, blank save for their webbed mouthpieces, clung to their features. This gave their heads an unpleasant similarity to the squamous, long-limbed Kuraxxi that crouched in places in the curious manner of the bog-folk. Their own one-eyed heads were at least bare, though those who saw them often found themselves wishing it were not so. Nor were the distorted snarls of the few hulking Vurogg any more pleasing to the eye, which instinctively slid away to avoid their bloodshot glares.

At the further end of the chamber rose a dais which alone was higher than most of the court's heads, and upon it was a throne of blackened metal which might have been mithril. At its right hand loomed a shape so imposing that, had it even descended to the floor of the hall, the Vurogg themselves would have been dwarfed. It was less of an armoured giant than a statue cast in steel, the flame-like edges of its plates covering most of its joints in such a manner as to create the illusion it truly was no less than a monolith. The mere handle of its sword hung above the throne's back, and its face, spotted with circular holes in an arrangement that suggested a spider-like multitude of eyes, was the highest light in the room, blazing as though the heart of a volcano had been imprisoned behind it.

By contrast, the one that sat upon the throne was little taller than most humans, and indeed likely less so than several of the ironclad courtiers. Its own suit of plate was the plainest in the hall, seeming to be somewhat crudely and haphazardly assembled from asymmetrical and badly matched segments. It was unclear how even it could have stood up, as one of its knees was held in place by a protruding misshapen greave. Yet, when one's gaze came to rest upon it, the mismatched motley that was its body faded from attention into a formless blur at the edge of the eye. All that remained in the focus was the gaping darkness beneath a grated visor that should have revealed a portion of the face below, and the twin cold, red embers that smouldered in it with unfeeling intent, shedding not the least light.

The Emperor, for it could be none other, raised a clawed gauntlet in silence, motioning for the envoys to speak.

The entire presentation, from the hungering maw of an entrance to the city itself, the rows of gargoyles and faceless statues of former rulers and champions had its intended effect on the treekin, leaving them both unnerved and intimidated. From their island seat far to the north Yaval, safely detached from affairs as always, considered it all a rather overblown show of power. At the Emperor's signal the mouthpiece stepped forwards and, listening carefully to Yaval for instructio, spoke:

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice Emperor. Through this vessel I, Yaval, once again speak for the Trees.”

There was a brief pause as the mouthpiece gathered Yaval’s thoughts before continuing.

“Our common neighbour and enemy, the empire of Matatharan, has finally launched the invasion of our lands that they have been preparing for for so long. We are hoping that we might gain your assistance in turning their invasion attempt into an unmitigated disaster. Such a blow would benefit us both, a weakened Matathran is ripe for exploitation or counter invasion that can put a stop their incessant meddling in our lands and make us both more powerful in the process. With the rest of the Serene nations distracted by the Lynnfair civil war there has never been a better time to cripple their wayward daughter as she has just given us justification to do so with little diplomatic ramification.”

The Emperor's gaze, which had been fixed upon the herald as it had spoken, wandered briefly over the Trees' delegation, then swept aside to the ranks of the courtiers. The metallic hand rose again, this time pointing sideways and beckoning to someone among the lines. Immediately, one of the masked priests detached themselves from the wall and hurried up the dais and to the throne's left side with long, rustling steps. There, it bent down to the side of the Emperor's helm and whispered something rapid and indistinct. The steel-clad figure nodded, then bored its gaze into the speaker once again, and spoke.

"You honor our court with your plight, Yaval." His voice was exemplarily free of accent, yet still strangely distorted. It was as though boulders ground against one another in some distant subterranean vault, and their echoes reverberated through the interior of an iron chest. "And your speech rings true. Yet I hold a truth that is its better."

While he spoke, the priest had been going through sweeping ritual hand gestures, crimson sparks flaring up now and then at the tips of their fingers. Upon what seemed to be the final, sharp motion, clouds of black smoke suddenly gushed forth from the torches and braziers. They wound their way through the air and up to the dais, where they wove themselves into a crude, yet recognisable ethereal replica of a map of Northern Askor, hovering in front of the conjurer.

"To take Matathran by force of arms would be a long and bloody way. You doubtless know this." The Emperor continued. A wave of bright sparks rose from the wispy mass that represented Lynn-Naraksh and leapt into its northern neighbour, only to be extinguished. More appeared, and more were swallowed. Again. And again.

"To merely weaken her would not be enough. Only the subjugation of every inch of land would quell her danger. And that we can accomplish without striking a single blow. Not through conquest, but through - union. I shall dispatch heralds to bear the skhä Andromakhe" - he seemed to struggle with the foreign name - "a command to seek lasting peace with your spawn, and a bid of binding covenant. If she accepts, you shall be relieved of her aggression. If not, our swords will be with you."

The warring clouds of smoke extinguished their last flickers and flowed into each other, coalescing into a single body. Three lights reminiscent of eyes briefly flared up in its midst before fading.

This was most certainly not what the great tree had been expecting to hear and they were taken off guard as a result, the mouthpiece looking confused as he received no instruction for how to respond. There were few secrets in the dreaming, and the news of this plan poured out into first the island courts where it was immediately picked up and debated by the Trees. It was clear they had stumbled into something that had been planned long before their arrival, a plan that they were, frankly, lucky to be considered a potential partner in. An alliance between their two most powerful neighbours was a dangerous prospect if not managed carefully. It might guarantee victory today, but in the future either they or the humans’ offspring might change their minds and turn on the Dreaming Forest, now stronger than ever. This method also did not result in any gains for the Emerald Empire, at least not directly. If they had any control over the plan it would one needing years of careful deliberation, but they were not in control and did not have that time. They would either have to join or risk losing a potential ally. Worse, the plan was sure to go ahead without them, and should it succeed the danger Yaval saw in the future would instead be a danger of the present.

“We see the wisdom of your plan, the chance that your envoys might lead her away from her armies or stall her invasion would be a great boon to us, as it would give additional time for us to prepare and gather allies.”

Yaval then briefly paused to attempt to shape their concerns into a more diplomatic format. If her speaker could sweat he would be doing so profusely, the atmosphere and displays of casual power were getting to him. Yavals steady presence was all that was allowing him to speak with complete calm and clarity.

“But we are unsure, due to our lack of insight, of the likelihood of her considering this, let alone accepting. We would be most grateful if you could tell us what you believe the odds of such a union coming to pass so that we could factor it into our continued efforts. As would the time frame of your messengers journey so that we can let them through any blocades we set up to deprive the Matathrans of logistical support from their home cities”

Despite being largely hidden from sight by the fragmented nimbus of smoke, the priest standing near the throne had evidently heard the ambassador's words clearly enough, for once again they leaned near to the Emperor's helm and began to whisper, without waiting for a signal from him. Having waited for the adjunct to finish speaking, the armoured figure nodded again before replying.

"The heralds shall depart in but a few days' time, and their arrival to the war-front should not be long delayed. You will, beyond a doubt, recognise them when they arrive."

There followed a pause, during which the lights of the Emperor's eyes seemed to grow slightly narrower, as if in thought.

"The success of our proposal is uncertain, I admit. Andromakhe is known for being temperamental, and many here doubt her advisors could sway her any." There was a rustling of hoods and scraping of plates as multiple courtiers around the hall nodded their assent. "Yet we have the might of our armies and the greatness of our demesnes to speak for us. Denying to consider this would be an error no one who has ever ruled more than a patch of dirt could make. Hard though Matathran's heads might be, they should be clear enough to know that making enemies of us both at once would be fatal."

Just then, a bright blue spark crackled in the spot on the swirling map corresponding to the Frozen Cliffs.

"What concerns me more is your old foe. Shenra. Matathran seems to be sworn to aid them. Even if the boldest of our attempts succeeded, we could not risk pushing them to abandon this pact. I hear they are fond of damning oathbreakers. Our heralds will reach the Summit, in time, but without the fear of our blades behind them their words will be worth little. If you will take my advice, use the reprieve we win you to stoke your own terror in that wretched motley. Show yourselves stronger than you are. Poison their resolve. Perhaps this will mollify them enough to listen."

Again the Dreaming forest took a few moments to consider. A union based primarily on threat is not stable, this much was believed to be clear by the Forest. The question is what the emperor believed they could acquire from the union while it lasted. By this time what was being discussed had reached the Treekin, and the children of the forest, bred for war, were generally outraged that should this peace persist, that they would be denied vengeance. Some attempts to placate or suppress this sentiment were made, but for the most part it was tolerated, many of the Trees sharing a less bloodthirsty rendition of their sentiment, that the deaths of their kin could not go unrepaid. Both for both sentimental and because it made them look weak if it looked like they had to sue for peace immediately.

“They would indeed be fools to stand against us with only a single insignificant ally. As for the rump of the Kingdom of Shenra, we shall divert some incoming forces up into the mountains to begin raiding to see if we can lure the Queen back to her now under defended homeland. This does of course reduce the number of forces capable of slowing the Matathran advance, but that is a price worth paying if it guarantees your support."

While they were all not entirely happy about the prospects of the potential union of their two most powerful neighbours, it was better to play a part of it that be left out of the dance. Thus the Forest moved forwards to seal the deal.

“As a token of our appreciation of your willingness to work with us and in celebration of our mutual pledges of support we would like to present you with these gifts.”

The blade, amulet and scrolls were presented for the Emperor's appraisal by the two warriors. They were not bribes, as while they represented significant value individually the three alone nowhere near enough to sway an empire, but were instead a symbolic addition of weight to the agreement, to represent that all that had been said here were not simply words that could be forgotten or ignored.

At a wave of the Emperor's hand, the smoke simulacrum dispersed into fading shreds, and the priest who had conjured it descended, in the same hurried paces as before, from the dais and crossed the chamber, disappearing behind the heavy panels of its doors. Moments later, a group of figures clad in loose mail and thick black fabric covering the entirety of their bodies emerged from them. Like the guards who had stood sentinel at the gates of the city, and of whom the treekin had met numerous more on their way to the palace, they bore the imperial device of Lynn-Naraksh on their chests, and donned masks similar to those of the clerics, albeit less elaborate in design.

The servants, if such they were, approached the dryads holding out their offerings and relieved them of the latter with quiet bows, after which they distributed the objects after an order unknown to the ambassadors. The scrolls and amulet were given to two of the cloaked prelates who stood closest to the throne and disappeared into the folds of their vestments, while the sword was reverentially handed to the Emperor himself.

Dismissing the masked figures with a curt motion of the head, the construct of discordant plates raised the blade to his eyes, held it briefly up, admiring its engravings, then lowered it to the side of the throne, without, however, releasing his hold of it. His faintly distorted voice rang out once more, this time, it seemed, ever so slightly louder.

"You have the gratitude of Lynn-Naraksh. Let it be known that you have also not found its generosity lacking."

As if on cue, the doors, which had just closed after the last of the servitors, swung open again, ushering in four of the black adjutants. They carried between them a large, evidently heavy iron-studded chest, which they set down before the Emerald Empire's delegation. One of the bearers pulled up its lid, revealing it to be full of a fine grey dust, and explained in a muffled voice: "What best alchemy can make of our all."

"We hope this will be of use in softening the blow you were dealt by Matathran." Though the Emperor could not possibly have heard the shrouded figure's words, his rejoinder was nothing if not timely. "Narakshi ash is a boon on the fields. The strength in this may suffice for a grove."

Meanwhile, another group was approaching from the door. Three Kuraxxi loped towards the dryads, one carrying a vial full of a murky fluid and the other two a strange translucent sack, containing several large round forms, whose gelatinous consistency made it uncomfortably resemble some unearthly creature's stomach. Those were deposited on top of the chest, and one of the nearby clerics leaned in to describe them better than the bog-folk's inarticulate hissing would have. "Mire-deep poison. Be careful with it. Deadly, but easy to concoct with this sample. Eggs of-" one of the Kuraxxi spluttered something - "marsh-stone-tooth-beast. Deadly, also, and even easier to breed."

The chest and the bads on top were carefully accepted and then even more carefully given to the ent to cary, vine and root wrapping securely around the items to secure them, binding them in a cushioned cocoon for safe transport.

“You honor us with your generosity Emperor. We shall find great use for them I assure you”

While the warbeasts where a boon that would mature at a later date, the ash and poison could be used now. The mysterious staff that had been delivered to them in the north had been transported to the Crinwaley grove, and there the Dreaming Forest had restarted the experiments in ernest. To fight a new enemy, new weapons of war needed to be grown. This poison could well provide the basis for one line of exploration, joining several others ether inspired by the recent battle or pulled out of the mental archives. But for what the Trees truly desired, what they truly required, they would need to take from the Matathrans themselves.

"Finally we would like to suggest that some of these Treekin stay within your capital, in order to facilitate future coordination between our empires."

The unaccountably dark demi-visored helm reclined, without, however, letting the gaze of the burning eyes drop from the ambassadors.

"They are welcome to put roots by the Throne should they wish. Light is scarce in these lands, but they will not lack for anything it is within my power to provide. Be it in its own domain or beyond the sea, Lynn-Naraksh will never abandon the blood of Yaval."

The mandates of its errand exhausted, it was not long before the delegation from the Emerald Empire retired, having exchanged the perfunctory words of parting. For some moments after their steps had faded beyond the doors, the assembled courtiers remained in their places, exchanging low remarks with each other; then, they began to drift about the hall. The hooded priests gathered in small clutches, calling to each other in muffled whispers and heading out of the chamber together; the monstrous people of the West followed suit. The armoured warriors, sheathing their weapons, either began to file towards the throne or assembled in a circle around the cleric who had received the scrolls, seemingly engaged in discussion concerning who would study them first.

Upon the dais, the Emperor, who was still holding the runed sword gifted by the treekin, raised it again and handed it to a Lord whose armour was marked by an axe-like insigna on the shoulder, pointing at the blade. As the new bearer of the weapon strode away, the mountain of fire and metal at the seat's right, who had not shown any sign of being alive at all during the entire colloquy, finally spoke in what was less of a voice than the coarsely modulated roar of a blaze.

"Will they bleed Shenra dry?"

"That would be for the best." The Emperor did not turn towards the giant as he replied, instead gazing with narrowed eyes at the flames in a brazier across the room. "But they could not even if they put all their strength to it, not with Matathran, and Andromakhe, there. The last blow will be ours."

"Send Nugrark there, Lord. No one will know."

"They will. You think too highly of that beast, I told you. But you are right in this, we will need it soon, and another..."

A blade-tipped, metallic finger beckoned to the assembled warriors.

"Send word to Khvoral to leave on the morrow, and summons to Nugrark, wherever it is. And convoke-"

Only those who knew the Emperor well distinctly heard the note of distaste creeping into his voice as he spoke the words that followed. But, though there was no answer, the surprise in the eyes of all as they heard them would have been clear to anyone.

In the molten wasteland of craggy rocks and spires of metal, a young traveler stared wide eye at what stood before him. Under the curling clouds of smoke, in organization along a cracked plain of stone, an army of impossible length and width stood still.

Or well, an army of stone. As far as the young Lynn-Narakshian could see, nondescript soldier-statues carved out of stone stood, their faces blank and their bodies androgynous. Smoothed from their stony bodies were the details of incredible well designed armors, petrified like the rest of the statues. Their weapons also of stone frozen in scabbards of rock or hewn directly onto them in place of hands. As statues do, not one moved, not one lived.

As the adventurer approached the army, he found himself scared, the statues towering over him, Who could have carved this? He wondered, his boots brushing through layers of stone dust, sanded from the masterpiece. Upon inspection of one of the statues he noticed it glowed a blood red wherever he hovered his hand over, but he dare not touch it in case it was hot. As he hand passed by the face, he jumped in surprise as it took the form of his own, if only briefly. After a few more hours of cautious inspection and wonder, he decided it was about time he return home to tell his tale.

A collab with @Terminal

Lichtenburg Province, Vlaanburg Electorates

Elector Lucien shuffled his way down the hall, a burgundy cloak trailing behind him. He made no great haste to reach his destination, instead adopting a meandering pace, muttering to himself all the while. His gnarled hands were tucked behind his back, which stooped slightly with age. Many things were on his mind, staring down the Matathran representative being foremost. Lucien, like most Vlaanburgers, had no great love for the Empire. Understandable, given the threatening posture it held next to its smaller neighbor. Yet Matathran was keeping itself busy to the west, and that afforded the Electorates some sliver of relief. That they had sent one of their own in attempt to cut one last deal could mean they either had wrapped up their invasion of the Emerald Empire and were turning a hungry eye southwards, or they had met difficulty and now looked to what they hoped would be a softer target.

The previous talks with this Marshal had outlined Matathran's core intent in Vlaanburg. It was the following meetings that were supposed to establish compromises and discuss details, but so far, little consensus was reached - besides the fact Lucien's peers were adamantly against any sort of concession. He understood them - Vlaanburg had been under the yoke of an empire once, and it had cast it off in a bid for independence. Now that it had it, it wasn't a prize it would hand over lightly.

The Elector stepped through a doorway ahead, held open by a pair of guards, and entered the chamber where Electors Marek and Holger were already seated. They turned and gave him a greeting of weary looks and he hurried to his seat with a sheepish gait.

Not some time later, Marshal Fenex Quarnabrand arrived. Despite having been sent as a diplomat, it was clear that his position was one of militant rank, for even his formal ceremonial garb included armor. Brass armor, with pewter and electrum filigree and details, tailored to him and molded to resemble a statue-chiseled physique. He wore a tunic of rich, red silk fabric with golden trimming, and much like Lucien he wore a trailing cape, albeit one of tan coloration and the addition of fur worn over and across the shoulders. The least ostentatious part of his ensemble was his weapon, by all appearances a plain and simple shortsword with a rudimentary wooden sheath.

A wooden sheath with dozens of intentionally made hatch-marks down one side.

The man himself was a human beyond his golden years, with a bald skullcap, but stubbornly continued to grow the rim of hair that remained to him, which fell down in faded grey strands around his dark face, with tell-tale, distinctive orange eyes that betrayed Sun-Elf ancestry somewhere down the line. His motions had a certain trimness to them, the kind of efficiency of motion gained from years of marching in formation for days on end. The left side of his neck was starkly missing shallow chunks from it, which the Marshal used as an ice-breaker with almost everyone he introduced himself to, as Lucien himself had found.

"An Agate unsettled my helmet and scraped a claw a little too close during the war with the councils. I am fortunate it had already spent all of its venom on others from my platoon."

"Electors, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice." He greeted the three as he entered, striding to the opposite side of the rectangular meeting table, stopping just beside his chair without sitting down. "I'll get straight to the point. At the morn of this very week, I received a missive from Marshal Garderome, who was tasked with overseeing one of the armies deployed to engage the border forces of the Emerald Empire. Before anything further is said, I would like to read its contents to you, which I think will prove more helpful than any other way I might summarize matters." He retrieved the aforementioned letter from a long pouch hanging from his belt, a broken wax seal still attached to the top, unfolded it, and read it aloud in a clear and pronounced tone, if perhaps somewhat slower than was strictly necessary.

"Marshal, it pleases me to inform you that the Line of Dreaming Groves along the Emerald-Matathran border are no more. Our siegeworks reduced the entirety of the forests across the whole length to nothing; the soldiery and locals have already taken to referring to the stretch as the Wall of Ash. No serious causualties were sustained during the conflict; the enemy forces concentrated themselves to pierce the heart of the Empress' vanguard and eliminate her in an all-or-nothing charge. They were slaughtered without quarter, and amongst their number were many prominent Emerald Empire figures of note, including Lastern the Magnificent, Lord Enzar, Nyranda the Serpent, and Saberath the Mad. The Fortress of Cher was razed, and not one stone nor branch remains atop the other. The Fortress of Merken, which was protected by a warding spell, suffered a catastrophic arcane mishap, resulting in the entire structure being encased in a solid dome of unmelting ice which refuses to be channeled. Our allies within the forces of Shenra say it is nigh-certain everyone within perished as a result."

Fenex paused for a moment and glanced over the edge of the letter, as if to check the Electors' immediate reactions before carrying on. Marek's thick brows were furrowed, chin resting on his hands. Likewise, Holger's thin lips were tucked in a frown and he crossed his arms in front of his short torso. Both of them were contemplating the ruin Fenex described, Lucien knew. Neither man had been easy to budge, in his lifetime of knowing them. It was clear to them that Fenex was tugging at their fears - that if they refused Matathran, it could be any of them meeting the same fate as Lord Enzar, or Saberath. Marek snorted, drawing Lucien's attention. The taller vampire leaned forward, eyes narrow.

"You do not frighten me, Marshal," he rumbled. "Matathran may have felled some trees, but our roots here in Vlaanburg grow deeper."

"You will find Vlaanburger pikes more resolute than some talking plants," Holger added to the side.

"Gentlemen, please," Lucien sighed. He ran a bony finger along his temple, scowling. "Matathran's action against the Emerald Empire is impressive. Your soldiers are very... thorough. All the same, the Emerald Empire has never had to toil for its very existence until now. We are no strangers to bloodshed here."

"That's right!" Holger chimed in. "In spite of your threats, the electorates will never yield their independence for a foreign whip."

"It is my hope that your exemplary resolves need not be tested." Fenex said curtly, before raising the letter once more and resuming his recitation.

"Our forces are expected to seize Emway, which is only lightly fortified and without supporting Groves, before the week's end. The march along the Northern road is expected to take longer due to campaigns of harassment, but it is nonetheless expected that Dreichport will have been seized before the next full moon has risen. There remains no significant opposition which can halt the advance of our armies within the Glacial Marshes, and our efforts have now been augmented by..." Fenex paused for a moment, then lowered the letter briefly to smile apologetically at the three Electors. "Do Pardon me, Electors, I must omit that brief detail out of discretion." He turned his attention back to the letter. "...and as such, the Emerald Empire is not expected to receive noteworthy reinforcement by way of the Bay of Lights. For these very reasons, the Empress expects to depart the Eastern theater sooner rather than later, and will seek to engage in the Southern theater with due haste. As such, you are hereby advised that you have until the Empress returns to Matathran to secure an accord with the Electorate states of Lichtenburg, Gerlinden, and Brent. Be advised, the brief campaign thus far has permitted the Pyrulen Auxiliaries to hammer out many of the failings and shortfalls of our siege implements and that those positioned at the ready in the Sea of Slate are already in the process of being improved, and this is expected to entail a momentary delay in proceedings even after the Empress arrives. As you are likely well aware however, she will by that point be disinclined to accept any form of concession unless it is already awaiting her upon the moment of her return, and I implore you to not delay in your efforts on account of anything you might hear from other missives you receive."

Fenex then folded the parchment and replaced it in his pouch before finally pulling out his chair at the rectangular chair and seating himself.

"I have already spoken with all three of you regarding the possible sale or assimiliation of your respective provinces. You have all refused my offers, for which I neither blame you nor hold you insensate. Your resolves and your fortitude are to be commended, and none may find any fault with your prior decisions. I have been granted broad and liberal authority to bargain and compromise with you as necessary, and it is here where I implore you to listen carefully. I do not want war between our peoples. I do not desire for our forces to have to clash with each other. I do not desire for Matathran to have to wage war with any of the electorate states, nor to upbraid any of their people. Nobody amongst the Imperial Administration wants to have to fight you. Nobody amongst the Imperial Trident wants to have to fight you. Even the Empress, Andromache herself, has no desire to levy battle against you or your people, nor to spill your blood and raze your holdings. She wills that the land between the mountains and the coast must be hers, but to resort to force of arms is to be our very last resort if all other measures fail." He paused emphatically.

"But if, by the next full moon, we cannot reach an accord - that is what will happen. The time I have spent in your fair and noble states has shown me their inherent worth and value. Your peoples, your noble lines, your culture and ways, all deserve to exist. They are exemplary holdings of civilized society and life, and it would a profound, immeasurable loss if the Empress were forced to reduce every last petty scrap and parcel to ground, slaughtering all who dwell within, tearing down and destroying all in her way before rebulding from nothing as pleases her."

The abrupt turn in Fenex' speech from emploring to overtly menacing had been performed on the head of a pin.

"You compliment, plead and threaten in the same speech," Marek said. "Make up your mind, Marshal. If nobody in Matathran wanted to wage war, then we wouldn't be having this discussion. As it is, your 'empress' simply cannot be content with what she has. How long until she turns her eye to the next prize, all so eager to spill blood - both of her countrymen and her enemies'? We have made it clear earlier that we'd be more than willing to allow Matathran to conduct trade and maritime operations from our ports, giving it access to the sea it so desires. But even this is not enough - our entire provinces must be made into Matathran puppets to sate your empress's thirst." Marek let out a long sigh and laid his hands on the table. "Gerlinden will not relinquish its land."

"Nor will Brent," Holger added. "Andromache, for all this talk of not wanting to wage war, has shown she is all too eager to do so."

Lucien looked to his peers, both of them unyielding. That was no great surprise. He, too, shared their conviction. But the way Fenex had put it - ''...our efforts have now been augmented by..." - left a sour taste. Finally, he looked up and addressed the Marshal.

"Marshal Fenex," you neglect to reveal the nature of your 'trump card,' if you will. I can understand, obviously, from your perspective, but if you're trying to intimidate us, won't you at least try a little harder?"

"You misinterpret me, Elector." Fenex said, not unkindly. "My words are not those of a man seeking to intimidate his enemy. Mine are the words of a desperate man. You have made me...very desparate. What I say is not formulated to threaten or terrorize, what I say is a recitation of the facts as I understand them. One of those facts being that all we need - the only thing we need-" He raised a single finger up in illustration. "Is to deliver some form of accord before the Empress to placate her. Nearly anything will suffice. Which is why we are here. My staff has worked nonstop the last several nights to devise the most conciliatory accord it is within my power to pursue - and it is from there I am willing to negotiate further. I will grant additional concessions atop what has been devised by them, though I imagine it will cost me greatly upon my return for my leniency, if the accord is nonetheless accepted, the personal cost to myself will be..." He paused for a moment, a peculiar look crossing his face. "...satisfactory. So all I ask now, is that you listen."

"The only thing, it seems, that will placate her are the broken bodies of Vlaanburgers and a strip of our land," Lucien said with a grimace. "But go ahead, Marshal. Indulge us." The other electors gave him strange glances, but he answered with a tiny concilatory gesture with his hand, accompanied by a soft clicking sound from his throat and nodded to Fenex. The other vampires' expressions seemed to soften afterwards.

"All of you have said that your people will never willingly know the lash of the whip, that your peoples are united in a multitude of ways and will not be willingly riven. It is possible to accomodate those factors. What I propose is this - rather than a sale or assimilation of your regions, that instead a provisional dual authority is arranged over a period of years we might determine soon, with the eventual goal of regional consignment. It would start simply with the arrival of members of the Imperial Administration who would attend your courts and familiarize themselves with your lands and peoples. Then, it would progress over time. The Administrators would begin assuming official duties and positions. The local lords and nobility, should they choose to remain, would be assignated categorical blood-caste designations suitable for their rank, which would be hereditary in nature, but none of the people would undergo assignation at that time. Invigilators would attend the various townships and cities, instructing the peoples of how their way of life might look in time if they welcome assignation, in preparation of full consignment. This would allow for a natural migration of those amongst your people and your aristocracy to leave with sufficient time to move or otherwise dispose of their assets. Matathran would, naturally, pay for the full worth of a region in recompense. Over time, more of the local rule will be supplanted by the Imperial Administration, and over time, provisional laws of the Empre of Matathran would be enacted, first merely on an observational basis, to only be enforced in actuality upon full consignment. It would even be possible, pending possible discussion between you and the Archon, for each region to retain their status of indepedent states, ruled in fact by either you or suitable replacements under the authority of your blood-caste assignation, even if it would be understood that the laws would be those of Matathran."

"In this way, none who do not wish to live in our ways or to be ruled in our own fashion, will have adequate time to depart and will be given due compensation and recourse for the effort. It would be understood that Matathran would eventually assume control over the consigned regions, however many years the transition might take - a period of time I am prepared to be generous with - and their culture, their way of life, may be preserved. Even your nobility need not fear, for even under the new body of laws they would retain their status and much, if not all, of their influence and power on a hereditary basis."

"That - is the furthest reach of what I am permitted to negotiate. It is from there I am willing to grant additional concessions and compromise - but only if you think you can accept what you have heard. I know that even the thought of pursuing this course might seem repulsive and repugnant to all of you, but I prithee to contemplate the alternative. It is entirely possible your stalwart pikes may dissuade the Empress and our armies. It is entirely possible you could stave us off. It is entirely possible you have nothing to fear of our arms and intentions. But I beseech you now, with the most serious of gravity, to contemplate even if only for the fleetest of moments - that you could be mistaken in this. And I beg you to consider my proposition, if only so that nobody must have to chance even the risk that they might lose everything."

The Marshal sat back in his chair finally, followed by a series of deep inhalations. He had not been breathing in the last few moments as he spoke.

Lucien was silent for a time, stewing in his chair under the gazes of Fenex and his fellow electors. Finally, he spoke.

"So Matathran still takes our lands from us, albeit at a pace of decades. No, I do not see how we can agree to this," he said. Marek and Holger nodded eagerly, but Lucien continued. "Unless Andromache sees fit to grant our electorates imperial immediacy. That is to say, special privileges not due your typical Matathran province. For one, the electorates shall be free from the authority of local Matathran lords and administration, instead under the immediate authority of Andromache herself. We reserve the right to collect our own taxes, conduct our own trade, negotiate international treaties, mint coins, raise soldiery and conduct our own legal proceedings."

Marek gave Lucien an incredulous look, to which the old vampire responded with a barely-preceptible twitch of his hand and that same clicking noise.

"In this way, we - the electors - will continue to govern our provinces without suffocating under your caste system and your invigilators. As you say, it would be a tragedy to lose our 'fair and noble states.' You can understand our reluctance to give them up. Under this imperial immediacy, our electorates shall conduct themselves in Andromache's name, but on Vlaanburger terms. She can draw her banner over us on her maps, for all it's worth. She can send all the ships from our ports as she likes. But this is the only way she will do so."

"Yet you would swear fealty to her and obey her decrees, issued to you independently of the remainder of Matathran?" Fenex inquired.

"Correct," Lucien said, curtly. "No hoops to jump through. No long chains of command. No meddling invigilators. Just Andromache and the Electors."

"And I imagine the threat of breaking your oaths, forswearing her decrees, and revolting would deter her from mandating an analogue to Invigilators locally." Fenex elaborated.

"However she wishes to interpret it," Lucien replied, settling back into his chair. "Now quick - what do you say to the terms? Will you relay this to Matathran or not?"

"I will relay it if you can furnish me with some form of seizen, collateral, or surety that you will obey the Empress in fact, not just in name." Fenex answered. "Given the inherent bias, I cannot present an offer without substance or good faith. And if I am to present an offering of your veracity, it must be of the sort that can convince the Empress, not just me. It need not be egregious - even a token will do, as long as it is dear. You will retain your independence, and that will be assured, but the interests of the Empress authority must be assured their due."

"Rest assured, Marshal, I have something in mind that I hope will please her. I ask your patience while it is... procured, in the meantime. You will have it long before your deadline."

Fenex' entire form seemed to stiffen. "I am not going to inquire after your ambiguity, Elector, but I hope you forgive me for saying that sounds unduly ominous."

A raspy laugh escaped the vampire's lips and set of daggerlike fangs glimmered in the candlelight. "As they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth, Marshal."

The Marshal nodded thoughtfully, once, before standing. "Very well. I understand that you will need to bring this matter before the Archon before finalizing your decision - and I imagine you three are all in agreement upon this matter?" He turned his gaze to Marek and Holger.

The Electors shared a look and Lucien gave them the barest indication of a nod, with a slight quiver of his lip. Slowly the pair of them nodded with slumped shoulders, looking more exhausted than anything. "We are."

Fenex nodded. "Then I suppose we should all retire, for the time being. You are all free to call upon me at any time to pursue further discussion of this matter."

"Likewise," Lucien replied, standing from his seat. "Make yourself comfortable in the meantime, Marshal. Do ask if you need anything." With that, the Electors excused themselves from the room, leaving Fenex behind. As they trailed off, their voices mingled in a sharp, guttural tongue that Fenex did not recognize.

He retreated to his quarters, granted to him during his extended diplomatic visitation in Lichtenburg. There, he called upon several members of his immediate staff, as well as the guards that had accompanied them from Matathran.

"I have a message that must be relayed back to Grand Marshal Guiomar post-haste. There is a significant chance of interception. The contents are not sensitive, but it is nonetheless imperative that at least one copy reaches him - so copies must be sent by multiple runners and bird, and I want all of them to be escorted on their way out of the city." He said snappishly.

He then took a minute to write the message itself.

To Grand Marshal Egil Guiomar of the Imperial Trident,
Penned by the hand of Marshal Fenex Qaurnabrand, Envoy to the Vlaanburg Electorate States.

I have secured the promise of a provisional accord with the Electors of Lichtenburg, Gerlinden, and Brent. The accord itself, if formalized, will likely satisfy the Empress'. However, due to its very nature, I am unable to determine whether it is offered with due earnestness. There exists the possibility that the Electors are stalling for time, or mounting a preemptive effort. I advise you to Forbid all non-sanctioned traffic into Matathran from the Electorate states for the time being until more has been discerned, and I further advise you to direct additional eyes and ears to the Imperial-Electorate border. I will contact you again when presented with an adequate rendition of the formal agreement, confirmed by the Archon.

He handed the message over to one of the by-now anxious aides, the assembled party having watched him write with some fervor with a stern expression on his face. "Copy that and get all of them sent." He snapped. They rushed to comply.

Soon, the message departed the city - by bird, an ordinary footman courier, and by a warbreed courier. The guards that accompanied them held aloft a tunnel-lantern in the early dark, and relayed a flash-message to unseen agents outside the city that a communique was being relayed and to expect it, and to inquire if it should not arrive.

Elizabeth kills a Vitium official on William's behest instead, same exact kinda deal, different target. RIP this amazing post.

Southern Tarkiman Wilderness

Tarkima, a primal and untamed realm filled with savage beasts and barbarian clans, all trapped within an endless cycle of violence and survival, none personify this then Mornog the Horned Troll, an seemingly ageless beast that has roamed lands for centuries, searching endlessly for prey to satiate his bottomless hunger.

-------------------------

Hunger. Hunt. Hunger. Hunt.

These words repeat over and over within the simple mind of this towering beast as it lumbered along the breezy grasslands, smaller creatures fleeing the unnatural troll as it pursed its small prey.

Hunger. Hunt. Hunger. Hunt

Mornog's presence wouldn't be so easily ignored, for the past week, a small Brakor War Party had followed the Horned Troll, with the hopes of being the select warriors to finally put an end to the beast of legend. From afar in a nearby forest, a band of thirty warriors hid and waited as Mornog lumbered on through the fields, the leader of the band, a young blond human, crept further ahead, slowly raising his clenched fist as he he order his men to remain still till he gave the signal, this was it, today was the day the beast dies, to free Tarkima of Mornog's reign of terror.

With his confidence high, the War Party leader lowered his fist and pulled out a battle horn, blowing with all his might as the booming sound of battle rang in the air. The warriors sharply stood up and charge from the forest, letting out their battle cry as Mornog took notice, his new prey foolishly displaying themselves for the picking.

Letting his his deafing roar, the troll answered their challenge and charged forth. Within mere moments, they clashed, the war party scattering to evade the beast's stomp, several of which were slow to react as Mornog crushed them beneath his heels. "Bring it down!" A warrior cried out as he readied his spear as tossed it towards Mornog, the tip of the spear barely piercing the hardened troll flesh.

Several more spears flew in the air, all bouncing off. "Damnation!" One of them cried out, before being fling halfway across the grass fields from one swing from Mornog's claw, all the while, a few more warriors were quickly consumed by the beast.

"No...No.." The war party leader mumbled, this was to be his moment, his heroic tale to be told to children for ages to come, this was to be his fable, his dream... all of it shattered. It won't end like this, he won't allow it to be so, by the grace of the Gods, he will slay the Troll.

With one last battle cry, he charged towards Mornog, lunging his axe onto the hide, blood seeping out from the wound like a river as he climbed up the back of the beast, all the while, Mornog let out another deafening roar, the pain too much to simply ignore. No matter how much Mornog thrashed and swung, the warrior held on as he climbed his way near the neck, where he prepared to make his final strike to end it all. "Back to the foul pit with you Mornog!" The warrior cried out as readied to swing....however, his body had weakened, his grip was loosened as Mornog tossed one last time, shaking off the poor warrior as he flew against one of the trees from the forest, his body battered, bloodied and broken, but barely alive nonetheless. His defeat had broken the remainder of his war party as they fled in terror.

Mornog, out of malicious spite, stomped over and simply observed the dying warrior, coughing out blood and teeth shards as he looked up at the troll, his eyes filled with a rage typical of a tarkiman warrior, but remained helpless and was at death's door. "Go ahead...foul beast..end it..." he said weakly as he lost consciousness.

With that, Mornog grabbed the now lifeless body, and consumed it. After a bloody, yet brief skirmish, and a successful hunt....Mornog still felt the hunger pains...the hunt must go on...Hunt. Hunger. Hunt. Hunger.

He continued his hunt, moving further south, beyond the boundaries of the Tarkiman Clans, setting his sights on the Emerald Empire.

Black water lapped at the stone docks of Yarlene. The air was chilly despite it being spring, and the city was deathly silent. The iron smell of blood still lingered, as did Elizabeth. She stood near the edge of the stone harbor, staring out at the endless ocean before her. There was no wind.

She pulled her robes tight against her, her body shaking, even if it wasn’t truly cold. She stood swaying from foot to foot, anxious and riddled with guilt, her eyes wide and engaged in an unending stare. The water began to ripple and her eyes fell to it. A hand reached out from the water, and her blood froze. She stared in fear as the palm slapped the stone. Slowly another hand reached up and soon a figure was pulling itself from the water.

The form swayed, as if exhausted but managed to stand in front of her, water dripping off waterlogged leather. Elizabeth’s eyes softened from fear, to another emotion as the figure’s face was revealed in the tower light.

“[unnamed other guy!]!” She yelped, dashing to embrace the man. The man simply stood in place as she gripped him. Tears began to fall on her cheeks, rolling off her chin, and finally getting lost in the puddle forming below. She blubbered apologies, slowly finding herself out of breath. She heaved, weeping now, sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, [dude]. I didn’t mean to! I just couldn’t have you following me.” She cried, “I’m sorry [guy], I’m so sorry.”

“It was an accident. It was just supposed to be the sail. It was just supposed to be the sail.” She closed her eyes, sucking in a breath, “I’m so sorry.”

She held [person] from her, her face stained red and twisted with worry and guilt, “say something!” She demanded between tears.

[The man] simply stared at her, the same look of shock and hurt on his face as the moment she had stunned him, accidentally dooming the ship, “say something!” She shook him gently.

Suddenly Bro’s face began to melt, a bright flame engulfing his body, and Elizabeth let go in shock. The stench clung to her nose and her ears retreated at the hollow words that broke from the man’s shrinking lips, “why.”

The fire leapt, catching her robe, and just as she felt it burn her eyelids away, unable to take her gaze from the melting broski, she sprung out of bed.

She was sucking in large gulps of air, having stopped breathing in her sleep. Her body was drenched in sweat, and dark rings dominated her eyes. She was alone. A small fire crackled in the corner of her tavern room. She had chosen a room in the city, unable to bring herself to the Inn on the outskirts. She had burned her robes, and ever her clothes underneath, pawning her knife for a new outfit of simple wool pants and tunic, both an undyed white as well as a new cloak: a peasant’s charcoal-tinged-grey. Her tall boots had already caused a ring of salt to form around the knee of her pants, and if she imagined really hard, it was like she was a new person.

But she knew she wasn’t. Despite washing her face countless times, and scrubbing her skin red, she was still the same. She stared in the polished brass mirror as she got dressed, a look of horror ever present in her eyes. She was afraid to blink, afraid of what face she might see under her eyelids. It was over though, at least in one way, that is what she kept telling herself. Tribal’s curse forever rang in her head, however, fueling a desire to run far away.

Fate was in one way on her side. Instead of having to travel all the way to Drouschester to report her success, Sir Thompson had come to her in Yarlene. Apparently the Duke had lost the diet and refused to give in, plunging the civil war into outright rebellion. This dragged the Duke far away from his holdings, and at first word of it, brought anxiety to Elizabeth’s heart, only to be relieved with word from Sir Thompson.

The dawn has just began to crack the sky, and she knew she had to gather what resolve she had remaining, if only to finish this last stretch of her quest. She tucked what money she had left in a shoulder swung leather bag and put her cloak on over it. Strapping her many buckled boots on, she made her way downstairs. She shielded her face from everyone’s view by tossing her hood up, and without as much as a glance, she bypassed the early alcoholics and exited out onto the streets of Yarlene.

Among the abnormally large blocks and buildings of yore, Elizabeth hurried down the streets. She passed carts, horses, entire herds of merchants and people, her mind stinging her with guilt at the sight of each married couple, her thoughts on Canam’s wife. A few people would smile at her as she walked by, and she would attempt to smile back, but she knew it mattered little. The custom was more instinct than politeness, her face obscured by her hood. Elizabeth hurried past countless hawking vendors, the smell of fresh cider nearly making her sick. She cut corners and rode the winding streets, every turn seeing either Canam’s disappointed face, Tribal’s sneer, or the long stare of Feldis in the shadows. Her gut buckled and she hurried her stride.

Eventually she found herself in front of an old stone building, used primarily for dock administration. She quickly pushed through the heavy oaken doors and into the lobby. It was surreal to her, how calm everything was, how orderly everyone was. The lobby held a few sleeping sailors propped up in wooden seats, and a very bored looking dock hag behind a thick stone desk.

Elizabeth approached the desk and withdrew her hood, the hag looking up at her with disgust. Elizabeth flinched at the woman’s stare, she couldn’t possibly know.

“Yes?” The hag’s long raspy and drawn out voice brought Elizabeth back to reality. Elizabeth gulped and slipped her a small paper card, her appointment written on it and stamped by the city bureau, “I have an appointment with the Sir in office four.”

The hag grunted and handed the card back, “Left door, straight to the end.”

Elizabeth nodded a shallow thanks and hurried through the specified door, and cut through the dim stone hallway to the end. Soon she found herself nearly pressed up against a formidable wooden door, strapped with a single iron band across the middle. Painted on it in a Lynnfairish blue was the letter four. Elizabeth felt her stomach flutter as she reached for the knob, forgetting to knock entirely.

Slowly the door creaked open inwards and she stepped into the office. A single tall window lit the room with what morning sun made it this far down in the strange stone city, bouncing off glass reflectors similar to the ones on the ship. She twisted uneasily at the sight of them, but her attention was soon stolen by a cough.

She turned. The room was dominated by a large and very ancient red rug, an ornately carved and burned desk on top of it, with rows of scrolls behind it on shelves, and a single elderly knight before it.

“Sir Thompson,” Elizabeth nodded her head.

Thompson nodded his, “Elizabeth. I’m sorry I couldn’t get a more regal meeting place, but I’m afraid being the personal knight of a rebel doesn’t have much pull in a loyalist city, besides, our friend was more than happy to lend it to me for the day, much to the pain of impatient sailors I’m sure.”

His chuckle slowly faded as he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, “right,” he straightened his tone, “down to business as it were.”

“[The guy you wanted dead] is dead,” Elizabeth said flatly, her voice only quivering as she continued, “all witnesses are dead.”

“Splendid!” Thompson did not match her somber tone, “I am not going to lie, when William first suggested this task for you, I was very worried it would be a bit too much for a nun.”

“I haven’t been a nun for a long time,” Elizabeth answered, “this was just another task, same as all the others.”

“Right,” Thompson scratched his chin, “I suppose you want to see him now.”

“It is the only reason I’m here,” Elizabeth looked up from the floor, her worried eyes burning into Thompson, “he is here!? Right?”

Thompson held up a hand, “truth be told, William didn’t want to turn him in, give him up. He would go on about how you are much too valuable to lose-”

“Where is he?” Elizabeth screamed, desperation in her voice, and mist spilling out.

Thompson held up both his hands, “William was against it, but I keep my promises miss Elizabeth. He is here, safe, and entirely yours. Although I do suggest for the sake of all three of us, you leave.”

“I intend to,” Elizabeth began looking over her shoulder.

“I mean Lynnfaire,” Thompson replied, “without your nephew, and without being able to hold it over your head, I’m afraid you are now more of a threat to William than a prize. He would surely be done with me too if he knew I was letting him go, so you can imagine how insistent I am that you leave this very day.”

Elizabeth’s heart flipped, “I don’t care, just show me where he is.”

“I need you to promi-”

“Yes, yes!” Elizabeth growled, her threat laced with sadness, the whine of a mother long lost from her children, “just tell me!!”

“You will find him in office twelve,” Thompson said simply.

Elizabeth turned to leave and the knights voice caught her as she was about to step out, “it’s been a couple years, just remember that.”

Elizabeth’s fist clenched and she made her way back into the hall. It has been a couple years, for her Nephew at least. She had the opportunity to watch him grow from a distance, a chance to see him from a cliff top after every task she completed, the promise of him being returned to her always being alluded at but never granted. She almost didn’t believe Thompson would give him to her, she expected nothing to be in office twelve, nothing but the edge of a cliff, her only surviving family member playing unaware in the distant meadows, William’s archers trained on him should she have tried to steal him back. He never knew, and though the arrows never flew, she felt their bodkins spear her heart every time.

She had done many things for him, endured many sins and abuses towards her own self, and served just as many, even before William. She had done it reluctantly, the tasks starting small, her dignity barely being chipped at, until she was exposed, the tasks endless and cruel, her own self being exploited as much as her abilities, all for her nephew, all for everything she had left. The days of the cloister, the days of her big and happy family were long gone. As much as Upper Kamwell was first her hearth and home, it was now a graveyard, lost in a chevauchee, and Drouschester was her prison, William the warden and her nephew the key to her cell.

She remembered the day she lost everything, her family, her faith. And she remembered the day she lost her nephew, and as much as she hoped being reunited with him would have felt like the best day of her life since the start of her misery, she couldn’t help but notice the stone in her stomach. On top of her imprisonment she now found herself cuffed with a new sentence, a new guilt, and a new name: murderer, killer, and while this was not a new title that she reluctantly bore, she now felt the weight of the epitaph added to the end, destroyer of the only two men to show her kindness in many years, a man of family, and a man cut in youth.

Elizabeth stopped in front of office twelve, the numbers painted in the colors of Serenity, the irony not lost on the ex-nun. She slowly opened the door, her eyes were closed, afraid of what she might see. But then she heard it, “Auntie?”

Tears began to well down her cheeks, barely being able to open her eyes to see the blurry image of her nephew before her, the spitting image of her brother when they were kids. Elizabeth lost her strength and buckled to her knees, her nephew rushing up to hug her. She embraced him tightly, “Arthur,” she whispered to him.

“To Vlaanburg then? Maybe Osetina?” Thompson’s elder voice called behind her, and she felt a smile she didn’t know that was on her face fade away, “Osetina,” she lied.

“Your boat leaves in three hours.”

Elizabeth paled, “No boats.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Thompson shook his head, “it has no cargo.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth lied again, “I’ll see that we are ready.”

She stood, a wet stain of tears on her sandy haired nephews tunic, his eyes worried but a soft child’s smile on his face. Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and tugged him behind her, the boy trying to keep pace with Elizabeth, the woman nearly in a jog.

“It was nice doin-” Thompson’s voice faded as she quickly made her way through the doors and out the building, the sun hitting her face. Quietly she looked down at Arthur, just to make sure he was real. Arthur stared back up at her.
Elizabeth smiled, “you must be six by now,” she asked.

“And a half,” Arthur corrected her, causing an unseen pain in her stomach.

“And a half,” Elizabeth parroted, looking out into the crowd of the city, her gaze falling on a stagecoach.

She looked back down at Arthur, “do you want to visit Vlaanburg with Auntie?”

“Yes.”



It had been weeks since the diet of Rownstetaine, and much of Lynnfaire had changed. William had parked an impressive amount of chargers and knights near Kamwell during the diet week, giving him a powerful force to raid the old country almost immediately. His charges seemed unstoppable, and rumors circulated quickly about how someone who resembled the Raven Lord was often seen by him in public, coincidentally around the same time as Edith's disappearance.

The first few encounters the newly coronated Abigail had found herself outmaneuvered, and only by the grace of her newfound abilities has she managed to save herself and her army. No matter where she expected William to be, he was always elsewhere, towns laid wasted in his wrath. Only recently had she managed to force his army from the cities and larger towns of Kamwell, bringing him back closer to Jannerton, her support in Upper Kamwell thankful untouched by the war.

For days Abigail had been chasing William's army down, and for days she had been catching up to him only in the nick of time to save the countryside, everywhere else being in flames. She had fought in the front of every battle atop a speckled horse, and in every battle it is said she had grown more confident, cutting swathes of enemies down, and capturing noble knights with her powerful mist.

Confidence grew upon the loyalists as Abigail's generalship improved, and her martial prowess sowed faith in each battle, her words lighting the flame of eagerness to crush the rebellion. Slowly by slowly she had grown in image to her soldiers and constituents, and songs have begun to be written.

As he had promised, Vorren recently crossed the border with his personal army to assist her endeavors. News of their impending arrival had given Abigail even more hope against the odds for the past handful of weeks. With Vorren's army reinforcing her own, William would crumble against the might of both Lynnfairish cavalry and Vlaanburger pike.

But even with the announcement of the Archbishop of Oliria pending arrival, Abigail refused to leave the front lines or slow down her pursuit, intent on giving the Archbishop the comforts and fanfare of his arrival on the front lines. In reality she spared no expense as far as what she could provide on the borders of war, but it was lackluster compared to a palace parade.

The camp guards decorated themselves, and faithful symbols were strewn about the camp, a few knights picked out to parade the Archbishop to the war tent, and extra meat was bought from local hamlets for the single day feast.

The visit was to be brief, but the chance at a friendly talk was well welcomed by the Queen, she herself giving up her comfiest tent chair for the holy man, even be it a simple wicker chair with a sewn on pillow.

The Oliran delegation was a diverse one. First was the Archbishop, Locian of Tacraif. Extremely young for a man of his position, he had graduated from the University of Tacraif and published a series of essays and dissertations which became widely distributed around the Serenist world. With him were members of the Order of Laghad, an order which the Archbishop had once been imprisoned alongside in Freishann. Starkly contrasting with them were a rugged handful of Taisafirin; mercenary warriors which dotted Olira's landscape.

As he waited to enter her tent, Locian stood still, hands pressed against his staff and eyes shut, deep in thought. The mercenaries by his side looked at the young bishop with inquisitive eyes, but knew better than to say anything. The missionaries with them were looking around at the preparations the camp had made, and were quite impressed; not only was it good for a war camp, but what had become of their homeland due to the hurricane made this camp seem like a palatial complex. Suddenly, the Archbishop opened his eyes, and looked to the Lynnfarish knights at the doorway, calmly stating, "I am ready," as they opened the tent, and he entered.

The interior of the tent was plain, the walls striped in typical Lynfairish passion. The Queen had clearly waved off the luxuries some nobles brought with them on campaigns in favor of a light and quick moving tent, the only furnishings being a light wooden desk by a thin mattress, a plain wardrobe, and a small square table with several seats. As the Archbishop entered the area, his eyes quickly adjusted to the brazier light, complimented by what sun soaked through the white stripes of the canvas, his company was barred from entering, leaving him the sole visitor to the Queen's tent.

Inside he quickly spotted Abigail, herself dressed in an off white gambeson, her chain and plate displayed on a stand by the wardrobe. Despite her disarmed appearance she looked as if she were to spring to her armor and ride off to battle at any moment, the sword of Halwende strapped to her hip, the golden sheath replaced with a more pragmatic one of black leather. Despite being bigger than an arming sword, the hand and a half size of Halwende's blade seemed at home on her belt, as if it always belonged.

A glint of a sword hilt directed Locian's eye to the other side of the tent, where Vorren sat atop a trunk. He might not even have noticed him otherwise; the Archon was dressed in black trousers and arming doublet, obscuring him in the tent's shadow. The vampire stood up from his resting place as Locian entered and gave him a nod of respect.

The Archbishop nodded back at the Archon, somewhat disturbed by its presence, before he turned back to Abigail, and gave her a warm smile as he approached. Despite his youthful appearance, his staff was far from mere decoration, as he walked with an obvious limp, dressed in a basic robe and a beard adorning his face. Giving Abigail a deep bow, he began speaking.

"Your majesty," said the clergyman, gripping his staff tightly while his knees shook, his head maintaining the bow.

"An honor to have you here, your holiness," Abigail smiled and waved off his bow, "and you know my Fiancee, First Among Equals Vorren, Archon of Vlaanburg."

"A pleasure," Vorren chimed in.

Struggling a minute to regain his stance, the Archbishop turned back to the Archon, realizing his mistake, and gave a short bow, the first clearly having tired his bones. "My apologies, Archon." Turning his attention back to Abigail, he motioned to the chairs at the table. "Er...may I seat myself, your highness? Though my injuries have long healed, the privations of recent affairs seem to have...revived old wounds." He looked embarrassedly between the two royals, their readiness for combat clearly contrasting with his apparent frailty.

"But of course, your holiness!' Abigail gestured to the seats, she herself waiting for the man to get comfortable before sitting in her own. After a moment she continued, "excuse my forwardness, but what brings the most holy man of Oliria to my battle tent?" Her tone was polite and curious.

"Yes, yes," said Locian as he sat back in the chair, regaining his strength. "Well, I firstly come to Lynnfaire to coordinate the facilitation of aid from the Serene Church in regards to the...recent weather patterns in my homeland. As for my visitation with your excellencies...I have brought correspondence from the High King of Olira. But first, I bear gifts." At this, he reached into his robe, and withdrew a package protected in a thick cloth covering, handing it to Abigail. As she unwrapped it, it revealed itself to be a large leather book, the cover reading Reflections of Nature in Lynnfarish. As she flipped through it, the borders were covered in intricate drawings of animals, plants, rivers, and other forces of nature, some fauna being common such as rabbits and fish, and some seemingly exotic, likely native to Olira.

"Why, this is lovely," she exclaimed, "I appreciate the gesture. I'm sorry to not have gotten you anything." She added as she soaked in the pictures and words underneath.

The Archbishop smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, it is Reflections of Nature, the texts which are at the center of my order's doctrine, the authorship of which is partially my own." He scratched his head sheepishly as he added, "I personally penned this copy, the only that exist in your language." Clearing his throat, he then said, "There is another gift I have brought with me...for the Archon of course," he lied, clearly not expecting the vampire to be present. "It is with my retinue, may they present it to...the first among equals?" He asked of the Archon.

"Just Archon," Vorren chuckled. "You honor me, Your Grace. I'll be honest; I wasn't expecting gifts."

"Of course, Archon. Well this gift is of the generosity of the High King." At this, one of the missionaries entered the tent, carrying in his hands something that was covered by a cloth. Placing it on the table, he revealed it to be a cage containing a strange and exotic creature, with large eyes that were adjusting to the light of the room, flickering triangular ears, a tail and a body clearly meant for climbing with monkey-like arms, and a beautiful spotted coat. "This, in my homeland, is called a puqa," said the Archbishop, nodding at the missionary to exit.

"A... puqa," Vorren echoed, dancing around the pronunciation. He bent down to the cage to get a better look at the oddity, hanging by the bars. Its eyes were swollen, big and black to take in as much light as they could find in the dark tent.

"It's a nocturnal animal?" he asked.

"Yes, primarily, although this individual has grown somewhat accustomed to the day. Er...they're quite rare now, their furs being of a high value. They eat fruits, nuts, and flesh, though tend to avoid heavier meats such as that of the cow or pig. Raw eggs are a preference of theirs, though shan't be consumed in a high quantity." The puqa stared back at the vampire, its head cocked as it sniffed at Vorren's air.

A delighted smile stretched across Abigail's face, one of her first in quite a while. Her eyes softened and she knelt to admire the creature. She hesitated sticking a finger to touch it's fur, "does the puqa bite?" Her pronunciation was only a hair better than Vorren's.

Locian winced as her hand touched its body, but grew perplexed as the creature nestled its head under her finger, and let out a soft purr. "Er...usually, yes...in fact it's quite odd that it isn't." He laughed. "This one was caught breaking into a chicken coop in Khasibuil. The farmers insisted on killing it and selling its fur, but the local parishioner offered a better price for it alive."

Abigail poked it gently, scritching it, "so I must ask, what has prompted all these gifts?"

Smirking, the archbishop reached into his robe and produced a sealed envelope, handing it to Abigail. "See it as a sort of...congratulation. And an outstretched hand from my country for future relations." The envelope seal was the head of a ram wearing a crown, and had been kept well guarded in its travel.

Abigail straightened up and gingerly took the letter from Locian. She slid a finger under the lip of the envelope, popping the seal open and scanning the contents.

To Queen Abigail d'Montigue of Lynnfaire, Duchess of Kamwell

I would like to congratulate you on your recent victories against the scourge which has divided your father's kingdom, and wish you good luck in your ongoing campaign. It is in my hopes that these words do not act only as an extended hand between two monarchs, but between our two peoples as well. It is because of this that I, HAD ARDRI, KING OF TALNOC AND ALL OLIRA, formally recognize you, ABIGAIL D'MONTIGUE OF LYNNFAIRE, DUCHESS OF KAMWELL, as QUEEN OF ALL LYNNFAIRE. Were it not for the weather and piracy currently taking hold of my nation, my support would go beyond mere letters and gifts.
Below are the signatures of all the Oliran kings, as well as the Archbishop for we stand united in this recognition.

Go in Serenity,

Had Ardri, King of Talnoc and all Olira
Serene Archbishop Locian of Olira

Below this were the signatures of all the minor kings of Olira.

Abigail folded the letter and nodded, "I really appreciate the gifts and the gesture, I can only see relations moving forward as always, thank you."

Beyond the Storm's End

As she placed her hand on the ruins of the house she once called home, Nadurtha felt a strange emptiness, a hole inside her others would fill with grief. She moved her caloused hands over the rubble, afraid to dig under it for fear of what memories may lay underneath. Behind her were two of the High King's men, her marines, standing at attention with shovels in hand. The admiral could smell a wetness lingering in the air, a tepid moisture tossed with a pinch of dust and wood. She stood up, and faced her men, giving them a nod, and they started digging.

"Nad-" A wooden basket clattered onto the floor. Looking up, Nadurtha saw the face of a distant memory, pale as a ghost and ghaunt from a lack of nourishment. Minnira's dress was speckled in mud, her eyes envious of the Admiral's sharp blue tunic and clean trousers. Were it not for the clouds in the sky, one could swear to see the welling of tears in both the womens' eyes.

---

The Girl

A bright and sunny sky hung high over the village of Sraid, and a young Nadurtha, only a child, ran to the main cluster of buildings in the village center, a deformed doll made of straw in her hand. Her mother insisted that she play with the girls of the village today, sewing together a doll and a dress for her so she could fit in. She didn't much understand her mother's reasoning, but the gifts made her happy, even if she did trip on her new dress, with spring soils splattered across the fabric by the time she came upon Minnira and the others.

"Hey Minni!" The children looked up from their toys to look up at the black-haired little girl who stood before them. The young Minnira grew bright red in her face, not responding at her addressal.

One of the other girls spoke up. "Why's your dress all dirty, Nadurtha?" Her face was filled with disgust, clutching her doll close to her chest to keep it away from the mongrel. Nadurtha clutched at the fabric embarrasedly.

"Oh...I tripped...sorry..." The girls started giggling as the blonde haired child looked away. Then they began to notice the doll in Nadurtha's hand.

"Ewww, what is that?" Another girl spoke up, disgusted by Nadurtha's choice in toys, and she instinctively hid it behind her back.

Nadurtha took a step back, sweating dripping down her face and tears beginning to well up in her eyes. She briefly locked eyes with Minnira, who shamefully and quickly broke her gaze, and the raven-haired girl darted away, followed by a cacophany of laughter.

---

The admiral swallowed hard. "Minni..." The ghost entered her face as well. "Hello." They stood awkwardly while words neither wished to say hung heavy in the air. Finally, Minnira broke the silence with her fingers running through her blond hair.

"I'm...sorry about your parents' house." Nadurtha nodded her thanks. The marines stood up from their work and faced the blond woman, but Nadurtha waved them off.

"I'm sorry about yours," the admiral replied, gesturing to the distant houses, fallen and flooded. "The rest of the king's men should arrive soon enough, help rebuild...how are your accomidations?" she asked, crossing her arms as the pale of her face slowly turned to a bright red. Some men who arrived ahead of Nadurtha had set up tents to house the villagers temporarily, the village having been wrecked, nearly at the eye of the storm.

Minnira averted her gaze, looking down at the wooden basket at her feet. "It's...we'll get by. Thank you." She looked up at the blade that hung on the admiral's hip, examining the wear and tear of the leather sheathe, while Nadurtha studied the lines of the villager's face. Sweat built up on her hands, and she chenched them into a fist.

"They had already passed," Minnira said, breaking the silence while she looked to the wreckage of the admiral's home.

"Hm?"

"Your...your parents. They had already passed, before the storm." Nadurtha nodded, grateful she didn't have to ask the question which had plagued her mind, and she turned, briskly walking away. "Wait...Nadi," the blonde woman called after her, but she didn't listen.

She went into the woods, waving off the marines who came after her, and went to where the dead of the village were layed to rest. Every family had a building where the urns of the dead were placed in order of the date of their death. A few new urns had been placed in many of these buildings, but Nadurtha ran to the one marked "Baile". Inside were the urns of her ancestors. the floor and walls dusty and the room dank. Finding the newest row of the deceased, she first looked to the urns of her parents. In between theirs and the ashes of her more distant ancestors lay a special urn, unique to those who died in combat. Kneeling down and rubbing of the dust, she saw the name of her brother: CURAD.

---

The Warrior

The child had changed out of the dress, now donning her usual trousers. She was standing by the creek, skipping stones on the babbling water while tears still leaked from her eyes, when suddenly she heard a voice behind her.

"You're getting better, kiddo," it spoke, the gruff voice immediately recognizable to the young girl. She flipped her head around and her face lit up, as she looked at the large figure of her older brother, whose heavy boots were stomping through the leaves of the forest floor.

"Curad!" She shouted. Nadurtha dropped her stones and rushed into his arms, and he squeezed her tight before he russled her hair.

"Haha, how's it going sis?" the Taisafir asked as he walked to the stream and began skipping stones with his younger sister. She didn't reply, and he could tell there was something off. "You know," he began, "You can skip them a lot farther if you didn't toss them so...angrily." She was still silent. "You want to talk about it?"

After a few moments of silence, the girl spoke up. "The girls...they were picking on me again."

"Ah," he responded, and he pursed his lips. He knew that she didn't get along with the other girls in the village, but their mother wanted her to wear dresses and such. Her doll was left laying on the floor, torn up in anger, and Curad frowned. "You want me to try talking to Ma?"

"No, she won't listen." They kept skipping stones in silence, before Nadurtha decided to speak up again. "Do you ever get picked on?" She asked her brother.

He chuckled, being reminded that his sister was only a child. It's hard to tell sometimes; she speaks with such authority and maturity, sometimes even he's been impressed by the girl's wisdom. "Nah, people tend to shut up when you've got a blade and you know how to use it," he responded, and he sat down, his wrists on his knees while the waters rushed by. Nadurtha sat next to him, and they watched the creek together.

"I wish I knew how to fight," she admitted, looking to the mercenary. He looked at her and smirked.

"You want me to teach you how?"


That night, while Nadurtha feigned slumber as children often do. Curad approached his father, busy carving a chunk of wood at a table under candlelight, and placed a bag of coins in front of him before taking a seat. The farmer looked at it and then to his son.

"What is this?"

"I was thinking you could fix up the fence...maybe even buy a new Karkadann." He smiled at his father, who held his frown tight as he returned to his carving.

"How'd you get the money?" the farmer asked, an eyebrow raised inquisitively but still not meeting his son's gaze. Curad groaned in frustration and ran his hand through his beard.

"You know how I got the money, Da." The two sat in silence a moment, the older man's carving quickening in its rhythm. Standing up and turning from the table, the mercenary leaned against the house's wall and smirked in his dissatisfaction. "Most fathers would be proud to have a son who's a Taisafir." His father only grunted in response, and the young man sighed and went to find his bed. Nadurtha, still awake, felt a strange feeling well up inside her. Usually Curad would think of something to say, some clever retort to get the old man angry. Now, he's quiet. Hopeless. She preferred it when they fought.

She felt bad that she preferred it when they fought.

---

A single tear fell onto the masoleum floor, stirring up the dust, and the admiral rose to her feet. It's been so long, she thought, why do I care that it's been so long?

She dusted herself off, exiting the resting place of her family, and sat on the moist and dewey grass of the burial ground. I should go back soon, the men'll be getting worried. Suddenly, she heard a pained bleating in the distance.

---

The Village

The week before, the Baile boy had been brought into the village with his body on a stretcher. There was an air of ceremony to it, one of the first men in a very long time to have died in the name of Serenity. His mother was the first to see the procession, and broke down in front of the whole village, weeping and cursing and collapsing and the such. With the impending war against Freishann, mothers should really be more prepared...or at least retain some composure, for the sake of everyone. Her hysteria was apparantly quite a scene, Curad's father having to hold his wife back. He didn't cry. What kind of father wouldn't cry at the death of their own son? He should at least be proud, although everyone knows he and the boy never got along.

His teenage sister, Nadurtha, had been riding the family's Karkadann when he came in, quite unladylike. She and him were quite close, so she didn't handle the news very well when she finally came back. Nobody had seen her for a week, but that wasn't unusual; she was always a bit of an outcast. The only other person in the village she was close to, Minnira, eventually sought her out.


Nadurtha sat alone by the creek. The crying had stopped yesterday, but she didn't feel any better. Sitting on a fallen log, her Karkadann softly nuzzled her hand while she mindlessly stroked its face, with Curad's sword laying in her lap. Her parents didn't want her to have the blade, saying it was dangerous, that they didn't want it to tempt her into following in his footsteps. There were a lot of things she hid from them. She noticed Minnira coming to sit next to her, putting a blanket under her dress as she did so, but she didn't care to look at her. They sat for a while, Minnira staring at Nadurtha while the darker haired girl stared at the creek.

"Why are you here?" Nadurtha eventually asked. The blonde sighed and rolled her eyes, turning and looking at the creek that Nadurtha seemed to find so interesting.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were okay, Nadi," Minnira responded as she softly kicked the pebbles of the riverbank, listening intently to hear them crumble under her foot. Nadurtha's petting began to slow, and her Karkadann moved away from her, with her petting hand now resting on the blade's sheath.

Nadurtha bit her lip, and felt a small frustration build inside her. "Minni, I didn't know you cared."

"Don't talk like that!" Minnira immediately felt bad at her outlash, and moved her hand over to touch Nadurtha's arm. "Nadi, I-"

"Don't touch me," Nadurtha responded, instinctively pulling away. Minnira moved back to her seat, and for a while they sat, listening to the babbling creek. An adolescent silence sat between them, an ocean of hormones neither of them wished to, or were allowed to, express. Minnira's face grew red as she fiddled with her dress, building up the courage to say what came next.

"I...Nadi I...I am to be wed." One could swear they heard the pit open up in Nadurtha's stomach.

Immediately, a swarm of thoughts began racing through her head. Why? Who? Does she love him? Does she love-who does she love? A panic ensued in her mind. She wanted to scream. She wanted to jump into the creek and swim away. She wanted to plunge the sword in her lap into her own heart and force Minnira to watch her die, so that she would know how it felt. How it felt to have your heart broken. How it felt to have your world destroyed. How it felt to be her.

"Oh," was all she said.

Minnira thought of the words she should say, but being so young, thought of nothing. Tears welling in her eyes, she picked up her blanket and walked away.

The black haired girl's home was broken a week ago. Her heart was broken just now. She began to sob, now feeling worse than before. The Karkadann began to nuzzle her hand again.

---

It was a Karkadann that had been making the noise. Probably got lost in the storm, was hunting for food when it got trapped under a falling log. This was why Olirians burned their dead instead of burying them. Nadurtha approached it slowly.

"Shhh, shh, it's alright now," she said soothingly, knees bent and one hand outreached. The beast began screeching louder, but the admiral knew how to handle them. As she stepped on the branches which riddled the forest floor, one of the broken pieces of wood reached up and cut her leg, but Nadurtha had to ignore the pain. She needed to keep the creature calm. "Now what'd you get yourself into?" she asked, reaching out her hand to feel its muzzle. It began to remember the feeling of human kindness, and rested on her hand.

For a bit, the admiral just stood there petting the creature, letting it build up some trust for her, even pulling out a piece of dried meat for it to eat. After a while, she asked, "Alright, you ready?" Though she obviously got no response, the Karkadann seemed to know what came next as Nadurtah moved behind it and lifted the log off its back legs.

---

Freedom

It was at the dead of night, and Nadurtha was behind her home with her Karkadann, Curad's sword, and a back of supplies she was tying to its saddle. Her hair was cut short, and as usual she wore no makeup, looking much like a man in the moonlight which illuminated the arms shown by her rolled up sleeves. As she readied to depart, she heard some familiar footsteps move behind her carrying a lantern.

"Nadi? What are you doing out this late?" Minnira whispered, her nightgown a stark contrast from the beauty of her usual dresses. She was really quite beautiful; it was no wonder that the richest man in the village asked to make her his bride. She didn't need to wait for Nadurtha's response when none came; the Karkadann and cut hair said it all. "Are you...where do you...are you leaving?" Finally, the girl stopped prepping the saddle, but still didn't turn around.

"They need sailors. I'm headed for Minhu."

"What? That's crazy, Nadurtha!" Minnira exclaimed, her voice growing louder, much to Nadurtha irritation. She turned around to face the blonde girl.

"It's Nadur now."

"So what, you think you're just going to masquerade as a man and live on a ship full of them? Have you even set foot on a boat before? Do you-" Nadurtha moved forward and placed her hand's on Minnira's shoulders.

"Minni, you have to be quiet." She only grew louder.

"What? I will not-"

"Minni."

"Don't-" she was finally silenced when she felt Nadurtha's lips on her own, the black-haired girl's hands clutching tight to her hips. Her eyes were wide with shock, and tried to push Nadurtha off of her, her lamp having fallen on the floor, but soon trepidation melted away, and for a while, the two kissed under the moonlight, years of built up tension now being soothed in the other girl's arms. Eventually, Nadurtha pulled away, and softly let her go, walked to the Karkadann.

"Nadi, wait, please-" but her mind had been set, and the mad-eyed girl of Sraid hopped atop her mount and rode off into the distance. Minnira fell to the ground in tears. Now she knew how it felt.

---

The admiral entered the village square with her marines helping to carry the injured Karkadann. She saw Minnira standing with her children, watching the procession of soldiers, nodded to them, and kept on keeping on. Like a galloping Karkadann. Like a bird in flight. Like a fish in a creek, tangled up in the blue water, swimming out to sea.

“Oer this ridge there, you’ll see it now.”

The small column wound its way between the jagged crests of a line of squat hills that protruded from the waste like pustulent growths on the black, scarred hide of some tremendous beast. While this was not the path Valdik had followed the first two times, he had discovered that it was much faster to reach the place from the closest town this way than by the detour through the mountain pass, and going through Nergerad was unavoidable once people higher up than the bäkhte had become involved. They certainly wouldn’t stop at Valdik’s own village, if only because there was not nearly enough room for them there, even in what passed for an inn and the church put together. He was indeed a little surprised that they had been able to fit in Nergerad itself. An Episcope, he could understand. Under their masks, they could not have been very different from anyone else. But this was the Exarch of the South. Someone who surely lived like a lord, and under whose hood he was sure he had seen a small red glimmer.

Yet the Exarch had obviously spent the night in the town’s finest attic, and still did not look any less imposing for it. The robed figure could not have been much taller than himself, nor was there much that distinguished it from the cenobites following it, aside from the slightly more numerous and visible ornaments on its trappings. It was certainly far less impressive a sight than the Knights marching at its sides. However decorated with eyes and other mystical symbols, its vestment was no glimmering suit of armour, and its mask no bone-fanged helm. Even the black adjuncts behind them might have seemed to surpass it in menace with their swords and spiked maces, or the three brown-cloaked strangers who came last of all in their mystery – Valdik did not know what they could be, or why they would have been travelling in the prelate’s train. But they all paled near the Exarch, for the sole reason that it was the Exarch. He had never truly thought he would see one from up close, let alone be a guide to one, but his discovery was proving more and more miraculous by the day. Maybe he would someday be called for by – Well, it was always too early to think of that.

“There is, Eminence. You can see it from ere.”

The procession had by this time climbed over the spine of the last hill, and nothing more stood between them and the black plain. Like everywhere in Naraksh, be it south or west, the sky was dim despite it being high noon, but the view from the hilltop was clear. The whole of the wasteland, from there to the mountains that stood far over the horizon, was open to their sight. Or it would have been, were it not for the sea of dark shapes that stretched over it, vanishing into the distance.

“Godsblood” Valdik heard one of the adjuncts swear under his breath. Several others inhaled sharply through their masks. He had grown to expect these reactions by now. Even the Episcope had drawn a Triangle in the air when seeing the things for the first time.

It was just as well there were people with the Exarch, or he would have been even more unnerved. The high cleric had not said anything, nor even raised a hand. Despite this being his fourth time before the carven ranks, Valdik himself was still struck with the same awe and fright as he had been when he had first discovered the titanic work. These things, whatever they were, could not have been something of this world or age. They belonged in the tales and legends of times gone by, when the gods broke the earth with one hand and breathed rivers of fire into its depths. Never mind what people said about that Prophetess. Her words about some “darkness” – as though that was something a proper Narakshi needed to be warned about! – were worth less than the pebble that had found its way into his boot if they shied away from a true miracle like this. The faith of the Eyes had something to stand on, here on those stone shoulders. This was what the bäkhte spoke about in church, and what the Exarch must have read about hundreds of times from those tablets they had in the cathedral. Signing, praying, even simply rejoicing, he could have understood anything. But not this silence.

He caught himself wondering if what was under that mask was really a man like him, and how much it could have known about the gods that it should not be astonished. How it could have known that much. The thought almost made him shudder.

They were now close to the first row of sculpted warriors. The Exarch stopped some steps away from it, and the entire procession ground to a halt behind, spreading out in a semicircle around them. Mutterings coursed among the party as its members admired the inhumanly fine design of the figures’ carven armaments, rivalling, as Valdik had heard the Episcope say, even the old monuments in the Throne. The contrast between them and the blank features was a rough and unpleasantly familiar one, all too reminiscent of the faceless lords of the land.

“You said they change when you touch them?” Valdik still could not say whether the hissing, rasping voice from under the prelate’s hood was that of a man or a woman.

“Yes, Eminence. Like this, see…” Stiffening his hand to stop it from trembling, he raised it to the nearest statue’s head. They were, he had discovered, safe to the touch, warm yet not scalding. That did not make the sight of the transformation that came over them every time any less eerie. He had never been fond of mirrors – his face was more distinct in them than even he remembered it, which always bothered him – and this was the most unsettling one he had ever seen.

His fingers found a shoulder of black stone, and the whispers behind him rose in intensity as the sculpture radiated a sanguine glow, lines and bulges forming on the previously smooth surface under its helmet. There he was, immortalised better than anyone short of the Emperor himself could hope for. Every scar, every stray hair on his chin, every single pock-mark under his eyes, each of what he knew to be the exact length and depth. He wanted to withdraw his hand, but the looming dark form of the Exarch in the corner of his eye was more threatening than the dead rock was sinister. Thus, it was only after a few more moments that he lifted his hand, passing it slowly before the statue’s head, which briefly reawakened it. Not without some relief, he stepped back, looking expectantly at the robed figure beside him.

The high cleric motioned for him to back further away, which he was glad to obey, and advanced towards the figure. Cloth rustled in the silence of the wasteland as a draped arm swept up, repeating Valdik’s movements. Once again, a dark red streamed from the statue, though its face was covered from where he stood by the Exarch’s head. Nevertheless, he knew the shifting stone had not failed when subdued exclamations rose from the closest acolytes. This time, even the Exarch nodded briefly in what might have been surprise. It drew back, and the glow died down; however, it was soon replaced by a new, harsher light. The prelate was holding a palm outstretched towards the stone warrior, and bright fiery sparks were gathering at the tips of its fingers. There was no smoke or crackling, nor was the black glove burned by the dancing shards of radiance. The priests and Knights standing around them seemed far less astonished by this display than by the changes in the sculpture’s face, but Valdik could not help but bite down. He had been right about the red glimmers under that hood after all.

The sparks surged up in a stronger flare, and, detaching themselves from the Exarch’s hand, flowed at the statue like a stream of fiery arrows. They struck the stone, crawling over it like a swarm of wasps, then disappeared into it, sinking as though it had been quicksand. Evidently, this was not what the Exarch expected. The masked head swayed a second time, and the sparks turned and twisted into each other, coalescing into something Valdik could only think of as a bolt of flowing amber lightning that arced through the air at the very centre of the carven chest. He had to squint not to be dazzled by the flash; when he blinked off the reverb in his eyes, he saw the statue stood unchanged and the Exarch had lowered its hand, which was now pensively intertwined with the other. A few moments passed in silence. It was clear even to those less adept in the magical arts that, whatever the high priest had tried, it had been to no effect, and it was just as clear that this was not what had been expected.

Despite the failure, however, the Exarch did not seem entirely lost. Turning and moving towards the semicircle, it gestured at the three brown-cloaked strangers, who had until then remained standing some distance away from the rest. They now came forward, two of them casting off their mantles as they did to reveal worn grey wurm-hide leather clothing and masks of the cheaper sort. At their belts they had short, straight-bladed swords, which their hands reached for even before they had fully come to face each other. At first, Valdik could make little sense of their movements, until it dawned on him upon seeing the number of roughly patched slashes and suspicious dark stains on the figures’ clothes. These were bloodbrothers. Followers of the deceiver Prophet. How were they here, with the Exarch?! Why had they not been seized and imprisoned? The bäkhte said that bloodbrothers were crazed murderers and animals, everyone knew this. And yet the Exarch had allowed them to come here. Maybe they were prisoners? But then, why?

While he was still wondering, the answer had already begun to unfold before him. The two bloodbrothers had drawn their blades and were now swinging at each other with savage abandon. From what he knew of swordfighting, he could see they were good, though reckless as nobody he had ever known before. They seemed to ignore any defensive motions with the weapon, only making slight attempts to dodge before plunging into flurries of brutal lunges and slashes. Fresh blood was already welling out from new gashes. Valdik found himself enthralled by the weave of their swords and the sheer fury that exuded from their skilful yet beastly movements. There was little doubt they would not stop until one or both would be on the ground. Was this why the Exarch had brought them along, to circumvent the law against blood sacrifice if sorcery failed? It would have been callous, but Valdik had to admit no one could have said anything against the prelate if this were indeed the case. As far as anyone was concerned, the bloodbrothers would kill each other, and that was all. No one was even forcing them to.

Whatever the reason, beyond the more immediate one of their bloodlust, that pushed the supposed captives against each other, their duel seemed to be coming to an end. The one to Valdik’s right clearly had the upper hand; while its opponent was growing more and more sluggish, seeping red from several wounds over the body, its own thrusts were only slightly slower than at the beginning. A sidestep and a lunge, and its blade was in the other’s flank. The adversary answered with a backhanded blow, more by reflex than consciously, followed by a swing that sliced across its back, but by then it had already moved around the sagging body and struck it again between the ribs. The other slumped to its knees, dropping its sword as a gurgling sound rose from its chest, red-tinged foam dripping from the sides of its mask. Crying out something harsh and guttural that Valdik did not understand, the victor pulled up the victim’s head and slashed across the exposed throat, sending an almost black gout spraying on the nearest statue’s feet.

Instinctively, Valdik raised his eyes to the head of the sculpture, which had once again begun to pulse with light, as though bleeding itself. Its blank surface was warping as new features rose from it like bones from the descending tide. The third brother bent down to tear off the fallen one’s mask, threw a glance at the transforming visage, then nodded to the assembled group. The Exarch stepped closer as if to satisfy itself, and Valdik, safe enough behind its sight, did the same. The corpse’s sharp, narrow Eastern face was twisted in the stomach-churning cross of a grimace of pain and a maddened snarl. An identical deathly mask now marred the once-pristine stone; the only difference was that this one would never rot. Nor, it seemed, would it ever be replaced. The Exarch swept a hand before the unnatural likeness, then touched its helm. There was neither light nor change.

Valdik tentatively held his own palm to a second sculpture. The stone flared up in red, and his own eyes looked back at him.

When he turned back towards the bloodied scene, the Exarch was looking at him, or, more likely, at the statue. There was a red shimmer behind the mask, he was now certain.

“That place, Nergerad. Is it the closest to here?”

“…Yes, Eminence.” His throat felt dry. The words did not come nearly as fast as he would have wanted, and for a moment he was afraid the Exarch would do the same to him as to that Easterner. But that did not happen.

“Clear it.” The high priest had turned towards its followers. “Remove everyone from Nergerad, and anywhere from which this can be reached in less than a day. Let none approach without our blessing.”

Somehow, Valdik felt this was the best outcome there could have been for those people. He took a step to leave the sculptures' side in the wake of the Exarch, when a call from one of the adjuncts drew his attention. His gaze strayed to where the masked warrior was pointing - and he bit down painfully on his tongue, as his throat felt as dry as the soil under his feet.

Where the corpse of the fallen bloodbrother had lain, nothing remained but a mound of dust, already half-lost in the ash of the wasteland.

It had been a long trip, but otherwise uneventful. The last of her currency she had acquired through careful pawning in Yarlene had been spent on the last few legs of the journey. Her and Arthur’s rump sore from the various wooden carriages, but thankfully that was all that was worn. They had spent the journey catching up as far as an adult and young child could, and playing sighting games, which dominated most of the time.

Elizabeth found a lot of joy having Arthur around again, and she couldn’t help but spend as much time as she could talking to him and pestering him, even when he desired to sleep or sit quietly. It had been so long, and every second spent in conversation was a second away from her own mind, which continued to haunt her nightmares and daydreams. Arthur humored his aunt, being a talkative child himself, but often times never held a topic, as a child is inclined to ignore conversational flow, and instead barraged her with random observations and questions, each of which she was happy to oblige.

The time went by quickly, and for the most part Elizabeth was allowed to put the last three years of events in the back of her mind, only to be reminded at night, or when she swore she saw something in the corner of her eyes. Her paranoia was taxing, and she often found herself counseling her own thoughts and talking to herself in the middle of the night. It was the only way she could lay out all her emotions and dreams without going insane, her saving grace being her self awareness and pure will.

Either way, their journey too was in the past, the pair having arrived at Brent earlier that day. The village was small and quiet enough that her simply arriving offered her the opportunity to speak with the local parish leaders, an attempt at finally living a quiet and peaceful life and providing such for her nephew in arms reach. The people seemed to regard her with interest, but no more than any other stranger would gather, her identity long buried by her unimportance in this world, and her lack of reputation, but even still, she was careful not to use her or Arthur’s real names.

Now Elizabeth found herself in the local church, sitting on a plain wooden chair and staring at the round, kindly face of Deacon Ruldoph, and another man, who’d introduced himself as Dietrich, captain of the local garrison. His own boy, Haans, was out in the fields now playing with Arthur, which at first made Elizabeth uneasy, not wanting to part with the child, but reluctantly accepted it as something she would have to let be.

“Your arrival has been the talk of the town,” the deacon said with a smile. “It’s not often Brent receives visitors, least of all foreign ones. We’re a small, humble community, you see. You said your name was Caitlin, correct? What brings a woman like yourself to Brent, of all places, child in tow?”

“Correct,” Elizabeth lied, “and I hope you don't find it intrusive, but with all that is going on in Lynnfaire, I really didn’t have much elsewhere to go. I do not desire a city for my little Frederick, and I definitely don’t desire to stay in the battlegrounds of Kamwell. This is our final option, and we have spent all to get here.”

Rudolph gave her a sympathetic nod of his head. Though the corners of his eyes and lips were starting to wrinkle, his eyes glimmered with a youthful energy. “I understand your concerns, Caitlin. Long have I prayed for the peaceful resolution of Lynnfaire’s civil war and those who have suffered.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in a conciliatory gesture, gently sandwiching it between gnarled fingers, causing her to flinch ever so slightly.

“Lynnfaire and Vlaanburg are like sister nations,” he said. “Even now, the Archon is involved with Queen Abigail’s war effort. I’m of the mind it will all come to an end soon, and the two of them have announced their intent to marry! I believe such a union will only benefit the people of both nations.” He let go of Elizabeth’s hand. “Oh, but I digress. You will find the sanctum you’re after in Brent. You’ve already met Captain Dietrich - he will help to situate a space for you. How old did you say your boy is?”

“Six,” Elizabeth answered, “six and a half,” she smiled, it was genuine and full of relief, “and thank you, Deacon. I too have heard the news, but I appreciate you opening your arms to me and my nephew.”

“Ah, how precious!” Rudolph sighed. “Dietrich has a boy around that age, too. I hope they should get along well. Now, please make yourself at home, Caitlin. If there’s anything I can do for you and your boy, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Oh I’m sure I won’t,” Elizabeth maintained her smile, “and if there is any work to be done, I will do my part. I admit I don’t know much outside damning and fish work, but I’m not a stranger to labor. I can read and write if that helps any, Frederick knows a little from me too.”

She nearly smudged Arthur’s made up name as she spoke, her voice clearly full of energy, long reserved for this moment, her body losing some of its tension. This was the happiest she had been in a long time, her first real chance at a normal life since the death of her family and her career at the cloister.

“Captain,” Rudolph said. “I’m sure we have a lodging we can spare Caitlin. Please show her around and make sure she’s settled!”

“Of course, Deacon,” Dietrich nodded and make to escort Elizabeth back down the parish’s hall. “If you’ll allow me?” He held out a hand to guide her. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, unused to the much more tactile nature of the Burgers, but she slowly connected her hand with Dietrich’s, allowing herself to be guided.

The pair of them left the church grounds, and for the next half-hour or so, Dietrich showed her around Brent, making note of its key structures, industry and general day-to-day happenings. As they walked, he spoke with a measure of pride. It was clear he took his duty seriously, and cherished the small, yet lively town. On the way, he’d mentioned the town’s run-in with a meagre force of rebels, although he claimed the garrison hadn’t needed to do much real fighting. The electors had strange, yet effective ways of keeping the peace. Once their leader had been plucked from the ground, the rest of them lost the will to fight and disbanded.

“Fortunate, too, because if they’d all had his spirit, I’m honestly not sure how we’d have made out,” Dietrich said. “But that’s in the past and we’ve heard no heads nor tails of any more revolts. Next to that, you’re probably the next most interesting thing that’s happened to Brent in months!”

“Well I hope it remains that way,” Elizabeth added, “not to say I want to remain the center of attention, but you can imagine how tired me and Frederick are of conflict.”

“Of course. With the Serene One’s blessing and the garrison on duty, I should expect Brent will always be the peaceful place it has been.”

Elizabeth stared off to the side, banishing the faces of the dead and uncanny stares of the past that lingered in the shadows of each hovel. She silently listened to Dietrich before suddenly speaking again, “I think I’m ready to see my quarters, please.”

The pair ended up back at the parish after a time, after they’d retrieved Arthur and Haans from the fields, and this is where Dietrich told her they’d part ways. He guided her to the nuns’ quarters and left her in their care for the rest of the evening. They provided her with a clean bed and habits, welcomed her to the table at supper and then it was nightfall, and they made to retire.

Elizabeth laid down on her mattress. It was thin but stuffed with goose feathers, and such she found it comfortable. In reality she had no ounce of complaints in her, she was almost shocked at the intense generosity of the burgers. They had succeeded where her own cloister all those years ago failed, albeit it wasn’t completely their fault.

She rolled to her side and sucked in a happy breath, the air holding the lingering scent of her linen blankets. She already missed Arthur. The boy had been sent to a room meant for altar boys, since children and men weren’t allowed in the cloister halls after dark and she almost regretted telling the Deacon she was a nun, if only to maybe get a closer room to her nephew. She knew it was for the best, the chances of them turning down a nun was a lot lower than that of a freeloader. In essence, that was what she was until she got settled, and she knew it.

In her gut she had hoped she had retained her religious codes and manners, but in her heart she knew they wouldn’t mean as much to her as they once did, the acts hollow and of lip-service rather than faithful fervor. Either way, it was her first step back to a normal life, her hopes pushing Tribal’s words deep into the back of her mind, but her anxiety remained.

She laid there in thought for as long as she could, her eyes open wide in fear of falling asleep, but eventually the journey caught up with her, and without warning she found herself victim to another nightmare.

She woke with a start, her bloodshot eyes staring into the darkness next to her, filled with horror. She stifled a scream as the bloated face of Canam stared back at her. Elizabeth shot out of bed, stumbling and falling to the floor. She smacked into the wall looking for a striker, eventually finding it on her nightstand and lighting her lantern on the wall. An amber glow flooded her tiny room, revealing her torn apart bed and nothing more.

Her chest heaved and her eyes were frozen open. This was getting to be too much, she told herself. Slowly her heart beat calmed down and she sat defeated on the edge of her bed, hands in her lap, head on her knees. She was afraid she’d see something if she looked up, but couldn’t tell if that was worse than not knowing if something was there.

A thought popped into her head, one that sent a chill down her spine. What if she couldn’t stay here? What if she brought danger and death wherever she went? What if she couldn’t keep Arthur? She couldn’t stay if this was true, she couldn’t ruin the poor boy’s life, or any of the nice people of the village. What of Dietrich and his son? What of Randolph? She couldn’t have their faces join the ones in the shadows. Maybe she was just paranoid, maybe it would be alright, maybe in time. She didn’t know, she had no idea what to do.

She slumped over in the bed, the feathers poking at her side as she laid in absolute exhaustion. Perhaps these were thoughts for another time. She let her eyes closed, a short prayer on her lips. It felt strange, praying, it had been so long. She silently mouthed the words for mercy, for safety, for strength, slowly drifting to sleep as she mouthed for peace.

--------

Within the depths of the ocean, six-hundred meters below the surface, lay the temple city of Primus, home to the Rayneids, aquatic guardians of the resting place of the primordial know as the Burning Moon. The city started on the seabed, a ring of small stone structures that were littered around a series of large stepped pyramids. Several of the structures there and deeper down were coated in pykrete, a resilient alloy of ice and plant pulp that had the durability of concrete and was often referred to as true ice. All of the structures where interconnected or pressed wall to wall, resulting in few streets and giving the impression that the entire thing was one massive temple complex, as entrances were often found on the building's roofs. At the center of the city was a deep crevasse, from which at night a warm blue glow would emanate, like blue blood weeping from a gash in the earth. It was currently day however, and so the blue light filter down from above instead, smothering the city in a dull gloom that paled in comparison to the night’s light.

Down the crevasse structures were carved into or built out from the walls, forming what were effectively bunkers and pillboxes in which the sacred guards of the Burning moon lived and might one day fight if someone were so foolish as to challenge the divine gauntlet. Mounted atop these structures, gazing surfaceward, where statues of a six armed woman with a serpentine body. Other than this basic anatomy no two sculptures looked alike, particularly when it came to their faces. Generations of architects having drawn from their predecessor had resulted in a large amount of drift in how their primordial progenitor’s appearance was depicted. Though they loathed to admit it, none remembered which statues were the oldest or most accurate.

Finally at the bottom there was a massive temple that took up a whole third of the carvases three-hundred meter depth, a massive temple/labyrinth that had been slowly consuming the defensive fortifications as the Rayneids obsessively expanded the defenses of the gateway to the Burning Moon’s resting chamber. It featured a singular entrance bared by a massive gate of pure bronze that was surrounded by several dozen enormous serpentine statues, all staring and pointing their weapons upwards as if daring any intruder to come face them. The inside of the main temple was a mystery to all but the the moon kissed daughters who had painstakingly constructed it over the generations and a small number of high ranking military personnel who were privileged enough to either man the gateway or act as guards for the daughters. At the depths was a single chamber, the doors of which had remained shut tight since the Burning Moon had sealed herself inside thousands of years ago. The depths where only visited rarely by renowned Daughters seeking guidance and by lesser daughters performing maintenance.

Within one of the temples back up in the seafloor city surrounding the divine gauntlet a foreign delegation awaited the arrival of their hosts. The room they were in was made of finely carved stone, which had small holes in its ceilings and floors to allow the passage of light while still providing privacy to the occupants and protection from buffeting currents. Several small windows/doors on the far side of the room lead out to the craves, if any of the occupants looked out they could see down into the depths of the city as well as the guards and fortifications that existed to prevent any foreigners from ever going there. The room itself was large and featured a large central table, upon small bowls of various appetizers sat, and small fainting couches used instead of chairs. Several armored guards were posted around the room, centered around the doors and windows. They wore bronze armor that covered their chests and shoulders, while the rest of their body was coated in a thick shark skin leather. They were armed with partisans, spears with short sword length blades which had 2 prongs at the base that acted like a crossguard. They had been a permanent fixture for their entire visit, ensuring that the guests did not go anywhere or touch anything they were not supposed to.

In this room, a small party of Morj waited. They gingerly admired the room and helped themselves to hors d'oeuvres. One of them, however, stood at the window peering unceasingly at the sight of the holy city beneath. Her tendrils shimmered in metallic tattoos, her chest clasped in diamond studded platinum, a black laced shawl licked over her shoulders, and atop her head sat a cold iron crown finely smithed in gothic fashion. The crown extended down along the right cheek in a half masquerade mask. Around her neck and upper arms coiled a brilliant blue coral snake. She caressed its scales gingerly as she waited for her host.

The Queen of Morkt soon caught sight of those she would be speaking with. Deep down below a gate opened in the false bottom of the crevasse, allowing a small knot of Rayneids to exit the temple fortress. They ascended past the many fortifications and primordial statues that lined the sides of the cravess, heading for the room the Morj where in. After two minutes of ascending the leader of the group came level with the queen’s post. The lead figure was a warrior clad entirely in bronze, her face hidden behind a helmet. Not an inch of her scaly skin was visible, only her semi translucent fins free from plate or chain mail. The armor was coated in a thin skin of True Ice, the resilient material both protecting the precious metal with its easily replaceable durability and providing a carefully calculated buoyancy that allowed the warrior to fight as if she was unencumbered by her metal skin. At her side was a sword, a rarity underwater, its construction featuring amber runes along its hilt and blade.

“Please take a seat your majesty”

The Mistress, Queen and High Dictator of the Morj gave a gracefully flowing curtsey before she took her perch.

Entering behind the warrior where two others like dressed like her, armed with claw like piercing weapons instead of swords, and seven priestesses, all of whom took up positions opposite the Morj delegation. It might have come to the attention of the Morj that until now they had not seen a Rayneid’s face, followed and watched as they had been by anonymous helmeted warriors. The priestesses did not change that state of ignorance, for they all wore masks of various kinds, made in the likeness of the statues the queen had seen below, that covered their entire face. On their bodies they wore tight, form fitting robes of seasilk dyed a bright crimson. The priestesses took seats in the fainting chairs, their serpentine bodies resting against the long base while they propped their upper bodies against the armrest and back.

One priestess in particular took up position opposite the queen. She had two silver bands the size of shackles around her wrists and her mask was relatively plain compared to her peers, akin to a bleach white opera mask which featured on its forehead a stylized eye with a sun as its iris drawn in pale blue. White mesh covering the eye slits, making them almost invisible. Two long, thin, dark red goat horns curved up from the top of the mask. Her pale ghostly hair spooled out from behind her mask and was immaculately braided into a long ponytail.

The Morj retinue that mirrored the Reighneads in stance and disposition wore solid black armor forged from cold steel. It was a rare ore mined from the heart of Morkt’s matron volcano. They were covered in lamed plates with a similarly forged great helm. Each of their tentacles were bare save for the tips which were sheathed in short blades. These appendages stood coiled upwards so as to not damage the flooring beneath. Each guard clutched a long trident whose tips housed curious pale green crystals which seemed to smoke even in the sea’s depths.

The Mistress of Morkt smiled gently at the serpentine figure before her. “I am honored to finally make pilgrimage to this place. It is regrettably rare that I have such grand occasion to leave my waters, and it is a weight on my heart that our two peoples are so distant in this large sea. I beg you, tell me what name I may call a friend?” The coral snake slithered down her arm in a trancing motion.

Hidden though her face was, the reaction of the priestess to the queens greeting was still distinctly impassive. Silence hung in the air for a few moments after, just long enough become uncomfortable, before she replied.

“I am Daughter Alexix. Pray tell, for what reason, other than pilgrimage, do you enter the resting place of the Burning Moon, she who made us, she who now sleeps and she who shall awaken when this world is in its death throes.”

Her tone was passive, calm, serene, yet she managed to inject a fair amount of indignation into the world pilgrimage regardless.

“I will not play coy with you, sister. My journey is twofold, yet with both of these ends I endeavor to honor the Primordials of the deep. A blight perches itself on the edge of our world. It is a cancer which you have watched grow and suffocate the land of men. And yet still it grows. And like that vile curse which affects the bodies of mortals, it has molded itself to grow still further, still faster. Now it chokes at that which is of the deep. It swims amongst us and threatens to spread itself into the heart of your waters and next it will come to mine.” She spoke directly and with emphasis, yet her voice still tinkled in the water with a melodic tone. The movements of the snake seemed to mirror this curious inflection.

“The tumefaction of Yaval has cast itself into our holy sea. Thinking trees swim not only above our homeland, but among it. I will not see you bare the same fate as Shenra, nor will I see both land and sea fall to their scourge. That which is of the land must stay of the land lest we desecrate the sea and the deep primordials which have blessed it. As you are charged to protect the holy resting place below, I am charged with maintaining the balance of all waters. That scale is set when the ilk of land stay on that land. Penance for their exile from the sea.

“And so I move a great host to protect us both. A cure to this cancer of trees has emerged in the East. They seek to cut a path through the empire of Yaval. And once they have torn that menace to ash, they will scour its fields by restoring Shenra. The weak breaths of mortal men will once again be the only devil which haunts our shores. The Burning Moon will once again be safe from the shadow casting itself ever closer." She paused smiling gingerly as the snake smoothly weaved between her fingers.

“And yet I know your plight." the Mistress of Morj continued. "You have sworn yourselves to monastic isolation in order to protect your holy keep. Your pledge and purpose is admired by both my heart and my kins’. To engage in war against this looming threat cannot be asked of those with such a charge. And that is why I [/i]do not[/i] ask it of you. I ask only that you allow my forces passage, neither under safety of your arms nor led by your banner. But that we may take this necessary burden upon our own shoulders for the security of our shared generations.

“We seek to temporarily restore the Bay of Lights to the fear it once held in the hearts of men, yet by the banner of Morkt. To tear asunder those who would impeded the march of the Eastfolk’s crusade. The vassals of Morkt, who have been chained in fealty to our gods, will take the fight to the shores and draw the Emerald forces away from your holy waters. It is imperative that we act now. The Primordial spirit of the sky punishes Yavals allies to the West. The Eastfolk have massacred Yaval’s forces in their opening bought. The vestige of Shenra has left its mountain perch and taken to the marshes. The tide of Yaval’s fate crashes at every border. Now is the time to act. If these forces of men are defeated, there will be no one left to root the tumor and once again it will regrow.

“And so I beseech you. Give us your blessing in this endeavour. Let us once again restore balance to the two realms of land and sea.”

After the queen's speech there was a flurry of muttered conversation between the six other priestesses: advice, speculation, and suspicions were all fed to Alexix who after a few moments raised her hand for them to stop.

“You have, it is clear, made some assumptions about the state of affairs in our lands. We have no hatred or fear of the Dreaming Forest, they are the children of a god like us, and have been nothing but respectful for our noble task and borders since we first met. The kingdom of Shenra meanwhile were a thorn in our side before hey were expelled, the restoration of their lands, along with the presence of their oathbreaker allies on our shores would not be the positive change you suggest it is. Do not assume your hopes and fears align with our own simply because we both dwell beneath the waves.”

There was a tense pause, the Rayneid warriors incase either the Morj reacted violently to this vitriol or the priestesses where about to order them to expel them. Alexix however quickly started speaking again at the sight of this, wishing only to let her displeasure to be known with words, rather than blades.

“That said, as you have noted, we do not meddle with the affairs of those beyond our sacred realm unless there is a dire, imminent, threat to us or our allies that must be quashed. The trees may fall as quickly as they rose, it is ultimately of little concern to us, our ancestors handled the threat of Shenra for hundreds of years and we to shall do the same. What is of concern is that you wish to camp an entire army in our waters. Small groups of pilgrims we can manage, but hundreds, thousands of outsiders? They all need to be watched lest they interfere” for the first time Alexix’s tranquil speech became unhinged slightly at the thought of the logistical and spiritual nightmare such a presence would bring “...and they all need to eat. An army swims on its stomach and any sizable force would need to forage from our waters. To have them do so risks inviting famine to our realm, which would be a tragedy for us both.”

The Mistress remained in eerily pleasant disposition, a soft smile drawn across her face. She nodded in approval almost as if to agree with the arguments against her. “I appreciate your concerns, and you are a just advocate to have them. I can promise you that not a single fin under my banner shall enter the holy circle of your temple mounts. The landbreathers cling to their shores, and so we will take to them as well. I assure you the grave priority my kin hold on these sacred waters and on the boudoir of the Burning Moon. I would invite your clergy among my throngs, to educate their souls and guide them from insult of your holy waters. What sustenance we cannot harvest from the northern channel, you will find compensation for. It is my word. Not only will fresh hauls be brought to all mouths, but also metals, jewels, protection, even a great gift which it pains me to part with. The bones of Moorrkut, the great wailord, first son of his primordial heir, Moojllikk. The legend, as you know, slain by land dwellers and a martyr of our waters. His remains have been painstakingly brought across the vast expanse of sea as an offering to your holy court. A divine reliquary to do with as you wish. I trust his sacrifice and his corpse will be honored here.

“But I pray these martyr’s bones will remind the devote of heart. Though the agents of Yaval have lulled you into pacification, their noose still tightens. Just like a lobster is cooked on land, they are slowly boiling sea from which you sit. Their plot is sinister. I cannot wait idly for this window of opportunity to be cast once more into shadow. I cannot swim by as they threaten all we hold dear. Yet perhaps your point of Shenra is valid. With time their slights against you have fallen to rust in the memories of my kin, and for that I apologize. Perhaps their ilk could be withered still more by the heavy hand of this great and murky war. Perhaps a new order, which rightfully reveres the seas and its kinfolk could find a home in that old empire’s footprint. I cannot temper my hand which must swing at the cancer of Yaval. But in that fell swoop, I can also smite those who oppose you and your holy charge, Daughter Alexix.”

“It is not our job to educate you, for we are caretakers not preachers.” Daughter Alexix responded. “To travel with your forces would take our sisters from their vital posts, put them at risk and could potentially violate our pact.” Who this pact was with was left unclear.

“As for the bones of Moojllikk: we guardians of the living, not the dead, yet we appreciate the weight of the gesture, the significance of this trust. Know that the martyr, if delivered, will be intomed with all due honers near our northernmost temple, where visitors can still come to pay respect without having to breach the circle.” it was as much a burden as it was a gift, but not one that could be rejected. “Your promise to both control the movement of your warriors and to reimburse us for hunting done in our waters are also appreciated, however we insist that you pay for the privilege when it is procured rather than with promises of spoils. If you win, the spoils implicate us with your war and make us oathbreakers. Should you fail then we will be left uncompensated. Engaging in a temporary trade agreement avoids our implication in your war, while still solving the issue of your peoples hunger.”

“Our greatest concern that remains then, is in what you cannot control. From our research in the records it is known that your kind are not as in control of your people as might be desired, you are the Queen of various factions who dance a turbulent ballet of allegiances and tolerances. You may order that your people stay away, that they respect our dominion, yet we can't be sure that they will all obey. Anyone who does not heed your words will be treated as intruders rather than guests. Please ensure that your subjects are aware of this so as to ensure they do not start conflict at the sight of our doling out of justice to those who betray you. Finally, there are these eastern forces who's form we do not know. You invite a devil to our borders, a devil we do not know. We know the treefolk, and are quite certain that your fears regarding them are unfounded, we know the Shenrans and shall deal with them if them come, yet we do not know your new ally, whose name you have not even spoken. Surely you do not speak of the threat from the east the ignorant Argenists believe is coming?“

The Mistress answered smoothly after a cooling pause. “The mystic threat you speak of has never been seen or heard of by my kin. As you say, it is likely a fable. The men under the banner of Andromache, which I make union with, are mere mortals. They treat their own land dwellers with whip and chain as they are rightfully due. They are malleable. You speak of the devil you know replaced by the one you don’t. Yet it is perhaps more fitting to choose the wolf with a leash than the two with bared fangs. The nation of which I speak has never felt the breeze of the sea, naive to its wants and needs. Their port will be singular along the shore and thus chokable should they choose to betray their oath.” This oath too was left unspoken.

“But as the High Queen of the Morj, I give you my word that riches and trade will proceed any armed body in your holy waters. Though the nobles of Morkt may be as tumultuous in their vices as you say, my control over my people's military is absolute. Their fealty is sworn to me alone. And I should hope you punish their deceit in your waters justly, less they bare a far worse fate at my hand.”

The priestess took a few moments to consider her options. It was not as if they could truly resist the Morj incursion even if they desired too, their warriors alone could not stand alone against the tentacled merfolk on an open ocean as they would be outnumbered. They had what they needed, the ability to punish trespassers and thieves without fear of retaliation.

“In light of your willingness to negotiate and the respect you have shown for our realm and duty I believe that…” Alexix briley looked away from the Queen to her sisters, the six other priestess and the armored warrior who had entered first, to ensure she was not making a decision that was against their will. Each of them, with various levels of certainty or hesitation, responded to her gaze with the gesture of their faith, a flat palm facing her with their clasped fingers pointing downwards and wrist exposed. The offering of blood to her righteous cause, be it spilled in the temples or in battle. “We shall welcome your forces into the Bay, to visit war upon her shores and to purchase our food to sustain your conquest.”

The Mistress rose from her seat in regal delight. A wide smile betrayed her crystal white fangs. “Blessed is the spirit which guides these beautiful words.” She propelled herself gracefully to Daughter Alexix and took her hand gingerly, careful to present this as a gesture of affection and nothing more. “A deal is struck between our two holy kingdoms. I hope more will come of this friendship, and I pray victory seals our fates in riches.” The blue coral snake, who shared the arm embracing Daughter Alexix’s hand, gave the Reighnead’s knuckle a fleeting lick as if to pay its respects in turn.

At this linking of hands the mood in the room seemed to calm a little, tension draining out as the real meat of the negotiations were completed, the threat of conflict put to rest for the time being.

“There are of course logistical concerns to discuss, the hows, wheres and whens of your arrival and subsequent trade. However I would like to suggest they be discussed during or after dinner? You have traveled far from home and are no doubt famished. Perhaps over the meal you could also tell us more about your chained... Wolf was it?”

Brakor City of Heimyal

The Docks of the Port-City of Heimyal were bustling and ablaze with life as hundreds of warriors, ranging from Grogar, Drimor and Humans, all cluttered enmass as they prepared for their long-delayed incursion into Ardir territory, much to the ire of their now impatient warmaster. The Warmaster stood in the center of it all, behind him was his flagship, the banners of Clan Brakor flying proudly atop of the vessel as the gust of wind pushed against it. Flanking him on his right was his trusted lieutenant, Urlild, a Grogar of average build, but was visibly the eldest of the duo, half-blind, wrinkled skin. Atop his scalp was an old nasty scar from a previous battle long ago, two small pieces of iron keeping the wound whole.

"Alright ya layabout bastards!" The tall and imposing Warmaster Asgorgh Gormk bellowed out. "I want this warband in tip top shape! Those fancy ardir flowers ain't gonna wait on us!" Select warriors among the crowd cheered and roared back, their thirst for battle growing with each hour. The past few days had been a headache for the Warmaster, fierce storms dominating the coast like no other, even he was not bold or mad enough to brave through such monster weather.

And so, his warband was forced to wait out until the storm finally passed and when it finally did pass, time was of the essence. "Warchief ain't going to be too pleased with this..." He said to Urlid, tilting his head slightly over to the old grogar, he was met with a light chuckle from him.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that..." Urlid replied, motioning towards a particularly noticeable young couple in front of the inn across the crowds. "Ahhh..." was all Asgorgh could muster. The Warchief's only daughter had requested to join on this recent raid, much to her father's paranoid apprehension, of course, she would not go alone, her betrothed, Farald, would follow closely behind, keeping the love of his life safe. "Heh, Not sure if he's too happy with the boy either." The Warmaster joked, giving a wide, toothy smile.

"Regardless, she needs the experience." Urlid said, biting onto an apple he held on to. "I was her and farald's age in my first raid, and it just was...exhilarating." Urlid's wrinkled face brightened up as he reminisced his youth.

On the other side of the crowds, Farald and Elina prepared for their departure, Farald handing over a small sack of coins to the dock Innkeep, before stepping out of the Inn. Elia waved goodbye to the rather polite innkeep, followed by mounting her shield atop her back, and unsheathed her sword as he made a small inspection of the weapon. Farald returned by her side, and took notice of the expression of uneasiness on her face. "Nervous?" He said, placing his hand over her shoulder.

"Oh..farald." Elina spoke sheepishly, her eyes shifting back and forth. "...Yes." she admitted. "I admit..I wanted this, it took all my might to convince my father...yet."

"I know, but know I will never leave your side." Farald reassured his love. "After all, we are to be married and..my life is at stake." The last bit was but a jest on Farald's part, Elina chuckled. "That is a good point!" She jested as well. For a brief few moments, they looked at one another with kind eyes and soon embraced one another, a number of fellow warriors rolling their eyes at such a sight, often and appropriately giving the moniker of "lovebirds". Regardless of their approval or disapproval, the two were passionate for one another, developing from small childhood crushes to the here and now of their relationship. Their embrace cut short from the Warmaster's beastly roars as he grew more and more agitated with the delay.

"We best get moving. "Elina said with a warm smile.

"Agreed."

The two follow a group of warriors as they're about to board one of the larger vessels of the fleet, before something strange had occurred. No one knows who first alerted the docks of the incoming Emerald ships, but nonetheless, small flotilla of ships hailing from the Emerald Empire were on fast approach to the docks, taking several empty spots to the left of the warband's staging point, their arrival possibly delaying the raid even further, no doubting irking the shit out of the Warmaster. "By the Forge Mother! What now?!?"

--------

A few days passed since their faithful encounter with the Yeti, Firgus, Olaf and their guard companion continuing their journey back the the city gates on the horizon. The mood in the air was a peaceful one as they traversed though the serene landscape of Tarkima, a rather ironic thing to say considering the people of the land, yet despite this, there was beauty to be found in the "warmer" seasons in Tarkima. The two aged men sat in the back of the carriage with the fresh kill, the lone guard responsible for directing the yak pulling the cart to Heimyal. The two friends causally converse, as they near the city, shouldn't be long now before they're finally home. "I think these old bones deserve some much needed rest." Olaf said.

"I'm with you on that my good friend." Firgus said in agreement. "A good rest, then we feast!" The cart slowly came to a still as the gates slowly opened, finally, they were home. Their return was met with a few waves from clansmen, children flanking the sides of the cart as they raced along the yak. The cart was passing by the docks, firgus wondered if the warband had left yet, he turned to face the small alley ways that led to the docks, only to be met with large crowds. "What?" He asked himself, confused, the warband hasn't even left, while of part of him is relieved, another part ponders why they still haven't left, this called for investigating. "Stop for now." He ordered the guard. Without question, the guard pulled on the yak as it came to a slow stop, Firgus jumping off the cart and headed for the docks, Olaf not far behind.

-

The Eastern Vale

Ittain wasn't the same since the loss of the pearl. The normally mumbling, ancient man was now suspiciously quiet for quite some time. To such an extent that Lee began to worry for his sanity. A worry that vanished when Ittain did eventually speak. He sounded more serious now. And tired. As if he had enough of being the mumbling fool. "According to the map, we should be nearing our destination." Lee mentioned and Ittain nodded in aknowledgement.

The three marched through the mountainside forest. The massive trees stood like temple columns on the slanted floor. They walked over a dirt path, probably made by others who went to this Shrine. "What do you think we will find?" Asked the Seeker. "I'm not sure. Some talk about an obelisk and a lake. But I guess we'll truly know when we get there." Lee answered as he moved over a fallen tree. "An abyss." Added Ittain. "An abyss illuminated by fractured luminescence." The Seeker and Lee looked at each ohter, confused. But they carried on, each pondering on the words. Until they stumbled upon a village in the middle of nowhere.

It was quite small even as villages went with a grand total of three structures, the forest barely parting whatsoever to even permit its existence, explaining how abruptly the seekers had come upon it without warning. Two of the buildings were simple stone dwellings, likely for families, but the third was immediately recognizable of an inn - and a fairly well-kept one, by the looks of it. The walls of the lower floor were all made of mortared-stone rather than cobble like the other two dwellings were, and it bore a second floor made from paneled wood sections. The roof was made from what looked like slate shingles rather than thatch, and a number of long, colorful dyed awnings were raised along the sides of the building, covering long drapes and surprisingly rich decorative tapestries along the exterior. One was merely a copy of Matathran's battle-standard flag, an orange starbust with a golden wreath and a peculiar crimson barbed symbol in the middle. Another was what must have been a rendition of Andromache, albeit still as a young girl, evading the outreached spear-strike of a menacing figure in black plate-armor - a sly expression on her face as she snatched at a gleaming ribbon of silk tied to the weapon's haft. Another still was a woven rendition of an indistinct building on an island in the middle of a moonlit lake, a tall monolith of stone visible to the side and a group of individuals with cloaks and lanterns inspecting it in the glow of the full moon.

No fire was coming from the inn's chimney, but there were multiple lights blazing through the windows - lattice-worked glass, some of it even stained - and there was a locked shack adjoining the main building with two carriages parked outside.

The inn was outrageously fine for such a small and isolated setting - and the place looked like it was probably crowded, despite the absence of anybody out and about near the exterior. A hanging signpost by the front door, rimmed in an iron fixture, proclaimed it to be Sky Palace Inn, a small painting of the crescent moon accentuating the text.

Lee and the Seeker looked at eachother, suprised and confused by the sight before them. Especially the in was not what they expected. Well maintained and almost beautifully constructed, how did people do it? Ittain, on the other hand, looked a lot less interested. He was already hurrying down the path towards the inn. His clothes were stained and filthy. The bandages around his eyes as well. He smelled like he hadn't taken a bath for years. Before Lee or the Seeker could catch up, he had already opened the door to the inn.

The interior common-room was well lit by an iron-cast fixture supporting candles hanging from the ceiling. There was a large hearth against the rear wall, which was presently unlit. The tables were all made of fine lacquered wood, with multicolored wood-segments forming Serene iconography decorationg their tops. Most of the chair were upholstered with dyed leather, and rather than wooden cutlery the plates and utensils all appeared to be made from tin. To the left of the room was a large, double-ended grand staircase complete with a rug - albeit, a dirty and mud-caked one - running up its length, and set directly under the staircase was presumably the bar, atop the back of which ran an iron lattice grill, separating those seated there from the keeper and his stock. The room had been, as indicated, crowded - there were three groups of note. No less than four individuals, most of them elders with frayed white hair and wearing thick aprons akin to those of a blacksmith, were cluttered around one table, pouring over mounds of parchments, scrolls, and tomes they had stacked high upon it. A second smaller group of three individuals, more finely dressed in cloaks and robes, sat near to the hearth. One of them was wearing multiple rings and an amulet - which resonated with the third seeker's silver seashell, both of the items unexpectedly glowing a light blue in coloration, giving the seated owner a start as he looked to the three newcomers. Then, finally, seated by himself off in the corner was a single lone individual with their hood up, slowly eating a plate of cooked ribs while taking in the scenery.

"Welcome to the Sky Palace Inn." Rumbled a low and booming voice from behind the iron grille - the keeper there, arms crossed as he scrutinized the three, was a giant of a man with arms thicker around than Lee's entire body, and a bald head. "You profligates git here now, I'll be having a look at your papers before you even think of causing trouble around here." The group of four pouring over their own manuscripts completely ignored the seekers as they entered - but the trio and the lone figure had stopped what they were doing and were paying very close attention. The man with the amulet quickly tucked it beneath his shirt to hide its glow with a look of mild annoyance - and intrigue.

"Very well then." Ittain said, as he started conjuring up a handful of papers. "Do carry on. This country has wasted enough of my time already." The old man was clearly annoyed. Lee quickly joined him. "What my poor, dementing grandfather here means is that he cannot wait to look at Werrill's shrine." The Seeker joined Lee too, whispering in his ear that the seashell amulet sensed something. He looked over his shoulder for a second, rather troubled. The old men, bent over their paper hadn't moved at all. But Lee could see an unease in the richly dressed group. "So... could you tell us about your inn?" Lee asked.

"Rooms are three silver a night. We restock drink every other week. Damage anything and you pay for it, or I pull your head off." The keeper said in a thoroughly rote and unamused tone as he took Ittain's proferred papers and flipped through the comically small pieces of parchment in his sausage-sized fingers. Satisfied, he turned them back to Ittain.

"We get far too many freaks." He added, eyeing Lee balefully.

Ittain, annoyed, took his paper back and wandered up to one of the empty benches. A quick nod from Lee made the other Seeker join him. "Ah...freaks you say?" Lee said quizically. "I didn't know the Shrine was so important for.. them."

Ittain on the other hand, was keeping an eye on the well dressed guests. Two of them scowled at him, but the third - the man with the rings - affected an air of cool and deliberately turned his attention back to his food and drink, pointedly ignoring Ittain even as his compatriots glared at the seeker.

"Are you staying or not?" The keeper asked Lee ruefully, completely ignoring his question.

Lee gave out a heavy sigh and dropped three silvers on the counter. "One night." The giant of a man took the foreign coins without complaint, and wordlessly slid Lee an iron key on a ring, which bore a small waxy paper tag with a numeral for four inscribed on it.

"You will have to forgive our surly keeper his temperament my good seekers!" A high and whiny voice shrilled in Lee's ear from directly next to him seemingly without warning - the most garishly dressed men he had seen thus far, dressed in a unsettling, bright yellow shirt with coattails, very dark trousers, and a conical fur hat, he also wore sky-blue cords of streaming paper around his shoulders, and he only bore one sleeve over his right arm alone - his left had a curious set of two emblematic burn-marks on the outside of its wrist, which he made no effort to cover.

Lee had to take a minute before he could respond. Who was this person!? Why was he dressed the way he was!? But what really put Lee of was the fact that he called them Seekers. So far, he never called himself or anyone else from the group that. "It's alright." Lee tried to deflect. "We're just here for a pilgrimage. Grandfather always wanted to see a few shrines before he died. If you would excuse me." Lee took the key and the tag and tried to go towards Ittain and the other Seeker. The old man hadn't stopped staring yet.

"Oh, well you won't be getting to the Werrill's Shrine at all unless you might like to listen to...me! My name is Bzz'renlüt my friendly coxcomb, and your surfeiting company would do well to listen to my words, for only I, Bzz'renlüt, can tell you how to decipher the mythic riddle-text of the lakeshore monolith, and only I, Bzz'renlüt, can tell you how to cross the abyssal waters safely! It is a wonderous tale to be told, one of adventure, one of great gaiety and wonder, surely a fine thing for such a senescent fellow like your grandfather to experience, something to bring a smile to his rugous face and the cockles of his liver?"

The supremely annoying man had managed to somehow waltz in a circle around Lee three times in a row while speaking before the seeker had even taken a second step, before stopping and standing in front of him with an expectant look.

Lee groaned internally. But this was a lead and he would take whatever he could get. He turned back at the counter and laid down a silver piece: "Inn keeper, a jar of wine please." Lee knew he would need it. Turning back to the gentleman with a name Lee wasn't even going to try to remember, he said: "Very well, let us take our seats so you can tell the story."

"Ohoho, yes yes, a fine choice indeed my friendly coxcomb! You will never forget the day you made the wisest of choices, to behold and weather the words of the great and grand Bzz'renlüt!" The man declared shrilly. "Be a gofer and get me some drink as well, eh? A talented and whimsical man such as myself can get thirsty!" He laughed, then pranced over to Ittain and the third seeker, orbiting them like some kind of hysterical, tacky comet as they took their seats.

Lee took the jar from the keeper, as well as the four cups. Even though he desperatly hoped the strangely dressed man wouldn't get too greedy with it. Setting down the cups on the table, he could already see the scowl upon Ittain's face before he even had to look up. Lee let each person pour the cup for themselves. He himself filled it up entirely. Ittain kept his half full and the third seeker did too. "Speak, man. I don't have all the time in the world anymore." Ittain sneered.

"Ohohoh, you need not make time for me if you do not fear of the giant world-devouring eel at the bottom of Adula lake! Try to go to Werrill's Shrine, and it will gobble you right up in one big massive slurp, just like this!" The whiny man picked up his cup and drained the whole thing - and as promised, he did it in one, long, obnoxiously loud and exagerrated, childish slurp. "The mythic riddle-text on the lakeshore monolith reveals the bait you need to use to traverse Adula safely, but none remain in this world to read it...except for me! Bzz'renlüt! Bzz'renlüt, last of the line of of the human house what lay with the royalty of Serifs, our rich oral history passing down the knowledge to read the ancient scripture, down to and ending with me, Bzz'renlüt, the wainwright!" He proclaimed, beaming eagerly at the three seekers.

To say that Lee was sceptical, was an understatement. "So what's in the shrine?"

"Oh-hohoho, wonders that will never cease to amaze you my friendly coxcomb, yes indeed, I Bzz'renlüt have no need of it, for I already live in an upstanding forest manor you see, but you and your fleeting uncle will surely be pleased and most blessed to make use of the fantabulous and phantasmagorical majesty of the contents there! By the Serene One, think of it! You could do anything, you could be whoever and whatever you want! Bzz'renlüt of course, would be no other than himself, the grand and tremendous Bzz'renlüt, and so it is obvious it should be you who lay hand upon it!" The obnoxious man lay his hands in an obnoxious and overly-familiar way across Lee's shoulder as he spoke, his other arm outstretched and gesturing as if to some unseen but fascinating tapestry.

"And we happen to be the first who are just friendly enough to ask?" Stated Lee, his voice still icy cold. "You've never helped anyone before? No one in this inn has ever asked you for your help?"

"Oh, but they have! They have! They have all asked the great and mighty Bzz'renlüt for their assured, sound, and steadfast assistance! But they are all misers and indolent fools!" The irritating lush draped himself over the seekers' table dramatically. "They would all rather try to pursue their own foolish, vainglorious, pernicious, feeble-minded schemes to get across the waters without becoming eel-scat! All because they do not understand that to gain riches and power beyond imagining that some small, lesser risks must be taken - but they stupidly think the risks are greater than those of their own ignorant and doomed endeavors! Can you believe that! Truly? That they would shy away from such petty worries?!?"

"Very well then!" it was Ittain who spoke. He rose up from his chair but kept his hands on the table. If he were a younger man, it might have looked like he was squaring up. He turned to the Seeker and said: "Go to the room, wait there for us." The man knew better than to ask questions and did as Ittain said. Then the old, 'blind' man turned to the odd fellow. "How about you show us everything we need to know. Let's go then. If you are any bit as good as you say you are, there no need to tarry and wait. Lead on then." Lee kept his mouth shut.

"Oh yes, you are most-wise indeed, to choose the guidance and counsel of the wise and sagacious Bzz'renlüt!" The extremely odd and poorly dressed man proclaimed. "I shall show you the way without fail! But in order to do that-" A weasle-like impression of slyness crossed his face. "I will need a small, worthless token in exchange - I am a collector of foreign assignation documents you see, for I do love the way they list out of these wonderful foreign possessions and describe these fascinating distant people from far-away lands! Permit me the privilege of having yours, and Bzz'renlüt will give you everything I have to offer about Werrill's Shrine!"

"Ah." Lee finally realized what was happening. "But we still have our associate outside. He carries most of our possessions. As well as obviously all the paperwork. Maybe the great and knowledgable Bzzrenlet-"

"Bzz'renlüt." The obnoxious man corrected Lee.

"Would be more interested in the paperwork of many golden baubbles we gathered from our travels?" Ittain remained silent. Though he knew very much what Lee was doing.

"Hm, hm, hm, hm," The whiny little man said, posing in a countenance of exaggerated contemplation. "No!" He declared, before stamping his feet melodramatically. "Like I said, the mighty and prestigious Bzz'renlüt already resides in a fanciful forest boudoir, and I have no interest in reading about ever more burdensome gold and riches - which I already have in superfluity upon superfluity! No! The most generous and charitable Bzz'renlüt would not have you pay for the privilege of their peerless recounting! Your simple, ragged and worn assignation papers will suffice."

"I have had enough." Ittain raised his hand. But Lee was right in time to grab it. "No. No, not here." He said with a stern voice. Ittain, rather pissed off, sat down again. But Lee's gaze got a lot more serious now. "Listen up, fraud. I've lost my patience and my 'grandfather' here has a very short temper. Now, either you tell us all you know and we leave you be. Or he curses you."

"Bah! Ingrates! Indolent, profligate, primitive, dim-witted, unruly, barbaric, sordid savages!" The extremely unintelligent man blew a raspberry at Lee and ittain. "You rebuff the peerless Bzz'renlüt? You get nothing! Eel-scat shall be made of you fools when the world-devouring serpent slurps you up! Wait and see!" In a huff, he turned on his heels and marched up the stairs. Absolutely none of the other patrons of the inn appeared to have paid much attention to the prolonged exchange, beyond the two members of the trio still watching with faint scowls and the lone hooded figure still peering at them over their food - and had not reacted to the unusual or frantic efforts of the insulting garish man.

"Please tell me you can curse him." Lee almost begged Ittain. But the old man dropped back on the bench. "I'm afraid not. The moon is not aligned with Crag of Ybren. Nor is the seventh star of Huyin'Drath dying." Lee slumped his body. Of course, beyond the 'no', he barely understood what Ittain was saying. What even was the seventh star of Huyin'Drath? Never the less, after finishing the wine, he and his mentor got up to go towards the Shrine. To see what there really was.

The short walk down the footpath through the forest was placid and serene - while the two had been in the inn, the sun had been slowly setting, and had just fallen beneath the horizon. So when they turned past the last grove of trees, Lee and ittain were treated to the sight of a large mountainside lake cast in the glow of twilight. The water was perfectly still and tranquil, reflecting the fading sky like a perfect mirror. Set in the middle of the lake was a small island, faint blurry traces of greenery about it, as well as a distant and indistinct stone structure of some kind. The lake, by and large, was surrounded by more forest - but, a short ways along the shore and led to by the footpath, there was a clearing by the water where a single, rough-hewn monolithic slab of rock stuck out from the mud. One of its surfaces was polished to a perfect and pristine flatness that was unblemished by the ages, and its face bore upon it three lines of some unfamiliar alien text neither Lee nor Ittain had seen before.

Before they could even think about going closer however, they were stopped by the call of someone's voice.

"That's far enough profligates." Behind them, the three richly-dressed men in robes had seemingly crept up along the path behind them in complete silence - said silence shortly explained when Lee noticed the faint and eerily silent flurries of dust around their boots, with had left no prints behind them.

Their leader - the man with the number of rings upon his finger - was staring warily at the two. "I don't particularly care one way or another if that threat to curse that gibbering fool was a bluff or no, but listen here. We have more riding on retrieving the contents of the shrine than you can even imagine, and whatever hedge-magic or artifact you have on you, it is no match for my own. Stay out of our way and do not interfere, and there is no need for us to get violent."

Lee didn't feel particulary intimidated. Knowing that Ittain was in a foul mood was strangely comforting now. "You fools want to cross the water? Be my guest." the old man stated, moving away from the shore. "Well carry on now. Do what you must and all that good stuff." Lee knew what the old man was doing. Making others do the work for once. If they succeeded, then Ittain and Lee just had to threaten them to get what they wanted. Or stop them from getting it in the first place. If the failed, well at least they would be out of the way.

"A wise choice." The man said wrly as the trio swept past the two seekers and set onto the shoreline. They began to converse between themselves, making no effort to hide their words.

"So we just fly over the water? That's it?" One of them asked the man with the rings.

"That's it." He confirmed. "I did it once before, albeit at a much greater height as I was only passing by and did not know of the shrine then. I flew right over the island without stopping. So we will fly straight up to that height, head over the island, and then descend."

"And how come nobody has done that before?" The third demanded.

"Who could have? The last mage of any note in all of Matathran was Pentadrast, and even he couldn't fly." The man with the rings scoffed. "I've looked through every tome and scroll on this place, same as you - mages have visited before, but none of them ever attempted to fly to the island. We will be the first, I am reasonably certain."

The trio then prepared for their aerial journey, clustering together, the ringed mans' companions pressing close to him as he waved over their bodies with his hands, murmurring all the while. Then, less than half a minute later, with twilight still hanging in the air, the trio ascended.

"You think this is going to work?" Asked Lee. Ittain just scoffed. "This thing has been here for over a thousand years. Do you think that these men, who probably just stole or bought an enchanted item, are the first to think of flying? I would insult the Primordial personally if that's how you get across." Ittain stated.

The trio finished their ascent, and began to drift through the air high above the lake - they had ascended quite a way, and they were barely perceptible as dots in the rapidly darkening sky at this point.

They crossed over the lake without issue, and hovered far above the shrine - and then they began to slowly descend.

"Looks like they're getting over quite well though." Lee said. Ittain had a scowl on his face. But he said nothing.

Then, just as it looked like the three were about to land on the island in the lake itself - the trajectory of their descent swerved. All three of them visibly struggled in the air as if some force was yanking on ropes connected to their ankles - one by one, all three of them splashed down into the lake, sinking below the waters.

They did not come up again. The burbling burst of air bubbles from below faded soon thereafter.

Ittain couldn't help but grin. Lee just got up and walked up to the monolith. "Quite an unfortunate end, one would say." Ittain kept his eyes on the vanishing bubbles in the far distance. "Do you think there is a serpent?" This time it was Lee's turn to grin. "What do you think is better? Die drowning or be eaten by some lake monster?"

Ittain did not answer that. Instead he too got up and joined Lee. Both men gazed upon the monolith. "This is probably the key to get across." Lee said. It was an obvious deduction but he said it none the less. "Can you read it?" Ittain shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It has been much too long since a deer ran past here." Lee just gave up trying to understand Ittain's expIanations. Never the less, he took a scroll and started copying the glyphs of the monolith. He just managed to finish inscribing them when the last glow of twilight faded, leaving him and ittain in the relative darkness of the early night, the rising full moon and the stars the only illumination now.


It was then that Lee and ittain heard a single pair of footsteps slowly approaching from the trail, and the distant glow of a lamp in the woods.

Lee and Ittain just needed one look at each other to know what to do. Both rushed into the bushes nearby. Lee wanted to make an illusion spell, but he realized that would only betray their presence. Both men kept quiet instead. With their eyes fixed on the Monolith.

Moments later, the lone cloaked and hooded individual from the inn left the trail and stepped into the small clearing with the monolith. They strode right past the slab of stone without even glancing at it, and leaned down by the water's edge, casting a hand over the water vaguely.

"Perfectly still..." A feminine voice said - and indeed, the water of the lake was perfectly smooth and tranquil still, a perfect mirror of the sky above. Sitting on their hind-legs, the figure took their lamp and snuffed it out, casting the clearing in darkness. They did not move then, simply sat and stared at the moonlit lake.

Lee and Ittain kept still while the stranger walked up the lake. Lee still kept a hand on his dagger in case she was dangerous. Ittain, on the other hand, was strangely interested in the hooded figure. Without a signal he stood up from the bush and walked back towards the monolith. "Excuse me, lady. You seem to have a surprisingly better understanding of this...enigma than most others."

The cloaked figure, startled by Ittain, yelped in surprise and flung out their arms for balance as they teetered on their feet, barely managing to correct themself and avoid plunging headlong into the lake. "Don't creep up on a woman like that!" She hissed, standing and brushing down her robes hastily. "Serene One's sake, I could have fallen in!"

"Forgive an old man." Ittain was strangely charming now. He casted a quick glance behind him, to see if Lee was joining him. He did not. "This country has had many suprises for an old man as myself. We were generally advised to remain off the path for most of the time." Carefully Ittain approached the woman. Though in the darkness, she was quite difficult to see. Ittain clicked his fingers. From the snap, a small light floated up. Illuminating its immediate area. The woman had bronze skin, with long raven hair, a length of which was tied into a braid, and striking golden-colored eyes. Her eartips were ever so faintly pointed - another one of the species of elf indigenous to the region.

"A mage?" She quinted at Ittain skeptically. "You aren't with those three lushes, are you? I saw them leave just a bit after you."

"Ugh, they were such an insult to magic itself. Where I come from, such fools would be educated. Taught how to use such a beautiful thing that is magic. Instead they toy with artifacts. No, I am not a part of them. In their arrogance, they believed they could get across." Ittain pointed out into the distance. "To their credit they made it quite far until the lake swallowed them whole. But enough about fools and magic." Lee watched from a distance, wincing the whole time Ittain spoke about how Vallenguin would have handled the flying fools. Ittain, on the other hand, seemed completely unconcerned with it. "Now if you would be so kind, would you tell an old man about the Shrine and the lake?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't care less about the shrine- uh..." She cast a glance across the lake. "Well ok, I care a little. But I'm not really here for that, no point in fantasizing over what I can't reach. I'm just here for the moment of apogee. I don't know anything about the place's history, really. All I can tell you is that the water of this lake does not have any tides most of the time. Like a sheet of glass." She gestured at the water, which was a perfect mirror of the nighttime sky, seemingly undisturbed from the three would-be-mages plunge into it not moments before.

"Ah yes. The moon." Ittain was not the least fuzzed about the answer. "Beautiful and pale." He kept on musing. "I've always wondered what the world looked like from up there." Lee wanted to strangle the old man now. Venerable as he was, sometimes he really needed to focus. "I wonder though. What if we broke such a perfect mirror?" Ittain had sent a stone flying before he even uttered the words. As it splashed into the water, it dropped immediately out of sight - the surface where it had hit seemed to flex for a moment, but strangely, no ripples were made by the disturbance.

"...Quite strange, no?" The woman indicated. "But if you take some of the water out in a vessel, it acts just like normal, so it's not some other fluid with different properties. I uh, I'm not a mage myself, but I've read a few articles about this place. Water is completely magic-free as well. No enchantments, at least, none that could be detected at this distance."

"No magic, you say?" Ittain remembered the pearl. It had no magic as well yet it was the most beautiful thing he will ever see in his life. "How much do you know of the Primordial of the Shrine?" It was an off hand question.

"Nothing. I think Werrill was the name of some mortal sculptor from the era of legends or something, there's no religious scripture on this place." The women said distractedly, turning back to look at the lake and the sky, craning her head and framing her hands around the moon as if measuring it. "And the monolith doesn't mention any names either."

"You can read what's on the monolith?" Lee almost cheered from the bushes, causing her to jump in startlement for a second time. Lee, realizing he blew his cover, appeared from the bushes. "Ah, my prodigy." Ittain announced. "Forgive him. He's still so very young. But please, the monolith, what does it say?"

"Don't you two know you're not supposed to creep up and spy on women like that?" The elf demanded, glaring daggers at Lee. She took a moment to calm down, waving the young seeker off with disgust as she turned back to Ittain. "No, I can't read it. I just read the translation in a book once, it's archaic Serif, the language of the native Sun Elves back in the era of Heroes. It says..." She paused for a moment, and then recited it from memory. "Those who walk the path of shattered light may gaze upon a maiden fallen from the palace of the sky."

"Broken luminescence." Ittain mused, enjoying the faint memory. "Ah, it was right." He said, more to himself than to the woman sitting next to him. "I'm guessing very few have managed to beat the riddle." Ittain looked at the moon's reflection upon the water. A perfect disc on the black surface. It showed all its details. "Tell me, how many have tried to walk on the moon?"

"Well, some people have hypothesized some Primordials lived up there. Maybe there is something to that 'Sky Palace' nonsense. I don't remember any mortals who are said to have been to the moon." The woman commented as she raised her hands again and measured the celestial sphere once more. "Hm. Getting there...just a few more moments..."

"No, no, I mean the reflection, down there." Ittain pointed at the white image of the moon on the water. Lee, in the meantime, was just wandering around the lake.

"Are you talking about that weird theory that the lake is a portal to an upside-down copy of the world and that you could fall onto the moon if you aimed it right?" The woman looked at Ittain with something approaching curiosity and mild exasperation.

"Well that is just preposterous." Ittain scoffed. As if he just heard the stupidest thing in his life. "For such a thing to happen, the ninth painting of Baksgar has to be torn up first." He stated, as if there even was something as a Baksgar, leave alone nine paintings of it. "No, obviously I mean has anyone tried to walk on the light?"

The woman paused, looking at Ittain thoughtfully for a moment. "...Not thats I'm aware, but I don't think you would get very far. The reflection is angular, you could never keep it beneath your feet, and the moon never rises straight up into the sky." She answered slowly. "Maybe if the water was wavering, had some natural tides..." She turned back to look at the water.

"Yet there are no waves." Ittain mused. "Nor can we really make them. Well, it was a fine theory." The old man laid down back, gazing upwards towards the stars. "Tell me, is the moon closest yet?"

"It should be, any moment now-"

As they both turned to look at the reflection of the moon, drifting in the perfect reflection of the lake water - there was a ripple.

Then another.

The motion was ever-so-faint. With any other lake, such minute perturbations might have been mistaken for stillness, but here, each small tide, rise and fall, was like a scratch on a mirror. Almost immediately, as the miniscule tides filled the whole of the lake, the image of the moon became blurred and distorted, warping and contorting until it shattered in the undulating waters, its many gleaming fragments of light shifting and sliding across the surface of the lake, stretching onwards and outwards towards Werrill's Shrine.

"You have perhaps an hour until apogee ends." The elvish woman said distractedly, absorbed larger with the lake itself rather than the moon's broken reflection. Tentatively, she reached out with her hand, touching the water as if to test it - her hand passing right through. She bent over, reaching down as far as she could, sticking the entirety of her hand into the depths of the lake right at the edge of the shoreside until she was lying down, the garb of her cloak becoming soaked through.

"It would still appear to be bottomless. If you can actually walk on all of that, try not to fall off." She said, although from her tone it was apparent she did not much care one way or the other.

Ittain conjured up a faint smile. Yes, fate was with him this time. Carefully he stupped on the bridge of shattered moonlight. Lee, from further away, saw what was happening and rushed towards the old man. Thinking he would drop down into the bottomless pit. But as Ittain took his steps across the water, Lee realized something entirely different happened. Now he too rushed across the light, joining up with Ittain. "Incredible!" He exclaimed. Ittain just grinned. "No... Primordial."

The pathway across the lake accentuating each of their footfalls with light, pattering sloshes, Ittain and Lee both rushed across the passage of light hurriedly - not out of anxiety, but due to the simple thrill of accomplishing something so fantastic - nigh mythical in nature. In the darkened night, the lake illuminated only by the moon and stars, the two seekers crossed the abyss and arrived at the island in the middle of the lake.

The island itself was quite modest in size, and largely flooded. The ground itself was soaked through with water, the grasses and plants soggy and partially submerged in many places. It became impossible to stick to the path of shattered moonlight, but thankfully the disturbed and sodden soil of the island proved just firm enough to allow for ease of movement. As seen from the lakeshore, right in the middle of the island - was a shrine. A large hexagonal stone gazebo, with simple stone pillars holding aloft the roof for the veranda upon the gazebo's terrace. The structure was perhaps three-stories tall in all, each floor a smaller tier stacked upon the other with arching, awning openings along the third tier itself. The first and second floors both stood host to large archway entrances, the second-floor opening permitting access to the railed walkway atop the veranda itself. The exterior design of the structure was otherwise almost paltry in detail - the columns and railings bore no detailing or patterning, the walls were smooth and featureless, and the tiling for the veranda was made from simple square marble tiles. The interior of the gazebo itself was cast in darkness, though the two Seekers could just make out the start of a staircase a ways past the entrance.

"I expected..." Lee's words trailed long as he observed his surroundings. "Something more?" Ittain offered. "No, no, something more...ethereal. Stone and soggy earth is not something you expect after walking on broken light." Ittain just nodded, understanding his apprentice's feeling of unease. "Let us not stand on questions we can answer later. We have less than an hour and I feel this place has more to offer than what we can learn in a year." And so, Master and Prodigy marched towards the entrance, up the staircase.

The gazebo interior matched the exterior in its simplicitly. Smooth, well-molded but unadorned and undecorated stone. The third floor itself proved to be entirely hollow, just empty space hanging above the second tier of the gazebo. It curved near the ceiling where the tiers would begin, and so the most complimentary thing one could say of the structure was that as a hollow unsupported shell, it was structurally sound. As they reached the top of the stairs, they found that the second floor was itself largely empty, the only interesting feature of note being the awning opening, doubling as a window, that allowed access to the veranda's roof. From that window, one could clearly see the path of shattered light, the Lakeside Monolith, and the elf woman scholar who was still examining the motions of the water there - albeit, from this distance, they were just as blurry and indistinct as the shrine itself appeared from the Lakeshore.

The structure and its lone interior chamber would both have been utterly unremarkable - had it not been for the single display in the middle of the room. It was the first thing Ittain and Lee saw upon reaching the top of the staircase. A raised stone pedestal, circular and wide, drapped across with a voluminous layer of aged silk carpets, blasnkets, and tapestries. Sitting near the center of the pedestal was an immaculately carved statute of a woman, reclined on her side, facing towards the window in serene observation - perhaps somewhat taller and larger than a Human specimen but otherwise identical, wearing carved robes and with a hooded head. Here, the details were ornate, miniscule, and immaculate - the stone garbs themselves bore curving patterning and designs indicative of Primordial status, which both of the Seekers could recognize nearly on-sight from years of having purused esoteric texts - the carved maiden depicted here was clearly supposed to be the foremost mortal servant of a Primordial. Or perhaps a slave.

Most striking however, was not the masterful craftsmanship that had gone into the carving of the statute itself - the shape of its face, its arms, its delicate fingers all seemed nearly lifelike! - It shined with a peculiar sheen not commonly seen, the moon and starlight dappling across its form creating countless lines of a milky, pearl-like luster across its form. The material seemed unearthly, eerie not only its majesty but in its pristine quality. Untouchable, nearly ephemeral in beauty.

Moonstone. Not the lustrous gem, surely, but actual stone from the Palace of the Sky itself, polished to a perfect shine.

Lee gazed upon the statue with pure adoration. The form, the stone, details. It was perfection given shape. Not even Vallenguin's greatest sculptors could achieve such a level of perfection. Filled with young impatience he rushed towards the pedestral. On his way, taking out a book and casting his observant spell. A bright, purple light came forth from his fingers and flew around the pedestral. Ink appeared in his book, a drawing of the statue that could never even approach its perfection.

Ittain, on the other hand, carefully approached the statue with reverence. Such a beauty it depicted. He would kill, no he would die, to know who she was. Carved in moonstone, such rare material, in such great quantity here. No doubt Werrill, the sculptor, had a Primordial benefactor. "Oh time. Oh veiled mystery. Would you not tell me its story?" Ittain silently whispered like a prayer.

"I do not know many stories." The statute said to him in turn. Its lips moved with the same soundless quality of flesh, without a hint of grinding stone.

Lee jumped back, falling to the ground in shock when the statue talked. Ittain, on the other hand, was delighted. "Oh Primordials. What a blessing!" he exclaimed, as he got closer. The purple light still hovered around, writing everything down in Lee's book. "Oh tell us. Who are you?"

"Mine maker did bequeth me with the name Iamai." The statute replied, tilting its head ever-so-slightly to gaze at Ittain. The folds of its stone cloth moved with the motion of its head, and yet again there was no sound, no churning of rock with its motions - perhaps the faintest rustle, as though of swaying fabric, just like real cloth might make. "Might I have your names? For what purpose do you come?" The statue's voice was that of a young maiden's. Soft, elegant and prim. The sound of cordial nobility and grace epitomized.

"Iamai..." Neither Lee nor Ittain had ever heard the name before. "I am Ittain of Vallenguin." Lee cast him a dangerous glare for betraying their home. But Ittain silenced him with one gaze. Lee then realized that few would ever find the statue. Even fewer would ask her about the others who came before. "And I am Lee of Vallenguin." He then added, with the same cordial tone. "We have come from far for knowledge about the great Primordials. It was rumored that this shrine held some connection to one of them. Even though it was named and pressumably made by your maker: Werrill. Tell us, who is he honoring with your creation?"

"I was made to be the Bride of the Primordial Sathanas. My Master did despair upon the dissolution of their kind. I was made to coax at least their patron back unto this realm. The last guest I had did speak of the Primordials, and did claim they were all no more. Is..." Iamai paused. Its face - its face actually trembled visibly, its lips quivering faintly, its eyelids seeming to flutter anxiously. It made as though to take in a breath before finishing its inquiry, though the air did not move. "Did they speak truly? Are our masters no more?"

Lee looked away from the statue. A hand gripped his heart as she spoke the words. To believe in the Primordials as gods meant to feel their absence every day. He could not answer. But Ittain could. With a heavy voice he said: "It is true. Many have vanished, many died. Nobody has seen a Primordial for thousands of years now. It's a heavy truth, forgive me for telling you this." Ittain explained. "Though, our mission here, to this distant country has not been without fruit. There might be hope. Tell us, what did Werrill say about Sathanas?"

"...Ah." The statue raised a single delicate hand to its mouth, as if to hide its expression. The heavy stone again, moved in utter silence, as any normal being might have moved - the only sound coming from the shifting of the stone 'fabrics' that it wore. "My master...did prepare me for the rites and duties I would bear as wife to Sathanas...Though I do confess, I dared not to question where the boundary between ceremony and personal preference did lie. I was...quite exultant in my expectations, those many years ago. Hoping. Imagining how it would be. I did not..." Iamai paused. "I know nothing of them beyond that they were the patron of my maker, and a Primordial of Light."

Ittain pitied the statue. A creation so perfect, to be sealed away until the Primordials came back. Would it ever happen? Who could say. "If you would, me and my apprentice are here for knowledge. In this age, there are those who would question the divinity of the Primordials. They dare say they were not gods but slavers. History is mudded and tainted by these heretics. If you want to share anything of your expected rites and duties, it would mean the world to us."

"Ah..." Iamai tilted her head to the side, her face the expression of mild confusion. "That word you did use...slave...My knowing of this tongue is imperfect, from what I did glean of my last visitor's bestowal. Perhaps my understanding of its meaning is imperfect, but it would seem to my thinking that its meaning is synonymous with the status and position of my master's kind before the Primordials. Formally, as it happened to be. And I bear no knowledge of this word..." Her face contorted in effort, her eyelids narrowing as she stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds. "...D...duhv-ihn-it-ee?"

"Divinity." Lee stated with confidence. "God-like. What other word would one use to to describe the Primordials? Though I am not suprised few people describe them like that anymore. Especially in this respectless pigsty of a country." Lee's voice was filled with disgust.

Iamea blinked. Twice. "Ah..." She said. Was that anxiety fluttering within the perfect intonation of her voice? "I do believe I understand. Your...deference to our masters is, of course, beyond reproach." She smiled at Lee. The faint outlines of her teeth within her mouth, gleaming lustrously - Werrill had even carved for her the interior of a mouth, complete with a tongue and throat! Was the remainder of the statue as detailed? Did it bear organs, perhaps even a heart of some kind? "I would be most pleased to share with you the rites and duties I was made to know...but...I do fear the path of light to this place of mine shall fade in time, which approaches with some celerity. Perhaps it would be best if..." She looked between Ittain and Lee, her expression tender as she smiled almost expectantly at them, her face the very visage of loveliness. "...Perhaps you might take me with you? That I might better tell you all it is that I do know."

"I would... but..." Ittain tried to say. "But we can't. Now now." Lee stated. "We are not guests in this country. I'm afraid we cannot take you with us." But then Ittain spoke up again: "But we shall return. This I promise. With luck, we might even return the Primordial Sathanas. Forgive us now, I'm afraid we are already out of time." Lee nodded in approval. "Wait for us, if you would. And remember our titles: the Truth-Seekers of Vallenguin." With that, the two bid their leave. Down the staircase they went, solemnly. "Wait!" They heard a desparate cry from behind them. "Do not leave me here again! I am everso lonely! Please..." Once again they crossed the bridge of shattered light, but with none of the excitement they had when they went back.

Lurid, misshapen shadows and shreds of mangled light danced from torches affixed behind casings of cunningly wrought stained glass. Inhuman effigies and fragmented emblems were brought to flickering life, manifold eyes flaring up with a forgotten cruel intent for brief moments before being left once more to shadow. Their gaze, as hasty as their life was transient, ran over tremendously old, yet unblemished stone walls, adorned with exquisitely etched yet grotesque and repellent reliefs. Eikons of monstrous divines of times past leapt through the luminous tatters, and behind them a blur of scenes of grim worship by faceless congregations and armoured figures standing in triumph amid desolate vistas, interrupted by the recurrence of the eyes upon the columns in the room’s walls. Having the fires lit at that time would have seemed strange even in lands as blighted as Naraksh, but it was not so in the pale rays that filtered through the tall, narrow windows, grey and dusky despite it being high noon.

Between the contrasting lights, around a long wooden table strewn with thick volumes, scrolls and other, more curious items, sat and crouched a circle of hooded shades not unlike those depicted in the carvings. The colours of their robes were those of the Order of the Divines, and the clerical heraldry upon them showed that none was lower in rank than an Episcope. Indeed, almost all of the priests gathered there bore the mark of the Eyes enclosed in a triangle of spiralling threads on their vestments, with the exception of five, whose ample and intricate patterns of symbology surpassed even the ornaments of their fellows. Of those there could not have been more, for they were the mark of the Exarchs themselves. Though these were the only variations in their insignias, the cut of their raiment was not identical – the group of bog-folk squatting at one end of the table, whose bodies were unfit to wear clothing woven for men, were covered in hanging drapes and strips of fabric, and had no masks to conceal their bestial countenances.

Behind them, in the unlighted far end of the chamber, shadow reigned, broken only by the glimmer of a pair of burning red eyes.

One of the high clerics was speaking, his body bent forward as though he were about to rise from his seat. With one hand he leaned on the table, while the other pressed upon one of the larger, older tomes. Alone among his fellows, sanguine lights akin to those that observed from the darkness shimmered under his hood.

“…that it is the mark of the One interred in ash, and a sign of wrath. Those blades point against the rot in our midst, and its hunger for death is that of a living host. The power of the Great Ones stirs, and they sent the heralds of their displeasure to warn us. Heed them! or their anger shall turn against you when they rise!”

“Their testament has no words on inner rot, and you know this all too well.” Another of the adorned priests, seated opposite the one who had spoken first, replied. “Do I need to repeat how tired we are of this?” “No.” Someone interjected. “Or how insistence does you no good, Raziemir? You lost a cause to it once, and your words will not align with the Ones’ will any better because you repeat them. How is an army a sign of wrath when it does not march to raze the enemy? Had we angered the Divines, I would not be speaking now.”

He seemed to be about to continue, but the second decorated shape on Raziemir’s side of the table interrupted him with a sharp gesture. “Unlike you, the Divines have a breadth of wisdom. Would they smite the loyal, though inept, when they could warn them instead? Sow death instead of fear? You have good memory for your admonishments, it seems, but not for the Dictates. Second book…” The speaker seized upon one of the tomes and began to hastily leaf through it. Before he could find whatever citation he was seeking, however, the second Exarch spoke up again.

“I remember the Dictates without reading, and this is what they say. ‘Those who are as worms or writhe as worms, and struggle and sting against the reaching hand, are taken and unmade in cinder’. Had we been this verminous rot you gibber of, and had the Divines arisen, this would have happened, but has it then? No!”

“And in cinder you will be unmade if you persevere!” Raziemir seethed. “What do you think is the reaching hand? The stone-host is its shadow, and it stretches over heretics like you and your fellow the butcher! Struggle on, then, and-“

“The butcher our fellow! The Great Ones never made invective their weapon.” The third Exarch seemed to have a taste for cutting into the speech of his peers. “Save for in your warped mythos, they struck fast and true, and what they willed was open and manifest. To condemn with an omen as oblique as that host in not their mark. Their displeasure with us-“

“Second book, first proclamation!” The fourth speaker had finally – and abruptly – emerged from the worn pages of his tome. “’The screecher that culls the herd without need will needs raven and waste, for it withers the spring of blood it drinks’. By your words, the Divines would have acted as this animal, or as the gutterblooded yard-kings of the east. Or the north.” He added in a venomous tone.

The eyes in shadow seemed to flinch with a touch of irritation.

“You take up the knife by the blade, and cut your hand with it.” The third Exarch raised a hand in a triumphant gesture. “If the herd is not culled without need, then, since we are not culled, there would not be any need to, would it? That is, if your legless creed were true at all.”

“The fumes of your alembics have eaten your wit, clearly, for this is the truth of the matter: there is need to cull you, and I know what it is, though you have forgotten everything that is not written in your profane signs. Will I tell you?”

“Tell us!” Raziemir’s ally rejoindered.

“Tell us.” Came a dripping echo from the further end of the table. The Kuraxxi Exarch had remained silent until then, but the Southerner’s provocation, obvious as it was to anyone with the least eye for politic, had drawn the curiosity of the bog-dweller.

The other two prelates did not answer, but rustled their defiant wordless assent.

“This it is, then. That prime relic of their magnificence, something that depraved necrophages like you should revere above all by your own gnarled doctrine, that is the highest blood coursing on this forsaken soil these days, you have instigated to be tainted with foreign grime! Look here at this.” One of the Episcopes seated next to Raziemir proffered him a bundle of small embroidered banners. “Nor even with what could have been masked, weakly, as worthy ichor, no! With the sludge of some grime-dwelling slattern, home of bog fleas and all other pox and filth! Your blasphemy could not have been more grievous if you tried to make it! Look here.”

He unfolded one of the banners, holding it by the upper end. It could be seen that an entire scene was woven upon it, with a skilful, if somewhat rigid hand. Two figures were depicted on what seemed to be the bank of a body of water. One, with a distinctive head of dark red hair and apparently disrobed below the waist, crouched near the edge, while a larger, oddly grey-hued shape loomed over it.

“This is her!” Raziemir spat. “A maggot grovelling in the dirt, before this… ape, this animal that they have up there! A harlot to beasts and a laughing-stock to slaves! This all comes from the north, you know.”

A chorus of amused scraping rose from the group of bog-folk clerics. The Exarch was already lifting a second banner.

“Weak and a coward!”

This scene portrayed the same red-headed figure as in the first one precipitously fleeing before an imposing warrior clad in black armour, wielding a spear tipped with some colourful stain. The former’s expression was such that some of the Episcopes on the side of Raziemir’s opponents could not restrain subdued chuckles, upon which their superiors shook their heads, growling something under their breath.

“A vessel of godlike potential, this? Turning heel before a raving wreck armed with a dishrag dug out of some gravepit? This box of wurm food,” he pointed at the knight, “terrorised the wretches who would now conquer the land from shore to shore, led by one who runs fastest. When she can run at all…”

Another cloth was unfurled, and again at least one of the rival prelates could barely stifle a chortle. This time, the protagonist of the portrait was limping out of a shadowed doorway, her form smattered with red and her features seemingly more entertaining yet to the Narakshi than the previous rendition. One of the bog-folk, who had been craning their entire frightfully flexible torsos to better see the embroideries from their position, abruptly pulled back and quietly sibilated something to its compatriots, who shuddered in silent spasms of hilarity.

“The introduction of blood trials in Matathran.” The Exarch proclaimed with mock solemnity. “You see how well their taskmasters fare. And one who crawls out of a desiccated kennel as a pile of rubble on two legs would be an equal for steel molded by the Ashen Crypt and the path of ascension?”

A voice like grinding stone issued from the darkness behind the Kuraxxi party, and even the high priest’s jeering abated for a moment in its wake.

“This already has my blessing, Exarch Raziemir. Tread carefully.”

Raziemir muttered something unintelligible under his mask and did away with the banner. The next one he produced, however, caused more commotion than the other three together. Several Episcopes exhaled loudly through their noses, others ground their teeth in an effort to keep their mouths closed, and even one of the Exarchs could not contain an audible “Ghrm!” One of the Kuraxxi went so far as to point at the cloth with a claw and scrape out something doubtless not very flattering.

“You have quite the collection.” The more restrained of the two adversaries remarked in a forcedly even tone.

“Crumbs from your table.” Raziemir deflected off-handedly. “And a shadow of what you can find across the border. Would a worthy claimant to the least sliver of ancestral might allow this? A worthy bearer of what you have the arrogance to prophesy as a living god? Where in this do you see a semblance of anything worthwhile – I do not say for sacred aims, but even for your heretical enchantments? Tell me. Do you not see all of it here?” A vicious smile could virtually be heard creeping into his words. “And you wonder that the Great Ones should have raised an army of damnation against your blunders? The wonder is that it does not already stand at your gates! It is well for you that they are above your twisting of their words, or your impudence would already have its reward!”

“Impudence aside…” the second Exarch demonstratively waved away the still upheld banner from before himself, “…if the Great Ones have indeed arisen, and are wroth with us as you recklessly claim, would they not have bared it before us, rather than hiding it away in the south?”

“An Exarch should know better than to question the wisdom of his greaters – and such greaters.” The prelate to Raziemir’s left interposed sardonically.

His opponent was undeterred. “And you who cling to their ways better than to demean it. The Divines have never spoken in obscure warnings, and their only word against those who displeased them was the call of execution. Do you say that deathly sleep has changed them so? Where is their voice that shatters the earth, where the shadow of their breath?” He half-rose himself, bending towards the Southerner’s head and meeting his burning eyes with a narrowed gaze of his own. “Is this their work at all?”

Neither did Raziemir relent. “And who else?” he scoffed. “The mark of ash and iron is clear upon its ranks, and no other force could have wrought such a marvel in so little time. Do you now think that your ‘new gods’ can appear without you even conjuring them?”

“I ask you again, since your mind is buried away in a sarcophagus of the Crypts. Is this the work of the Divines alive?”

“Not dead, certainly! Unto gods is godly death, and no abyss can be deeper than that. Either they rise from it in force, or not at all.”

“And this is their force?! A veiled oracle worthy of that mound of putrid coals? No. But do you put it beyond them to have preordained this portent to happen now? Now that our machinations call for a token of the old power? An army is a sign of strength, and as strength we must receive it. Did you not say yourself that even the most stray filth are rallying around the ancient words?”

“Laughable subterfuge!” Raziemir threw his head back as if to burst into cachinnations. His hood did not even threaten to slide off. “They rally, yes, to the true teachings of rebirth, not your blasphemous delusions. This thought is as inane as your hollow promises of divine successors. Do you compare the Great Ones to a waft of mortal smoke? You who spoke against roundabout signs!”

“What that scum claimed she could do, a true divine could have done thousandfold. What is roundabout about the shadow of a legion at the very time and place it would be found? You could not yourself name a clearer sign that our endeavour will bear a mighty fruit.”

Derisive snorts came from the red-eyed Exarch’s entourage.

“I could not name a clearer sign that your wretched sect is built on lunacy. If I had heard this from a parochian, I would-”

Raziemir’s tirade was interrupted by the entry of a procession of masked attendants bearing fresh ammunition for the doctrinal feud in the guise of several other ponderous, ancient leather-bound texts. The clerics fell upon them with little short of hunger, some almost snatching the manuscripts out of each other’s hands while others began to shout out half-remembered quotes as they fumbled for the conclusions. The Kuraxxi observed the scene silently – whether in amusement or tedium, it was difficult to say.

Behind them, twin thoughtfully narrowed red sparks were briefly blotted out by a wide, wavering outline.

The northern coastline of the bay of lights was tranquil that night, the sea lapped gently against the edge of the forests that grow along its shore. To the east the warm glow of the human city of Crinwaley could be seen, a sea of candlelight slowly dimming as its inhabitants said their goodnights. Deeper in the forest faint lights of cold gold could be seen, the magical lights of the Dreaming Forest, made by both deliberate light fixtures and as a byproduct of the magic being performed within. While the children who prepared for war, while their progenitors twisted nature to their own ends, their machinations dulled by the woods in which they worked. In the sky above the moon hung, blessing the land with its pale light, while to the south, beneath the waves, five pools of glowing lights of blood red surrounding a greater center that mirrored the celestial majesty above.

As the last lights dimmed in the city a disturbance arose at the water's edge and from the deep blue emerged figures, cloaked in darkness. They did not look like they belonged there, but their bodies, ment for life within the sea, propelled them forwards with unnatural grace nonetheless. A dozen or so of these creatures emerged from the water together and ascended a small hill just beyond the coastline. Some of the climbers used partisans or staves, to lightly assist them in the ascent. Other carried short swords who’s blades pointed forwards from their handles rather than up.

The small party reached the top of the hill that looked over the surrounding area and was topped with a large stone tree, a monument of remembrance to the Tree’s fallen kin who gave the region known as the Grave of the Pioneers its name. The sea creatures ignored the monument, turning instead their attention towards the Grove in the forests beyond. One figure moved ahead of the rest and placed their staff to the grass, grasping it with both hands before beginning to chant softly and unintelligibly, power flowing into the implement, which after a few moments flared to life, focused on a gemstone suspended at the top held by two claw like extensions. A beam of blue burst out of the gem, shooting into the forest beyond.

The light of the magical implement revealed the seafolk to be Rayneids, merfolk native to the bay of lights. Somewhat akin to mermaids or the morkt, they were humanoid in apperance up until the waist, at which point their bodies seamlessly transitioned to that of an eel or sea snake, a long serpentine tail that could propel them through the water or allow them to snake across the land. Those with armament wore sleek form fitting bronze armor on their upper halves, the heavy plate padded on the inside with kelp pods to provide buoyancy. These were sacred guards, sworn to defend the priestly moon kissed daughters, who were garbed in scale hugging robes made of shark skin leather dyed crimson. All present wore either visored helmets or masks made in the image of their Primordial mother who’s resting place their kind were sworn to protect.

The burning light was a signal rather than a weapon, part of a setup made to allow the two ancestors of the primordials a way of meeting without either having to risk the dangers of the other’s realm. The Bay of light’s depths and the hearts of the Dreaming Groves where both equally perilous to those who did not belong there, each guarded with a paranoid zeal. The light called to the Trees to send envoys out from their mist to come meet their neighbours. Soon after the signal was sent one appeared, a small collection of dryads accompanied by a singular ent emerged from the woods and ascended the hill to meet the Rayneids. One among the group was Selzona the cold, recently arrived from the north baring the mysterious staff that had been deposited on her doorstep. The one who stepped forwards however was a local Dryad man, dressed in ironbark armor and wearing a wolf skin across his shoulders, its head settled on a shoulder pad.

“Greetings. I am Harkfen the Pack-master. To what do we owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

One of the priestesses slithered forwards, a different one form the signal sender who herself was visibly tired and supporting herself on her staff. This priestess wore crimson leather robes decorated with silver stripes on the shoulder pads. Her mask was white and featured three red ovolide eyes forming an arc above her own which where shielded by red stained glass. Four ten centimeter long blade like teeth from some carnivorous seacreture were embedded at the edge of the mask in-between the eyes, forming either a crown or set of horns.

“I am Akara, daughter of the burning moon and representative of the Cetera-Matris.” The use of Cetera-Matris raised some eyebrows among the assembled treekin, it was a name they had only heard the Rayneids use to refer to themselves on two prior occasions, and the were unaware of its significance. “We have come to grace your presence with our piety because of your message. We found it odd that you would bother us with the trivialities of the pointless powerstrugles of mortal races”

Akara had been instructed to remain quiet about their knowledge on the continental conflict, at least initially, by daughter Alexix, so as to not fowl their second source of information with the influence of the first. Alexix herself was too busy with talks with other allies to come personally and also did not want to make the Morj suspicious of her absence should they pay another visit.

There was silence as Harken debated with the Trees and Dryads in the area how much military information to divulge to their neighbours. They were without Yaval, the great tree far too preoccupied with the business of war to interject at that time, more than happy to leave the local affair to local management. After a consensus was hurriedly met before the pause became an insult Harkfen responded.

“As mentioned there will be an increase in shipping over the following weeks. While we have agreed to let your infrequent attacks on human vessels slide we insist that this activity cease for the time being so that it does not target flesh and blood allies of ours as they come to our aid.”

The Rayneids reaction to this demand was hidden by her mask. After a few moments of consideration she replied “These vessels would be military vessels correct? The agreement was that we do not strike those. This state of affairs still stands, your allies are free to pass above our domain as you are. Was that all you needed to talk to us about?”

“Not quite. We believe the nature of the invasion may be of some concern to you. Andromach, slayer of Lucrore, the primordial of rebirth, marches against us with her Matathran army in an attempt to seize the port town of dreich port” theis managed to get a reaction from the Rayneids, some visibly recoiling.

“Slayer of... Preposterous, no mortal can harm a god”

“So the story goes. What we do know for a fact is that she is incredibly dangerous in combat and that her people despise the primordials with a passion.” the dryad maintained a calm disposition even as the Rayneid retorted with righteous fury.

“You can not taunt us into abandoning our sacred duty with such blasphemous stoires! How dare you...”

Realising he had pushed her too far, Harkfen quickly interjected to placate the furious Raynid.

“We don’t mean to involve you, it is simply a warning to stay clear of the port until matters are settled. We aren't entirely sure what their plans for the port are or how fast they will enact them, nor can we hope to assemble a force guaranteed to block them from reaching the coast in the first place. Rest assured that when they take the town they will not be allowed to hold it for long, nor shall any ships constructed be allowed to leave port. All that we need from you is patience while we deal with this matter, that you do not put yourselves at risk by accidentaly arousing Andromach’s wrath.”

There was a tense silence during which the only sound was the distant lapping of the waves against the shore, and the slow calming of the Sisters breathing. Finally she spoke, calmly.

“You concern is noted. But know that we do not require your, or anyones, protection. We are perfectly capable of handling our own affairs”

“It is, of course, but a suggestion and a warning. We would not presume to dictate to a presence and order as ancient as your own. But I hope that you consider our council on the threat that Matathran poses, a threat we would not wish you to risk the security of the Burning Moon in involving yourselves in. we can handle it. Alone.”

“And yet you have allies incoming across the sea”

“Ah. yes. Those we have paid for and others who wish to restrict the spread of Matathran’s influence. They will ensure our victory is not a pyrrhic one.”

“Hmm. I see.”

The dryad waited a few moments to see if there was anything else the masked sister would add, but with little forthcoming he decided to wrap things up.

“So. In appreciation for your time and cooperation, we would like to give you a gift” as was tradition. Harkfen motioned too two dryads among the group, who bought forwards a chest containing a number of weapons, tools and armor pieces all made out of bronze to the specifications of the Rayneid bodies and needs. These had been prepare well in advance for if such a meeting would occur and the chest had been gathering dust in the local grove for some time now. The sister indicated for two of her guards to retrieve the chest, but instead of ordering or personally retrieving a gift in return, as was expected, she instead entered a brief, hushed, discussion with the other priestess and two select guards before turning back to the dryad.

“We appreciate your generosity of your forges. Rather than trinkets that you cannot use or arms that we cannot afford to give, I give instead knowledge you desperately require. You face not only Matathrna and shenra but also the Morj of the northern deapths.”

Harkfen was unfamiliar with their name, but Selzona was not, having dealt with their raids on the northern provinces before. The ice witch quickly pushed her way past her kin to join the diplomats.

“What are those tentacled slaver doing here? How do you know?”

“Earlier today we received an unexpected guest, the queen of the Morj...”

The priestess then recounted to them the Morj plan, or as much as they knew of it at least, and the nature of the deal they had had little choice but to accept. Not that the queen had been anything but polite and accommodating, but the threat that she represented, real or imagined, had been there hanging over the negotiations the entire time.

“We were already rather unhappy with the situation, but if what you say about Matatrhan is true…” she finished ”We are either made oathbreakers or accomplices to heresy. Not a decision we are prepared to make without lengthy consideration of the consequences.”

“Even if the murder is a fabrication, we assure you their hatred is real. We appreciate you telling us this and your resisting their attempts to cajole you into joining their war effort directly. Know that our pact is still in-place, there will still be peace between us.” Harkfen spoke truly for the Emerald Empire when he said that, for Yaval was now watching, listening, guiding. Plans were already being made incase the Rayneids spoke the truth. While there was little reason to believe they were lying the possibility did not escape them, they would need to make investigations to verify the claim.

“We can't do anything overt to assist you, even this meeting risks, but if what you say about the Matathrans is true, something we will verify through another source, then there may be ways we can assist you indirectly without drawing the wrath of the Morj. I cannot speak of them now however as I must return to Alpha to commune with my sisters and The Burning Moon on any further course of action. May your kind live to see the end of days Harkfen, for when the moon burn with crimson flame and the sun freeze over our mother will rise and rapture shall be upon us all. Your cooperation and respect for our vigil will be remembered upon that day.”

“Your dedication is an inspiration to us all, Daughters of the Burning Moon.”

“If the invaders allow it, and your words hold true, we may meet again. Farewell Harkfen.”

“Farewell Akara”

With that the delegation turned as one and slither back down the hill, disappearing into first the night and then the dark watters, baring the chest of bronze with them. The Dreaming Forest watched them go. Once they were out of sight Harkfen turned to Selzona.

“How bad is this”

“I don’t know. The extent of their interactions with us has been primarily raiding, either by bands of their own kind against ships or by bands of enslaved humanoid warriors, bound by collars similar to the ones we use exclusively on animals, against land targets. What the true extent of their might is, that I do not know, and neither it seems do the Rayneids. Any idea what this other source of information they have is?”

“No. we had no idea they even talked to anyone else. We are the only ones that realy use the bay”

“And the Morj are the only oceanic power in the region.”

“I wonder who they are talking about then? A question for after the war I suppose. For now, there is work to do. Work that staff you found certainly is helping in immensely.”

“I suppose. But who sent it is another question for after the war. There seems to be many such questions arising as of late.”

But they were, as stated, questions for later. For now, the delegation returned to the faintly glowing forest, back to the experiments.

The room in which Locian sat was far from the pews of the main chapel, far from the massive statue of the Halwende, and his final blow to the Lord Emperor, and yet despite the distance from the cavernous hall of preaching, the sermons and chants were abundant still.

The tongue of Lynnde bounced off the impossibly smooth stone walls, and the gilded decorations, almost lulling Locian into a sort of enlightened slumber, if not for the piercing old eyes across from him. The Archbishop found himself in the company of none other than the Archbishop d'Kamwell, the old man having returned to Urelynnde from Abigail's coronation in time to meet his fellow consituent. The two men were drastically different, with Locian being of youth and d'Kamwell being of an indescribable old age. The man held a grandfatherly look to him, and was immensily comforting when he smiled, which was often.

The room was a smattering of silvers and blues, with every imaginiable decoration and ancient painting on display, as if the room served more as a museum than a place to relax and greet distinguished guests. Even the robes of d'Kamwell were ostentatious in age and prestige alone rather than decor, and his very attempts at humility in behavior simply gave him the proud aura of a renown sage.

A bishop was just leaving the ancient room as d'Kamwell continued the conversation, "bishop Bernard of Tralusee," he identified the leaving man, "a good lad, a smart man, and a great leader. I have every bit of faith in him to take up my mantle when the Serene One bids me home."

"But," d'Kamwell smiled, his old wrinkly cheeks curtaining the warmest grin, "I feel as if that may yet be long from now."

The Archbishop of Olira stood to face his fellow, similar in the humility of his garb, and his knees shaking with his bow, despite his apparant youth. "Your Serenity," he began, his Lynnfarish perfect but with the twinge of an accent. His stay Urelynnde had been quite eye-opening so far, as he learned about the homeland of his faith, and the differences in their respective applications.

d'Kamwell waved an old hand, "bah, know me as friend, or Albert when in good company."

Albert d'Kamwell motioned to a ring of plush seats, "won't you sit down?"

"Of course," Locian said as he sat slowly, adding, "and you can call me Locian...friend." It fell strange treating a man who was so much his elder, both in age and in experience, as a peer, but he respects d'Kamwell's humility, something which he has so long aspired to.

"A pleasure," d'Kamwell smiled, "last I saw you, we hadn't a proper chance to meet. I pray the funding has reached your hositallers and your refugees of the storm."

Locian nodded somberly. "Yes, my provenance of Tacraif has been aided dutifully, as have the funds to all Laghad and the capital of Rilik, and for that I thank Serenity, although I'm afraid much of the country still seeks salvation." He stratched the back of his neck. "For instance, the non-serenists of Formor have recieved no funding at all...though that is due much to the royalties of Olira rather than the Serene Council." He sighed before continuing. "But I digress. How goes the war? I met the Queen only recently."

"Ah yes, Formor," d'Kamwell seemed to reminice for a moment, "as for the war, it is a war and war is war; however, I do believe it to be on it's last legs. The Queen is coronated, and her support grows daily. My yes, last legs indeed."

"That is good news to hear," Locian said with a smile. "I have been quite enamoured by Lynnfaire, I am glad to see her people guided by such caring hands." The archbishop sighed. "That said, I am sad to have to leave so shortly."

"Ah yes," d'Kamwell nodded, "I've heard of your pending mission to Matathran." He paused and nodded his head a while, "I'll be happy to join."

The younger man's eyes lit up, and immediately tried to hide the shocked expression enveloping his face. "Join? Why..." He thought back to his days as a young man, his missionary work in Freishann, and the punishment that followed. He chose his next words carefully. "Are you sure your...physicality is to the standard necessary?" He asked, hoping not to offend his elder.

d'Kamwell's eyes crinkled as he smiled almost playfully mocking his younger peer, "my dear Locian, shall I preach the proverbs of judgment while yourself is the one judged. My legs are as able as your own, do not take offense to my observation, but we are one and the same in physicality."

"I shall go," he concluded, "d'Drouchester has lost his champion and is in repentance for his lack of forsight, the nation has their Queen, and the war has no need for an old man like me, unlike our friends in Matathran. Besides, I too have been planning this for quite some time indeed. I already have an entourage sorted, it so happens."

The holy man chuckled at the archbishop's machinations. "You weren't quite asking to join, were you?"

"More or less stating a fact," d'Kamwell gave a sly elderly grin.

Locian nodded. "Alright. I shall need someone to coordinate our legality with the Imperial government if we are to stay for longer than a single moon." He reached into his cloak and withdrew a scrolled, which after unrolling revealed itself to be a map of Matathran. "I have selected the location of the mission to be the city of Darjai, although I would like to extend our operations into the slave fields of the South Savanna, if it were possible." Sighing in contempt, he added, "I have found that those with the least in material wealth always see the most value in the spiritual."

d'Kamwell nodded, "these maps look quite like our own." He moved his fingers across it, "you will find that the current Administration of Matathran figures itself the owner of the souls of those rich or poor, and further more uncooperative past old oaths in allowing ease of worship for current Serene citizens let alone the conversion of new Serene citizens. I suggest we work the top down as well as the bottom up, to which I have my own ideas."

"Repeated requests for funds have reached all our doorsteps, but the largest problem as pointed out countlessly by d'Drouschester has been the fact of how money flows in Matathran versus how the church flows. We are continiously stoppered as well as segmented in such a way that there is little hope any money unsupervised will ever reach its intended target and even if it did, if a paper written rule of law would simply make an island of the attempt and suffocate it, much like the current standing churches. So, in a sort of round about conclusion, while we work the word to the lower totem, we must also find friends in the burocracy to ensure a flow of life into the nigh choking institution that is the current affair of the Matathran church. It is imperative we strike a concordant and understanding to allow even the simplest of behaviors that are as of now restrained by law, such as the simple act of attending a sermon, or even giving the sermon."

Albert looked up from the map and at Locian, "of course you already knew that.

He paused, "The immediate situation of Matathran calls for reconstruction, to allow the current churches to flourish once more. Open up the dams so to say. Speaking the word is important, yes, but a good farmer knows to plant in irrigated land should it be found dry. Our top priority is making the church an accessable and beneficial option once more."

"Of course," Locian began, "I was just not expecting the Archbishop d'Kamwell to join me," he said with a laugh. "My retinue knows little of the dealings of the wealthy, and, with much of our offerings to the poor being in the form of relief, I simply found that it would be a task too laborious to take. But, with your aide and the aide of Lynnfarish deacons, this task would be far easier to perform."

"There also exists a group in Matathran known as the Freedmen Pitfighters. Despite their low caste, they have exceeding influence among the Matathrani masses. While most of them are violent and chaotic, I have heard word of a few individuals in the area of Darjai who would be far more open to the word of the Serene Church. I suggest we indoctrinate as many of these individuals as we can, as soon as we can." He paused, looking to the side with a frown, adding, "I know that one exposed to great barbarism often seeks to escape it."

d'Kamwell listened in silence, his eyes following the younger Archbishop. He nodded in understanding, "you're young, I can hear it in your voice and how you talk. While yes it is good to have friends in Serenity, our doctrine is not a plague, not a sickness, not to be spread in a quick and haphhazard manner. Should our voice to the people be only the men of bloodgames, the people will know only their words on our doctrine. We must use a tender hand, care and slowly dig our channel through the land once more. Let the flock come graze on our fresh grass, and tend to them as they come. To do this, we need reforms, not celebrities. The words should pour from diverse sources, and the administraiton should allow it, so in that it may flourish naturally and wholly. This is a large task before us, one that will not be solved through simple grabs of the loudest people."

Locian was silent for a bit, eyebrows knit in thought, making sure not to let his own experience take hold of his duty. "I understand. I...sometimes have much more faith in the Serene One than I do in my fellow man. But there is great use in Matathran having two more archbishops. Reform should be a target of ours, and the cynosure of our operation. But we both are aware of the failures and cruelty of the Matathrani governance. I trust in your ability to speak to the men of the nation, but I must do my best to speak to the men of the people. If there could be no liberty for the slaves and commonfolk in life, then perhaps they could at least sit beneath the shade of our tree, and find sanctuary in Serenity." He coughed, and looked back at the Archbishop d'Kamwell, finding himself back in the moment. "That said, you are right, our attempts at reform should be the primary objective of the Darjai mission."

"To ensure the longevity of the movement," d'Kamwell agreed, "we move from the top down for longevity, legality, and assurance of prosperity, and bottom up to build the foundation of faith and order. It will be done, praise be. But let us not step on the gardens of another, we should rendevous with Archbishops Trimalchio and Vettii then combine our efforts."

"Of course," Locian said with a nod. "They are already to greet us upon our arrival in Darjai." The archbishop thought for a moment. "Are there any other concerns you have regarding the mission?"

"You've contacted Trimalchio and Vettii?" d'Kamwell seemed shocked.

"Er..." Locian looked away embarrasedly, scratching the back of his neck. "They had actually contacted me, you see I am embarking on this mission at their behest...I think they had read some of my writings...but yes, I have been in correspondence with them for some time."

"Oh, I see," Albert d'Kamwell sratched his bald chin, "what does your entourage consist of thus far?"

"The mission was planned to be staffed with missionaries from the Order of Laghad, who I have brought with me. Additionally are our Taisafirin bodyguards, to ensure our safety on the trip."

"How many of each?" d'Kamwell asked.

"One hundred missionaries, with forty Taisafirin. What could you bring with you?" Locian asked in return.

"I will be sending a letter prior to our departure with hopes of recieving word before heading out, just as courtesy to their border structure," d'Kamwell stated, "but to answer your question, about three wagons of honey and wax, two of supplies, and a compliment to suffieciently guard such a chain as well as no less than sixty lynnfairish deacons and thirty labourers. This of course, shall be stated in the letter in hopes of easing any problems that may arise."

"Good, my missionaries act as their own labor, so yours should not be overencumbered. We shall also be bringing a wagon of medical supplies, an abundance of grain, a wagon of Serenist and Laghadi literature, and building supplies for to build the mission itself." He paused for a moment, thinking before asking, "Pardon my asking, but for what purpose do you require such a high volume of honey?"

"For sermons, gifts, dessert," d'Kamwell listed, "boil it for sugar if you must. As for the building of a mission, I think you may be a bit presumtious on how much leeway we are going to experience in Matathran. We need to discuss zoning with the administration first hand, and after such talks we are likely to purchase an existing dwelling before they let us build on their land far and few in fetility. As you can see, this is another reason I stress our talks with the higher ups to be of utmost importance. We can't waltz in, unannounced and set up shop, we aren't hawkers."

"Of course. The Archbishops of Matathran already know of our impending arrival, but I am a stranger to...finding friends in high places. How do you suggest we approach the adminastrative blockages?"

"With appointments, and things to bejewel their eyes with," d'Kamwell answered, "the Archbishops of Matathran don't have enough pull in their respective areas to give us what we need, so I will be sending letters to Imperial Administrators of my intentions of collaboration and mutual gain in hopes of appointment and talks. The other Archbishops will be needed once we secure zoning as well as affirm routes that different castes can take to even hear the sermons let alone worship. Not to mention they have a better lay of the political land than we do, so they will be a keystone in the reformation."

Locian nodded.

d'Kamwell stood up, "well that's enough talk of this for now. You should retire to your quarters, and we can discuss things further tomorrow. You can meet my entourage and I can meet yours. Rest assured the letters will be sent once I finish writing them this very night."

Upon the bed of the Emperor, a note of yellow parchment was lain. How it got there was a mystery on its own, as no one was seen, no individual suspected. It was sealed in a blood red wax, and upon breaking it it unfolded to reveal its message:

” Heed and pay favor to the stone sons sent to you. Feed them, or destruction will surely follow their neglect.”

As if on queue, upon the finishing of the final word, a screech, a howl, a chilling scream sounded that all the palace and surrounding streets could hear. Its owner was unknown but its tone strong enough to send fear into all that heard it, punctuating the seriousness of the letter, and the stern hand of its writer.

This was 90% @Goldeagle1221



It had been another few grueling weeks on the frontlines. Abigail’s army was finally managing to pressure William’s armies into striking where she wanted. The added presence of the Archon’s military spreading William thin. As days passed, more and more nobles defected from William’s ranks, and soon Abigail saw her opportunity. She sent the majority of hers and the Archon’s army northwards to intercept the last of William’s chevauchees, as well as to give William a resting breath of false hope.

Over the last few weeks she had been constructing a new force in secret, as well as building upon her own powers as a mist-talker. Her royal alchemist had gone missing in this time, but it was assumed his transit from the capital couldn’t keep up with the quick pacing of the frontlines. Whatever the future may hold, Abigail was ready to unleash her latest machination upon the treacherous William.

Her small encampment of elite and specialized soldiers and knights lay hidden under the shadow of the new moon, and the thickets of a forest that stretched from upper Kamwell. They lay not far from William’s personal camp, the bulk of his finest soldiers patrolling the area, but the rest evading her own army far from here.

“So that’s the plan,” Abigail reiterated, as she found herself prone to the last few days. She stood at the edge of her encampment, if one could call it that, as it was simply a gathering of soldiers, all armed and ready, with absolutely no distractions. Across from her was two knights as well as her husband, the latter being named Sir Acel and Sir Senthin, regional heroes of a sort, having proved themselves to be Abigail’s finest knights. Famous for their unique fighting style, they were very much a key player in this secretive blow.

The Queen turned to her husband, “and you follow right behind me the whole way.”

“I just wish we could have brought those new engines,” Senthin muttered, “would’ve made for quite an explosive end to this war.”

“Too noisy,” Acel reminded him, “but I admit the imagery would have been church tapestry worthy.”

Abigail shook a finger, “agreed, but shh.”

She turned back to the Archon, “ready?”

“Just say the word,” he replied. “Duke William will have nowhere to run this time.”

“William won’t,” Abigail agreed as she adjusted her sword buckle. The Queen and her three companions were all dressed in dark leathers and stiff plates in areas not prone to chafe or move, like the shins and forearms, and upper breast, but otherwise forgone full body protection. Acel and Senthin both had their knightly swords on their hips, but carried no shields. Other agents of Abigail stood scattered, each with tanned bladders of flax and liquid fats.

The word was given and the group disappeared deep into the forests, making their way to William’s camp. Abigail managed to learn of William’s encampment as he awaited fresh troops from Drouschester, his main forces off causing havoc in the north and giving battle to what William suspected was herself. After that, all the other pieces fell into place. No scouts picked up on her specialized warband, and no warnings were issued to William, this is where it ends.

The forests were silent as the group made their way through, the agents dispersing out of sight of the group of four. The walk through the woods had been one of anticipation and anxiety, with everyone’s hearts in their throats, but as far as Abigail’s own path through, it was smooth and without complications. In due time, she knew her own warband would be following the same path to deliver the final blow, she just needed to keep to her scheduled timing.

As the small group exited the forest and found themselves faced with the three meter slope of the encampment hill, Abigail once again thanked the Serene One for the new moon, the darkness hiding her approach from the sentries and their limited torches.

Acel, just close enough for Abigail to make out of the pitch dark gave a nod and silently he and Sethin slinked away, leaving Vorren and Abigail alone to do their part. Quietly the pair made their way to the short palisades, avoiding the range of the torch lights and the patrolling hillsmen.

As one turned on his route, Abigail took the opportunity to slip by, vaulting the palisade in near silence. Vorren landed to her side, following suit in what was more a glide than a drop. Abigail quickly scampered behind one of the many tents, taking her first look at the camp. It was a forest of tents, spaced out for optimum use, and accidentally maximizing potential hiding places. She felt her husband slink behind her and she began moving once more, sliding between tents.

In the reflection of some of the torches she noticed her other agents also snooping around, their tanned bladders open and soaking everything available. One even gave her a thumbs up before slinking away. Abigail forced a smile, even though the agent would not see it. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and every beat frightened her, thinking it loud enough for a sentry to hear.

Vorren placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and she glanced behind to see a flash of fangs in the dark, a sight that might’ve been terrifying to anyone else, but knowing Vorren had her back only steeled her resolve. She returned his smile, picked herself up and continued her journey to the center of the camp, where she found the largest and most ostentatious tent, beside it a iron wrought cage, covered in a thick blanket, much like a large birdcage. She slid over to it, quickly lifting the blanket and going under it. Vorren remained nearby, eyes peeling the dark for unwanted attention.

Under the blanket she found a darkness even deeper than the new moon night sky, a soft breathing muffling the dense air. It wasn’t hers, her own breath was quick and full of adrenaline. Suddenly the breathing stopped with a shudder, turning to a regular and active rhythm.

“Who’s there?” Edith’s voice called out.

“Shhhh.” Abigail felt her blood freeze, “it’s Abigail, keep your voice down.”

“Abigail?” Edith sounded desperately relieved, her shaking voice almost at tears “Abigail?”

“Where is the key?” Abigail replied, her mind narrowed on her goal.

“William’s tent,” Edith answered, her voice returning to its usual cool manner, albeit still tinged with worry.

“Serene One guide me,” Abigail sucked in a breath and slipped out from under the blanket. In one fluid movement she turned the corner, crouched, and slipped behind the posted guard so fast and into the tent, no one would think anything of it. Her heart pounded as she hid in the corner of the tent, just in case someone heard her entrance. She took in the view, her chest heaving.

While it was too dark to see the details of the tent, she could briefly make out the breathing silhouette of William as he slept prone on his bed, the glint of a sword pommel, and the length of a key on his nightstand. Abigail slowly removed herself from her hiding spot, creeping up to the key, adrenaline racing through her veins. Her head turned to look at the sleeping William, and her thoughts began to race. What if he were to wake up right now, what if he was pretending, what if he knew? Then her mind slowly turned to darker thoughts as she reached for the key, what if she killed him there and now, this was the man who ruined her nation, killed her people, stole her friend, and murdered her father’s most trusted members of the court. She could end it now, right now. She shook her head as she tightened her grasp on the key, no, she wanted him to see his defeat.

As quickly as she snuck in, she snuck out and rounded the corner, but this time she could hear the guard turning. She slipped back under the blanket as she heard the guard enter the tent out of curiosity, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Abigail?” Edith whispered.

“Shh,” Abigail answered as she unlocked the cage. A hand reached out from the cage and grabbed her arm gently.

The grab turned into a tiny push, “let’s go.”

Abigail nodded, not that Edith could see and the two slinked out from under the blanket and back to the camp. Suddenly the far west of the camp exploded into flames, she took too long. The camp was engulfed in a bright orange light as half of it erupted into bright and angry flames. Hillmen were rushing out of their tents screaming and scrambling for their bows. Guards were running frantic, and on the tree line Abigail could see her archers, their arrows dipping in fire.

She grabbed Edith’s arm and began to run, but suddenly a large group of armed knights, hastily clad in their gambesons cut her off. Vorren’s sword was in his hand in a flash, and he positioned himself between the knights and the women. Before Abigail could even arm herself with the blade of Halwende, Acel and Senthin came charging out of nowhere.

Their charge distracted the guards and allowed Abigail and Edith to slip by, quickly making their way over the palisade and down the hill. Vorren lingered, blade shrieking as he both deflected a blow and sliced through his attacker’s underarm in a swift motion. Acel gave the vampire a nod, an unspoken understanding passed in the heat of the moment, and Vorren trailed after Abigail. As Edith entered the forest, Abigail turned. The entire camp was illuminated by fire, the battle of Acel and Senthin as clear as if it was midday, Abigail stood frozen at the inspiring sight.

An enemy knight swung his sword at Acel, an arrow darted towards him, and an axe reached for his legs. In a fluid motion Acel moved into the sword swing, his own sword hamstringing the knight and putting them in the way of the axe. The axe dug into the enemy knight, and in pain the knight shot his arms up, the arrow digging into his forearm. Acel spun, pushing the axeman over, snatching the enemy knight’s blade from the air, and threw it at Senthin.

Senthin sidestepped, the blade catching the face of a charging hillman. He yanked it out in a wide arc, the removed blade slapping away an incoming enemy stroke, and slitting the throat of a approaching enemy guard as Senthin spun to meet them. With his free hand he grabbed the dying enemy’s shield and continued his spin, catching a falchion in the shield, twisting the shield to yank the blade from it’s master's hand, and slapping the shield to his left, the pommel of the blade knocking into an approaching man’s teeth.

The man fell backwards, an arrow meant for Acel digging into his throat. Acel grabbed the body and threw it behind him, the dead man’s grip firm on his axe, the axe-head slapping a knight’s helmet, causing him to stumble backwards and into an overhead mace swing meant for Acel. Acel grabbed the maceman’s arm and twisted it, throwing the man into another, and disarming him with a wide flourish. The mace now in Acel’s possession continued it’s wide flourish and in one fluid movement, bashed into the head of another enemy.

The pair continued in this fluid and deadly way until the enemy was reluctant to give them further battle. The hillman’s arrows turned to Abigail’s archers, but as they darted across the night sky, a bloom of blue mist caught them. Rows of mist talkers appeared by the archer’s streams of mist shooting from their agape mouths. Abigail felt a welling confidence as her plan was falling together, and then, she saw him.

An angry William stood silhouetted by the flames, longsword in hand as he barked orders. He jerked to his left and to his right, yelling and screaming until he suddenly stopped, going still. Abigail began to walk forward from the line of archers, and William made his way down the hill towards her. Vorren took a step forward, but Abigail held up a hand, eyes still fixed on her nemesis. The Archon sighed, knowing full well this was her fight, and she’d be damned if anyone else stepped in.

She pulled the blade of Halwende from its scabbard and shouted over the roar of the flames, “It’s over William! You have lost! Surrender and you will be spared!”

“Spared and given what? Prison? Shame? I will not bow to you!” William’s voice was like a demon, angry and full of inhuman rage.

“We can end this William!”

“And we will!”

The Duke’s longsword burst into a large sweep, Abigail leaping back just in time, “So be it.” She hissed. She blew a cloud of mist, but William sidestepped and thrusted with his blade. Abigail slapped it away, the tip catching her leather momentarily.

“Fight me like a King,” William growled as he swung again.

Abigail pursed her lips and charged into the swing, deflecting it and sending one of her own. William parried and riposted. Abigail caught it on her crossguard and shoved him back, following it up with a counter. William let it slide on his blade, moving the strike to the side as he kicked horizontally with the pommel of his blade, using her strike as leverage. Abigail ducked and shot up with a stab. William jerked away from the tip and swung down. Abigail managed to slip out of its way, even slapping his blade with her pommel and then cutting at him. The blade slashed into his arm and William roared.

Suddenly his blows became frequent, trained, and brutal. Abigail felt herself being slowly pushed to the edge of her training. Parry. Riposte. Counter. Dodge. The two were a blur of masterworked attacks and defenses. The armies around them seemed to freeze, their eyes on the battle, and even the raging fire seemed to slow down to watch. The swords danced and shrieked. Blood flew in ribbons and sparks lit up area around their quick moving feet.

William slammed into Abigail, his crossguard cracking across her jaw, sending her backwards. Vorren looked on with white-knuckled fists as William launched a follow-up, but Abigail caught herself in time to parry his half-handed thrust. Blood trickled down her leg from a flurry of knicks and cuts of strokes just barely dodged, but she narrowed her eyes, William not completely untouched himself.

She took a few steps forward, bringing about her blade with expert precision, William keeping up by deflecting each blow with every part of his blade, and striking out with the full long sword. Cross, pommel and blade, Abigail found herself being pushed back once more by the onslaught of attacks. With confidence she leapt forward, bringing in her blade with exotic and unexpected direction. William seemed to be caught off guard but slowly molded to her attacks and the two fell back into a devastating dance of sparks, blood and roars of rage. Their blades flashed and screamed through the air, and their eyes never left each other as the fight quickly became too fast for the bystanders to keep up with.

Suddenly the blade of Halwende let out a muffled thunking sound as it bit into William’s wrist. The steel cut through the bone, lopping the Duke’s right hand off with a single stroke. William screamed in pain, and Abigail flicked her wrist and spun her shoulders, bringing her blade back for one final stroke. The blade caught the light and glimmered as if boasting to the world its final destination. And then with a sickening sound and a spray of blood, the sword glided across Williams shoulders, and into his neck, lobbing his head clean off in a sea of scarlet.

As the head hit the grassy hill, it shattered into dust, and the rage inside Abigail turned to horror, relief, and confusion. The body of the duke crumbled to dust. The armies were frozen, the battle over, the war over.

“SHE IS QUEEN!” a voice yelled out of the silence, suspiciously sounding like Acel. The Queen’s soldiers roared in response, and what was left of William’s band laid down their weapons. Abigail’s chest was inflated and she rose her blade over her head and let out a cry of victory.

The vessels sent to the island nation of Olira had arrived the day prior in the capital city of Rilk. from there varios ambassadors were sent out to contact minor kings the empire had favorable trade dealings with to attempt to gain their support. During this time the Dreaming forest discussed and adjusted plans to take into account the fact that their ship’s return to the warfront would be face unexpected opposition. This debate, while mainly about whether a mass troop convoy that risked a battle was a good idea, or wether they should unload troops in safer ports and to then march them south.

Safety vs speed where the main initial sides of the argument, but some saw the armada plan as a golden opportunity to draw the deep dewlers into a trap, a decisive battle that would end, or at least temporarily halt, their raiding. This line of though eventually prevailed, because if there was anything worse than the pyromaniac Matathrans getting access to the ocean, and as an extension the Evergreen Isles, it was the Morj getting their hands on Matathans fire oil. If they could be crushed in a failed convoy interception, or cowed by the might of said convoy, then they could perhaps drive them out of the war before the Matathrans reached the coast and provided their allies with their alchemical terror weapon.

This was the plan discussed with the kings in their castles and the one that would be brought to the Black Band. Once the convy plan had gained steam a reasonable sized expedition was formed to bring the wealth of the empire to Svawad Castle. This expedition made its way out of the capital, traveling west through the storm devastated landscape as swiftly as the ents bearing the expedition could run.

As the envoy drew closer to Svawad, the expedition came upon a group of men, bearing shields, armor, weapons, and a long, black banner, blocking the road. They stared straight ahead, lacking any sort of intimidation or threat, while at the same time clearly not intent on moving. In front of them stood the only person who seemed to have expressiveness; a grogar bearing no shield or helmet, but still with a full suit of armor and a blade. When the caravan drew closer, he shouted, "HALT!"

Not wanting to trample the band the expedition gradually slowed to a halt, becoming stationary two meter from their lines. While the expedition did contain a dryad bearing a potted shoot of Yaval similar to the one that had been present at the meeting with the Lynn-Naraksh a day prior, it was not this individual who responded to the man in charge of the blockade, but instead it was a Dryad woman sitting on the shoulders of the front most ent. She wore the standard Ironbark mail that most Dryads wore, but was marked out from the others by her leafy autumnal hair, a golden choker wrapped around her neck and the highly detailed nature of her face. The Dryad, known as Arianna the golden, shouted back down from her three meter high perch at the grogar.

“For what purpose do you stop us?”

"You approach the castle of Svawad, home of the Black Band," he shouted back. Despite the immensity of some of these foreign creatures, the members of the black band seemed unfazed by their encroachment. "If you seek to attack us in our comrades' vulnerability, know that it is an excercize in futility."

“You have misjudge our intent. We do not aim to attack the black band, but rather to hire them.”

The Dryad points back at a large bestial ent that is shaped roughly like an ant. Its back was covered by a tarp, a tarp that is lifted briefly by one of its passengers to reveal several large, tightly locked, chests that were clearly implied to contain valuables of some kind.

“We mean you or your comrades no harm, nor did we know of this... vulnerability?”

For a while, the grogar simply stared back at the tree people with scrutiny, until he eventually said, "Hurricane. Wrecked the village, much of the Band is outside the castle walls helping with repairs." He then looked over the locked chests. "Alright, we shall escort you to the General." The grogar then turned and nodded to the men to march on, as the members of the Black Band surrounded the envoys on all sides.

The Treekin accepted this escort without comment, though within the dreaming there was a little conflict of emotions between those who felt threatened being surrounded by so many dreamless and those who were dead shure they were more than capable of taking on the escorts in a fight. Arianna mainly focused on the upcoming negotiations, ignoring the internal conflict as best she could.

When the caravan had pushed past the forest, they came upon the sight of Svawad village, with the castle hanging watchfully on a hill above it. While the wreckage of the storm was still eminant, many buildings were now standing, and the air of commerce now breathed throughout the townsfolk, while many members of the Black Band worked side by side with the villagers. Many of them stopped their work, the simple folk watching the Treekin with eyes wide and mouths open.

Most of the delegation where traders and travelers in their off season and such gazes where a constant presence wherever the winds took them. In major cities this had died down as the continent trotting Treekin became a more familiar presence to the populace, but out here far from any major port it was unsurprising that their presence drew attention. The Treekin bore the weight of the peoples gazes with an indifference that came from having been subjected to such looks many, many times over their long lives.

As they marched closer to the castle, a man riding atop a Karkadann approached the group, and, after being informed by the grogar of the purpose of their presence, rode quickly up to the castle. When the group had made their way up the hillside, the iron gates of Svawad Castle creaked as they opened. Inside were assembled dozens of Black Band warriors standing at attention, forming a pathway which led to Gultar the Stick, who was dressed in a black robe, and bore his titular staff. At his side was Sula, his lieutenant. The escorts saluted as they approached, and broke off.

Before they entered the gateway Arianna absalded down from the shoulder of her ent companion using a vine trailing from the branches at his back. After that the two larger ents of the delegation had stooped in order to get through the gateway, they and the other treekin walked forwards between the assembled rows of warriors. It was, in Arianna’s opinion, an impressive display of order and discipline to have set this up so quickly. In contrast her own party seemed rather disorganized, yet they possessed a strange fluidity that allowed them to get everyone where they needed to be quickly and efficiently without need for words. Arianna and the ent who had transported her gilded their way at the front after the brief delay caused by the dismounting process, the pair matching the Mercenary general and his lieutenant. The ant ent and the Yaval cutting carrying Dryad positioning themselves just behind them while the rest positioned themselves as best they could to watch the surrounding warriors, forming a haphazard counter line behind the two groups’ representatives that lead back towards the gates.

“Greetings Gultar the Stick, I am Arianna the Golden and this” she briefly indicated to the vast bulk of her ent comrade ”is my second in command Vargrar the Poet. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice”

The general grunted in response, and looked at the display in front of him. "Seems like we've all got a title." He paused for a while longer, looking carefully at the arboreal nature of Arianna's face, having to squint his aging eyes, and looking into her eyes as well. "What are they saying?"

“That is literally the case for our kind.” Arianna informed the general before cocking an eyebrow, unclear as to who he was referring to “ and who might they be?”

"The Dreaming," Gultar nodded. "What are they saying?"

Arianna blinked a few times in surprise at the question. It was not unheard of for the dreamless to take interest in the Dreaming forest’s shared mental connection, but that was most often an academic or militarily framed question. The nature and manner of Gultar’s question struck her as rather uncomfortably invasive, even as she could recognise the hypocrisy of thinking it so.

“Ah. hmmm. Summing up the thoughts and feelings of all of us present into meer words is… difficult. I suppose we are all now wondering why you ask?”

This was, of course, a gross simplification of the mess of debate an emotion swirling around behind her, but a summary was the best she could give. It was like being asked what a hall full of people engaged in lively discussion where talking about. Attempt to explain it all in detail and you would be left behind as the conversation raced on without you, all you could do was dip into the noise, sample it briefly and then come back out to summarise what you had heard in the moment.

He grunted again, before shouting out an order in Olirian. Suddenly, every single soldier of the Band dropped to the floor and began doing push ups in unison, the full weight of the armor attempting to pull them down in vein. He watched their form for safe measure, before looking back to Arianna.

"They could be faster." He gestured for her to follow as he moved into the Great Hall of the Castle, the guards opening the doors before them. The hall was usually host to the meals of the Band, but now, Gultar simply took a seat at one of the tables. As Sula entered behind him, she shouted for the soldiers to stop and relax.

Arianna and Yaval’s mouthpiece and a third Dryad carrying a saddle back full of papers followed after Gultar while Vargrar remained outside both to remain in charge of the rest of the delegation and as to not damage the ceilings of the meal hall. The Treekin where all a little frustrated with the generals questions and showboating, which Arianna supposed might be the point. The three dryads took up seats opposite the general, Arianna in the center, her kin on either side of her.

"I heard about the Dreaming Forest a while ago, before I founded the Band. I wondered if with so many others' thoughts in your mind, could the lines of your own personhood become blurred? But I realized that the pressures of society are already others' own thoughts, and to what extent you lose yourself is a choice." He sighed as he sat back, looked between the three dryads. "Would you like food? I am not entirely sure what your kind eats."

“That is an interesting way of thinking about it” while Arianna was not much of a philosopher the Trees most certainly where, and once the generals musings reached the evergreen isles via Yaval her progenitors slowly began to mull over this little insight into the world of the Dreamless. “As for food, we eat much the same as you do.”

"Ah." The general motioned to an attendant, who went off towards the kitchen, while Sula scrutinized the foreigners with her one eye, the other socket covered by an eyepatch. "So," Gultar began. "How goes the war?"

“Word of it travels quickly I see. Worse than hoped obviously, otherwise we would not be here seeking to employ you. Matatharan has breached our border guard and is preparing to make what is expected to make an incredibly slow march to the coast. A march we intend to make a living nightmare. They have also enlisted the help of the deep sea dwelling Morj, which is both a frustration and a here to ungraspable opportunity.”

Gultar nodded, contemplating what she just said. He inspected the stick in his hands, and then looked back up to Arianna. "I will not lead my men into a massacre."

“Nor do we intend to send you into one. We believe we have learned the breath of Matathran’s capabilities and any additional secrets should be uncovered before you arrive in our homeland. There will be no charges into unknown dangers. To throw your men into a meat grinder would be pointless, and expensive, waste. What we initially required from you is the training your men have so aptly demonstrated. For you to drill some of that discipline into our militia forces. We may have additional, more involved, work for you but that depends on what you see as the most useful application of your men.”

The General seemed to relax somewhat at the treekin's words. "There has never been an army I couldn't train. I'd be glad to inspect your men. But as for making use of mine..."

"We have a debt to repay," the lieutenant chimed in. "There is a deal with the village of Svawad, they care for us, we care for them. I don't know if you heard, but a storm recently struck Olira, and it is our duty to help rebuild the village. As long as they are not properly taken care of, the Band has no place overseas." Gultar nodded in agreement.

"This is true. The Band has never taken on a full expeditionary invasion before, anyways. There is no way we could provide our own transportation, what with...Morj being in the water now."

“The damage it causes is hard to miss” Arianna commented, in relation to the storm “Do you know how long said repairs will take? We may able to offer assistance to expedite the process of reconstruction if it will allow completion of your duty in a timely manner.”

“As for transport, our seafaring kin will be providing transport should you accept. They have the capability to repel the sea dwellers more effectively than a deadwood craft can.” before she began to lay out more details about the journey the saddlebag wearing Dryad retrieve a, large map of the Emerald empire and used it to help illustrate the route Arianna subsequently described.

“They will bring us to the southern Evergreen Isles, where we will join the full might of the Emerald navy. That armada will be transporting additional forces south to the war theater, skirting along the coast in. It on this leg of the journey we believe the Morj will engage us, rather than trying to find us on the open seas, or attacking the home islands directly. If the merfolk can be crushed in this engagement it will be a boon to all coastal nations. If however they prove too much of a threat then our traveling close to the shore will allow our craft can safely beach themselves and we will then make the rest of the journey on foot or beat the morj on solid ground with the assistance of local land forces. Considering the fact that they have never been so brazen as to enact a direct assault upon our forces before, we expect the former situation rather than the latter to occur, if they dare engage such a massing of our might at all.”

Gultar brought his staff to his chin and began contemplating the situation at hand. "For the village, simply paying for the assistance of local laborers should be sufficient. I do not expect any more than this, nor should I.' He turned his attention to the map. "We shouldn't march any too great a distance; I can't see Matathran being all too slow in their conquest." He thought for a moment longer before continuing, "No, destroying the Morj is a necessity. But they'd be unlike anything we had fought before. Do you have a strategy in place to fight them?"

“Repair costs can be added to your payment then, we have an initial payment with us that should cover that. Matathran’s reliance on small cart bound warmachines leaves them both slower than a traditional army and more vulnerable to road sabotage, so we have slightly more time than you might imagine. Time is always at a premium in war of course, so the navel rout is still preferable. A victory at sea will also make it easier for smaller convoys to follow up the main one for supply purposes. As for methods of combating them, we have several plans, but the one that you could be involved in the most directly involves these.”

The carrier dryad retrieved a simple leather belt from their satuca, one that featured 6 amber charms at equidistant points around its length as well as a single sapphire scale at its buckle. It was placed on the table while Arianna explained its function.

“These are air belts, an innovation we developed with the assistance of our Koirari citizens” amphibious denizens of Gweldgale island “it forms an air tight seal around the wearer, letting them both breath and protecting their equipment from the rust normally caused by seawater. They have some issues, such as a limited air supply for those who can't charge the enchantment and you still sink, but near the shore this shouldn’t be as much of an issue. Also we don't have that many of them, they were mainly a curiosity till this situation arose and as a result larger scale production has only just begun. So it will have to be a crack force bolstered by a Koirari militia force who take to the waters while our ships and mages support them. Training these that militia would be your first job and joining them in the battle is a possibility.”

"Interesting, could work," Gultar stated, thinking for a moment longer. "But training this militia would take time. Do we have the time to spare?" That questioned seemed somewhat rhetorical, as he didn't care to stop and listen, while he picked up the air belt and examined it closely. "To throw humanoid soldiers into the water to fight the morj seems foolish. I will not allow my men to partake in this action. What other strategies have you considered?"

“Without forces beneath the waters the morj will have free reign to attack from where they please, but we can appreciate you not wanting to personally take the plunge.”

The belt was retrieved and placed bag as Arianna continued.

“On the sub surface combatants end of things we have ents and ships that have adapted themselves to take the forms capable of operating beneath the waves, along with various beasts native to our shores we have bound to our will. Hydras will be brought from the north, sea drakes from the south and some of our number believe they might be able to weave a sirens call of sorts, drawing in native carnivorous like sharks, vileshrips, leech fish etc. into an impromptu flanking manoeuvre once the Morj engage.“

“For more mundane weapons we will be making use of harpoons, heavy arrows, vine bombs and weighted nets to bombard them as they approach and once they are among us. We have a height advantage, any who show themselves above the water's surface can be picked off with ease, while those below will have to contend with gravity assisted progeticles. Magically we have highly adept water and ice mages who will be providing arcane firepower. Water’s application is obvious, but ice has the potential to create a pincer maneuver of firepower, with ricing ice from below intersecting with mundane artillery from above.”

“Some of Olira’s lord’s, in appreciation of our mutual trade treaties, will be providing harpooners trained in combating the Morj to our cause. We have also had a tentative pledge of some indirect support from the Rayneid natives of the Bay of Lights. Presumably intel, as it was they who tipped us off to Morj presence in the first place.”

“We have also had discussion of polluting the water in some areas to reduce their visibility and to make breathing difficult. Some options are poisons or alge. But here I am getting into plans that are in the research phase”

At this point the dryad who had been sitting silently with the Yaval shoot spoke up “There are also other mechanisms for combating them in development, experiments to create new forms of life and warfare are ongoing. Which prototypes are successful remains to be seen. We have survived this long through rapid adaptation to new challenges. We observe. We adapt. We overcome.”

Gultar nodded, somewhat impressed by the Empire's preparedness in combatting the Morj. "I underestimated your capabilities. I do hope you understand that I am by no means an expert in naval combat, but my men will assist where we can. The men of Khasibuil who shall be acting as harpoonists...they would be far more attuned to your...air belts." He thought for a while longer.

"Have you spoken to the Freishannese?"

“Some of our kin and progenitors enjoy war game thought experiments, which comes in handy for times like these. The dreaming then lets us rapidly coordinate ramping up production of specific materials necessary to implement their ideas. We would go down ourselves en masse, but our favored armaments are not suitable for aquatic warfare, too much drag. Also there's the issue of buoyancy...”

“As for the Freishannese, Tenzin the Discerning is in talks with them as we speak.”

“But they are not going well” Yaval once again interjected “the high king is not interested in sending troops our way and has initiated time consuming debate over minutia in our defence pack that won’t be sorted out till it is far too late, even if they come up in our favor”

"Your head is under a crown that is far too heavy. I have many friends among the nobles of Freishann, allow me to reach out to them. The Band has conducted much business in that country to insufficient payment; payment which I do not expect to recieve. If I offer a forgiveness of debt owed to the Band," Sula's one eyebrow became knit in consternation, "then I can promise you a Freishannese army of no small fortitude."

His lieutenant spoke up. "General, this isn't a debt that can just go away..." The General seemed to ignore her, and looked back to Arianna.

"Could we see the portion of our payment currently at hand?"

Arianna smiled at that. While all Treekin where warriors grown, she was a merchant through and through, and at last they were down to business.

“That assistance would be appreciated. I am also sure you will not find us to be like your debtors.”

At that a small, two meter tall ent, entered the room escorted by 3 dryads. She was carrying the one of the hefty trunks born earlier by the ant shaped ent under one of her arms. The chests was deposited on the table in front of Arianna, the wood audibly creaking at the weight of it, who proceeded to first unlock it and then then turned its round to face the general for inspection. Inside where neat, tightly packed stacks of silver and gold coins from various nations. “I apologies for the international origin of our payment, we peddle our wares far and wide. This represent what a day of your time in our employ will be worth.”

“We have seven of these with us as a retainer and you will begin to accrue payment once we set sail. Said payment will be received upon arrival first to the emerald isles and again once we arrive at Crinwaley, after which you will be paid daily til the war is over. You also get rights to battlefield plunder if you participate directly, and specific payment for that can be negotiated after you know the details. We can guarantee you a month’s payment, which you will receive regardless of when the war ends, after which we will renegotiate any subsequent employment based on performance.”

“Once your service under our banner ends, whether it be at the end of the month or at the end of any subsequent period, you will be paid 30 more of these trunks and will then be provided transport back here as soon as we are able to do so.”

Sula's eyes widened at the prospect before her. "I guess...some debts could be forgiven..." she said. Gultar began to chuckle, as a few Black Band soldiers came forth with plates of food; roast duck, a keg of beer, dried dates, and various other food items.

"I will send a letter to the Countess Sliagie shortly. This payment seems...sufficient. I will need some time before the Band can mobilize. This is on very short notice, and we aren't currently readied for war. I'll need to put an order in to the weaponsmiths and armorers in Shasur, but they are quick, and relatively close by; we should be ready fairly quickly."

“Excellent. Then it’s a deal.” Arianna slid the ring of keys for the payment chests over the table and then sat back in her seat. “And a well timed one at that” she mused in regards to the arrival of the food. “I imagine we can leave things like discussing logistics and getting our deal down in writing till after we enjoy your hospitality. We have time to spare for you to prepare your soldiers and arms, our other support will be needing the same after all.”

The General grunted, and said, "Right. About your militias. Give me an hour or so, I'll make a training regimine, have your commanders learn it through the-uh, dreaming, put it to use. Best start the training now." He smirked, and asked once again, "What are they saying now?"

“We’ll see it done. As for what they are saying… what we are feeling… thankfulness that this journey was bore fruit.“

After a breif pause she added

“Also hunger.”

It came without warning. Cutting through the waters was the largest ship any one in the wharf had ever seen. It was the size of their entire village, and yet held no seam in the wood. The entire ship was worked with such mastery of wood, it was first wondered if it was from the Emerald Empire, but the vast moldings of bizarre fauna (such as that of enormous tuna) and strange symbols carved into the boat with just as intense workmanship, showed otherwise. An extremely loud (and exotic) song played from the boat as it cruised by the wharf, full of guttural screams, loud plucking instruments, drums, and metallic clangs.

Hundreds of strange faces peered overboard at the village. Some belonged to creatures the size of children, some the size of adults, and others the size of two or four adults. They all had mottled skin of dark purples, blues and earthen colors, large warty noses, pronounced chins, and eerily human eyes. Clad in fur cloaks and naturally long tangling hair that erupted messily from the tops of their heads they sneered at the villagers watching, and a few even revealed their rumps to the onlookers.

The sails were bundled as the leviathan ship zipped by, intent on landing. Without ceremony, the mighty ship slammed into the coast and drifted a few meters onto the shore, the wood remaining intact despite the collision. Shortly following the music stopped and gangplanks came out from the ship. A hearty laugh with rasps of malign boomed as the giant ones with moss filled hair disembarked from the ship, their stature being easily ten feet in size. Quickly the others spilled out behind them in great quantity, each inspecting the new lands. Some brought out furnishings, crude metal tools and weapons (that of spiked clubs and axes) , their intent clear: they were staying.