Oracheos, Salvid Hotel

"Please move your chin up a little." Milfano raised her scaled face for the painter as did the rest of her crew. "Like so?" The kobold painter painter muttered his approval before going back to work to immortalize the scene, brave adventurers with their spoil, a massive 2 meter tall Riglir egg. It wasn't the only thing they brought back from this dreaded expedition from which the current team in the portrait was much smaller than the original, they brought dozens of them back to be delivered to a scientist from Veridel's lair interested in this species growth and characteristics but this was by far the most impressive subject.

"I must admit though, for the 'Great Kobold Host', there doesn't seem to be much of you reptiles."

In the elegant ballroom of the hotel they were, more than just the 20 or so members of the expedition and the painter could be seen. About a hundred curious, people residing in the hotel or from around the city, were regrouped to listen to Milfano's heroics. She had a bardic talent to it and knew how to make herself interesting. Plus, its not like most of these people had anything to do for these people were mostly there waiting for a summon at the Oracle of Oracheos. Maybe a couple of them would even get one! Indeed, they were pilgrims to a holy place and the oracle was reputed to summon only those with the greatest of destinies to reveal it to them should they be in the city. A hero of legend could expect a summon the moment he entered the city while an emperor was likely to get one within the week. People hoped to be a chosen one, nobles hoping for guidance and to be more important than their status inferred. Milfano had been there for two days now and didn't really believe she could ever be summoned, though she'd still stay for a single week. Her crew needed rest anyways so, this was as good a place as any.

"Well sir, we are practical people you see. I will freely admit that there aren't much role a kobold can take an elf or human couldn't do better as adventuring often requires strength. Though it may surprise you we, despite our small cranium, aren't mentally handicapped, for the most part, and that we can also move swiftly and silently in the small holes of a cave. Small size doesn't have to be a disadvantage and I know a few dwarves who'd probably like to have a word with you if you said so!"

It was all in good humor. Perhaps others would lose their tempers but Milfano knew that it served no purpose to alienate potential clients, it was better to laugh it off. The 7 other kobolds standing still for the portrait however clenched their teeth, resisting the urge to lash out and the Elf that had insulted them.

"Now, where was I. Ah yes, when we had finally entered the lair of the dreaded monsters. Our distraction had worked and it would turn out to be at a great price but our bounty laid before us, their eggs they went through so much trouble to protect. We had little time, it wasn't even that the stupid things would notice this was a distraction no, it was the fact that millions would surge from the underground to go after said distraction and no doubt some would come across us! We had strong guys of course but the challenge... oh the challenge was this big guy. But we were ingenious, Falgrim here had a plan and-"

Milfano stopped as whispers erupted in the room. Had a king come to listen to her story? Milfano couldn't tell from her small height who it was that the assembly they were in moved to allow through until 5 tall humanoid figures in sculpted jade armor arrived before her and her group. 'Chosen', 'Hero of prophecies', 'Yuwan's favored'... The oracle was bestowing and audience and the armored figure on front lowered his finger on her. "Milfano of Nadir, daughter of Clo the Younger. The Oracle will see you!"

_____________________________

Mastrixen, Her Garden

Elsewhere, another very interesting person, namely Baltazos adopted son of the Basilisk and anti-curruption special agent of said Basilisk, was assisting to a much more public event, namely the celebration of the Basilisk's engagement to Mastrix, patron goddess of Drakma and servant of Yuwan. He had never exchanged more than a couple of words with his step mother, though it was also true that he didn't talk to his 'father' much more. In his youth, he had been much close to Erzat, the rumored but very true genuine abomination of a daughter from Mastrix and Nobilis. A sisterly figure despite her already being older than he'd probably ever live that became much, much more than just a friendly sibbling. They weren't really blood related after all! (And its not like they could have children... or at least it had never happened and it was best for everyone if it didn't happen considering what Erzat was.)

But as a shape shifting abomination, she was now playing her favorite game, 'find me'. There must be a thousand people here, not counting the servants. All the creme de la creme of kobold society and that included, surprisingly, very few kobolds. They were still the most numerous, but not even the majority, sharing the place with dwarves, elves and a couple of dragonborn as well as humans. Of course, there were two dragons, immobile at each side of Mastrix. The black Nobilis on her right and Moras, the minister of finance on her left. This had now officially become frustrating but Balta knew one way to smoke his lover out. She was watching, he knew, so if he just went to another woman and laid out the charm...

"Excuse me miss, but I couldn't help but notice your dress an-"

He approached an elegantly dressed woman from behind but realized his mistake the moment she turned around, the true form of one of Mastrix's companion laid bare for him since he had an artifact to see through some illusions (Useless to find Erzat who changed form rather than create an illusion). The fine elven skull gazed at him, an otherworldly voice not softened by magic coming to his ears. "Why thank you! The new rococco dwarven wave we've seen this year is quite splendid and I can see from the angular shapes of that suit you are quite the connoisseur! But, could you be Baltazos, the hand of Nobilis? It is an honor to get this compliment from you my lord!" Baltazos hated to admit that despite being in a relationship with Erzat, he had enough experience with other women to tell that this sack of bones wanted him. If he hadn't known what she was he'd probably be the same but now? He thought fast of a way to get out of this situation. Erzat must be laughing her ass off now, wherever she was!

Thankfully, he didn't have to come up with one as a kobold servant announced the gift had arrived and lifted his staff toward the moon. There was a shape, glowing in the moonlight. It was coming closer, a... ship?! The prime minister, the young and energetic Luno Kolzis, spoke from a pedestal in front of a large pool of water, visibly where the ship aimed to 'land'.

"The product of brave adventurers, crushing and bringing back the remains of 1492 abominis made of rare eternal ice, only found at the southern end of the world, crafted by expert artisan for decades. Your worship will remember the ice harp we offered her 32 years ago? Prime minister Kar promised back then that a socle fitting for this work of art would be made and we have finally completed it. Ladies and gentledragons, I present to you: Our Flag Ship! A gift that we of your glorious and magnificent realm hope you find worthy to carry your name and act as a symbol of your greatness."

There was a silence as people shifted gaze at the incredible piece of artwork that silently landed in the water, servants rushing to place a stair to climb aboard and the reaction of Mastrix, who was thankfully smiling. The divine got up and people fell on their knees as she walked to the ship.

"Haha, see how father hates it?"

This familiar voice. "Erzat!" He exclaimed softly as he looked behind him at a beautiful lady he had spotted a few times earlier. He looked at the dragon to see what she meant, but he had the same expression of contained amazement as everyone else. He thought he was good to read people's characters but dragons always were an enigma to him. Though he guessed it was because it was 'another flying ship', something Balta knew Nobilis disliked privately. Mastrix climbed the stairs and as she touched the ship, the crystal white changed color to emit a light purple hue. Most people in the assembly let out a 'oooo' of surprise and amazement but some who had been there 32 years ago and saw how the crystal of the harp reacted to divine energy weren't so surprised , the light show was dazling, in the middle of the night and before long, Mastrix turned to face the people.

"It is an impressive work of art. Who is the master of this work?"

There was a silence and slowly people made place for a kobold to step forward. He was well dressed but for the people here who followed the latest fashion? He was quite out of place with his traditional getup.

"It was I my goddess, Jervet Zlata."

Mastrix nodded.

"I bestow upon you my favor, Jervet. A statue of me tonight shall be made and you shall get its weight in gold. Now, think of a wish for me to bestow upon you or your kin."

_______________________________________________

{REDACTED}

To the far north of the Concilio Union, in territory only recently taken from the collapsed empire of Zul, a single horse drawn carriage moves at a leisurely pace up a dirt rode, accompanied by a guard escort of wolf riders. The road itself brings the carriages occupant, D’ave, the Koa-toa Council member who was chosen to represents the sunken home of his people by lottery, to the fortress of Norsal. This most northern of the Union’s current holdings consisted of the captured Principality of Evernyx fortress called the Triskelion and the abandoned dwarven hold that the Yuwanists had accidentally discovered beneath it.

On the surface the fortress had once been a model example of the Principality’s architectural designs with it’s shining white stone walls, resplendent archways and the occasional domed roof. After its occupation by the Minotaurs after the battle over the artifact found within the fortress was left in a sorry state, and the Union’s subsequent capture of the fort had done little to improve matters. Damaged walls had been repaired with mismatching stone, domes had been removed and converted into rickety artillery platforms, marble staircases demolished and replaced with ones more comfortable to the Union’s member’s short statures. The inevitable shanty town like sprawl of homes, businesses and warehouses that accompanied the Union everywhere had grown over the previous buildings like a moss, tarnishing the once noble bastion with the the Union’s shortsighted planning practices and lack of interest in aesthetics.

As far as the union were concerned however, the true heart of the fortress lay beneath the fortress in the expertly carved tunnels of the long dead dwarfs. Some joked that the dwarfs dug so deep they fell out the bottom of the world, while those who had seen the horrors attacking the southern city of Barby where certain they had met the horrid swarms of things that creeped down there and had subsequently been consumed. The tunnels had seen less damage than the surface, the principality had only recently discovered the city when they lost the place, and the low ceilings had spared the place most of the minotaurs destruction, barring the odd horn scrapings on doorways. Here too the union’s urban sprawl had grown downwards from the surface till it reached the entrances to the dwarf’s old mines, where they abruptly stopped for fear of meeting the things below.

The fortress and city where both host primarily to Supplies for the planned eastward invasion: guns, gunpowder, magical and mundane weapons and even a few dismantled ships all sat in warehouses waiting to bring destruction upon Justinian’s foes. Most important of all however was the food, dried and preserved, ready to feed the army as it pushed into Yawanist territory and towards for the eastern sea. The north was not the kind of place that could sustain an army the size of the one the Union would need to gain any headway, which was exactly the reason that why army that was going to fight in the summer’s invasion was not here, and where instead south on the coast, where the ocean and western aid fed the warriors of the northern Justinian front. The fortress itself still had a considerable garrison and population, but not one so large that they would be eating the majority of the food brought to supply the later invasion. It was the progress of the supply deliveries that D’ave had come north to examine at the behest of the council member Krawnk Kensu, who was also the head of the coastal merchants who were supplying and shipping most of the supplies for the invasion.

After entering through the heavy oak gate, carriage rode up the streets of the fortress, past ramshackled warehouses storing the vital supplies, past barracks, bars and temples where the off duty soldiers guarding the supplies mingled, onwards to the keep at the center of it all. After entering through a second smaller set of gates the carriage came to a halt in a courtyard. There D’ave found Randeir Nast, council member and overseer of the northern military efforts, pacing to and fro impatiently. The general, currently sporting a bearskin Ushanka and thick overcoat to protect her against the cold, handed the documents she had been examining in her passing to a goblin aid and turned to greet the new arrival.

“A welcoming, unexpected from someone as busy as our Bulwark” The Deth-thu, completely unperturbed by the frigid environment, as it compared not to the abyss cold of his homewaters, stepped down from his carriage and met Nast halfway, grasping her paw with a webbed hand and shaking it. The two weren't exactly friends, but saw each other regularly enough that they were on good terms, a rarity within the council.

“Sadly it wasn’t for you I was waiting, but rather scouts sent tout earlier today that have yet to return.”

“That doesn’t seem worthy marching to and fro in the cold, it can’t be good for your health. What has you worried?”

“It’s perhaps best I show you, and your right. I shouldn’t be out here at my age. So tell me, did I miss anything important from the last meeting?”

Together the two entered the keep and ascended, heading for its battlements. By the time they reached the top of the keep D’ave had divulged most of the details of the most recent meeting to the general, including the absence of his requested bolt throwers.

“To think my kin would forsake his kin like this” the general spat in disgust “I pray to Justinian his folly will not cost us”

The two entered a small watchtower perched atop the keep, within its single glass walled and roofed room sat a Corvant militia-woman, her eye pressed to a telescope looking up and to the north.

“Still got sight of it?”

The woman stood, saluted and then noodded. After being prompted, D’ave took her place and placed his own eye to it saw far in the distance the sea of green curving upwards towards the edge of the world where it thinned out and then ended abruptly. The tower was built specifically to take advantage of the world's bowled nature, tall enough that, apart from where the odd mountain and the Turquoise lord’s eyesore blocked the view, all places in the world could be seen. Though the telescope all D’ave saw however was a small patch of green above which tiny dark shapes fluttering as the trees shook and swayed ever so slightly.

“What exactly am I looking at here?”

“If we are lucky, a migrating head of deer. If I’m right however, then it’s the thundering march of an army shaking the forest with their hooffalls, above which the carrion birds flock, all ready for war.”

“The minotaurs have been quite and scattered for 5 years now what makes you think that they have suddenly come together?”

The two were interrupted as the door to the tower was flung open and an exhausted goblin dressed in white furs rushed in, one of Nast’s scouts.

“Mam! Their coming!” he shouted hoarsely, the scout left breathless from both fear and exhaustion.

“Who is? How many?”

“All of them!”

---

It was an hour later and several other scouts had confirmed the sheer magnitude of the horde approaching. Plans had been made and preparations were well underway for the defence, despite the garrison being hopelessly outmatched by the minotaurs in both number and as individuals. From the gates of the fortress D’ave’s carriage rushed, barreling back down the dirt roads it had so recently traveled, heading south to Insmaw. But it was not cowardice that drove his flight, but duty. He was of little use in battle, so to spare the fort every warrior it could he had been sent in their messengers’ place, southwards to rous the camped armies, to bring them northwards before the fortress and it’s vital supplies fell to the northern horde. From the keep Nast watched her fellow councilmember leave, praying that he would return with a relief force before they were all dead.

---

Several hours later the carriage rolled in past the walls of the coastal fortress city of Insmaw, from which messengers were imedietly sent up and down the coast to the many army camps housing soldiers as they overwintered till the summer campaign season started again. Both those belonging to the Union itself and those hosting foreign forces were called upon, though D’ave knew that the their messages to the foreign armies were more requests than commands. Messengers also went out into the sea to the subnautica city of mother’s rest to rouse D’ave’s Koa-toa kin, to the jungles and forests to call the many tribes within to the nation's borders, to the port city of Roc port to bring the navy’s marines up the coast, and finally south to the capital itself to bring word of the invasion to the heart and south of the Union, lest the northern forces fail to bring the Winter War to a quick end.

---

The time had come, the enemy was here. The defenders crouched behind the battlements of the fortress walls, fully aware that those same walls had failed to hold the Minotaurs at bay once before. Nast knew this. Nast had plans for this and they would be revealed in time. For now she hid like her soldiers, now dressed in platemail, the helmet of which was adorned with a pair of minotaur horns she had scalped from the previous holder of this fortress. They listened, as the warhost emerged from the treeline, the thunderous marching and chanting soon joined by the real thing as lightning first blasted apart the watchtower atop the keep and one of the lightning cannons revealed it was flawed as it drew a bolt straight to it, vaporising the crew in an instant. The rest however struck a series of lightning rods. The union had long since learned that if there is one thing you don’t want to happen during a siege, it is to have your enemy’s’ god smite your gunpowder stores.

As the blood rain began to pour down the troops did the best they could to keep their powder dry as they cowered, prayed or tried to focus on the calm words of priests who were stationed there to help with morral. The more stupid or daring opened their mouths wide to the rain to drink of the iron tasting icor. At last the being whose name the horde had been chanting revealed himself onto them.

"Your puny fortress is nothing against the bloodied war host! It is simple, give me all the loot and food in the fortress, and you live. Or we take it and sacrifice you all... to ME!"

There was relative silence from the battlements as orders were communicated among the Union’s ranks through whispered words or a series of flag signals, the effectiveness of which was hampered by the bloody rain. What that order was soon became immaculately clear, as the diminutive Goblins, Rodant, Deth-thu, Kobolds, Corvant, Gnolls, Ranians and Chiropia s all rose from behind their battlements in a wave and a massed volley of lead shot, arrows, stones, cannonballs and chaotic magics were launched towards the horde, focused primarily on the area from which the booming voice of Kraam had come from.

“Tear out their Heart!” and the bloodied will cease to flow.

The day is unnatural. The skies are never this clear in proximity to Uudhin. The distant sun and red star never so brilliant. The people of Kasabi island speak of a divine omen. For it is common knowledge, at least in the upper commons of the city, that this day the Metropolitan’s selected heir is departing with a treasure fleet at his back. Gifts from all corners of Materia to which the Merchant Despotate has established lasting ties. Accompanied with rows of heavily guarded ships to see to the safe passage to East Ouroborasia. Even the Salt Prince, in his occasional mercy, has bestowed tranquil waves for a safe voyage to the other side of the dark strait of Noirmoro, which separates Uudhin from Ouroborasia.
For many this favourable weather should be a welcome sight of better times to come. Yet to the more cynical, it is a dreadful omen of Justinian’s growing power and the impending annihilation of Edukar’s last bastion. For the perpetual and brooding tempest is the norm in Uudhin.
Leaning at the railing of the northern pier attached to Göl Kasabi’s upper commons, the young Principe reminisces over what is to come, and dreads it.
Synogchouta wears Soghba’s charm around his neck and has his usual wine red mantle covering his sinewy frame against the cold. Black curls cover his forehead. Under his eyes are dark bags from a sleepless and another depressing Uudhin night. Sadly something Edukesh's long exiled tribes are only too familiar with. Cast from grace by the tyrannical usurper gods, to reap the shallow bounty of the most accursed corner in Materia. So they endlessly tell themselves in self-pity. But he woke up from that darkness to the most aberrant morning imaginable. The pure beams of the sun actually gracing their little island empire?

The skies spotless, and peaceful silent laughter from the gulls is heard floating over the still water. Strange. The skies shouldn’t be this shade of colour. The cerulean blue envelops the pier so that its red mosaic tiles too seems as though touched by the celestial plane. There is even such clarity that the northern coast at the other side of the water is visible to the naked eye.
The Principe cannot believe his own eyes. He had been idling on this pier many times in his life, but never had the boon of catching a glimpse of Ouroborasia from as far south as Göl Kasabi. Caught in wonderment Chouta’s gaze is fixed on the northern horizon, unable to process what is happening. He has been to that very Ouroborasian coast before, but from this distance and on this day it is totally unrecognisable. In matter of fact; the distant ivory shore cannot be of this world. Those pine trees should not be piercing straight through the sky... The mountains behind them should not be shaped as rows of shiny molar teeth. And the southern harbour did not have those colossal pearl gates barring entry into the dockyard. Despite being at least a hundred miles away, Synogchouta can swear that the glistering gates have words inscribed on them. They are large enough that the Principe swears he can read them. He squints his eyes and leans forward over the railing.

There he stood, and the longer Synogchouta tried to decipher the awfully familiar words of the gate, the more the wind picked up as though responding to his intrigue, gliding rapidly over the water surface. The volume increases and somehow shifts to whispers seemingly carried with them. The speech of the wind smothers the familiar bawking of seagull and seaghoul that the Kasabioi are accustomed to. All sounds from the urban areas behind him likewise fades out by voices not quite human. A language that no other sapient race on Materia should be capable of producing either. For it is the wind that is speaking.
‘’The mist of the sea is an invitation to the great Dark. Embracing the abysmal north star, where the host of all souls gather. Over them, through them, without and within.’’
That is what it says. A voice unmistakably harmonious and inseparable from the noise of the very tempest. This is the language of entities of a greater plane. What all Men are inclined to call Gods.
‘’Who are you?’’

‘’Bring your gift to his viceroy that dwells so deep, so deep down under the northern star. A material pact upheld.’’

‘’Axohaan?’’

‘’Hasten. The destiny of Eudeye’s Tribes, alike with the Olden Refuge and the Deicidal Messengers of Archonnen hang in your balance. A cataclysm to be averted.

He awaits.’’
Then the celestial sky takes the form of a face. A kind face of a man, with a warm and embracing smile. Chouta is completely perplexed. But he snaps out of it when bumping his head against a lantern hanging from a column adjacent to him.

Rubbing the spot where his head was struck, Chouta’s eyes dart back to the sky. There is no face there. How is that even possible? Something as shapeless and infinite as the sky -- yet he could swear he recognised the shape of a human face therein.
Then he looks at the Ouroborasian coast to the north. Squinting his eyes he can just narrowly make out a thin strip of land at the far end of the horizon. Which is still incredible and very unusual considering the distance. Yet all the same, over there is not the celestial landscape he previously bore witness to. And those pearl gates are nowhere to be seen. It must have been imagery out of a lucid dream…

The unrestrained exposure of such paradisiacal weather is clearly playing with his head. Understandable perhaps; because an Uudhinite inhabitant is accustomed only to elements dark and raw. Anything that isn’t that is simply overwhelming their psyche? That is what Chouta deduces, anyway. But the scent of salt once more fills his nostrils, a reminder that his God is never far...
‘’Did the Salt Prince send me a vision?’’ The Principe silently mutters to himself.
His mind is adrift once more with the waves of the strait, and only ends when a sudden voice ambushes the pier.

‘’The Metropolitan sent me. Saying Yaldbaw has left and that you ought to follow his example. ‘Our family did not prosper through indolence or hesitation.’ He says.’’

Still mentally elsewhere, the Principe hardly gives a visible reaction towards his uncle’s henchman. And so he continues speaking.
‘’Either way, the crew is assembled; ready to leave on your word. Combined with the treasure fleet and the assortments of armed escort, it makes for a mighty fleet in total, I must say. I hope the Ouroborasians won’t mistake it for an invasion. Heh! Hehe.’’

It is Bacanoc Ormaoth, a confidante and henchman of the Daveithai family from about Chouta’s age. One would be hard-pressed to think he too hails from a wealthy family. His outdoors attire consists of weathered old garments and leather, having certainly carried him through much rain and wind over the years. Bacanoc is hardy and fierce built, wide shouldered with prominent cheekbones and short black facial hair around his chin and jaw in contrast to clean-shaven Chouta. He has a square-shaped skull with dark slanted eyes under thick and heavy eyebrows – actually a little bit reminiscent of a gorilla. ...Though one shouldn’t say it to his face. Bacanoc is certainly no handsome or refined man like his friend the Principe, though certainly capable in the primordial art of violence. Which, paired with his loyalty to the Island Despotate, is exactly why the Metropolitan favours him so.

The Principe is visibly frustrated. He had barely time to reflect on the theophany he just experienced before reality has come to seize him as his uncle’s political pawn to curry the Emperor’s favour.
He came to this part of the city specifically to be away from the intrigue and nosy henchmen of his uncle. ‘Can’t a man have some peace?’ He thinks to himself. It seems there is no more time to enjoy the view. And he might never get another chance, too.
When the Principe fails to give an apt response, Bacanoc speaks up again.
‘’Your rivals are seeing your lack of initiative as a sign of weakness.’’

Chouta raises an unpersuaded eyebrow.
‘’Tsk. Listen here; I don’t like them and they don’t like me. And we both know it. Why should I bother appeasing them? They aren’t going to think better of me whatever I do. What’s the point, pray tell? In matter of fact...’’

He looks away from the dark waves and into Bacanoc’s gorilla vision. ‘’I am not so certain I like you, either. Damn you Ormaoths. How much property and investment have your people done in Solnisata and Drakma at the expense of our Despotate?’’

Bacanoc groans. ‘’... Need I still prove myself? I have lived in Göl Kasabi all my life. I have served your family faithfully more than even my own. I have won the Metropolitan’s trust; why can’t I have yours?’’

‘’Trust isn’t freely given. You may have successfully wrapped my uncle around your little finger, but I am not so easily deceived.’’
The Principe sighs, figuring he is being a tad rough he follows up to his professed distrust:

‘’Though consider my expedition a chance to prove your loyalty.’’
Bacanoc simply nods like a beat dog and turns to leave. It’s as good as any response he has come to expect from the likes of Chouta.

---

Later that same tranquil morning, Bacanoc walks up to another of the Metropolitan’s Henchmen. This man is at least twice Bacanoc’s age, tall and lanky and stern with a goatee and wearing clean embellished robes, reflecting his status as one of the more powerful of the Kasabioi Patricians.
‘’Doux. Compared to yesterday, the Principe seems to have had a change of heart. Yesterday he was utterly miserable over having to leave his little island paradise. Though when dismissing me he insinuated agreeing with the expedition. What could have persuaded him? Zeal for our Salt Prince?’’

‘’With or without a god, a good night’s sleep performs miracles by itself. The boy had only come to his senses.’’ The Doux replies with a faint smirk, fiddling with his facial hair.

Now having the vague understanding that a lot more is at stake than meets the mortal perception, Chouta scales the gangway of the flagship to be introduced to his loyal subjects. That is to say; his crew that will be accompanying him on this voyage. Synogchouta has made up his mind.
He is first met by a man hailing from a human commune on the Uudhinite mainland, places far more sinister than the isolated Göl Kasabi. A beefy and bullnecked man; Tokko of Jeziorze. At the sight of Chouta’s figure entering the ship he speeds towards him and, taking stance and sticking out his chest like a pigeon, he combusts with a salute:

‘’READY TO SET SAIL, PRINCIPE. ANY DAY. I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF BEING FIRST-MATE OF YOUR SHIP, PRINCIPE. MAY THE SALT PRINCE GUIDE THE WAY! HE WHO IS RULER OF THE EARTH. LORD OF THE WATERS. MASTER OF UUDHIN AND EDUKESH. PRAISE BE!’’
‘’Gross. You spit on me.’’
‘’…
MY APOLOGIES, PRINCIPE.’’
‘’Yea, well, make sure you swallow next time before blurting your swagger.’’

Bacanoc and the Doux now also scale the same gangway of the Metropolitan’s lofty flagship in Chouta’s trail. They, and many other officials, are all part of the envoy deployed to the Imperial Court of Ouroborasia to represent Göl Kasabi and perhaps Uudhin as a whole.
‘’There, Principe. I have taken liberty of finding you this man hailing from the very lands we are about to embark to.’’ The Doux gestures towards his two lionmasked bodyguard – the esteemed Saltenguard – coming onto the deck dragging a gaunt and pale looking man by both arms.

‘’An Ouroborasian in origin. Justinian. It seems he wishes to atone for his ancestor’s crimes by being so courteous as to accompany our exalted mission.’’

Pretty rich coming from an Axohar -- Synogchouta would think, but he is preoccupied observing the poor man that is being presented to him. He is dropped to the floor, landing on both knees and remains there. With a shrill voice the Ouroborasian speaks.

‘’Ionut Luizaraad… I am Ionut Luizaraad and I am no Justinian. Nevermore. I heard your family was searching for a native Ouroborasian speaker to aid you… with a tour. But those Lionmask guys brandished their scythes at the sight of me before I could even think of applying.’’

‘’No surprise there – just look at you.’’ The Principe responds. ‘’You’re filthy.’’
Ionut ignores the comment, seeming to agree.

‘’My understanding of the eastern territories of Ouroborasia is subpar, but I will do my utmost best, lord.’’
Not fully convinced, the Principe turns to the Doux once more.

‘’Litayyan, where did you find this man?’’

‘’It is as he says; my escort detained him.’’ The Doux answers with a bark, whose real name is apparently Litayyan.
He follows up:
‘’In the past few days I had my men distribute warranties through the suburbs of Göl Kasabi, with the urgent request for Ouroborasian-speaking volunteers. But it was on short notice, and this man seems to be the best option so far. I trust you will agree we can make due with him. Do not let his impoverished looks deceive you – he has more aptitude than meets the eye… The name of Luizaraad was in fact a decently well-off noble house in Ouroborasia, at least prior to the Civil War.’’
Ionut casts his gaze down to his knees, reminiscing the sad fate of his home and family. He does not comment.

‘’Is that so? Yet you forget the only family name with any semblance of weight on this vessel would be Daveithai. And so a Daveithai will be the judge of that.’’

‘’Naturally, o Principe.’’

Chouta steps towards Ionut, gesturing to the Saltenguard to lift him up to his feet, so that they can see properly eye to eye.
‘’Seeing there is little else to pick from, I accept your enrolment in our little expedition. Consider yourself employed. Though first things first; I insist you dress properly and clean yourself up. Just think; what would the Emperor think if he saw some plebe as part of our sacred envoy?
Litayyan! See to it he is given a fresh set of garments. Not for free, though. The Ouroborasian is to pay off his debt through the toils expected of him.’’

‘’Principally, o Principe.’’

---

As the fleet departed from the harbour, Synogchouta could briefly catch a glimpse of the Metropolitan's own formidable posture. Frankly Chouta had not expected his uncle cared enough to make an appearance at all. But as befits him, he merely came to see them off and not to bless their journey or bid them goodbye or whichever he ought to. The reason Chouta could recognize the Metropolitan at all was by the elaborate retinue of scythes suddenly entering the pier, and the coloured, over the top plume of the Metropolitan's hat sticking out above his henchmen.
So it came to pass that the fleet of Synogchouta Daveithai, comprising of at least ten ships and loaded with gifts, spices and armed escorts, leaves the harbour of Göl Kasabi under clear skies and with the winds in their back. With such favourable weather it should not take longer than a few days of crossing Noirmoro strait and trailing the inland rivers. And though it is too late to regret his decision now, a clinging pain falls unto the young heir as he sees his island home, which he has ever loved, fade away into the south… And far to the south he can already tell dark clouds pulling from mainland Uudhin to cover Kasabi island once more in ominous Axohar tempests. But this is as it should be.

Through the wetlands and hostile marshes of Ouroborasia, the respectable sound of a galloping stallion could be heard traversing the terrain with a subtle rumbling of plate in tow. With great haste the steed proceeded forth, and with a calculating rhythm it was controlled by its master’s subtle yet powerful flips, claps, and tugs of the bridle and stirrup. With its haste, the horse rider passed a highway merchant, surprising them in the process.

From the merchant’s point of view, the unbelievable speed of the horse had morphed the silhouette into a shining white shroud. Her immediate reaction was to stop her wagon and simply stare, awestruck, as the rider journeyed into the distance. In that moment an adventurous flame long having lain dormant within her bosom furiously burst into action. She proceeded to follow the mysterious figure with surprising dedication.

The horse-drawn carriage of which she owned would prove to be no match for the noble rider that would soon cross the horizon, and all she could do was hope for a rendezvous in one of the towns on the ways towards the former capital. But why? She could feel the danger in her journey, she had gone from a safe trip between Leshëzkoëm and Ouropossia to an increasingly more alarming expedition towards the war. Of course, she was still a fair ways away from the front, but any step towards the east is any step towards danger, she had already lost her escort in a bestial ambush, but her unreasonable heart continued to drag her eastward.

Some three kilometers away by now, the mysterious rider continued unabated, his perfect rhythm undiminished. Hidden by mask clad in golden plate, equipped with a similarly coloured armour combined with white-most robe, the individual bore also the signature icons of the Grand Oratory. The individual, an Orator from the west, had only one thing on his mind; a mission most dire, a test most necessary. The Justicarti Oratorium could not stay indefinitely, and duty would fall upon the largest and closest of its allies to defend the people of Ouroborasia. As such, it was not only necessary, but moral, for the Grand Oratorium to continue their mission. It was Archonnen’s duty to ensure the West’s survival and victory.

The process of transference had already begun, many excellent Orators had already entered the ruling council of the Justicarti Oratorium’s Ouroborasian chapter. Amongst them was the Orator’s mentor; Armandros Rex-Magnus, a former Orator-Magnus from the Archonnen heartland, and soon even more would be elevated. It was time for him to distinguish himself amongst the crowd, it was time to perform most valiantly so that not only the End would come sooner, but so that justice be done.

His name, the Orator, was Palatinos Perferon. His father, a man of little merit: a manufactory worker born, raised, and cremated within the walls of the provincial capital of Leopolos. His mother, equally unimportant, was a weaver with a similar story as her husband. Palatinos had no connection with his parents, as he was adopted by the clerisy and raised by the Grand Oratorium’s Leopolos chapter. His only family had been Armandros, who took him under his wing by the age of five, and the local preacher who would inspire him, shaped him into what he is and with this mission, planted the seeds for what he will become.

His present task, one of paramount importance, held root in high treason and grand heresy. The target being a powerful local aristocrat with ties to the government. The potential exists therefore that Sergiu Calinescu harbours secessionary thoughts as their manor, the Calinescu Estate, lies dangerously close to the border. Palatinos would not see Ouroborasia ruined any further, he would not see the nation fall to corruption, and as such he would race with haste for his mission was most dire.

--- Several Hours Later, Nightfall ---

The dark has fallen and the glittering glimmer of his armour no longer alarmed the surrounding wildlife. The area was silent, except for the constant rhythmic elegance which had been ceaseless throughout the entire journey. In the horizon, past the dank, dead trees which surround the barely-traveled gravel trail, the majestic Calinescu Estate loomed over the treeline. The windows were dark and candle light was most dim and sporadic. Palatinos therefore reconciled his previous information; Sergiu Calinescu had returned from a business venture in Vloëmurrëm, officially a trade transaction between the Calinescu Family and one of Archonnen’s trade ambassadors. It had apparently been a most arduous journey, as the family had gone to sleep directly after having returned home.

Palatinos had now entered the courtyard of the vast estate, although it lacked the elegance and architecture of a finely built Archonnan palace, it was a typical Ouroborasian estate; oppressive and dark, unwelcoming. He stopped his horse with a simple flip of the wrist, immediately dismounting with flawless coordination. Palatinos dropped the reins and walked towards the Estate’s entrance, his most loyal steed remaining silent and without motion, awaiting his return. As Palatinos walked, his long strides and eerie motions accumulated in what could only be described as floating towards the dark oaken doors.

The doors carried with them a most elaborate lock, but through the animation of the Orator’s magics, the gears shifted and with a sudden click, silently opened to allow the Orator passage. He stepped inside without any hesitation, but was forced to lower his head in order to pass through the doorway, and was instantly drawn towards a long cupboard positioned in direct opposition to the front entrance. It was in front of the spiral staircase leading towards the second floor and, knowing aristocracy, it must have some form of strategic purpose. Palatinos opened the drawers, one after another, and found little of importance. All that was there were a dagger, what seemed like an heirloom, coins of large quantity, and a paper describing the transaction that had occurred earlier in the day.

Palatinos, seeing the potential subconscious correlation between these objects, placed the heirloom, the dagger, and the paper within a gold-adorned satchel around his waist. It is highly possible that Sergiu, in all his urgency for a good night’s rest, had placed these objects here in an unintentional manner.

The Orator continued his investigation throughout the dim corridors of the first floor, hovering from one dark room to the other. Once satisfied, Palatinos proceeded towards the stairway, traversing corridors and living rooms in the process. No living soul had yet crossed his path, but as he had returned to the entrance, that would change. One of the servants, presumably one of the cleaners, came across him as they were heading downstairs.

The servant, petrified by the looming intruder approaching towards him, could do nothing but shake and slowly back away up the stairs. Palatinos, immediately seeing the servant, locked eye contact immediately. He rushed up the stairs, but his steps carried no sound. The Servant could not scream as his fear had paralyzed his vocal cords. As he attempted and failed to flee. In the middle of falling, his body froze completely. It’s otherwise dynamic nature turning absolutely rigid. Palatinos reached out towards the Servant with his hand, oppressively covering the servant’s face within his hand’s plate embrace.

“Where arth thou Master, Servant?” called out a ghastly voice to the Servant. Palatinos, as an Orator, has undergone unspeakable, indescribable magical rituals to increase his magical and physical potential. In so doing, it has transformed his body into something beyond human, beyond… Anything. His voice seemed to glue itself to the wooden walls, freezing them. It lingered abnormally as time passed, one could even describe it as time freezing. But it was not only time that had frozen in the Orator’s presence, it had been everything around him. The Servant, now within the Orator’s grip, could feel his very body start to glaciate and the walls themselves were shifting colours to a cooler blue. The servant could not comprehend the situation, his breath becoming uncoordinated. Hyperventilation commenced, however his mouth was frozen shut. The man fainted from severe panic, his body softening and falling towards the ground. But it was still frozen to the Orator’s palm, now suspended by it.

Palatinos sensed the Servant’s consciousness slip away and, once it had retreated, simply threw the body to the side effortlessly. The body collided against the staircase’s railing with a large thud, rolling down the steps. In so doing, shattering the walls which had now turned into ice. Palatinos proceeded forwards, not paying any mind to the sound he had just generated. Having arrived on the second floor he was met with a long hallway which ran through the entire second floor.

As he was about to enter the first door on the right, Calinescu’s frightened voice called out to him from further down the hallway.

“W-What are you doing here?!”

Palatinos immediately snapped his head towards Calinescu, locking eyes with the man. Slowly raising his arm towards Sergiu, palm wide open. The Orator replied, his chilling, ghastly voice shifting wall to wall across the hallway.

“The Oratorium beholds you, Sergiu Calinescu of Vlushë. ” spoke Palatinos. Calinescu replied only with silence, his distress quite apparent. However, his body was unable to move. With all his power, Calinescu wanted to flee from this… thing, but it was almost as if his muscles themselves had frozen. An approaching chill grew closer and closer as the Orator seemed to slowly hover in his direction, it's inhumane movements tricking Sergiu’s mind.

“Accept its call and acquiesce, or be destroyed.”

The answer was rather easy to understand, for ranged firepower spoke more than words.
From the fortress a mass of projectiles both magical and physical was lobbed with a constant barrage at the bloodied vanguard, which in unison went into a shieldwall to ward off the worst of the barrage.
Lightning bolts from the Norsal towers slammed into warded shields, some succumbing under its might, cannon balls momentarily disrupting the formation. The resilience of the elite guard however meant that very few actually fell.
Automatic ballista fire, a mass of arrows and bullets pattered upon the steel wall of Kraam's elite.
One ballista bolt sailed through the air, was grazed with an arrow and singed by green fire as it arced towards its target, a perfect shot which if one would see from its perspective gave a amazing view as the vanguard were battered with fire.
The bolt whizzed ever closer to Kraam, wobbled in the air and went straight for his left eye.

The motion of his right arm was faster than a normal minotaur could move, unflinching in his gaze the only part of him in motion was the arm which grabbed the bolt and held it an inch from his eye for a moment.
Lowering the bolt he looked at its singed form, followed by looking at the fortress.
-"Bloodied.... we have our answer.... BLOOOOOD!!!!!" Kraam's voice echoed over the field, as he gave his battlecry the entire host joined in and the thundering storm of warcries and lumbering of hooves made the ground tremble.

The regular forces moved out first, their bloodthirst leaving them with little control, many were cut down as lightning cannons shot into groupings of warriors, cannons seemingly the only sure way to kill a bloodied minotaur in one shot made evident with several keeping on their charge as they are pierced with many arrows and some even ballista bolts in non crucial areas.
But many more died from the ferocious barrage of ranged firepower.
After them the vanguard followed Kraam, who strolled over the field with complete disregard of lesser projectiles and at times stepping to the side to avoid a cannon ball or ballista bolt.
A lightning cannon made a skilled shot and hit the red god right on, which made him falter in his step until he rerouted the energy into his axe which now sparked angrily with lightning.
The shot had also fried two elite guards near Kraam, but no one cared.

Nast watched in horror as the seemingly untouchable Kraam either sidestepped or muscled through everything that the defenders threw at him. If she had the capability to she would have ordered all the lightning cannons to focus on him, and for the more mundane firepower to be directed towards his followers, yet the realities of the difficulties of giving nuanced orders during a chaotic battle meant she could only watch as most of their firepower was squandered. That firepower was starting to falter, the intensity of the initial barrage slowly petering out as archers reached for their quivers only to find them empty, as marksmen fired the last of their preloaded rifles and mages expended their reserves of Theurgia.

Beside Nast one of her advisors, a goblin shaman, started shouting something about the fact that the minotaurs had a new God in place of Zul being important, but over the raging storm it was drowned out. Nast was far to occupied with watching the line of minotaurs as they got closer and closer to the walls, incredibly concerned as to how they were intending to breach the fortresses thick stone curtain without siege equipment. She considered calling the retreat right there and then before they found out, her instincts screaming at her to go find a bolt hole to hide from the massive predators, but she held firm in her duty. The preparations going on in the urban sprawl behind her needed more time and they couldn’t give up the strategic advantege the walls provided without a fight. As the Minotaurs closed, the Unionists drew their swords, picked up their spears and readied their pistols, ready to fight and die for Justinian.

The bloodied host didn't take long to reach the walls, where minotaurs began to try and climb the walls with sheer ferocity, some who jumped and got a good grip actually managed to get up but most of them were cut down by the outnumbering defenders.
All over satyx javeliners made great leaps, actually jumping up to the crenelations in a single leap with many making another leap and beginning to skirmish from the rooftops of the fortress. Many however fell to reacting ranged troops, but the speed of the satyx was a problem when it came to hitting them.

Chaos engulfed the Unionist ranks atop the battlements as the Bloodied forces entered their midsts and a general breakdown of discipline quickly followed. Confronted with the colossal forms of the minotaurs some simply broke and ran, others abandoned their positions to mob the first arriving warriors, leaving areas of the wall poorly defended. Several explosions wracked the area, as kamikaze attacks and panicking artillery crews annihilated friend and foe alike. Some of the fleeter footed soldiers, often the crow like Corvants, persue the satyx skirmishers on foot, leaping and scrambling after those that had breached the outer defences in an attempt to get a better shot or strike them down with their spears or knives

Kraam smiled as he saw the ferocity of his troops, the bloodied never really had much strategy, but few could withstand their might.
He motioned and his vanguard hunkered down in a massive shieldwall formation, making them even more resilient.
Followed with the god of the bloodied strolling closer to the gates of Norsal, hefting the ballista bolt he kept in his hand.
-"This one almost hit me, so i guess you want it as a souvernier." He boomed out to the defenders before preparing to throw it.
The clouds in the sky began to roil and turn above him, purple lightning bolts dancing from the sky over his body and reaching for his right fist empowering the bolt.
He had not trained much, but in a way, drawing power from the divine came natural to red gods, so while it was not refined, it was powerful.

As he threw it the power of the throw was such that all sound disappeared for a moment, leaving only silence as the bolt flew at the gate. Electrical purple shocks shot out from the flying projectile into the ground.
The defenders could see the gate be annihilated with a single strike and a second later the sound of the explosion and other sounds returned.

After brazing from the shockwave both sides realized that the gate was now open, which the bloodied host responded too with a rooar of exhileration. They began to run again, the vanguard not having time to lead the assault as droves of minotaurs began to run into the open gate past Kraam who gestured with his axe to his vanguard, who began to march forward following his lazy stroll.

This was much easier than last time, Kraam thought to himself as he grinned.

Nast’s ears were left ringing by the blast that had annihilated the gate. Her position nearby had meant that the shock wave from the impact had knocked her and her retinue off their feet and the various Unionists took a few moments to pick themselves up. As she rose to her feet and her hearing began to recover she could hear the priest shouting once more about Kraam’s power and that they should sound the retreat, but his voice was silenced as a colossal axe came crashing down onto him, cleaving the servant of Justinain in twain, spraying the others with his blood. Nast stared in horror at the hand gripping the battlements behind the slain preist, which a Dread Warrior swiftly used, on conjunction with the axe it had used as an improvised ice axe to haul himself over the parapet. His hooves hammered into the stonework of the wall into a space the retinue had instinctively formed as the scrambled away from their butchered comrade.

The Dread warrior was a horrific sight, standing almost 4 times the size of Nast herself, the minotaur was a visage of exposed muscle, his skin incapable of containing the raging magic that fueled the monstrous warriors incredible strength. That same magic burned in place of his eyes, were raging flames now stared down at his diminutive prey. Nast glanced along the wall, where similar scenes were playing out. With the gate breached, it would soon be time to call the retreat but as she reached for the horn with which to call it, she found the leather strap on her armor empty. To her horror, she saw the horn lying close to the dread warrior, next to the slain priest. Rage engulfed her and instead of simply searching for a replacement she drew her sword and charged the monster, screaming a warcry. Spurred into action by her shout, her retinue joined her, bodyguards, mages and advisors all, charged the Dread Warrior together, taking up her cry.

“For This World's End!”

The warcry was met with a twitch in the neck of the dread warrior, followed by a psychotic roar which exposed the heat inside of the unstable dread warrior, a piece of its cheek fell off in a gross slodge as the monster charged the retinue with its head tilted.
A heroic attempt was made by a ratman in heavy armour as he moved in with his glaive to try and gut it from its left.
But with a sudden increase in speed, the dread warrior swung its axe, letting go of it with its right hand and cleaved the poor warrior in twain from shoulder to the right leg. The flesh hissing from the heat and the armour red hot along the cut.

It grabbed Nasts scribe, a kobold which screamed in rage and fear as the dread warrior picked him up, roared in his face and slammed him into one of Nasts soldiers crushing them both. Swiping with the axe three others were thrown to the ground as Nast managed to close in.
Her righteous warcry was turned into a cough as the dread warrior responded with goring her and one of her bodyguards with its horns. She was nearly thrown over the railing protecting from falling into the courtyard below, the rail creaking and bending violently as she dangled precariously.
Her bodyguard had not been so lucky as she saw him pierced upon the left horn of the dread warrior, seemingly not even slowing it down as it slammed its axe into the floor barely missing a few of her retinue, albeit showering them with stone shards.

The hooves of the dread warrior left burning prints as it moved and red tattoos began to shine brighter as the monstrum raged on.
Nasts retinue mage managed to cast a bolt of ice through its abdomen as two warriors managed to stab it with a glaive and a spear in the neck and torso respectively.
Letting out a bawl, the dread warrior took hold of the spear and used it to fling the poor goblin over the crenelations while it stomped down hard on the one who got him in the neck with such force there was barely anything recognizeable left as the hoof crushed its way through flesh bone and leather alike leaving singed flesh which smelled horrifically.

Nast picked herself of the floor and rejoined the fray. You don’t get to be the a general in the union, much less the only general on the council, by being a shoddy fighter and the space unfortunately provided by the Dread Warrior’s thinking of her retinue allowed her to show this off. The rat woman nimbly dodged the first blow of the warrior’s axe, the magic infused blade causing a massive crack in the stone floor as Nast darted behind him, swinging her sword at the exposed muscles on the back of one of his legs, steel hacking through flesh and coming away red hot, causing her to drop the blade. The minotaur stumbled , his footfalls unsteady from his damaged leg. Nast darted past a grabbing hand, before trying to get clear but unable to retrieve the horn.

As the beast stumbled a Corvant rouge nimbly leaped up onto the battlements of the wall, hopping from one to the other with swift footfalls till he came up behind the minotaur, leaping from the stonework and driving his twin poisoned blades into the shoulders of their foe. The Dread warrior roared in pain as the toxins necrotized part of his shoulder and left arm, only to be burned away by the intense heat within. He shook his body to and fro, tossing the Corvant from his back. The unfortunate rogue was sent plummeting from the wall to the mercy of horde below. A Gnoll matriarch, largest and strongest of the Unionists present yet still dwarfed by the monster, grabbed ahold of his axe handle. An orange light in the shape of a wolf was suffused over her body, coming from a Gnoll mage behind her, gave her the strength to briefly wrestle the Warrior for possession of his weapon. Taking this chance, Nast came in again, drawing a dagger and leaping up towards the Dread warriors exposed heart. Just as she did this, the Gnoll mage collapsed, his life force sacrificed to give the Matriarch every second he could, but with his help gone the blade came crashing down on the woman, slicing part of her face and her arm clean off. It gave Nast the time she needed however, as she grabbed one of the warriors horns with one hand and with the other drove the knife into the heart of the beast, over and over again till it collapsed.
Reaching with its hand towards Nast as it stumbled with all of its flesh falling off its body until only the skeleton still remained, with a brief final intensity the fire faded and the minotaur skeleton collapsed on the floor smoking and degrading, only the horns would remain in the end.

Landing on her feet, Nast retrieved the horn and had a few scant moments to look at the slaughtered forms of her people, many of their corpses were left unrecognisable by the Dread warriors wrath. The Gnoll who had let her strike the killing blows lay dead, her hand grasping that of the mage to whom she had crawled to before dying of blood loss. Her name had been Shansera, the general duly recalled. There was no time to mourn the dead however, more Minotaurs were coming, the defender’s firepower having been disrupted by the first few arrival had allowed more to survive their climb, it was time to go.

Nast pressed the horn to her lips, ready to sound the retreat.

---

Down below Kraam’s gate breach had caused greater devastation upon the troops set to receive him. The unfortunate assembly, particularly the crew of a small number of artillery pieces pointed at the entrance, had been showered with projectile speed splinters, Blinding and bloodying many. One thing that had not been damaged was an insane combination of beast magic and machine cooked up by a number of mages that hid behind it’s bulk. Semi affectionately named Toto by it’s creators, the beast that had once been a dog had been grown to propostorose sizes by their magic, and then coated with steel armor and magic infused artificial muscles fused to it’s flesh resulting in a massive tank of a beast. Drawing Theurgia from their dying comrades all around them, the mages supercharged their creation, electricity similar to that fired from the Union’s lightning cannons arched across it’s body, in particular between the 4 rods on its back and two large mana batteries on it’s shoulders. The creature gave a metallic tinged howl as it was let slip by it’s masters, bounding towards Kraam, crashing into the Minotaur’s storming through the gate, the blows of its armored front paws resulting in thunderous retorts as it delivered deadly shocks to any that tried to strike it.

As the beast bounded over much of the indwelling forces, heading straight for the biggest and most obvious target as it had been taught, the union soldiers, bleeding from the splinters, rushed in on the disrupted intruders, forming a pike and spear wall across the main street that D’ave had so recently road up to reach the Keep beyond. In the buildings on either side shutters were thrown open on second story windows as soldiers and civilians rained down arrows, pistol shots and throw objects at the oncoming Minotaurs. The bloodthirsty horde crashed into the haphazard mob of defenders, enchanted armor shrugged off projectiles as weapons obliterating Unionists in showers of gore. At the same time the mass produced weapons of the Militia forces jabbed, and stabbed, causing death by a thousand cuts.

Behind the crude phalanx the mages who had made ToTo channeled yet more magic each forming their own favored spells to assist their martial comrades. A barrage of fireballs, chunks of ice, balls of acid, jars of venomous spiders and other projectiles were lobbed over the heads of the spear Militia, crashing down upon the Minotaurs not yet in direct combat with the Union forces causing chaotic destruction among their ranks.

Kraam noticed something new there, a massive canine beast of metal. He barely had time to think about it before it leapt at him slamming minotaurs aside like minotaurs fling goblins with their stampede.
Grabbing hold of where its jaws would be, being constantly shocked by electrical fury, Kraam was pushed back several yards before he hefted its weight and flung the beast over him using its momentum.
Toto rolled once but quickly got back to his feet as he renewed his onslaught, slamming his paws down trying to smash Kraam as he dodged, deflected and shrugged off the attacks.
Then he saw an opening, Toto slammed his right paw hard into the ground as Kraam made a powerful upward strike which cut a massive gash in the canines right shoulder, unleashing the purple lightning that was stored in the axe inside the flesh which twitched and began smoking.

For a moment Kraam thought he had slain the beast before it shook it off violently before making an attempt at a howl, a hellish sound of metal, lightning and anguish, followed by renewing its assault.

ToTo hammered the god-eater with his still working fist, sending him skidding backwards as he blocked the thundershock, before following up his hit with another charge, dragging his damaged limb behind him. Midway through this the metal beast jumped into the air, curling up into a ball and rolling like a wrecking ball of lighting towards Kraam. The Bloodied master sidestepped this attack with ease, causing it to crash into the warriors assembling behind him, the lot of them collapsing into a tangled mess of oversized canine and bullmen. ToTo pulled itself from the mess, preparing to strike again, but the Bloodied had learned from the mistakes of the others and instead of getting close to the beast threw axes, hammers and spears at the beast, each impact doing superficial damage until one lucky throw hit one of the Mana batteries on ToTo’s shoulder, the same shoulder that was attached to his already damaged arm. The resulting detonation said of blast of lightning and raw magic into the minotaur's, killing several, but left ToTo with only three functioning limbs.

Now the vanguard arrived with its steadily advancing shield wall, Kraam was hefting his axe in preparation for Toto's charge some in the vanguard with special lightning protection shields ran up and began to suck up the electrical assault, followed by a large and impressive minotaur that bulldozed into the monster and toppled it from the side.
Its more vurnerable belly exposed and with the majority of the electrical discharges taken care of, the vanguard stormed in and began hacking Toto to death with enchanted swords and axes.
One finished Toto off with a massive shield slam to his head. The bull who had toppled Toto ripped open its chestplate and then ripped out the still pulsing heart of the beast, held it aloft and squeezed it and drank its blood. Theurgia appearing on his form.
Followed by a massive roar by everyone present apart from Kraam, who noted.
-"You stealing my kills? I might not bring you along next time if that's how you gonna do it."
Followed by a moment of silence and then a laugh. He didn't mean it, but for a moment they doubted him.
Leading the vanguard, Kraam now marched into the open gates.

At that moment Nast’s horn is sounded, a long loud call that is picked up by others around the fortress. The call for retreat has come. Those that can break of combat and flee, scurrying down from the wall on ladders, rickety stairways and ropes and those that can vanish into the unruly and cramped mess that is the Union’s infrastructure within the castle walls. Most however run and scamper up the few main roads up towards the keep, past hastily built traps and gateways that are sprung or closed in their passing to stall the faster Bloodied forces. What these traps was and how effective they where was varied, each trap hastily built by the local noncombatants with whatever they had on hand. Barrels of tar and oil were tipped over, bear traps were scattered and horses and oxen were driven down the roads behind the survivors as they ran for safety. In other places carts where hastily shoved out of alleyways into the road, their axles shattered with lumber axes once they where in possitoin.

When the horn came for the spear wall of the gate, they had actually gained a wee bit of ground before the mages ran out of magic, the front rows of spear militia standing atop the bodies of fallen minotaurs and unionists to get a better chance at stabbing their enemies heads. But with the horde already upon them, they couldn't simply break off and run without being overrun, so they carefully, methodically, gave ground, the entire formation retreating as one.

Being the last section to retreat, the union spear wall was hounded relentlessly by the bloodied, while an all out rout would have been catastrophic the slow rout was a painfully slow journey with many casualties. Several times a javelineer, dread warrior or a regular bloodied launched themselves from above into the formation to disrupt it, killing many before being put down with great effort.
The spear wall was also beginning to lose heart since Kraam and the vanguard was marching steadily towards them, with more speed than they backed off.

From in front the keep above, where it sat atop a rocky crag at the end of the old main road through the fortress, Nast watched the beleaguered spearmen with resignation. Down to her left was a newer road built by the Union that lead to the true heart of the fortress: the recently excavated entrance to the dwarf hold beneath their feet. It must once have been a resplendent gateway, the figures of noble dwarfs and terrifying dragons could be barely seen in engraved around it, but time and weather had first eroded and then buried the entryway. The hold had only been discovered because the Keep’s builders dug into it while making the fort’s dungeons and the Union, after they captured the fortress, had subsequently dug out from the inside of the hold to free up the true entrance. Now the Union masses crowded around the entrance, their passage down into the hold painfully slow as, other than the basement entrance in the Keep and a few claustrophobic crawl tunnels, the gate was the only way down. This made the hold supremely defensible, but painfully slow to move troops into. The traps, barricades and spear wall were all that was keeping the slow moving ground from being pinned and slaughtered against the cliff face.

She had hoped, prayed, that the task of holding the main road would not be a suicide mission, but as Kraam, that damnable bastard, approached, she knew for sure those brave Justinians they were doomed. If she, if anyone, survived this, their sacrifice would not be forgotten. Songs would be sung of their heroic last stand. For now though, she had to make their, and everyone else's, sacrifices worth it. She nervously tapped her hand against the horn at her hip, unconsciously ensuring it was still there, ready to give the next signal.

Kraam who kept a faster pace than his vanguard had almost reached the spear line when a trio of brave unionists charged him and tried to impale him upon their spears, attempting to buy time for their comrades and giving themselves to the will of justinian.
Kraam however was sorely impressed with the meek mortals whom hadn't even managed to scratch his armour, the spears stuck in joints and mail.
With a lazy motion he used his axe to break the spears, with his left hand he picked up a goblin, bit open its torso and took his heart in his mouth and then tossed the corspe away.
The bloodied lord held the still beating heart in his hand as its blood drenched his mouth.
-"I will drink your blood, i will use this sacrifice to become stronger." Kraam boomed out so it echoed over the formations, he then bit the heart and swallowed it all.
-"And there is NOTHING, you can do about it." He followed up while pointing his axe towards the closest kobold, who panicked.
With that Kraam let out a shilling roar which cast down the soldiers closest to him, a good dozen or two were thrown to the ground.

Picking up a rodant warrior, Kraam flung the poor sod horizontally into the formation with such force it had the same effect as a heavy cannon ball.
He stomped on another soldier with such might the ground heaved, then he charged forth swinging his axe, emitting a purplish field of energy which made it difficult to even be close to the red god without the eyes, mouth and orifices bleeding profusely.
Each blow killing several soldiers, bodies were flung, crushed and fried with the electrical power and molten core of Kraam's axe.
The spear formation was being quickly decimated, it didn't help that dozens of bloodied warriors joined the fray with a roar, not to be outdone by anyone else, and to prove they were strong enough to join the vanguard.

Nast was briefly stunned by the shear carnage layed upon the spear wall by the Bloodied’s leader and by the time she raised the trumpet to her mouth all of the defenders of the main road where dead. 3 long, mournful tones blasted out from the instrument, muffled somewhat by the still ongoing rain of blood. The silence that followed loomed large as she held her breath. Then one of the warehouses exploded. Then another, and another as martyrs of justinian crept out of hiddy holes, barrels and rafters in the various gunpowders stores scattered throughout the fortress and lit the dark powder alight. Blinding light and a deafening cacophony engulfed the Bloodied warriors who had pursued the defenders only to get bogged down in the traps and barricades thrown up behind them. The entire defense of the wall had been bait from the start, as Nast and her advisers had predicted that the minotaurs were clever enough to see an empty fortress as a trap, and they had decided this was the most effective use of the garrison and supplies that would buy the survivors the most time in the depths as they awaited relief.

The blast, they hoped, would take out enough of the minotaurs leadership and vanguard to stall their siege of the dwarf hold and now burning wreckage of the warehouses and barracks in the lower parts of the fortress would make setting up that siege a logistical nightmare. There was one possibility they had not considered however, and as Nast looked upon the ruination of her fortress her eyes went wide and her heart sank at the sight of that miscalculation. She turned and in an undignified scamper, made her way inside the keep as fast as her four limbs could carry her, shouting at the bureaucrats ferrying paperwork, maps and the treasury down into the depths.

“Drop everything! Get inside now!”

The blasts were impressive, scores, dozens.... probably even hundreds of bloodied had been caught in the titanic blasts. What Nast however had noticed and what made her heart sink so much was the fact that the one she had hoped to take out with the trap was very much alive.
Kraam was annoyed, such an obvious trap and he stepped right into it. As he pondered he got annoyed with the dead minotaur laying on top of him, which he promptly tossed away.

He observed the losses his forces had suffered. Loads of regular warriors, many from the vanguard, a bunch of javilineers.
Overall he was pleased, his forces had taken the ambush better than he thought. In truth several thousands of bloodied had fallen, but in the grand picture this was expected.

For the moment though, his forces were in disarray, almost the entire vanguard was knocked down, basically everyone of the regular warriors who had entered the fort were dead. Had the union in some way been able to have troops immune to explosives they would wreak havoc if they charged in right now.
Luckily, no such troops existed.
Kraam strolled forward, began to trot, followed by a straight up charge.
The union forces were beginning to panic as they saw the enraged red god gaining on their position with frightening speed.
He ran with his hands stretched out, channeling power into his axe, around his axe... just in general really, the purplish haze was changed for embers and traces of fire, small pebbles and a few cobblestones from the road began to hover strangely with a sort of inner vibration next to the bloodied god as he passed, some followed, some just fell down again.
The air distorted and Kraam's form became more blurried, his roar not only in materia, but on other planes of existance as well.

Within the mouth of the carved entrance to the dwarf hold, standing effortlessly on the walls and ceiling above the fleeing crowds stood 5 Chiropian mage. Clad in brown dirty robes, their eyes, pointed ears and nose covered in masks of obsidian that seemed fused seamlessly to their flesh. Carved into the black stone and highlighted by white pigment was the eye of justinian held within the Dwarven rune for earth. They stood on the surface of the horizontally ovaloid tunnel with their feet melded to the stone in the same way the masks were to their faces. Though they could not see him approach the mages knew, from the screams of the now stampeding warriors below and the heavy thumps of his hooffalls vibrating through the earth itself, perverting it to his will, that death approached all who remained on the surface. Those who had failed to get inside must be abandoned lest all share their fate. Bending to the surfaces of the walls the mages placed their hands to the stone and slowly began to walk backwards into the earth. As they walked the stone they had touched grew upwards, five cones of rock growing towards the center of the tunnel like a closing maw. Screams, shouts and pleas came from those that could not enter for them to stop, but the mages continued their task wordlessly as the tunnel was sealed, the five fangs of rock crashing together to form a seal.

Hundreds of Unionists were left behind, Kraam tearing into their rear and pinning them against the cliff face. Those remaining despaired, panicked or fought futilely as they were butchered by the Red God, till a goblin priest clambered atop the shoulders of one of his flock, brandishing a curved knife and screamed at Kraam “I give my life for Justinian so you may not have it” before slitting his own throat, the tattoos marring his face and body glowing white for a brief moment as the goblin sacrificed himself. Other quickly followed his example, preferring to die at their own hands rather than from Kramm’s unholy blade, shooting themselves, slitting their own throats or falling on their swords. In the end about a third of those left at Kraam’s mercy managed to die at their own hands rather than his. The base of the cliff was stained red with blood and it’s face painted with gore from those who fell to Kraam’s titanic blows.

The reason he managed to take so many was partly that as he saw his foes beginning to sacrifice themselves to justinian, he countered with using the red fists of Zul, with the power to trap the souls of those they were used upon.
It was a frantic struggle for some to try and sacrifice themselves for justinian before Kraam could point the palm of one of the monstrous artifacts and suck the soul and lifeforce out of the victim leaving a dried husk behind.

Behind the slaughter the Mages used the last of their strength to finish sealing 30 M of the tunnel, it’s entrance now indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. Their task done they were left suspended from the tunnel's ceiling, the stone having grown out from their mask, up their hands and feet till it had left them statues kneeling before their seal, and before Kraam’s power. Above, the last of those who had chosen to enter the hold via the keep’s dungeon succeeded in fleeing below, and the secondary entrance was sealed in a far less magic manner, a series of gunpowder explosions collapsing the various floors on top of the smaller tunnel.

As Kraam saw the result of the magic closure of the path, he roared in hatred and swung his axe upon the cliff wall, the fortress below shuddered and shook from the blows and families and soldiers alike hid in the corners and hallz below, with dirt raining from the ceilings, engineers forced to add supports to some area or risk collapses.
Luckily the might of the fortress was stronger than Kraam's patience and as such not even a single passage the defenders did not raze themselves collapsed.

Turning to his horde, the red god raised his axe and the response was a mighty cry of victory. So fierce was it that even below ground did the unionists hear the terrifying bloodied horde.
-"Now seize all the food, and cook the dead. MEAT IS ON THE MENU AGAIN!!!!" Kraam boomed out and the response was a massive exhilerated roar and a mass looting spree.
Every corpse from after the battle, all the supplies left above ground, the fields and the granaries were stripped of anything edible and taken.

While the beasts above feasted upon their fallen comrades the survivors cowered in the dark labyrinth of the Dwarf hold, terrified that at any moment Kraam would simply split the mountain in half with his axe and they would all be slaughtered. It was only hour later, once some brave rogues had survived creeping back to the surface via crawl tunnels to report on the enemy's activities that the garrison could come crashing down from the adrenaline high that had kept them alive during the battle. Nast and her remaining advisor knew there was nothing that could be done with the hungry and exhausted soldiers and so, barring a rotating watch of the two entrances, most of them were left to their own device in order to recuperate.

The Unionists settled into the Dwarven tomb as well as they could, where they slept huddled together for warmth or ate cold, month old salted meat or stale bread for dinner. Priests walked tirelessly among the masses, aiming to heal both the body, mind's and spirit’s of Justinian's servants with words, herbs and any Theurgia that could be spared. For her part Nast tried to sleep, but her dreams were plagued by Kraam, the decaying Dread warrior and blood. So much blood. It was a dismal night for the defeated, for they were convinced that come dawn above, hell would descend from the surface to slaughter them all in the dark.

The Ferreumin Empire and Concilio Union
Colab with @DracoLunaris

The council of 13 was in an emergency session. The benches around the council’s roundtable where crammed with scribes, bureaucrats, military advisors and general onlookers as the 4 present members of the Union’s ruling body attempted to organize a response to the massive attack on the fortress of Norsal by the resurgent northern Minotaur hoards. Present in the meeting where, once again, the three members resident to the Capital city itself: the shaman Rorshash, the Mayor Trin and the Minor races representative Reston. Joining them was the leader of Roc-port’s merchants Krawskana Kensu. She was dressed in Sacrosanctian style finery: a dark robe with golden trim that featured several instance of the Justinian eye, as buttons, embroidered emblems and jewelry. She had arrived along with the information on the situation in the north, having wanted to personally bring the report to Gwendolin Sliverton, who to the Corvant's great disappointment was not to be found leading the meeting.

With their de facto leader inspecting the southern fortress of Barby, and the council sporting an even number of members, the meeting was not going smoothly. Of the many issues currently being argued over, the debate on whether to moving troops from the capital and south garrisons was advisable, or whether the north should be left to protect itself was centerpoint. Rorshash preached for the mobilisation of all available forces to crush the heathens, Krawskana wanted relief forces to save the planned summer campaign's supplies that were trapped in the fortress. Trin and Reston where both opposed to this, as moving troops north might leave the south, or worse, the capital itself, vulnerable to attack by their many other enemies.

It was into this room that Monte Dominus Messor entered, interrupting an impassioned speech by the mayor on not risking the safety of the rest of the Justinian frontier to reinforce the north, which surely, he had just implored, would though faith and firepower be more than a match for the malnourished horde of Godless beasts coming at them from the desolate northern wastes.

---

The travel to the Zatherop City went smoothly as Messor could arrive quicker than he would expected. Having arrived late at night to the union capital the Monte Dominus rested before he headed to council round table. As the next day dawn Messor ready himself for the upcoming meeting. Donning the armor of the mountain lord and gathering his honor guard headed towards of Titan's fingers.
The travel to the Titan's fingers lead the Ferreumin contingence through the heart of Zatherop. As they group past through the busy streets the crowds parted before the giants. The sight of them caused many of local resident to stare in awe of the massive armored warriors. Swiftly arriving at the millipede to take them to the top of the stone spire. After the ride of the top of the spire. Striding into the fortress he was stopped by the guards just outside of the entrance to the lower meeting chamber.
“Please excuse us Monte Dominus Messor but the council of thirteen is in the middle of emergency meeting and have to request you to wait outside.” the guard said giving a quick bow to the Monte Dominus.
” And what cause this meeting?” messor asked glaring at the guard who stopped them.
“There was invasion in the north by the minitours,” the unfortunate guard replied to the large ruler.
Messor proceed passed the guard and swiftly strode past him ignoring his cries for him to stop. Bursting through the door into the chamber the entire room fell silent. ” Those savage minitours attack and you here arguing it is time for action.” He said striding into the chamber. ” You strike now. Failure to do so will only embolden them.”

The 4 council members were breifly stunned into silence by the arrival of the titanic armored Northman who entered through the lower entrance to the chamber that was reserve specificly for the council members. After a brief moment of them all waiting for the absentee Gwendolin to respond to Messor’s arrival, three out of four of them started to talk at once.

The recently appointed Trin, angry at his speech being interrupted and unfamiliar with Messor began with “Who. The. Fu” before one of his aides managed to stop him causing a diplomatic incident with urgent whispering.

Rorshash, completely in agreement with Messor’s declaration uttered “The man's right! we’re wasting time here.”

It was Reston however, who dominated the response, partially because of having the highest lung capacity but also because he was the only one who had known Messor was in the city. “Welcome, Lord of the Mountain, my apologies for our lack of preparation for your arrival, the report to the invasion only just arrived and required our imediate attention.”

The two globin were briefly chided from additional speech by their failure to recognise the leader of their nations powerful neighbor, a failure brought on by youthful arrogance and an aged memory respectively and it was into this vacuum that Krawskana interjected. While she too wanted additional forces mobilized as someone who often dealt with foreign powers as part of her merchant profession she leaped to the defence of the Union’s response to the crisis.

“While we debate additional responses here our fellow council members D‘ave“ who had no military experience “and Dref Met-Zog“ the leader of the most prominent of the northern nomadic tribes that she hoped the messenger she had sent out had found by now “are already on their way to norsal with forces rallied from the north, including the encamped invasion forces”

“What we were discussing was whether to send troops from the center or south to support them. We are the Justinain frontier after all and as such our force distribution is a careful balancing act, overcommitment in one area leaves weakness in another that our enemies might attempt to exploit”

Even moving the forces in the north was a dangerous proposition, forces taken from the fortress of Enrith and walled city of Insmaw left the border with the Principality of Evernyx perilously vulnerable.

Taking a few moments Messor surveyed the current council to determine who was currently there. The downside in with his dealing with the union is that unless it that elf they council can change every time he is there. The mountain lord listens carefully to the response of those present. He ignored Trin near outburst instead focuses on the other two members.
He had the support Rorshashin as he echoed the same sentiment that only left Krawskana to convince of his plan. ”There would be no need to weaken your borders with Evernyx. I can quickly raise an army and march them to the north. To meet your north forces. Our combine force would be enough to drive back the beast.” The mountain lord proposed striding around the council chamber. Swiftly rounding the table with each stride. ”But this is only a temporary solution to the problem as when we crush them. Another group will invade then another so on and so on. Bleeding you out slowly. Decisive action must be taken to crush the minitours once and for all.” The Monte Dominus concluded eyeing the rest of the council.

“We would be honored to accept your aid” Reston began before his colleagues butted in.

“But getting your guys together will take time. Time Norsal doesn’t have“ Mayor Trin was firmly on the resentment side of things

Krawskana meanwhile rummaged around the various document on the table till she found the copied list of deployment orders they had received an hour after she arrived, detailing the force mobilization put in place by D’ave and the northern generals. While she wanted the help, the data supported Trin’s opinion

“our own troops should be reaching the fortress in 3 days, and even with Councilmember Nast‘s plans to use the dwarven hold below the fortress to resist the siege as long as possible, 3 days is already cutting it.“

The younger pair of the council were however too focused on the issue of the meeting they had been ahving and had failed to register the entirety of Messor’s words. Their elders however, had been paying more attention.

“Ah, I see what you came here to suggest. To redirect the planed summer's campain northwards” Why else was he so prepared to send out troops, seemingly on a whim, if he hadn't already come her with somthing like that in mind. The elf was so pleased with his deduction, he failed to consider the ramifications of saying it out loud.

“To crush those hooved wretches before the glorious might of Justinian! I always said we failed to take full advantage of whatever broke Zul’s control on the region” Rorshash’s zeal was reflected by most of those in the room and there was a chorus of agreement from the stands. The desire for vengeance for this attack was already strong.

As much has Messor hated to admit Krawskana had a point. It would take too long to marshal an army then to march north to fight the horde of minitours. While Rorshash zeal is usefully to help rally support from other members of the union it also tended to put off the more even headed member. And the elf had figured the purpose of the Messor travel there but that he can work with. ”Of course those beast have long been a thorn in our side.” Messor replied to the elf giving him a glare. The northman paused for a moment to compose an idea.
“If it would take too much time for me to form an army to aid Norsal. Instead Ferreuimin can mobilized force to protect the area that the union mobilized troops from.” Messor proposed stroking his chin.

There was more muttering. Working alongside the giants was one thing, leaving the safety of the land in their hands was quite the other. It felt demeaning, as if they could not be trusted to protect themselves, let alone Justinian’s holy lands. Even as the stands, and Trin, stewed with this, the other three could see the advantage of this.

“A most generous offer, if you'll give us a moment to work out where to...”

“Here obviously. Like I’ve been saying from the beginning!” The aged goblin carefully lowered himself from his seat around the table and hobbled towards the exit, his ceremonial staff clacking against the stone floor. “Vestrid! Ready that Griphon of yours for take off. I need to address the people and ready the troops!” From behind where the Shaman had been sitting a goblin wearing a pair of goggles, light armor and a Yawanist helm covered in scratchings of Justinian symbols sprung to his feet, saluting. After releasing Rorshash wasn’t even looking at him, the goblin air cavalryman rushed up the stairs and out the door to do as his spiritual liege had instructed.

“But. There isn’t housing for that kind of people available and what if we are attacked between our forces leaving and the Ferreumin empire’s arriving“

“We can build some in the before they arrive, I’ve experienced in making such facilities for those westerner's waiting to join the summer campaign, and unless there's an army already on the way then the transfer will happen faster than our foes can react. There aren't any armies incoming, right?“

“I” Reston began, and then hastily corrected himself “We’d know if there was. We have eyes everywhere in the jungles and mountains”

“True, there are none eye’s sharper or noses keener than ours. Fine then. In that case, for how long will we be left vulnerable, Lord of the Mountain, and how many of your people should we be expecting?“ At this point the same aid that had stopped him making a scene had filed Trin in on who exactly their guest was and how to address them correctly.

Rorshash stopped on the far side of the table near the door, interested in the answer so he could gauge how much they would be able to send out from the capital.

This offer was going over far better that Messor original thought it would. He expected it would be flat out refused by the council. But now they are seriously discussing it.
”I should be able to muster about 6,500 warriors to send within two weeks and easily raised more from the vassal states within a month. In addition to the 500 that already here spread across numerus of the raid camps.” Messor offered to the council.
“As for housing, them they can be temperedly station in the raid camps in till proper housing can be built. As for Evernyx I have instructed Manus Varro to oversee an increase in over the border raids into their territory. Which would put them on the defensive for now.” The Monte Dominus replied to the concurs of the council.

There were three reasons as to why they were being so cooperative, firstly there was the fact that they didn’t want to sour relations with the empire by wasting Messor’s time bickering over proposals and that meant that any one idea that gained momentum generally dragged the others along with it. In this case it was Rorshash’s desire for mobilisation. Secondly the union was rather used to working with foreign powers and felt that their position as the frontline of the Justinain crusades made them immune to realpolitik manipulation. Finally there was the fact that none of them wanted to be the one to explain why they had turned down the offered assistance from their fellow Justinian's to Gwendolin Sliverton, head of the Oratorium and the unspoken head of the council.

“6,500 eh? Hmm. then the capital can spare 35,000 of our own”

“preposterous! That's practically the entire garrison. 6,500 for 6,500 makes much more sense.“

In response to Messor’s troop figures there was a brief round of discussion that looked an awful lot like haggling, a discussion that would have gone on for far longer if Messor hadn’t been present. After a couple of rounds of counter offers and concessions the agrredd composition of the relief army was: 18,000 regular troops, whatever militia Rorshash could rally in a day which would almost certainly outnumber that troop count, the inclusion of a Corvant necromancer that Reston and Trin both wanted out of the city and who Rorshash would begrudgingly take on as part of his staff and the exclusion of artillery and giant monsters from the force due technically to speed concerns but mostly because Trin refused to let those vital arts of the city defences go.

These numbers reached, Rorshash left to give a speech and various subordinates and generals were sent out to actually organise the army for him. This left the remaining 3 of the 13 to discuss future joint operations with Massor

“So, about your suggestion that we solve the problem of our northern enemies. What exactly are you proposing”

The northman patiently waited for the council as they debated about what force they would send up north. Messor made a mental note to raised additional forces when he returns to Ferreumin. As well as move the Ferro legion to support Manus Varro in protecting the Union.
The Monte Dominus shifted his focused back to the council now that they are done with their debates. ”What I propose is that the summer campaign should be sent north to finally destroy those minotaur’s. A combine Ferreumin union army would march north laying waste to all that stands in there way,” Messor said as he began his speech.
”For years as you know they have been nothing but a nuisance from the beginning. Clearing them out would be advantageous for us in the long run. First it would give us access to the eastern sea. From which we could launch raids and invasions into the heathen countries. The defeat of the minitours we can put more pressure on Evernyx from the north. Giving us an upper hand in the conflict.” The Northman paused for a second to see how many of the council was paying attention. ” With this we would strike a great blow against the heathens of the world in the name Justinian!” Messor proclaim finishing off his speech.

The speech was received well by the spectators, who were always fans of good oration and the desire for revenge was still at the forefront in their minds. Amidst the cheering and applause the 3 council members took advantage of the noise cover to discuss among themselves Messor’s plan. By the time the spectators had calmed down they had formed a cohesive response and some suggested specifics for the northward invasion.

”Those of the council gathered here today believe that, with someone or thing having rallied the Minotaurs together, the former strategy of slow expansion into their territory is no longer tenable.”

”The previous plan to breach the easter ocean required equipment and supplies that have almost certainly been damaged or destroyed in the siege. That plan will probably have to be put on hold as it won't be able to be reliably supplied, particular with the threat of minotaurs raiding our supply lines. If we instead spend this year campaigning on the west side of the northern land bridge we can resupply the assembled troops from ocean vessels, something the Minotaurs have shown no capability to harass. All this makes invading the north a safer and saner course of action than bullheadedly trying to go east regardless of the situation.”

“So I say we fight our way up the west coast, where our navy boys can help trounce any minotaur attacks with their cannons. Then we take the dead red god’s seat of power; Zul'Goroth for our own. Once we got it, we use the city as a staging ground for sweeping east and clearing out the minotaurs once and for all!

Masson’s case was helped along by the fact that the proponents of the eastward push where not present, those being Randeirsa Nast and D’ave (or more specifically his master's down in mother’s rest). Also, when it comes down to it, when a 14 foot tall juggernaut proposes something, it is very hard to disagree with him, particularly if you are a 3 foot tall goblin.

”In order to officially agree to this course of action we will have to wait for a proper council meeting, which will happen once the current crisis has past. Based on the circumstances however, I believe that, with Justinian’s blessing, said meeting will also come out in favor of invading the north.”

Messor basked in the applause and cheers of the crowed around him. Unknowingly ignoring the member of the council as they discussed his plan. As the applauses subsided the councilmember their specific ideas and such about the plans.

The Monte Dominus listen closely to their suggestions finding little flaw with their ideas. ”Very well then I’ll shall take my leave to see to delivering the promised forces to you. I shall await word on how the meeting transpire.” Messor quickly turned on his heels, striding out of chamber. ”Once we have arrived back in Ferreumin start railing more warriors there will need them in the coming months,” The northman order to his aids as they left.

The remaining council members, pleased with how they had handled the Diplomatic meeting despite the state of emergency, quickly ended the current sesion and went of to make preperations for the relife forces departure. A scant few hourse later Rorshash's hastily formed army marched out of the city, heading north.

Silence lay upon the ageless stone. It coiled like miasmatic vapours rising from ancient, corrupt seas deep beneath the earth, seeping into every crack, every hollow that might once have been a door. The shapeless grey mounds, eaten away by voracious aeons, breathed in the stillness, and exhaled shadows of creeping menace. Among them it flowed, sharpening the quiescent teeth of the chamber, whose alabaster facets glimmered peacefully, yet warily in the twilight penumbra cast by the monstrous growths on the walls of live rock. Corrosive hunger and lust to consume dripped from the bulbous filaments of the parasitic abnormities as iridescent blood from a gaping mouth. Pools of thirst slithered between the skeletal pillars that plunged down to tremendous depths, and rested on the jagged, vaulted ceiling overhead. Murky eyes idly followed them from the crevices between mangled ribs, never blinking, never moving, even as they slowly sunk into the darkness below. Somewhere, mandibles scraped noiselessly over the foetid air.

The closer the strands of silence crept to the center of the vault, the more shapes drifted through them in inaudible motion. Amorphous carcasses of what might have been buildings were replaced by angular figures hewn from stone with claw and ichor, first stunted and incomplete, then greater and more imposing, until they towered over the abysses alongside the pillars. What they were, none could have said save the dead voices of those who first had built them. There were mounds akin to crouching wyverns, protrusions rising from their body like petrified mockeries of horns and folded wings. Others were high, slender blocks, crowned with pyramidal adornments and flanked by sharp flames. Others yet were great spires gripped in the coils of vortices of stone and whispers, rivulets of distorted life coursing along them, merging into thundering cascades of venom. Greater yet were ghosts of pillared temples of cults that were now less than dust. They snarled with their cryptic recesses, clamouring for the rivers of souls that had once sated their ravenous masters, and the world shrank from around them, as though it could perceive their dread intent.

At the very core of the city that had risen from death stood the colossal ziggurat of the Old Ones. It was as dark as all things of spirit and matter around it, seemingly woven from shadows given substance rather than reared from stone. Dim luminescence pulsed from gaps that cut its ephemeral walls like eyes, now and then coalescing into grasping shapeless limbs which flailed blindly through the void before dissipating into numberless screaming shards. Gnawing spectres of wraith-fire threshed through the corridors that pierced it like the nest of all things foul that it was, echoing chants of gibbering obeisance to the terror that lurked beneath the earth rumbling with a strength that shook stone. Over its walls, upon its roof, at the foot of its walls gathered monstrosities innumerable, raising their gnarled limbs in unholy supplication and intoning, in preternatural unison, the decayed words of rites that emerged after millennia from abyssal oblivion. Their forms were as diverse as they were many, some bearing their Riglir heritage manifest in their claws and carapaces, others donning distorted guises, viscous, proboscidal, or writhing with tentacles, that could only be born of the direst madness of the cosmos.

The only part of the tremendous unreal building that was not acrawl with the hideous throng was the ample staircase leading from the lower ground to its uppermost altar. It seemed to curve in strange manners if observed from most angles, yet rose straight when one trod upon it. There were no braziers flanking it, nor did any strange lichen or wisp of the deep cast its steady light over it, for those who walked that sheer path abhorred all that was not dark. Nor was it in any way adorned for what was to occur upon it. The mere vastness of its proportions and the distortion of its shape were sufficient decoration.

At the upper end of the ascending path there stood a great figure of shadow and chitinous bone, which almost rose to the size of the imposing eidolon in the shrine behind it. It was broad and heavy in its onyx armour, to the point that even the mismatched, yet powerful limbs it stood upon seemed to struggle to support its bulk. Designs of purple spirals, burning eyes and snapping mouths flowed over its body, glaring and snapping as they rearranged themselves in an endless hypnotic dance. A faint halo of luminescence whose colours could not be named danced around its double heads, and its mandibles breathed out pestilential fumes. Five of its claw-tipped arms were lifted up in a gesture of invocation.

Lower down, at the mid-point of the staircase, another behemoth monstrosity faced the dim-shrouded hierophant. Not so much a Riglir as an amorphous mass of undulating, shifting flesh and venomous blood, it loomed as though itself were some ancestral idol carven out of the same necromantic stone as the temple. Legs moulded themselves out of its churning mass as it shifted from side to side, only to dissolve once more when their momentary purpose was done. It had no head or mouth to chant with, but its limbs rose and fell in waves crested with breathing armour in cadenced motions. Loathsome vermin crept over and around the shapeless colossus, their own chittering and screeching weaving themselves into a rhythm matching the movements of their master.

The being at the top of the stairs let out a rumbling howl that echoed through invisible galleries around it, growing and ebbing as it resonated, and the swarms fell still before they had heard it. In silence, it began to sweep and snap its arms in a pattern of growing speed and complexity, tracing circles and many-angled forms until the dripping spikes were less than a blur. As the creature’s arms continued to spin, the rest of its body remaining perfectly still all the while, voices of ages past radiated from the symbols it drew. Songs and laments in hissing, guttural tongues lost to time; the roars of dying gods of a forgotten cycle, then another, then a thousand more; the dull blows of great cities and fortresses crumbling to the ground; the beating of drums, the clash of steel and the cries of war; the creaking of trees struck down by iron and flame. Death sang its discordant song, and reigned supreme through the aeons.

In response, the writhing bulk below intoned the hymn of life. Worms flourished from purulent sores that burst out over its skin in an instant; vile winged beings flew out of gaping pits that opened in its armour, to swoop down upon tides of great spiders, slashing and piercing with their stingers and being in turn dragged down and crushed by ravenous mandibles. Maggots slithered among all, gorging themselves on the carrion and filth. Each of them clung to its few instants of being with a hunger and ferocity that dwarfed the most ardent passions of gods and mortals; each fought with strength of desperation no cause can inspire. They surged up the stairs, to meet the oppression of death that bore down on them. The steps were drowned by their frenzied celebration. Though even the giant that spawned them could not have contained so many, they continued to pour forth, clambering and thrumming and lashing until they met the choir of the time-damned.

”In the glory of That which is below, to break the universal chain and arise in the moment of annihilation, may the aspects of existence become as one.”

Death and life, flesh and mind clashed, tore at each other, spun, intertwined, shattered one another, their blood and ichor mingling and flowing into the pit of night as one river.

”Though there may seem that there are many, there were always two. Though there may seem to be two, there was always one. Our claws crush the spine of time and close the circle. The end with no beginning approaches.”

The gashes and sores on the body of the mountain of life began to swim and hover in precise, yet chaotic paths, tracing the name of what had none in signs that could not have a meaning. Liquid flesh burst in torrents from within the husk of the dark priest, forming itself into faces, limbs, pulsing organs in the same instant as it collapsed.

”We are the One who dwells within. We shall inherit the end.”

A horn blew from the direction of the nearest wall. Nartos did not turn to look. If they were calling, he was too far to be of any use to them. He could, in truth, not have been more than three hundred steps away, but with those things flooding the battlefield every inch of ground gained was a hard-fought victory. No, he and his maniple were far more useful holding back the waves that kept crawling out of that cursed pit. A commander with little experience of the Outremerine way of fighting would have punished such a thought, but the usual tactics did not work here. Flanking was of no use against the creatures, and not even the newest reinforcements needed to have this explained to them twice. Not that there were any in the point positions, anyway.

Like him, none of Nartos’s fellows spared as much as a glance for the call. Those at the forefront gave a push with their locked shields, throwing back the monsters that lunged and clawed at the gaps in the wall. Most of them picked themselves up almost immediately and leapt back into the fray. Their shells might have been cracked, their eyes missing and their arms limp, but they always kept coming as long as they could move at all. Legend had it that they were the unnatural spawn of some ancient god-monster, and they certainly looked the part. Foul things, unworthy of any offer of redemption. If there was something that nobody here lacked, it was the desire to smash as many of the vermin as they could. And, for most, it was the only thing that kept them going, along with unbreakable faith.

The beasts charged again. This time, the shields parted, and mauls came swinging down in the gaps between them. The creatures fell, but just then a fresh wave came bounding over their corpses. Heavy iron spheres rose again, tossing back most of the assailants, but a few managed to dodge the upward arcs and burst among the ranks, tearing and biting savagely. The second line hefted their smaller, lighter maces and rained blows in almost as much of a frenzy. The beasts died.

This was not the first time they had broken through, and it was probably not the last. Nartos could not say with certainty, but this was the longest onslaught he thought he could remember in years. Usually, they did not last more than three or four hours, but now the great affront overhead was coming into sight in the rays of the rising dawn, and still they came. His entire body was one aching sore, blood, both his and not, mixed with nauseating sludge splattered his armour from head to toe, and still they came. The others around him were in no better condition. Worse yet, their numbers had been dwindling. Every time the monsters broke through the shield wall, a few warriors were left lying in puddles of gore and dirt at their feet. And, as they tired, ranks split more and more often, while the enemy always came with new forces.

A cry of “Breaker!” made him raise his head, fighting the leaden veil of fatigue. Sure enough, a horrendous towering shape was approaching among more of the thrall masses. Without even the strength for a quick invocation to Justinian to spare, he hoisted his warhammer and waited for the abomination to draw closer. Only a few more steps… Two, one…

Now.

The first line split open, moving to meet the charging swarm head-on. With sideways blows, they tossed a few of the creatures away, clearing an opening for a few precious moments. That was all he needed.

Nartos and four others, all that remained of the hammer-wielders, sprang forward, carried mostly by the weight of their weapons. The giant horror lashed out with two of its claws, catching and crushing one and tossing a few of the shieldbearers aside. Before it could reach down with its upper pincers, the others swerved aside and struck.

The thing screeched as one of its legs was snapped by a clean blow and black blood sprayed from where the other blows had landed, but did not relent. As it fell, it brought one of its claws down on the soldier beside him, smashing their head into a gruesome bloom of blood and flattened metal.

With an almost superhuman effort, Nartos swung his hammer again, carving what passed for the monstrosity’s head in.

He remained immobile for a few moments, leaning on the weapon’s haft and breathing heavily, oblivious to all that was around him. It was only when the screams flew past him that he could rouse himself and look up.

More of the beasts were coming, but they were not any he had ever seen before. At first, they looked just like centaurs. But centaurs did not have a skin of living armour, or wriggling worms instead of a face, or scythes instead of hands…

”The fort- Justinian be- They will overrun-” Fragments of words swam in the mire of his thoughts. He tried to raise, if not the hammer, at least a hand against the shadows that were closing in, but they were too fast.

There was a blade, then pain, then darkness.

The heraldry of Kasabi island wade deep into the old land of Ouroborasia, a wartorn scape. Long shadowed vales and dark terrain could be seen in each direction. And with the dusk in the sky, Ouroborasia’s shadow seems only more ominous. Swallowing you in the longer you gaze. Ionut, the guide to this land too warns against the notion of looking at the dark patches within the vales for too long.
‘’For the Witch goddess lives here... Beware Her spell.’’
Though their fleet has taken the river trial that should be far removed from the front, and with little chance of stumbling across Justinian guerilla skirmishers, this does not take away the looming and ever-present sense of dread that perpetuates the Ouroborasian east.

At the bow of the ship stands the heir to the Island Empire, Synogchouta, as he has been informed that soon they are to link up with the Emperor’s Imperial Escort, before entering the waters going directly towards the pier of Xur’vale, the capital city and seat of the Emperor and his eastern government. That very city was once home to the Salt Prince himself when he walked Materia in rebellion against the gods.

‘’Hrm. How much have these lands really changed since Yitizer’s days? It was a bleak, regressive dunghill then, and it is a bleak, regressive cesspit now. O what nuance.’’
Synogchouta mutters to his uncle’s henchman, Bacanoc, who can only raise his shoulders at the very expected pessimism of his superior.

‘’It’s a little bit less of a warzone this year. The fighting is mostly concentrated in pockets to the west, as far I have heard the reports go. Though the fighting that does happen… Well, humanity itself is being lost over there.’’

‘’Ah! Look there! Xur is in sight!’’ Firstmate Tokko exclaims from the helm.

Everyone looks. A city of sharp spires stabbing into the early morning skyline, ominous shadows cast from the great towers across the hill-side city and downward, over the shadowed valley that the river they glide over cuts through.

‘’That is good news! I trust you’ve not developed sea-sickness throughout this long venture, Principe? It is your first time of traveling overwater for days on end, after all.’’ Bacanoc says with a restrained smirk, hoping he did not come across as passive-aggressive, or in any way rubbing him the wrong way. Which he did.
‘’You dare mock me?’’
‘’There there, I was only kidding, Principe.’’

As the Kasabioi ships approached, the early morning mists drifting with them over the river's surface receded… to be replaced by a yet even thicker, more poignant fog, one that clearly should not be. Hailing from lands similarly plagued by Red Pantheonist sorcery, the Uudhinite envoy could quickly tell it was magic, as the ever-so-slightly purple tinge of the fog gives away its theurgic origins. The Witch’s Miasma.

The Witch’s Miasma obscured most of what should be the docks and lower city, leaving the illusion of only a city of spires and high towers poking out from the fog below.

Only when they were dangerously close could the ship’s crew see the docks. Long platforms of wood reaching over the water, vague shapes of other ships idle besides them, bobbing slowly to the flowing river. Despite its obvious danger, it was not the fog that worried the crew, no, it was the ominous shadow of human-shaped figures. Dozens upon dozens of them, all aligned neatly in row, standing side by side on the wooden platform and stoney river-wall.

Even as the ship aligned closely to the platform, the shadowy figures did not moved. They stood almost completely still, only their faintly glowing pupils in their eyes gradually moved with the slowing ship.

When the ship finally stopped, the shadows in complete and unnatural unison stepped forward. The shadows revealed knights in blackened armour and visors covering faces obscured in total darkness - that is besides the glowing pupils. Among the shadows were courtly men and women dressed in finery, their faces and bodies locked into unnatural military attention.

Behind them even, a less organised mob of shadows had stepped forward in unnatural unison. Large men that were previously carrying cargo. Women with fish-seller smogs. Small children that were just before playing by the dockside. They too had their bodies and faces locked into unnatural attention - though their eyes darted about madly in fear and confusion.

The Principe beholds the Ouroborasians that assembled at the pier, and is visibly unsettled by them. Instinctively he withdrew behind Bacanoc’s broad posture. Then under his breath he speaks to him in Edukar, seeing the ancient language as a sanctuary against unwanted ears. ‘’...What is with these masses? Is this normal on the continent?’’
‘’I do not know, sir. I’ve never been in the capital. Nor have I been part of such a regal procession.’’ Even he was disturbed by the ominous atmosphere that has come to embrace them since entering this hallowed domain.

Tokko is less disturbed and continues with the matters of the day. ‘’Ship to port! Prepare to unload! We have reached destination!’’

''Welcome good Prince to-'' The frozen lines of onlookers spoke together, all monotone, speaking as if in trance. Rather than finish their sentence, they suddenly held their tongues, returning to neutral expressionlessness.

Distant voices could be heard, a shrill cry of an old, tired man, followed by a woman's laugh.

''Ah, very good'' The crowd spoke, again in monotone though with strange forced smiles. ''The little Prince is finally here. It is good to finally meet my dear Cassi’s Kasaiboian sailor.''

As the voices fell silent again and their faces returned to expressionless stares, a distant and deliberately slow clap could be heard as a feminine figure walked across the wooden platform to the docked ship. The condescendingly slow clap drew closer and eventually faded as a raven haired woman in a flowing black dress approached the ship, followed slowly by a resigned looking man in finery... and what appeared to be two Uudhinite Ghouls.

The Kasabioi flag ship's gangway is lowered towards the pier of Xur’vale. The Metropolitan’s honour guard with their exotic embroidery draping from beneath their platemail, and long plumed helmets, are first on the pier to ward off the droves of potential rabble. Though, unbeknownst to them none of the townsfolk seem to act out of line as though their minds are dulled to submission. They can only guess what witchcraft is at work. Yet all the same, it seems a ceremonial purpose that they uphold their sentry. They are followed by the Doux, descending from the ship to greet formally the Imperial escort. He is also the most fluent speaker of Ouroborasian amongst them.

‘’Ah. It is good indeed to return to dry land.
I am Doux Litayyan Miamai. Now; who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’’ He looks towards the woman in black, correctly assuming her to be the orchestrator of this sinister welcome. He lifts his flamboyant hat and proceeds to make a deep bow.

Meanwhile Chouta, very hesitant to get off the ship, is caught off guard by the two Ghouls. ‘’Ghouls… What dark curse has been laid on this day. The one thing I thought to be indigenous only to Uudhin. The one thing I had hoped to not stumble upon. Have the Ouroborasians harnessed their loyalty?’’

''You may know me as the Witch, Ceremenei''.
The raven haired woman curtseyed briefly, before standing and bringing an armoured pointer finger to her chin, stroking it slowly. ‘’Which of you fine sailors is the young Synogchouta?’’
The Doux snorts, containing his disdain as he fakes another smile.
‘’The Principe, you mean? Ah, you will see him shortly, my lady.’’ He beckons to one of the plumed guards positioned nigh him. ‘’Find the Principe, will you?’’

Meanwhile Bacanoc smirks again. ‘’It seems this hag is your princess’ mother. Hrm. Good luck, Principe. Be strong.’’ He glances over his shoulder to a shaken Principe.
‘’Must I?’’ He sighs, struggling to regain his composure as he stiffens every muscle and fibre of his body. Sticking forth his chest to appear tall and confident, he marches down the bow and towards the open gangway.
He is a young man in a stuffed embellished cloak and a black tunic, a silver bejewelled ring on each of his fingers, and a regal albeit plain diadem on his forehead. This attire paired with his stiffened sinewy physique is how Synogchouta appears before the Witch, followed closely by Bacanoc to watch his back.
‘’I am here, lady…
I have come to your lands to uphold the bargain made with my uncle, the Metropolitan Baltaogliac of Daveithai, Despot of the isle of Kasabi.’’ The Principe exclaims defiantly to his mother-in-law-to-be, trying his best to hide his fear under a layer of swagger and toughtalk.
‘’So may I presume to-..uh. Presume.. that you are the Princesses’ mother? Of the Witch named Ceremenei, I have otherwise not been briefed.’’

‘’Oh yesss, My dear Cassi I am sure will tell you all about me. I do apologize for interrupting this fine procession, I am sure Illija could have handled it, but I just had to know which sailor you were. I am sure Cassiopeia will be glad to know how strong you are.’’

‘’I am no---..’’

Completely ignoring any attempt by Synogchouta to respond, the witch turned around and without even saying goodbye walked back towards the stone dockside.

‘’Ilija dear, go help the boy’’ The witch said in passing and back turned to Chouta, referring to the tired man in finery who was apparently walking in a strange hunched position. The man quite visibly groaned in response. Without a second thought, the witch snapped her fingers, and suddenly his body was propelled forward, his legs out straight and angled in front of his body, as if pulling the rest of his body forward as his feet slid and scraped across the wood.

As the other ships comprising the Kasabioi fleet enter the harbour, the Kasabioi on the pier, not least the Principe himself, are mute by the alien spectacle they bear witness to. Out of fear of offending the Lady Witch, they can merely watch, and cautiously wait on their turn to make a move to the Palace.
The Doux is the first to speak.
‘’Pardon me -- we have come for an audience with the Emperor. Could you be so kind to show the way through the magnificent city of Xur?’’

The man the witch called Illija, still recovering from having his body hijacked and magically dragged across the platform, cursed lightly between heavy breaths. The Doux was almost certain he heard ‘damn fucking witch’ from the man as he agonisingly stood up straight.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence, and suddenly the wispy mustache and goatee adorned, finery-wearing man took a regal, solemn stance and expression - as if nothing improper had happened at all.

‘’I, Illija Cvijić the Imperial Herald of his Majesty, Emperor Vasilius the First of the noble House of Dragcumir and sole and rightful ruler of the Empire of Ouroborasia, do hereby welcome our most distinguished guests to the sovereign borders of his emperor’s domain.’’ The herald bowed to Synogchouta, who is stunned to silence standing behind Litayyan, who promptly steps out of the way that the crowd of onlookers may observe Princess Cassiopeia’s betrothed. As the herald bowed, so too did the rows of knights and servants. The crowd of fishermen, sailors and other dockworkers did not, now free from the witches whimsical control, instead looking around in confusion yet frozen and silent with fear.

“If the honoured guests would please follow, I will lead the way to the coaches...”
‘’That would be appreciated.’’ The Doux now smiles sincerely, looking towards the Principe reassuringly. ‘’Come now, lord Daveithai. This is only a warm-up to Ouroborasia.’’

The herald once off the platform seemed to become more cautious again, clearly hiding nerves and anxiety. He gestured towards the waiting carriage, painted, gilded carved in royal extravagance. Immediately besides the coach was a purple palanquin, gilded rods and silk covered in occult symbols, only then being lifted by the two ghouls.
The Metropolitan’s retinue and guardsmen follow, marching in ranks 2 wide and 10 deep, carrying ornamental scythes over their shoulders to accompany the carriages. Particularly the first one, which was reserved exclusively for the Principe. The Doux and other prominent Kasabioi from the Metropolitan fleet were escorted towards an array of other carriage coaches close behind, while a number of shipmen and guardsmen walk on foot besides them from both left and right. The procession soon takes off, heading through narrow lantern-lit streets with rows of small houses carved from smooth monolithic stone, flanking steep path and stairways heading up and further up, towards the Imperial residence at the highest point of the City. The spires of the Palace up on high loom far over the city and into the murky skies, lurid...



The throne room, usually filled with light bouncing off the white walls and gilded lining was now dark, save for the slight flickering of unnatural purple light coming from a few torches. The throne sat empty - a grotesque chair with the likeness of monsters, human faces and dragons built into it. Margraf Ostorius Raceanur though knew, the Palace at Xur’value Mare had always been macabre even before the civil war.

Much like himself. Much like everyone in this room and everyone and everything in Ouroborasia too in fact.

He had only just arrived into the throne room and immediately approached the assembled group of men murmuring in the corner of the throne room, the only living beings in this room, the rest of the vast space empty of any audience or crowd. His shadow, that annoying servitor woman finally had disappeared - even that inhuman Turquoise thing would not interrupt this.

As Raceanur stopped walking and stood at attention, the other men’s voices went silent, and they all turned to face him. Some he respected, old soldiers and veterans like himself, weary and weathered down by decades of war with Eudaz, Lamash and now themselves. Some he despised, like that bastard Cosmin, the emperor’s younger brother that was already sneering at him. Others he did not even know why in Ashmedairus were here. That flamboyant Kasabioi admiral for example. By Justinian he annoyed him.

The emperor however, was also present. The man looked older by the day, even though he was only in his fifties, the man looked somehow older than himself. He was also the man Raceanur had sworn allegiance to and served so dutifully for so many years, so he knew even in the presence of these degenerates and madmen, he would be respectful.

He bowed.

“Hail majesty, I have returned from the front bearing word”. He spoke with as strong and clear voice as he could - though it still came out as a dry, and raspy drowl. His old and greasy dark hair obscured his deep wrinkles and scars, his great beard obscured his thin permanently etched frown. All the men knew; even those who despised the old marshal in turn, that this man was the very heart of the Imperial Army of the East.

“Rise, Margraf and speak” The Emperor said.

“Your majesty, it is as the witch said“ Ostorius replied, hesitant to confirm the predictions of that woman. “The Ghouls of Uudhin have made to take the coast of West Ouroborasia. Their advance had been curbed at Iviragne, yet as I speak, they assault the communes in the area east of there.''

“And the result of this, what is your counsel in how this will affect my empire’s west?”

“Your majesty, I am of the opinion that the Ghouls care not for your legal rule or the sanctity of our lands. The lands lost will be made barren, either by the Ghouls or by the fleeing Istvanites”.

“So then the land they take is lost to us?”

“Yes, for now your majesty.” Ostorius told his liege with a degree of resignation and frustration. For Ostorius had always despised the Yitizite Ghouls, and throughout his long career had not only crusaded against Eudaz and Gushawar, but also defended Ouroborasia from Uudhin. It caused Ostorius great and terrible resentment, knowing that the Ghoulish monsters were invading and he could do nothing to stop them, for they were now his ‘allies’.

By the clearly solemn frown and darkened eyes from the emperor, it was clear that the emperor too felt this.

“If those lands should be lost, then so be it. I would be correct to assume that the Ghoulish host will divide the Istvanites attention?”

“Yes your majesty, their numbers are believed in the hundreds of thousands. Though they are stalled after a great battle at Iviragne, it is my opinion, and one I believe you share, that now is the time to strike. The west cannot possibly mobilise its whole army against us when it is being attacked by such a large and destructive force from the south. The ghouls will not merely occupy land but actively destroy it and the people. The Istanvites will have to respond - and so comes our opportunity to destroy them when they are divided.”
“Then make it so. Margraf Raceanur, I order you to rally my armies to seize my Empire”.

As soon as the Emperor gave Raceanur the order, he bowed again before turning to walk away. Raceanur knew that this meeting had a larger purpose than merely him reporting what the witch had already said, but he had no desire to attend the first meeting of Cosmin’s son-in-law to be.

“And Raceanur.” The Emperor said, drawing his attention as he slowed his walk away. “I will soon follow, it would only be proper that Istvan be reminded of what he really is”.
Raceanur nodded and walked on, glad that the emperor knew he wished to leave before the ‘pleasantries’ begun and allowed him to do so. Upon Raceanur opening the door to leave, the palace herald approached to open the door from the other side.

As Raceanur walked out, he briefly glanced towards the Kasabioi delegation, and who he assumed to be their prince standing in the centre, cloaked and regally embellished.

He looked like a runt.

Raceanur continued, walking down the hall. When he heard the herald declare the runt’s arrival to the palace, Raceanur could only be thankful he avoided more of Cosmin’s politicking.

''Your majesty, the Prince of Kasabi Republic, Synogchouta Daveithai, has arrived'' The Imperial Herald Cvijić declared as he performed a deep bow.

There was a moment of silence.

‘’Bring him in’’. Spoke the Emperor, a deep and tired voice of an old man.

The Palace guards gestured to the Principe to enter the Amaranthine Hall, as they cleared from the carpet leading towards the throne. Synogchouta had to walk in the front of his retinue that the Ouroborasian Emperor may distinguish him. He could, sadly, no longer hide behind his henchman. Taking a deep breath, he trod into the Hall as all eyes were fixed on him. Synogchouta stiffened and stared blankly towards the end of the carpet where the throne was. His face was locked in an unamused frown to maintain a semblance of stoicism and integrity. Though actually it was to hide his anxiety… He was certainly not used being placed in a situation as dire as this. An audience with one of the key players of Materia’s global theatre. Chouta knew and remembered full well that the Emperor is the most powerful Red Pantheonist ruler of our time -- save from only the Gods themselves.

The Principe wanted to speak, but by a lump in his throat he could not. All the while the Emperor was awaiting a response from his foreign guests. As though reading the atmosphere, it was the Doux’s voice to ring through the stone fundaments first -- it was directed at a clerk at the entrance -- loud enough for everyone in the Emperor’s olden hall to overhear.
‘’My compliments to the fair lady Ceremenei for her gracious welcome. Her eagerness to meet us at the instance of portage has been noted . Be sure to send her our blessing.’’
The man spoke with an innocent smile, a very cheeky one. Synogchouta did not pay attention, walking the carpet with small steps until he felt he reached an acceptable proximity to the Emperor, not making eye contact but rather fixing his gaze at the embroidered purple-rose heraldry on the Emperor’s mantle. He abruptly ceases movement and falls to his left knee, lowering his head.
‘’Your majesty...’’ The Principe splutters. Having memorized and hammered on the correct Ouroborasian words, pronunciation and mannerism for months beforehand. ‘’I have come bringing good tidings on behalf of the Metropolitan and all my noble family, your most steadfast, committed allies...’’
The Principe speaks no more. Keeping his head down while he senses the Emperor’s eyes leering into him.

Meanwhile the Kasabioi men and eunuchs in the Principe’s retinue, as befitting of Edukeshan courtesy, carry boxes and embellished chests loaded with gifts of exotic spices, fineries and jewelry, talismans and ornamental weaponry from the mercantile Empire’s connections all across Materia. These items and trinkets together are certainly worth a great stack of gold, the Metropolitan is being very, very generous to the Emperor. He had best appreciate it, Synogchouta thinks.
‘’Rise.’’ Spoke the Emperor finally, seeing that the Principe is not speaking further.
‘’I see you have brought me gifts.’’ The old Emperor speaks, his sullen voice booming in his great hall. But Synogchouta thinks he can sense mild pleasure -- though it is hard to tell with the Emperor’s general grim stoicism. Perhaps the Emperor is trying his best not to smile at the marvelous gesture.
Standing up, the Principe patiently replies. ‘’The gifts are not mine alone, but from all great families of Göl Kasabi. I am ever subservient to my people, o Emperor.’’
‘’Hrm. Your good will to my Court has been noted.’’ Spoke the Ruler of Ouroborasia. A number of Imperial clerks came forward to investigate the many crates and chests, who are elaborate enough that they could well be gifts in and by themselves. Meanwhile the Kasabioi plumed guardsmen and eunuchs that carried the gifts retreat back to the Amaranthine Hall’s grand opening, leaving the Principe all alone as though awaiting a God’s judgement.
The Emperor, clearly indifferent or even chafed by pleasantries and formalities, yells towards a collection of servants that gathered behind the columns of the hall’s left wing.
‘’Where is the girl? Send her in, immediately.’’

The servants gave prompt and frightened reply, and looked around to find the Duchess-In-Waiting who was supposed to present herself in vicinity right about now...

The hushed voices of handmaidens are heard behind the columns, and the creaking opening of a door on the far back of the hall, presumably attached to a distant corridor. A group of young women walk in on the summon of the Emperor. Delicately they stream by the columns in Ouroborasian fashion, each of them very pale, almost sickly so, and dressed in dark and elaborate black garments. They look regal enough as though they could each well be princesses. But only one in their midsts truly stands out, a nubile girl dressed in an elaborate mantle covering her regal clothes with various shades of purple, pink and blue, sharply contrasting the unmantled darkness of her servants. That must be the ‘girl’, Cassiopeia.

The group of young women walk in orderly fashion towards the front of the throne. Each of the women makes a quick bow to the Emperor. Than speeding off to make way for the Duchess-in-Waiting. When she presents herself, she makes her bow to the Emperor. ‘’Your majesty.’’ She speaks with a kind and modulated tone. Than she turns to the Principe who is standing from the throne’s opposite. Her funneled sleeves reach out to her dress, tilting them to make curtsey greeting; bending her knee and bowing her head to the Principe. ''It is my pleasure to finally meet you, good Prince.'' She spoke with a smile and again in the same modulated voice. It was then that it strikes Chouta that this is their first meeting. Synogchouta and Cassiopeia finally standing opposite to one another after many months, years even, of correspondence. He is so struck that he completely forgot to respond, locked in the same frown as before -- which only serves to unsettle her. The Doux Litayyan gives Synogchouta a prod and a soft hiss. ‘’Don’t forget your manners.’’
The Principe proceeds to only briefly tilt his regal diadem from his forehead, and a quick nod at the Princess, though without saying anything. Now it is Cassiopeia’s turn to frown at such a poor show of courtly manners. ‘’...Tsk.’’ She quickly turns away and withdraws to her retinue of handmaidens. A bad first impression on the Principe’s part.

‘’There she is.’’ So thunders the Emperor’s voice through the hall. ‘’This would be my niece, Cassiopeia. See to it that you get well acquainted.’’

‘’Yes, your majesty.’’ Speaks Synogchouta, who seems more smitten with the Emperor than with the fair and graceful princess.

‘’I hereby bless your union. Not merely as two souls, but as the binding link betwixt two factions. My Empire and your Island.’’ The Emperor raises his scepter and coldly proclaims: ''So shall it be.''
He spoke these words with as little pomp and flair as he is humanly able. It is almost impressive how much indifference a man can show. Yet by his status as Emperor alone, an elevation making him worthy of Gods, his approval carries immense weight.

A feeling of relief encompasses the Kasabioi delegation. The Principe sighs graciously, yet has mixed feelings. For one it means he has done good his part serving his faction, but for another, it means he is now bound to a woman he doesn’t know and probably will not like.
‘’On behalf of all Göl Kasabi and its overseas possessions, we thank you one and all, O Emperor. And shall continue to be your steadfast compatriots.’’
‘’And I would expect no different, Prince.’’ Grunts the ruler. ‘’Guards; show the visitors of Kasabi to their quarters. They are to be our guests for the night, and doubtlessly must rest from their journey here...’’

''Yes sire!''

The feast lasted long into the night, the rain of blood soon turning into a heavy cloud layer of dark sooty thickness. Casting the fortress of Norsal into a blinding darkness, only lit by the still burning granaries, torches and makeshift braziers.
The Bloodied feasted upon the dead, drank stolen wine, ale, water and blood.... so much blood.
All over the pit fires grilling large hunks of meat was seen, cattle, ratmen, goblins, minotaurs. Every corpse would turn up as food, everything remotely edible was prepared in some way. Large bags, rucksacks or simply things tied together were filled with food. Grilled legs, roasted smoked and boiled ribs.

This had been a good haul, sure he had lost roughly four to five thousand soldiers, about five hundred of which were in the vanguard while slaying barely even half that number. But the effort had been worth it.
Standing on the plaza, Kraam had assembled all his forces, sure, only the vanguard itself fit on the plaza itself, standing in strangely orderly neat fashion for minotaurs, other nations would even refer to them as being drilled and standing at attention.
On a raised platform, usually used for public displays, Kraam stood and looked upon his arrayed army with pride and glee.
Such a force it was.
Clad in the pelt of Shansera, the gnoll matriarch who perished on the wall. He had skinned the matriarch with the logic it was the largest unionist he could find, so it was probably the fortress leader, seeing the entire enemy army had routed as she fell.
In his hand, he held her heart, then spoke.

-"Bloodied host, we stand in victory, we hold the hearts of our enemies. Now we celebrate with the bloodied toast!" Finishing the sentence he held the heart aloft, as many as possible in the vanguard held a heart aloft, be it from friend or foe, soldier civilian or livestock.
-"Drink for the blood lord, drink for ME!" His voice boomed out, the hearts were squeezed and emptied into the mouths of those who held them, after which they happily ate the rest.
Those who didn't hold hearts just roared with delight, drank whatever other beverage they could get hold of or just joined the cacophony of roars that followed the bloodied toast.

Streaks of theurgia flowed over the vanguards forms, shamans began to walk among them and gather it, using it to reinforce gear, enchant new weapons or simply storing it.

-"Now, it's time to reinforce the vanguard! STEP FORTH CHOSEN!!" Kraam's voice echoed over the plaza, the fortress and rumbled in the deep.
Stepping forth was many minotaurs, chosen by the complex method of Kraam saw them do something impressive in the battle, so he sought them up afterwards and told them they would be chosen.
They were ritually given the gear of the vanguard that had been slain, they were cursed by the shamen and made to take the oath of the vanguard.
Never falter, never flee, never surrender. They are the core of the Bloodied, and they will damn act like it.

The rest of the night was spent with feasting, eating, making food and sleeping.
During the evening a satyx javelineer approached Kraam laying upon a makeshift masters bed from pelts and pillows with two female minotaurs beside him with another female satyx waving a makeshift fan of goblin skin towards him.
-"Foe-hammer, may i ask you somethin'?" Without even looking at him, Kraam caressed the mane of one of the females and answered.
-"Speak."
-"My lord, i earlier saw strange activity by winged creatures, unlike other carrion, they did not land and then disappeared towards the principality." The Satyx said while kneeling.
-"So?" The voice of the god-eater betrayed that he was sorely bothered and bit into a plump juicy fruit of some kind, dipped in meat sauce.
-"So... it is probably griffon knights, you know the dangerous flying cavalry?" Getting a bit worried, the satyx began to tremble.
-"Soo... they know we're here. They usually do. My plan still stands." Kraam now looked at the trembling satyx, before continuing.
-"We move out in the morning, set fire to the rest of the fortress. Then we move into Evernyx and move west, looting everything along the way." He finished off the sentence with a grinning smile.
-"NOW BEGONE! I order you to feast!" Kraam angrily motioned with his hand towards the satyx, whom jerked, bowed and ran off.

The army of the principality may come, the army of the union is doubtlessly already on their way though.

The following morning the clouds would have been normal if it wasn't for the fact that the upper city of Norsal now burned and caked the sky with soot and smoke.
The Bloodied host entered Evernyx, the farmsteads would stand little chance in front of their advance. They marched west along the mountain wall, the wind-pined white mountain tops setting the backdrop for the rumbling march of the host.

Tari-Salumamatu

At the best of times, the Imperial capital of Lamash was a busy city. A veritable hive of activity, abuzz with life from the outermost suburbs near the first ring of walls, to the opulent corridors of the Padishah's palace. Now that the Gund was mobilizing, the city was absolutely swarming. Swollen like a pregnant colossus, ready to give birth to the hosts that would engulf the world into the flames of war and Yuwan's worship. The barracks and forts spread through the sumptuous city were filled to the brim with new recruits and regiments arriving from the hinterlands. The markets were overcrowded by merchants following the trail of money that always accompanied a mobilization, while a host of auxiliaries, from medics to prostitutes, did the same. Even the palatial estates of the nobility, resting around the Padishah's Palace in their own private island and isolated from the hustle and bustle of their inferior by thick walls and the sea, were experiencing levels of activity unseen in the previous decades as more and more magnates and grandees arrived from all across the Empire to take part in the muster.

All across the land of Lamash the might of the Lion was stirring. And it was in Tari-Salummatu that its head was rising. The pall of apathy and the air of lethargy that had taken hold of the nation for the last seven decades was finally dissipating,

Suh was up to her chin in the preparations for this great undertaking. Her Mighty Father was too busy congregating with the Angel, the Peris and the Lammasu, seeking to discern the Goddess' Will to take too close a role in mustering the vast armies of His domain. So it fell to Suh and a legion of lords, servants and bureaucrats to carry out the minutiae, the boring day to day tasks that ensured that the power of Lamash could be wielded as sharp and tempered steel in the hands of Her Mighty Father.

Not that the Padishah's daughter minded her herculean workload. She was one of the few surviving children of the Great Zirgun, as such it was her duty to serve the Padishah in any way shape or form He required of her. For Suh that meant diving headfirst into military affairs, regardless of her personal preferences, she had an image and reputation to maintain after all. Besides, she was always too busy to let her mind wander these days. By itself this was a blessing, for the Golden Daughter had found her mind increasingly treacherous ever since Her Mighty Father decreed that the Empire would march to war.

Centuries at the forefront of Lamash's armies had given Suh glory and adoration that few within the Empire could match, hundreds of songs were created to honor her triumphs. Stories and plays crafted to celebrate her victories. To the masses, she was the Unbeatable Princess, a legend on the battlefield whose presence was enough to inspire warriors to feats of suicidal valor.

What her carefully crafted image conveniently left out was the sheer amount of anguish that several lifetimes on the battlefield brought to oneself. The sheer scale of the bloodshed in the mighty clashes during the early days of the Sacrilege War, the endless injuries and wounds, the collective misery of defeat. And worst of all, the seemingly endless stream of lost friends, lost lovers and lost children that made even the greatest victory taste like ash and feeling as if her very heart had been gored by a spear.

To think she grew up wishing this life...oh what a stupid little girl she had been. Careful with what you wish for, it was not a Lamashi expression, but it kept coming back to her mind regardless. And with even greater frequency now that she had donned the Golden Armor again. Maybe she had heard it from someone among the many other Yuwanist forces she fought with in the last 3 centuries. Not that it mattered anymore.

She sighed, chasing these unworthy thoughts away. She was Suh, daughter of Zirgun and she had a duty to her Father, to her family, to her people and to her Goddess. What she wanted or not was irrelevant, for the stakes were higher than her mere comfort. Her duty came in many forms and it always took precedence over everything else.

Suh kept telling herself that as the servants finished strapping her armor. The duel she was about to fight was just one of the many ways her duties manifested. Some sprog with more pride than skill had challenged her to a duel during a feast in the preceding week. The brat had refused to drop the challenge once his hangover had passed next morning, and so the details of the match were arranged. At least he had enough sense to agree to first blood only. Suh had no desire to shed the blood of her fellow Lamashi. Specially the young ones, still blinded by tales of glory and triumph without any kind of real experience. A good beating would do the boy good.

She emerged from her rooms in one of the fortified bastions into a training plaza. Golden plates glimmering under the sun as she strode through the large crowd that had gathered to watch the duel. It wasn't every day that one could witness the Golden Daughter fight. Even if many would have preferred her to be facing an opponent on her level, like Zahak-Din or Mehuga Zarun.

The mass of spectators parted, giving her an open way to the center of their impromptu dueling ring. Her opponent and the judge were already there. An imposing Lamassu with a handsome patrician face by the name of Buhru-Sin had been chosen to oversee the match, he stood before a crate of weapons from the bastion's own arsenals. As part of the terms of the match, they would be able to bring their own armors, but not their own weapons.

"And here I was thinking you had given up!" Her challenger called out as Suh approached. All false bravado with an edge of desperation, Suh had done the same thing enough times to know. She did not take the bait.

"With both contestants present, the duel can begin." Buhru-Sin intoned in the deep baritone common to his race. "But first, do any of you wish to review the rules?"

"This people didn't come here to listen to you droning on about rules." The boy smirked. "They came here to see Ammurapi Farshid of Tar Illim defeat the great Golden Daughter!" Some among the crowd cheered at his bravado, others booed and laughed. No doubt bets were heavily against him.

The Lamassu turned to Suh and she shook her head. Better get this started as soon as possible. The Lamassu nodded to both fighters and walked away to join the crowd, letting both go to the weapon crates to choose their armament. Ammurapi picked a steel greatsword, swinging it around to test his new weapon as Suh did the same to the shield and mace she found in another crate.

Both fighters went to opposite sides of the ring, the judge intoned a quick prayer to Yuwan and declared the duel started.

Ammurapi charged first with a mighty roar and the greatsword raised above his head. Always so aggressive, these youths without experience. Suh met his challenge in silent, striding forward with her shield raised and mace at the ready. Her foe brought his sword in a downwards swing. The boy was fast, Suh would give him that, and strong too. But so was she, the shield had no trouble stopping the blow. Even if the strength of it made the arm holding it shake a little.

A kick in the knee transferred the initiative to Suh and she wasted no time in showering the younger Lamashi with mace blows. More to test his reflexes and skill rather than any real desire to win the fight. She wanted to get a feel of her opponent first, if this Amumurapi impressed her enough she would find an use for him. The boy managed to parry and deflect blow after blow, but was nevertheless pushed back by the sheer ferocity of the attacks, trying to gain some distance and get her within the reach of his weapon. His brow furrowing and straining as sweat started running down his face.

Ammurapi's feint managed to catch Suh by surprise and give him enough time to wheel away from her before she could drive him into the crowd. Whose cacophony had become white noise to Suh, in a real battle, one should always pay attention to one's surroundings. But in an official duel like this? She could afford focusing solely on her challenger.

The boy continued distancing himself hurriedly as Suh strode towards him. Stopping briefly to catch his breath and roll out his shoulders. He smiled at her, another forced boast escaping his throat:

"No songs or prayers today, Your Grace?" The Golden Daughter never fought silently, the stories always gave her an inspiring speech, glorious song or prayer when she fought the enemies of Lamash, always eager to make herself heard above the din of battle, challenging her enemies to come and try silence her. But Suh, the real person, had long lost the patience or taste for such frivolous and distracting displays. These days she stopped at pre-battle speeches.

Suh charged him, raising her mace to her left but instead shoving Ammurapi with her shield, catching him unawares and disrupting his balance. The following blow was real, hitting him in the right wrist as he tried to get enough distance to attack with his greatsword. The boy almost dropped his weapon as he stumbled back. Any hint of bravado or false confidence gone from his face as he watched Suh moving for the final blow.

Then, in his desperation, Ammurapi intoned something and Suh felt the wardens in her armor easily dissipating whatever last resort trick he tried to play. She wasn't the only one to perceive this last move, as the Lamassu angrily stomped forward to put an end to the duel, for magic had been explicitly forbidden during the negotiations.

The boy dropped his weapon, kneeling as he frantically apologized and pleaded for mercy. It was an automatic reaction, he didn't meant to cheat. It was just that he was so scared....pathetic. Biting more than he could chew and then resorting to trickery and cheating once he had finally accepted the reality of the situation. Scratch the thought of bringing him under her wing. Suh would never accept someone with so little honor among her retainers.

She opened her mouth to lecture the boy, shame him further before the crowd that he so desperately tried to impress. Except that instead of opening her mouth, she kicked him. Sending him back first into the ground. She then tried to spit on him, but instead her armored foot went to his throat. By this time the Lamassu was upon them:

"Ammurapi Farshid of Tar Illim broke the rules of the duel by trying to use magic!" He cried out to the now shocked crowd. "He has forfeited his life by bringing such dishonor to this ritual. His life is now in the hands of his opponent."

Suh, who was now internally panicking, continued to press her foot on his throat as Ammurapi tried frantically to escape. She didn't want to kill him! Oh Yuwan, he was just some dumb kid, didn't even had a beard yet. Defeat and humiliation were enough, she just wanted to humble him. He was crying and begging for his life, that was enough for her.

"He has dishonored the Goddess Herself and all the sacred traditions of our people!" Her mouth shouted as the cold pit in her stomach grew. What was happening to her? Why couldn't she control her own body? "This wretched whelp deserves only a dog's death!"

The crowd cheered and Suh, or whomever was controlling her actions laughed and spat on the now sobbing Ammurapi. Her foot dug deeper, cutting the flow of air to his lungs completely. She felt herself smile as Ammurapi's face started going blue. Then, just as he was about to pass out, her foot was raised. Ammurapi coughed and sputtered for a few seconds as Suh finally wrested back control of her body.

Except she didn't. Whatever force had made her a prisoner in her own flesh had simply decided to stomp poor Ammurapi's face in instead of simple suffocation. Suh could only watch as she killed the defenseless Lamashi to the cheers of the crowd. And then, just as the boy died, Suh regained control of her body. Too late to do anything besides playing along and retiring as soon as possible. There was no way she could do anything else. Panicking wouldn't do anyone any good, she had an image to maintain, a reputation to uphold. People depended on her, she couldn't show weakness just as they were about to go to war.

She kept telling herself that as she hurried back to the palace. She needed help and she needed answers, and there were only a few people who could provide her with both.