One Month, Two Weeks after Origin

Cerys Shadowborn, Voice of the Wanderer, Chief of the Shadowborne Tribe stood before her two sons. Or, she supposed, Blackwater’s sons. She had killed their father in a legal challenge and so took on all of his responsibilities to both kith and kin as well as his tribe and his possessions. The two men were of age, however, they did not legally need to be anyone’s responsibility.

The youngest, at 16, had already passed his coming of age ceremony. He was apprenticed to a blacksmith (much to the disappointment of his father, evidently). Despite receiving half of his father’s possessions, it seemed that the only change in his life would be the ability to continue in his chosen profession without the continual disapproval of his chief.

The elder, Rhys Blackwater, was a much more difficult problem. He was a tall, brooding, and attractive man, if in a rugged way. He was Cerys’s senior by five years and had the mien of a soldier used to command, his dark eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts.

“I don’t see why you both should not continue in your current positions,” Cerys was saying, her eyes on Rhys Blackwater’s face. If he felt surprise, he did not show it. “You both are of integral importance to the continued survival of the tribe.”

Eron, the younger brother, simply looked relieved. There was not much love lost between him and his father, and if he cared deeply enough about his chosen trade to endure Eranor Blackwater’s distaste, then he would surely be happy to be left to it. He merely nodded and went back to fiddling with the scrap of metal wire in his fingers.

Rhys Blackwater eyed the priestess searchingly before speaking. “You want me to remain Captain of the Guard, then.” He did not phrase it as a question.

“Your abilities as a warrior and a leader are well known throughout the tribe. It would be a shame to waste such a gifted soldier.” And I do not trust you not to betray me, so it is best to keep you close and invested in my rule.

“Then as your Captain of the Guard, it is my duty to advise you. Get some real armor. You can’t always be summoning magic to protect you, especially when you don’t expect an attack.”

He dipped his head with all the outward appearance of respect and strode from the room, his broad shoulders held proudly. Eron soon followed, leaving Cerys alone to wonder whether or not her captain’s warning was intended as a threat. She wasn’t left to ruminate long, however. Ilys soon rushed into the room that served as a study, office, and war room in the Chief’s home at the tribe’s center.

“Priestess,” she started, respectful if breathless. "Your scouts have spotted small parties coming from the East and West, and there are Longclaw Rocs in the sky.”



The Longclaw arrived first, of course. There was no other force in the mountains that could match the speed of a flying Roc.

Five of the great feathered beasts landed in the center of the Shadowborne Tribe, their strange, bone-crested faces fierce and glaring as they folded their wings and shuffled their great taloned feet. The Rocs’ passengers descended with ease, despite the ceaseless movement of their high-strung mounts. All were dressed in leathers and cloaks with longbows strung across their backs, but one tall, thin man stepped forward.

“Cerys Shadowborne, is it? Well, let’s get this over with, what’d you say?” He called jovially, in his legendarily cheerful manner. According to rumor, the slender man found everything in life amusing to some extent, including placing arrows in the eyes of his enemies. He motioned to a beautiful young woman to walk with him to where Cerys was standing, Captain Blackwater on one side, and Manon the Blind, head of her spiritual council, on the other.

The young wise woman got close enough to Cerys to make Rhys tense in preparation, but she only delicately lifted a strand of the Chief’s pale hair and examined the markings on her face before turning back to the tall, almost gangly man beside her.

“Cerys Shadowborne is indeed Chosen, Chief Longclaw,” the young woman said, looking up at her leader with more affection than was strictly permissible between a Chief and his spiritual council.

Manon cast the girl a severe look as if she saw more with her useless eyes than most people did with their good ones, but Chief Merion Longclaw only laughed and drew Cerys into the boniest hug she had ever received, much to her Guard Captain’s professional displeasure.



Chieftess Delyth Hammersong proved even more direct than Longclaw, if possible. She strode into the wide gathering space before the Chief’s home with long, mannish steps, her muscled arms swinging easily at her side and her blue eyes intent on Cerys’s face. More blacksmith than warrior, everything about the woman exuded strength, but few Arakkai hadn’t heard the tales of Delyth’s bloodthirsty ferocity when wielding the great darksteel battle ax she wore strapped to her back.

The big woman gestured impatiently for her wise woman, a priestess almost as tall as her chief and a little past her prime. The woman approached Cerys as brusquely as her Chief and lifted the smaller priestess’s chin in one hand to look into her face. Cerys held up a hand to stop her followers and held still, submitting to the Hammersong wise woman’s scrutiny. After a few silent moments, she let go and nodded.

“Well met, Cerys Shadowborne,” Delyth called, reaching out to grip her forearm. “Now, what is this nonsense I’ve heard about magic armor?”

Rhys Blackwater couldn’t quite hold back a snort of amusement.



Chief Garanhon “the Poisoner” Erwood was the last to arrive, slipping in almost unnoticed in the pandemonium of three large tribes coexisting, as more of the Hammersong and Longclaw peoples arrived every day. He let himself into the war room where Cerys, Rhys, Merion, and Delyth had their heads bent over a set of maps, arguing about routes and supply.

He cleared his throat loudly to announce his entrance, startling the group around the table so much that both Rhys and Delyth drew weapons before identifying the newcomer. He was as silent as reputation painted him, a wiry man with dark, hooded eyes.

“So here is the great Cerys Shadowborne,” he called mockingly. She was rather the least impressive looking of the group, a girl of twenty-two and slight.

“Garanhon Erwood,” she replied, nodding. “Do you wish to test me?”

“Do you deserve to be tested, Chosen?”

“More wise women than you know have said as much and more.”

Merion dropped her battle ax onto the thick table with a tremendous thump, breaking the Poisoner’s stare. “Go on, Garahon. Bring in your council.”

Cerys breathed deep, reigning in her temper as Chief Erwood motioned to someone outside the room. The woman who obeyed him was a small, timid thing with the look of a beaten dog heeling to her master.

“Test the Chosen One, girl, and be quick about it.”

Cerys nodded reassuringly and Merion gave the girl an easy-going smile, his eyes following her as she approached. Carefully, she laid a hand on Cerys’s cheek and held her gaze for a few heartbeats. With a sigh, the girl turned and squared her feeble shoulders.

“Cerys Shadowborne is Chosen, Chief Erwood,” she claimed, her voice hardly cracking.

“Liar!” Came the answer, loud and vehement, then softer: “You lie, little traitor… You have all been fooled by a girl hardly out of her teen years, who has set herself up as a chief out of pride and ill-begotten magic. She is a heretic! And you risk the lives of all the Arakkai to follow her.”

Rhys gripped his sword tighter, while Cerys stood pale and thin-lipped with rage, but Merion only lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “You know the stories as well as anyone, Erwood, and your wise woman confirms it, as ours did.”

“And you were a fool to believe them, a fool that will soon end up dead and play for demons in the service of a charlatan,” Erwood continued, spitting the last word, his face purpling with anger.

Delyth reached for her ax, but Cerys stopped her, calling, “No, let him go.”

Merion nodded. “It is punishment enough that he should fend off Saliszi sacrificers and Drathan slavers by himself when we have gone. Come, let us return to our plans. It is high time for the Arakkai to descend from the mountains.”

Garahon blanched as if he had not really expected them to side against him, but the other chiefs gave him their backs and Rhys left to escort him to the edge of the Shadowborne territory, his broadsword still bare.

The tan-robed entourage swept through the city center of Zar Dagoth’s bustling bug district. Dozens upon dozens of Aboriginals abandoned their shops or worksites to crowd around and see if the rumors were true. A prophet they said. A Nyr’kiin who would unite their entire race against those that would steal from them, kill them, and carry their young off in the night. The return of the essential, unparalleled oneness that had eluded their kind since the last Hive Mother died.

It was Mantid Dor’ken, the new Lord of the Hive.

______________________________________________

From the roof of a common candlemaker’s shop, the prophet gazed out at the gathering crowds. “A veritable swarm of insects. Appropriate as it can be,” he muttered under his breath as to only be heard by the two aboriginals closest to him – his first and second lieutenants. Behind them stood other members of Mantid’s inner circle, all solemnly staring out at the Zar Dagoth citizens.

Now projecting his voice out to the masses, “When will it be enough? When will we decide that there have been too many insults, too many attacks, too many murders? When will we remember that we were kings once; remember that the hives grew high and deep, that the Nyr’kiin roamed freely from the Drathan Delta to the Vorgul shelf. Now the aboriginal suffers through life alone – alone and weak. Well not anymore.” The prophet’s cadence started to transition from a slow and steady articulation to an almost agitated cry.

“The Nyr’kiin’s strength is in numbers. Isolated we are prey, but with our brothers and sisters behind us, the enemy is overrun. The Overmother has given us a place where we are together, where we are a family, where we are a horde. Orchid Home is the rebirth of the great hives of the past. No longer will you fear for your children’s lives – at Orchid Home you are safe. No longer will you feel the gnawing pains of hunger – the Overmother provides.” As Mantid’s speech grew to a crescendo, the excited murmuring in the crowd turned to a frantic, fanatical buzzing. All insecurities and suffering were washed away by the stream of the prophet’s words.

Mantid Dor’ken continued on and on in this vein; he would promise anything and the throngs of aboriginals would believe him. They needed to believe. They needed a stirring of purpose. It didn’t matter that the Overmother was concocted entirely by her “prophet’s” imagination. If he made her real, she was real, and more would flock to his cause. By Mantid’s estimation, the aboriginal race was at its boiling point, and it only needed somebody to step forward and direct that energy. Mantid Dor’ken would provide that direction.

______________________________________________


From the balcony outside his room, Mantid watched the new recruits to Orchid Home enter through the front gate. His herd was growing, and with it, Orchid Home itself. Built upon the ruins of an Old One temple, the new Nyr’kiin hive was constantly being reshaped and built up with mud and rubble to form an ever-growing, interweaving city. New believers would shape their own homes out of whatever space they could find, the first thing many of them were ever able to create for themselves in the harsh world. For this new purpose, they would give anything, and Mantid was happy to receive; offerings were regularly dropped off at Overmother shrines or simply to Mantid himself.

In the streets below him, the prophet heard a commotion brewing. A new recruit was shouting dissent and his fellow newcomers were hesitantly looking on. Mantid couldn’t afford any cracks in his armor of belief. One naysayer could lead to others, and before he knew it, the hive wasn’t his to control anymore. He knew exactly how to prevent this from happening. The prophet made his way down to the disorder.

“When the hive mothers led the way, would there be dissent such as this?” A hush came over the crowd as they realized their savior was among them. “The Nyr’kiin hordes of the past were the most ferocious armies in all of Azoth, and this was accomplished through one concept. Togetherness. When they would fight, each soldier would move in concurrence with his six closest neighbors – and each of those with their closest six. With this collaboration, a thousand spears could strike as one. Now, how will we defeat the enemy if we do not all strike as one? One individual acting on his own affects his closest six neighbors who will each affect their closest six. This cannot be. I ask now for this problem to be ended – by this solitary individual’s closest six and then their closest six. As the Hive Mothers would have had us and as to please the Overmother.”

Mantid’s final “Overmother” rang out across the silence for what seemed like eternity. No one dared to move until, finally, one young Aboriginal rushed the dissenter and tackled him to the ground. Five more followed suit and then twenty and fifty more after, forming a frenzy of biting and tearing. In an instant, the assault was over and the dissenter was devoured alive. The newcomers from Zar Dagoth looked at each other with proud smiles on their faces as they went back to their task of settling into their new home. Mantid walked over to the spot where the dissenter once stood and gazed in satisfaction at the only thing that remained of him – a small, black bloodstain on the dusty road.

Well, the first War of the Machines seems to be drawing to its final inconclusive chapter — leaving, alas, everyone the poorer, many bereaved or maimed and millions dead, and only one thing triumphant: the Machines. As the servants of the Machine are becoming a privileged class, the Machines are going to be enormously more powerful. What's their next move?
- Tolkien, 1945







The night was moonless, but Lord Vissaban had no trouble picking out the leading elements of his army, far down where the scrubby uplands ended and the Red Desert began. Inspired by some omen of the priests, the Shashul had decreed at sunset that his conquest begin without delay, not waiting even for the morning. The Emperor's word was law, and so pyres fed by frantic slaves now burned every league along the Scorpion Road as it snaked its way down the last, steep miles of the Vorgul Shelf, lighting the way for the endless tide of soldiers descending from the Rainlands.

Scale armor and polished spear tips glittered in the firelight, making the Road appear in the darkness like some flame-tinged river, winding lazily between hills and forest. As he watched, awed, Vissiban was reminded of nothing so much as the great serpent of the old legends, the ancient dragon said to be lying in wait, preparing to consume all of Azoth.

The Shashul's supreme commander and most trusted general wondered for a long, doubtful moment just what he was unleashing on the world.

---

The Coward stood in the center of what had been Lord Qazr's private amphitheater, on the sand where only a few days previous slaves and beasts fought and died for the amusement the wizard-lord and his entourage. It was a small arena, nothing compared to the vast Circus Carnivora where Zar Vorgul's grand spectacles were held, but its tiered semi-circle of stone seats was large enough to accommodate those who would soon be directing the city's defense. It was an eclectic crowd.

In the center, in Qazr's old throne, sat Lord Odrosyan, resplendent as ever in robes the color of sunset. He'd replaced the face powder of a courtier with fearsome Drathan warpaint, giving his jowled moon of a face the impression of a sneering monster. He seemed much less the mincing dandy of the day previous, more sorcerous and wild.

Around him was arrayed a much diminished court of Drathans, those too attached to Zar Vorgul or too irresistibly curious to flee the coming battle. Like their titular lord, the wizards were all arrayed in warpaints and headdresses as flamboyant as they were fearsome. Among their number sat Lord Alkhazar, flanked by Faceless lieutenants in painted masks identical to his own. Assembled together the Drathans looked like nothing less than some demonic choir.

Many of them were looking with pointed suspicion at the Saliszi contingent to their left: Barsabbas the Phantom and other commanders of his rogue army. Many of the Drathans had wanted the Saliszi heretics turned away at the gates when they had arrived in the wake of Alkhazar's army, but Daigon had had the last word. The Coward knew that Barsabbas had his own agenda in being here, but he also knew the Forge Cult hated one thing more than Drathans: heretics. The Firebrands were in Zar Vorgul, and their survival was now tied to the survival of the city entire.

Next to the Firebrands, sat Gost and a cluster of Necrodomii in war-kit, their unblinking electric gaze following Daigon in unnerving unison.

Har Dok other Beast King captains sat to the right of Odrosyan and his coutiers, intermingled with the commanders of the city guard and more than a dozen sellsword companies: Coward's Men, Red Fangs, Goblin Eaters, Desert Wolves, the Forge-Burned, and more. A diverse and varied brood of killers, united in brutality and ambition.

Finally, at the end of the semi-circle, sitting in the shade of a pillar, sat Malkut of the Viitru. Daigon caught her eye a moment.

Then he spoke, his shivering voice quiet but carrying.

"I've given you your orders. Lord Alkhazar's soldiers will hold the southerly walls and towers, and the Dreamer's Gate. City guard and hirelings will hold the rest of the battlements. The Beast Kings, Necrodomii and the Firebrands will reinforce threatened sectors at my command. Lord Odrosyan and his colleagues will be using their talents to destroy the Rainlander War-Engines-"

"The full might of our Art will be made known," said the wizard.

"Quite," said Daigon. He was wearing a light cuirass of chitin and black glass, with a battleaxe at his hip and two swords slung across his back. One a simple, business-like steel blade, the other an elegant white glass scimitar, decorated with elegant Drathan script along the face of the blade.

"Our position is good- the battlements are strong and we lack not for food or water. The plains around this city are utterly dry, and the Shashul cannot sustain a siege. They will storm the city immediately," said Daigon, "The Rainlander legions are well trained, but your men are seasoned killers. There is one thing to fear-"

"False gods," said Barsabbas.

Daigon glanced at the hulking Salszi, "The Swordarms, the elite of the Forge Cult. They are few, but the boons given them by the spirits they serve are powerful. They can cut through a score of troops with ease, alone."

"Not Necrodomii," said one of the tech cultists flanking Gost, his voice a flat buzz, "The relics are superior to the haunted metals of the Saliszi."

"Our friends," said Daigon, gesturing to Gost's company, "have given us a number of what they call minor vox-relicts. You will each be given one, or a signal-rune enchanted by Lord Odroysyan. Activate these when and if you encounter the Swordarms or even hear their battle prayers. Reinforcements will be deployed to you."

Daigon paused, eyes sweeping the muttering crowd.

"You all have your reasons for being here," he said, "but your fates, our fates, are now one. Tied to this city. If Zar Vorgul survives, our destinies will again take their own separate courses. If it falls, this will be our shared tomb."

From his perch, The Hermit watched the shifting white shapes far below. The Shadowlings went about their work, diligently searching through the ruins for anything their master deemed intersting and important. They would know this by a soft tug on their mind from The Hermit. He could feel them in the back of his own mind and was able to glance into theirs and give them direction without words. It was a useful tool he exploited whenever possible. It left him time to conduct his own search of the labyrinth. There was a power in the walls of stone deep below the sands of the desert. With a soft rustle of robes, The Hermit melted into the shadows and was gone from the perch. His departure was barely noticed by the Shadlowlings on the stone walkways stretching from different positions along the walls and connecting in a stone circle around the massive, ichor-filled tube.

The shadows shifted, a vague humanoid shape forming there. The form stepped from the shadows. The shadows swirled and writhed around The Hermit as he walked down another corridor, his staff tapping the ground every other step. His corridor was far above the tube of ichor and Shadowlings, closer to the surface. Leaving the dark corridor behind, he stepped into a small square room filled with scrolls and books heaped on any surface they would fit. These were the result of his searches thus far, these and the artifacts he had hidden away deeper within the labyrinth. It would be foolish to keep all of his research with the artifacts. He was less concerned about the artifacts than his books and scrolls; he was even known to occasionally give the artifacts away to individuals who found their way into the labyrinth entrance and sought him out for wisdom. That brought a smirk to his pale features, obscured as they were by the shadows swirling around him. He still remembered a time when he was that young boy struggling up the mountains toward the Wisdoms, seeking their knowledge and power.

He shuffled through his books but was brought out of his trance when he sensed movement; a great movement coming toward him. More than one person was heading toward his labyrinth, laboring down the mountains.

---

Cerys strode away from the mass of the camping army where they sprawled at the feet of the Godsfang Mountains. Her fellow Chiefs, Delyth and Merrion had stayed behind to see to the ordering of the camp, or so they said. They were both simple fighters at heart and unkeen to step foot into the shadowed Labyrinth or to parlay with its equally mysterious keeper.

To her left marched Rhys Blackwater, a near immovable presence since she had confimed him in his position of Captain of the Guard. Cerys felt that having his constant watchful gaze upon her was one thing she would never quite get used to.

"Are you so determined to protect me that you'll hazard the Hermit and his shadowlings?" She goaded, trying to push the stern-faced man into some other expression.

"It is not you I protect."

"Then who?"

"The Arakkai."

Cerys stopped in her tracks a moment and looked at him. After a few more paces he stopped as well. "Everything I do is for the Arakkai," she told him seriously.

"That remains to be seen. For now, someone must protect them from you," he said, his voice level and his eyes fixed on hers. "So yes, I will brave the Labyrinth, if only to keep you from selling our people to the shadows within."

Cerys blinked at him, stunned, and then shouldered past. If he could believe that she would do such a thing, then only her actions would convince him otherwise. In a few more yards, she reached the entrance to the Labyrinth and stepped inside the dark hall.

---

The Hermit set the rat tail down on a separate table filled with other similiar gifts from the shadowlings before stepping from his library, causing the door to melt away and form back into another section of stone wall with a tap of his staff. A moment later, he rose from the shadows near the entrance of the labyrinth but did not step from them. He instead stayed put, hidden in their embrace. The woman with silver hair stepped through the archway and into the shadowed halls. A power emanated from her.

"What is it you seek here," he asked, his voice drifting to the woman like the rustling of a leaf.

The woman stopped and looked around at the sound of the voice, and was joined a moment later by a tall, brooding man. "Do I speak to the Hermit?" she called.

"You do," again his voice came close to her ear, little more than a whisper. He watched the pair for a moment longer before stepping from the shadows, though his form looked to be made from a current of shadows twisting up and around him. Just enough of his face was visible to see his eyes aglow with power.

The man remained stoical and the woman's face betrayed only a sharp curiosity, almost akin to hunger in its intensity. "I am Cerys Shadowborne, and I have come for information, should you be willing to part with it."

"My willingness depends on the information you seek."

Cerys glanced uncomfortably at her companion, then reached out with one hand to display a globule of shadow, swirling and adorned with runes and hovering just above her palm. "There are very few that have been touched by the gods as we have," she started, still hesitant, "And while the farsighted wise women of my people have well documented the effect of my power on our future, they have little knowledge of its affect on me."

The silver-haired woman squared her shoulders with the semblance of someone facing some great discomfort, and said vunerably, "Hermit, what is happening to me?"

His eyes narrowed at her words. This was different than other meetings he held with the people of the desert. Usually they would come to seek some shred of wisdom concerning an artifact they uncovered or to win one from him for braving the labyrinth. He was still unsure how they got that idea in their heads.

The Hermit watched the swirling glob of shadows in the woman's palm. It had the same shifting nature as the shadows around his own form. The runes too held a resemblance to those softly glowing along his staff. This meant something; another like him. He'd heard of others touched by the shadows but had only been the presence of a handful.

"The shadows have marked you. In time they may take you," as he spoke he raised his arm, shaking the sleeve of his robe down and shifting the shadows away slightly. He revealed an arm of almost pure white skin with sections of swirling blackness.

Cerys stared in morbid curiosity, touching her own arm, pale but no more than normally so. "Have they taken you, Hermit? Or is this just a sign of their growing hold upon you?"

"Yes... and no. I have been given the unique ability to meld with them and call upon them as servants."

With a sharp flick of impatience, Cerys banished the shadow in her hand. "You waste my time, Hermit. I may not weild this power the same way, but it is mine to use nonetheless. How long before the shadows begin to take hold?"

"It is difficult to say for sure. There different factors that come into play. Mostly your strength of will to stave off the shadows. It could begin soon, or you could prove able to keep them at bay for years to come."

Cerys nodded, her face set in grim determined lines. For the first time, the man behind her spoke.

"I will kill you before it comes to that," he said seriously, his voice devoid of malice.

Cerys spared him a single glance. "I'm counting on it."

"You mistake me. The shadows will not take you and turn you to some crazed mutant like those exposed to the ichor. They will simply... take you. You will become as they are, wisps in the corners of forgotten, hidden places. You may even retain your sanity and self there - I know of several who have - or you make simply drift along, swirling about as they most do. Perhaps, you may even be called upon by myself or others with my gift," as he spoke he raised his arm again, bringing a trail of shadows up to swirl slowly as if in a soft breeze.

The man seemed to relax, a little anyway, and Cerys hid her shudder in a dry laugh. "I think I'd still prefer a blade through the heart before it comes to that; I don't suppose you'd mind, eh Rhys? But enough of this. I have been warned and I'm not too proud to take it to heart. The shadows will not have me easily."

"No, I don't think they will, Cerys Shadowborne," with that the Hermit melted into the shadows around the entrance way and vanished from view.

Mahaad Abshir

The Dust Way was characteristically empty on this day. A few merchants had passed by, all heading in the opposite direction and far too parched and exhausted to speak to any other travellers as a result of the merciless heat of the sun beating into their sweat-stained skin with each minute that passed. The trail of footsteps they left behind indicated a trek beginning at Zar Endal, but the end goal of their journey was anyone's guess. The vast emptiness of the Red Desert, save for the longstanding settlements that dotted the map, provided plenty of turns one could take, but whether or not they would lead anywhere was a different story entirely. Whether or not these travellers would even survive long enough to see an end to their routes was, also, an entirely different story as well. The dangers of travelling in the Red Desert was something Mahaad Abshir was all too familiar with, as he had seen his fair share over the last decade or so since docking on the shores of the Avanagashan Wastes.

Mahaad truly knew only part of the perils of travelling across the Desert, though. When he first arrived here, he travelled by foot much like these poor merchants he saw from the window of his carriage. Now, however, his profession as a slaver had provided him with riches enough to find ways around the more difficult aspects of the gruelling expeditions from one Drathan city-state to the next, and back through the lands to track down more of the Nyr'Kiin. Mahaad was not born a slaver - he was born a poor boy in a land of murderers and thieves, and in fact had only fallen into the business by chance over the past few years, after migrating to the Avanagashan Wastes. Neither did he have any experience as a slave, thankfully, but the slave trade was particularly popular among the Dratha, and they paid well for any and all of these insectfolk that Mahaad could track down. At the expense of these creatures' lives, Mahaad Abshir found himself wealthier than he had ever been, and saw little to no reason why he should not feel proud of what he had accomplished. Some of the aboriginals in the travel cell behind him may think otherwise, but he suspected their lives would be short enough that their opinions on his lifestyle would matter none.

As the night grew darker, the Nyr'Kiin who pulled the carriages through the sand with ropes over their hardened green shoulders were given an opportunity to rest - a dead slave is hardly any use to anyone, after all. One of Mahaad's travelling companions and fellow slave trader, Ta'Bat Aaab, loosened the rope's grip from around the creature's hands to allow them enough freedom to bring some food to their inhuman mouths before sleeping through the cold desert night. The third of the group - a burly fellow in charge of rounding up the Nyr'Kiin, known simply as Khan - inspected the carriage and slave cart before the blackness of nightfall completely enveloped the group's environment. Mahaad remained inside the carriage, pouring red wine into three silver goblets for he and his companions, though Mahaad's love of alcohol seemed to vastly overpower that of Ta'Bat and Khan. Still, with such a successful journey thus far, and a cart full of insectoids ready for sale, he figured it was as good a time as any to celebrate. To help Khan and Ta'Bat truly appreciate the moment, Mahaad slipped something extra into their cups - a few droplets of an Eyhwanian mixture known simply as 'Molii,' or, 'Lullaby' in his native tongue.

The first to step back into the carriage was Ta'Bat, whose face was scrunched in disgust. His curly moustache hairs tickled the corners of his wide mouth as he did so, and his second chin pressed against what Mahaad could see of his neck. Without even closing the door behind him, he wiped his hands in a nearby cloth, inspecting them once before grabbing again for the rag. Meticulously, he wrapped it around each finger, giving each one as thorough a cleaning as a small rag could offer.

"One of them touched me," Ta'Bat said as an answer to the question he knew was about to escape Mahaad's lips. "I explicitly tell these cretins to avoid touching me every time I handle them, and, without fail, one of them always manages to do it anyway. Vermin."

Mahaad shook his head with a wide grin, baring his teeth. The locks of his hair brushed against the back of his neck with each sweeping movement, and he reached out with one of his hands to offer his fellow slaver one of the drinks.

"Here, my friend," he said, deciding against any mention of the incident. "There are no free women about, but wine and song will get us through our last night in this desert. Zar Endal is but half a day's journey, and we should celebrate yet another successful endeavour together."

Mahaad's inviting smile followed each of his words, acting as the final piece to the puzzle of convincing Ta'Bat to let loose for a night. The shorter slaver's fat fingers wrapped around the goblet Mahaad offered, clinking it against Mahaad's in cheers. Before the two could carry out any further conversation, Khan's daunting figure stepped through the open door of the trio's carriage. Khan was not much of a speaker, and the oversized human man hunched slightly when attempting to stand at his full height in the relatively small vehicle. Upon the sight of his two companions drinking from their goblets, the third slaver wasted no time taking his own and downing the liquid that filled the cup, which looked about ready to break under the pressure of his grasp.

The sight of his two comrades drinking excitedly from their goblets had Mahaad grinning devilishly from behind his own. The liquid cooled the inside of his mouth, and he knew that the three of them would be deep into the wine bottle before the end of the night - some more than others. He took the opportunity to give the group a proper moment to congratulate themselves, while his words were still coherent, and while his fellows could still speak at all.

"To the bags of endless coin that will load this carriage come tomorrow's night, to the endless women I will waste it on, and to the endless days to come where we will continue to do the same!" Mahaad exclaimed, his Eyhwanian accent still strong despite living amongst the people of the Avanagashan Wastes for a number of years at this point. His toast was followed by a loud applause from both Ta'Bat and Khan, and though his spiel was short and sweet, it served its purpose.

Like many things in this life, he thought to himself. Life itself, too, is all too often short and sweet.

The three ne'er-do-wells sat round a small lounging area in the wagon, taking turns regaling stories of their escapades together, sharing laughs, and drinking the containments of the large bottle that had sat in the carriage for, as far as Mahaad was concerned, far too long.

Ta'Bat and Khan had been successful slavers in the Red Desert for a number of years. Upon the discovery of the popularity that Nyr'Kiin slaves held among the Drathan population for a number of reasons, the duo had seemingly struck a goldmine. Ta'Bat was a businessman at heart, and with the physical help of Khan, rounding up aboriginals for the pale abhuman mage-lords of the local city-states soon became their area of expertise. Mahaad's role came a year or two later, when Ta'Bat realized his operation had become bigger than he originally anticipated. It became difficult for him to manage so many slaves at once, while transporting them and selling them all on his own. Khan, while a proper brute of a man, lacked significantly in areas of mercantile and trade, so Mahaad acting as an extra set of hands went a long way for the operation. At first, he simply did as he was told, with the promise of his fair share of the profit. As the months passed, however, the newfound slave trader proved himself to be much more proficient as the face of the business, despite being a foreigner of this land. Since then, the Eyhwanian man has handled the majority of trade deals and the more intricate social aspects of slave trading. This is the structure the group has stuck with over the years, with Mahaad slowly gaining more of a leadership role amongst them, and actively filling his own pockets with a little more of each trip's profits than the last. It was a healthy relationship he shared with the two, and his seemingly unending lust for wealth and all the fine things that come along with it was being sated with each group of Nyr'Kiin they dropped off.

Mahaad had grown to respect the two men significantly, as they all seemed to have similar interests. They led their lives in similar ways, and indulged in similar things. It was a shame, though, that the partnership had to come to such an abrupt end.

Just as Khan was getting ready to down another glass of wine and compliment the haul of slaves they'd pulled this time around, a lump began to form in his throat. At first, he attempted to clear his airway as one would do to clear a build-up of mucus. It failed, and a confused expression soon formed on the large man's face. His thick hands began to caress his throat, massaging the sides that were hidden away behind his thick beard. His brow furrowed as he found himself struggling to breathe as the seconds passed, almost as though he were having an allergic reaction. The man's eyes began to quickly dart from left to right as he realized just how much his throat had started to close, and the panic set in even more when he saw the normally flush skin on Ta'Bat's face shift from reddish pink to a pale white, and then take on a more blueish tone - an indication that Khan was not the only one struggling to breathe.

Mahaad's breathing, however, was perfectly fine. He sat quietly, smiling behind his cup as he watched the two struggle for air, gripping anything they could as though their firm grasp on the edge of a chair would be enough to pull them back from the afterlife that was sucking them from one realm to another. Cups fell as the two men flailed their arms, and spilled wine seeped into the tan rug that lay across the floor beneath them. Finishing the remnants of his own goblet, Mahaad stood up, now towering over Khan and Ta'Bat who had fallen to the floor in agony. Small gasps of breath occasionally popped through their closed airways, but at this point, all three men knew that only one of them would be waking up in the morning. The molii Mahaad had slipped into their drinks earlier in the night was far too large a dosage, and the liquid had gone from a simple enhancer for those who like to overindulge in alcohol, to a deadly poison that would numb a man's entire body and cease some of his vital organs from cooperating with the rest of their body. Mahaad had used the last remaining drops of molii he had left on the two, and was pleasantly surprised to see the toxin working its magic in such a short amount of time.

"We did some great things together, you and I," Mahaad said, as though either of the dying men could respond. "But nothing lasts forever, my friends. You know this as well as I.

"Plus," Mahaad spoke again when he heard the last struggle of life leave Khan's muscular body, indicating that he had finally given up the fight for life. Ta'Bat, unsurprisingly, had succumbed to the molii's grasp much quicker. "It will be much easier to steal your coin now that you are not alive to fight for it."

Mahaad was not a malicious man. He was an ambitious man - a man who took risks to ensure the future he lusted for. At least, that's what he told himself. Were Ta'Bat or Khan capable of speaking after death, they may have other words they would use to describe their former friend, but while Mahaad was the only one capable of thought or speech in the room, 'ambitious' was the word he settled on. With these two unable to claim their reward for these Nyr'Kiin slaves, Mahaad would be more than happy to accept it on their behalf - tripling his own profit. When the time came that he'd need more money, perhaps he would seek out more slavers to work with. Perhaps he would make his rounds back to Eyhwan for a while. The possibilities were endless, and that's the way he liked it.

---

The Nyr'Kiin slaves had done a good job of carrying Mahaad to Zar Endal, he had to admit. They had managed to get him to the city by midday, almost as if they were excited to move on to the next phase of their enslavement. That being said, Mahaad suspected that with the absence of Khan and Ta'Bat's weight, the carriage was significantly easier to pull through the Dust Way. If anything, these were an eager batch of slaves, which would only increase the number of coins that would have lined Mahaad's pockets upon their sale.

'Would have' was the key part of that thought, however. Mahaad had little energy left to think about the prowess of his slaves, as upon entering Zar Endal, he was told that the mage-lord Alkhazar had up and left, his sights set on Zar Vorgul - a city that sat a several days' journey if one were to travel straight through the Red Desert. This would likely have been valuable information for Mahaad to have prior to murdering his coworkers and leaving their bodies as a meal for the beasts of the Desert.

Frustrated by the unexpected turn of events, the slaver wasted no time preparing for yet another journey, the only reassurance he felt from the situation being the fact that this trek would be significantly shorter than the last. With the score of Nyr'Kiin locked away in their mobile cell, Mahaad weaved through the busy marketplace of Zar Endal to collect what he'd need for the next couple of days. There was a small relief in knowing that he was only buying for one slaver now, rather than three - two of which could eat enough to satisfy another two. Still, Mahaad left the market district with more than he paid for, which was often the outcome of his shopping sprees. Surely, the merchants would not miss what they did not even know was gone.

---

The Nyr'Kiin spoke little to Mahaad. He suspected they knew of his treachery, given the obvious absence of Khan and Ta'Bat, but also suspected his actions ultimately mattered very little to creatures whose lives were either going to be miserable in the coming years, or come to an end in the coming days.

They had been pulling his carriage, as well as their own holding container, for about a day now since leaving Zar Endal. The group was making some good time, all things considered, and so far they had run into nothing that would pose any proper threat. Perhaps the creatures of the sand weren't fond of the taste of aboriginals, or perhaps they had just been lucky. If it were the latter, Mahaad could only hope that this luck would not run dry before reaching Zar Vorgul. He figured they were not too far from their destination at this point, and hopefully he'd be able to drop off these insectfolk with one of the Drathan mage-lords - whether that was Alkhazar, Qazr, or some other pale-faced 'nobleman,' and call it a job well done. He had worked hard for this, and eagerly anticipated the chance to relax and toss golden coins at naked women in some sleezy hole-in-the-wall tavern - his favourite way to waste time.

In the meantime, Mahaad had some peace and quiet to enjoy. Though he could have been partaking in semi-legal activities with an empty bottle of wine in one hand and the garments of an Avanagashan woman in the other by now, his natural optimism told him to enjoy what time he had to himself, no matter how it came about. Though travelling through a sandy wasteland with a bunch of malnourished Nyr'Kiin may not be his favourite way to spend a day or two, it was all he had at the moment, and he intended to make the best of it.

The Eyhwanian lay back, closing his eyes and letting the sway of the carriage soothe his mind. His muscles relaxed, and the stresses of the previous day whisked away into the faint winds of the Red Desert. He felt peace, for the first time in a while.

Perhaps he should have killed his comrades sooner rather than later.

Her third night in the desert, Cerys dreamed.

The priestess was again chained to the boulder before Mirror Lake, her hands red-black with blood and ichor, her nose filled with the sickly, too-sweet smell of the mixture. It flooded down her bare neck and naked body, pouring from the markings she'd made on her skin in impossible quantities, flowing into the lake and filling the mountain basin until it lapped at her toes, squelching up between them before climbing her bare calves, her pale thighs. She surely must drown in her own shadow-tainted blood, fastened as she was to the boulder behind her.

When the Wanderer appeared, he did not merely dim the day but brought with him an inky blackness the likes of which no mere night had ever inflicted upon Azoth. He hovered before the Priestess, already waist deep in red, and paused, undulating in place, the strange tendrils that made up his form twisting, reaching, convulsing.

Suddenly, the Red God charged. He did not envelope Cerys as she remembered his doing, so many nights before in this very clearing, but instead poured into her, inky blackness flooding into her eyes, her mouth, the red-black handprint on her chest. She was choking, writhing as her lungs spasmed, then there was nothing. Nothing but the dark.

Her terror mounting, Cerys existed now formless in the black, unable to even sense time passing. Was this what it was like to be taken by the shadows? Conscious and yet unable to act? A collective, rather than the individual.

But no, she could see again, only now she looked through the eyes of a body that was too tall, too masculine to be her own, that weilded hands larger and stronger than she remembered....

---

"Daigon," said a gruff voice.

The Coward opened his eyes, waking to a hot, noisy desert night.

He sat up from his bedroll, tucked into a corner where Zar Vorgul's northern wall adjoined a defensive tower. A lifetime spent outside and at war meant he could pretty much sleep anywhere.

Around him, soldiers bustled in flickering torchlight, busily preparing for the coming battle. Wall-mounted ballistae were being oiled and strung. Blades sparked and sang as they were sharpened. Porters rolled buckets of arrows and bolts to their places along ramparts hung with the Star-and-Moon banners of the Drathan Union.

"What is it?" he asked in his shaking voice as he stood. Har Dok, the hulking commander of the Beast Kings, loomed over him.

"See for yourself," said the aelg, gesturing north.

Daigon looked out over the night-shadowed desert. The moon was high, its silver light illuminating the skyward tendrils of an enormous dust-cloud that blotted out the horizon. The heavy tread of the Shashul's approaching army could be heard faintly on the still night air.

"Sunrise," said Daigon, "They'll be here by sunrise."

"I reckon so," said Har Dok.

---

Cerys realized she was seeing through a stranger's eyes. Daigon, the aelg had said.

What city was this, and what army?

Zar Vorgul.The name came unbidden, at once familiar and unfamiliar. She found she knew a great deal about this place she had never seen: a Drathan stronghold, too far East, in danger from...

Sifting, she hunted for a name for the approaching force and found it easily: Salished. The Rainlanders she knew, and she found she could not dispute Daigon's estimation of the fanatical warriors: capable, implacable, deluded.

Information about the man whose mind she occupied was less easy to come by. Who was this Daigon, and why had she been drawn into his thoughts? Cerys moved about his mind, searching for answers.

The desert, the city, the armies, the hulking aelg- all disappeared as she dove into the dark waters of Daigon's memories. Images swirled around- swirled through- her untethered consciousness.

A desperate flight through snow-blanketed hills, the cries of dying men still loud in Daigon's ears as he urges his steed away from the carnage.

Miles away, Cerys's lip curled in distaste beneath eyes that roved in their closed lids. Coward.

Freezing waves exploding over the prow of a longship, cutting through churning grey seas. Daigon is sitting at the stern, looking backwards at a shoreline receding from view.

Never in her life had Cerys imagined so much water. It reminded her forcibly of the desert, each breaking wave a cresting dune. And the ship! She would not soon forget the vessel. It crested another wave and plunged down into...

...flickering fires dot the slope of a massive dune, marking out the sprawling form of a mercenary camp in the desert. Daigon stands at the crest, looking out upon the force with satisfaction.

Cerys knew that picture well, in its meaning, if not its detail. Here was another leader.

The glimpse of a figure clad in white, face hidden by a gilded mask, as powerful as a god and as unpredictable. The Archmagister. 'Do it' cooes the wizard. Within Daigon blooms a desperate hunger, and with a last exertion of will, he crushes the dregs of resistance in a captive spirit. The daemon screams as it is consumed.

Recoiling in horror, the Priestess tried to arrest her breakneck travel through the memories of this foreign mind. Surely that hadn't been one of the Pantheon? One of the Red Gods? Instead of digging in thoughts, Cerys now found herself falling through them, unable to find purchase.

Who are you? echoed a quiet, shivering voice, both annoyed and amused, a little mountain-witch, sneaking in the shadows between thoughts...Cerys, Cerys is your name. Well, I-

In her panic at discovery, Cerys took hold of the next image, clinging to it like the edge of a cliff, a sea of thoughts beneath.

He is barefoot in the wet grass, watching the sun rise over mountains wreathed in fog. The growing light paints the sky first pink then red then gold, and the cold air smells of pine and woodsmoke. He knows if he turns he'll see his home behind him, his city, perched atop its hill in the center of a broad, green valley, the pale stone towers of Fanghall standing proudly above the thatched homes and cottages clustered in its protective shadow.

Aiva is there, probably just waking up. He smiles at the thought and turns to head back to her.

A wave of anger, regret, and wrenching pain washed through the stranger's mind, mingling with the empathy Cerys felt welling up from her own consciousness. And then he was standing above her precarious handhold, black hair falling wildly in to pale eyes alight with fury. In a single motion, Daigon seized the priestess by the arm and cast her into the tempest below.

You are lucky I have greater gods than yours to contend with, echoes the shaking voice, dripping with rage, out of my head, Dream-Thief.

---

Cerys woke suddenly, slick with sweat and panting, her hair sticking damply to her forehead, the furs of her simple bedding twined haphazardly about her thighs. In a jerking motion, she flung off the fabric, tearing at her clinging garments until at last her skin was bare to the cool, desert air. She examined herself desperately in the shined bowl of a simple sheild, but the polished surface showed only her own body, pale and unchanged but for the quickly fading mark of a man's hand on one arm.

"A knight's place is on the battlefield."

"So it would seem, the Coward and his men seemed happy enough to have another sword."

"I require a horse."

"A horse? What happened to the old one?"

"An unfortunate encounter with a sand worm in the Great White Erg. It was a valiant fight, but alas, poor Liasos did not survive."

"And the worm?"

"It did not survive."

"You fought and killed a sand worm?"

"Of course, a knight does not retreat when faced with danger, especially not when her trusty steed has been slain by a foul creature."

"Yes, well, a sand worm is far beyond dangerous. I've seen them swallow entire caravans whole."

"The Old Ones protect me from the corrupted creatures of the desert."

"The Old Ones?"

"Yes."

"Listen, Meg, you know that they're dead right? It's been centuries since they walked this earth."

"They are not dead."

"What?"

"You are wrong, they are not gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I can hear them, I can see them, they walk across the sands of the Red Desert, hidden far from the eyes of the unworthy, the pitiful lords that have lost sight of the truth, and become corrupted by greed."

Samald looked nervous, fearful and full of despair, he looked around himself with the panicked eyes of a hunted animal, mindful of listening ears, twitching with anxiety, "Listen, lass, I'd be careful what you say about any lords and more importantly, I wouldn't talk about hearing the voices of the Old Ones...they're long dead and any vile wizard that hears talks of voices is going to assume you're possessed by some desert demon and they don't let such prizes escape, not when there's a war looming-"

"Samald," the Mad Knight said, rising to her feet, "I do not fear the hands of the unworthy, the Old Ones will not let their servant fall to such weak creatures."

"Why do I bother? You're never going to listen to me, are you?"

"Not when your words are driven by fear."

"Fear is nothing to be ashamed of, it keeps you alive-"

"Fear has no place in my mind."

"They'll kill you, you know, one of these days..."

"Samald, I have known you since you were child, I have known you as I have known your father, as I knew his father before him, and his father before him. I will not stop for death, not this time, not ever again. I will forge a path free from fate and the chains of the false gods that have corrupted this land."

Smiling, she finished the mug of water that stood in front of her, "You will not sway me from the path of righteousness, old friend, no matter what the cost."

"I know," Samald replied, letting out a deep, weary sigh, that spoke of the many years that coursed through his bones.

The whispering of an ancient tongue interrupted the thoughts of the Mad Knight. Flickering in and out of existence, like a distant radio transmission, noise masking much of the true signal, but one sentence repeated, rising to a shout, a terrible shout, full of power, mercilessly loud and leading the knight to stumble to her knees as she clutched her head, biting down on her lip to prevent the scream that threatened to escape, blood slowly falling as she broke her skin.

Find the compass, do not delay, serve the Coward, do not stray, find the compass, Delkin knows the way, speak with Sothis, he remembers the abyss.

"They say I must leave you now, Samald," Meg said mournfully, putting on the stone great helm she carried, and tossing a bag that weighed heavily with coin to Samald, "Find me a horse, a proper warhorse, the price does not matter, but trade well."

The grizzled artificer made no reply, but nodded, pressing against the wall as if afraid that the knight errant would devour him, and cautiously gesturing towards the door he muttered a prayer to the Old Ones. He didn't have the heart to tell the Mad Knight that a horse would not be much use on the battlements of the city, at least not before the Shashul managed to storm the gates.

"Report when in position," Gost voiced in data-burst as he perched in the lower battlements like a carrion bird.

"Tagma deployed," Came the first response shortly after, encoded as Warlock Tagma's whispery voice. "Awaiting further orders."

"You shouldn't have long to wait," Dorn answered next. Sinestes was his proper name, but he (like Gost) found it stifling. "I can practically smell the barbarians approaching."

While Dorn had been a comrade of his for many years now, as the pressure of impending battle mounted Gost had little patience for his usual surly temperament. "Are you in position or aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, I'm where you need me. Are you certain I shouldn't send these dogs to assist our lessers? I can only imagine them impeding me."

"Leave them. If they're such an impediment, just let them all die before you engage. Who knows, they may surprise you." Gost looked down at his own retinue, a dozen-odd soldiers milling about the rear ranks of the city's more mundane defenders. Kynoa, or Desert Dogs, they either slave soldiers or the children of those among the Clan still capable of having them. Unaugmented, with metal armor, heavy shields and mauls, they were not considered worthy of powered weapons. Scarcely human in the eyes of the Necrodomii. However, a Kynos that proved its worth on the battlefield would undertake the Ritual of Becoming and become a true Necrodomius.

Others called in their status in short succession afterward; clanmates of the Mystic rank, and a smattering of Acolytes and Disciples. Dorn and Tagma were the only other Warlocks that had accompanied Gost in his endeavor, the former because of favors owed, and the latter because Gost would now be indebted to her. The various other Necrodomii of less ranks and their accompanying Kynoa were mostly underlings of the two, tech-cultists that had trained or studied under them as Disciples and owed them a debt of loyalty. Gost had almost no Disciples of his own, and so the intercession of his peers had been key. He honestly expected the fighting to be far less difficult than the political maneuvering within the clan beforehand had been. Gost was a more solitary figure than most in his clan, self-sufficient that even without relying on the favor of his peers he was at the precipice of ascension to the highest rank among them.

Once the last of them had reported, Gost ranged in on their data-signatures to project their approximate locations and ensure their formation was secure. It was a standard defensive formation, really, with the three Warlocks dividing the defensive perimeter equally between them, and the intervening space divided among their lessers. They had been measured out so that any point on the perimeter could be reached with minimal delay, and holes in their formation could be filled by minor positional adjustments. This was a highly coordinated maneuver, and had necessitated Gost lending out communicator-relics to some of the Drathans' soldiers. Loathe as he was to hand over the relics, he recognized their tactical necessity; the Necrodomii were too few to form a line unit. Their skills and prowess were best suited to securing breaches of the outer defensive lines, and countering the enemy elite, the "Swordarms."

Once the fighting ends, it would be simple to scavenge the relics from the dead soldiers, or kill the ones that won't give them up. Gost thought of the matter, a familiar subject to him, to calm his nerves. His pulse was high, and anxiety was causing his augmentics to ache. He was not the neurotic sort (paranoid, yes, as were nearly all of his kind), but the anticipation of this battle left him on edge. This open, symmetrical warfare was not the forte of his people, and its unfamiliarity chafed him. The material costs at play weighed on his mind more heavily than the fighting though; if this was not a net gain for the clan, his trial would end in failure. A defeat of this magnitude would not be tolerated by the clan. Exile would be the most likely punishment, a mercy only afforded to his rank and service thus far. If they were not feeling benevolent, he would probably be stripped of his augmentics and left to die slowly in the desert.

Gost banished the thought from his mind. He needed to focus. His augmentics whirred as he clenched his fists, and gradually activated the dormant Kyrofulgarii. He felt his neural connectors begin to heat up as the sacred relics drew strength from the motive force of his very body. Arcs of electric power began to dance between his fingers, and the air around him began to hum with the awakening power.

"Clan Domitian, prepare for battle," he streamed to the others, "For the glory of the Old Ones. May Liber Legis guide us to victory."

Mahaad Abshir and Cerys Shadowborne

On the morning of their fourth day in the desert, the Arakkai made their way into the eastern most edge of the Claws, entering this much more familiar terrain with some relief after several painful days of open desert. Cerys Shadowborne had to admit that her people were simply not equipped for life on the sands, and she felt little better than they looked, dark circles standing out sharply beneath her eyes.

The priestess moved among the mountain tribes, offering a hand or an encouraging word to her followers, her stalwart guard behind her at every step. Even faced with a strange land, the perils of which were almost wholly unknown, these were a sturdy people. It would take more than four days of difficult marching to wear them down, though the priestess would do everything in her power to better prepare them in the future.

Sometime near midday a group of children ran up to tug at the priestess's hands and wrap their thin arms around her now well armored legs. Darksteel from the Hammersong Clan, though she'd have rather worn much less in the desert heat.

"Priestess," started one of the children, only to be interrupted by a friend.

"No you said I could tell her!"

"But I'm the oldest!' broke in a third voice.

"I saw it first!"

Cerys squatted down amongst them and conjured a flat arrow out of shadow in her right hand. They quieted to watch as she made a show of shutting her eyes tight and sending the thing spinning with the curled forefinger of her other hand. There was a happy little gasp when it stopped in the direction of a blue-eyed boy, no older than six if she had to guess.

"Priestess, one of the Roc scouts is coming, and they never come back so early!" He said in a rush, his soft fists clasping the edge of his tunic.

"Run along and tell the other chiefs," the priestess said kindly and stood, her eyebrows coming up as she spotted Rhys Blackwater giving her a strange look.

"Well? What is it?" she asked him, a little brusquely.

He hesitated, looking out over the army rather than her face. "Those kids never would have run up to Chief Blackwater."

Cerys looked at him a moment, then turned towards the south. "Come. Let's see just what the scouts have found."

---

The slow, but steady movement of Mahaad's carriage was soothing, if nothing else. If one was able to block out the vehicle's means of movement, or if one wasn't necessarily interested in the well-being of slaves, it had potential to become a popular mode of transportation. Save for the occasional moan or complaint, these particular slaves were quiet, whether that was because they were exhausted, or because they simply had nothing left to speak about, Mahaad did not know. Nor did he care, really. They were doing their job of bringing him to Zar Vorgul to receive his hefty payment, and that's all he cared about at this moment in time.

The group was travelling straight through the Red Desert, currently heading southeast from Zar Endal, hoping to get to Zar Vorgul as the crow flies, rather than waste time trekking toward the Dust Way for nothing other than a safer trip. Speed seemed more dire in this situation than safety, after all. Even so, Mahaad felt safe enough, as he had been deep in a fit of slumber for several hours now. Anyone who knew Mahaad well enough to see him sleep would know that he was a fairly light sleeper - any sort of disturbance had him jolting awake, no matter the severity of the situation. He attributed this to the dangerous lifestyle he often led, mixed with a less-than-favourable upbringing in the slums of Eyhwan. As a result of this, the Eyhwanian man getting more than five-hours of rest in one stretch was a rarity, and almost something of a luxury as far as he was concerned.

This time, however, such a luxury was not on the radar for him. The carriage coming to a sudden halt had the dark-skinned man jolting upwards from his sleeping chamber, his eyes wide and head darting back and forth around the room - always prepared for the worst. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw that he was still the only one in the room, but that did not explain why they had suddenly stopped in their tracks. With a deep sigh, Mahaad pulled himself out of the cot he was sleeping on and made his way outside. He was expecting to see one of the Nyr'Kiin collapsed in the sand, or perhaps some sort of desert creature off in the distance.

"Please," Mahaad began to speak as he stepped through the small doorway of the carriage, having not yet seen anything besides the stationary sand beneath him. He looked up to see all ten of the insectoids he'd assigned to carriage duty looking in his direction. Their static faces were not the easiest to read, with such a lack of real movement, save for their mandibles and eyes, so what they were thinking was anyone's guess.

"Tell me we have a good reason for being stopped in the middle of a scorching desert, hm?" he finished, gesturing to the slaves in a questioning manner with his hands.

"We ... We are no longer alone, Lord Mahaad," one of the Nyr'Kiin spoke after a slight pause. The others looked about cautiously, as if they were expecting something to happen. "We saw people watching us from the north, then they disappeared behind the sand."

"And so you thought the best course of action would be to stand in the sand and wait for them to come back? Hm? Or were you going to chase them down and play hero? We have a place to be, and that place is Zar Vorgul," Mahaad said, at first with a demeaning tone but quickly shifting to a much more pleasant one. Patronizing the slaves would only make them hate him even more. "Please, gentlemen. Carry on with the task at hand."

Without waiting for a response, Mahaad turned back to enter the carriage once more, thinking the problem to be behind them. Before his gaze could turn to the opened door, however, they were caught on something of possibly much more importance. In the far distance was a large group of travellers - some looked like mercenaries, as the weapons attached to their hips would imply, while others looked to be about the height of children. They seemed to be travelling from the northeast - the Goldfang Mountains perhaps a two or three day's journey behind them.

A mountain tribe? Mahaad thought to himself. It was an odd sight, and unsettling in some ways. They were heading in his direction, and although there are plenty of reasons for them to be doing so, he couldn't help but feel as though it was he and the slaves the northmen's sights were set on.

"Move along now. Swiftly," he said to the Nyr'Kiin before calmly stepping back inside his carriage, closing the door behind him.

---

Cerys stood atop the crest of a hill, shading her eyes to stare across the strange, baked land that made up the red desert. The Roc scout had spotted some sort of caravan heading away from them across the rock. They seemed to pose no threat, but uncertainty stirred unfamiliar within the priestess's belly. She felt that she'd be a fool for letting them pass out of her reach, if only for the information they might be able to provide.

Turning back to the men and women grouped around her, she said, "Get me a roc, and as many scouts as we have within reach. Quickly, before they get any farther away."

As several of the mountain people rushed to follow her direction, Merrion gazed at her critically. "I'll take you up on my own beast, if that's what you want, Priestess, but I don't think we'll get much from such a small party."

"We'll get nothing from letting them go. Wanderer willing, this may prove to be just what we need."

In short order, Cerys sat clutching the rough feathers of one of the great birds, her stomach leaping as the beast tensed his muscles and flung itself into the sky.

"Relax, Priestess," Merrion chuckled, and Cerys was glad that seated behind her as he was, he could not see her eyes shut tight against dizziness. Shortly, however, they were once again landing, and she could cover her discomfort with an easy jump to solid ground. Merrion followed Rhys who had climbed down from another of the beasts and the three approached the small caravan from the front, the Rocs remaining in its path.

---

Following the loud thud of the Roc's landing and some scattering of sand, the Nyr'Kiin slaves at the forefront of Mahaad's travel carriage shrieked in fear, some attempting to flee the scene before realizing the ropes with which they pulled had been tied around their bodies, resulting in more, less threatening thuds as they hit the ground beneath them. With such a commotion outside, mixed with the shaking of the carriage as the slaves scramble, Mahaad could only imagine what situation they had gotten themselves in.

Slowly, he peered through the blinds of one of the carriages windows to see massive winged creatures sitting not far from the carriage, their talons digging deep into the hot sand of the Red Desert. Beside them were several pale skinned humans conversing with one another. Were they raiders, they likely would have attacked first and spoke later, or at least come up with a plan before making their presence so known. Their appearances suggested they were not natives of the Scarlet Plateau, or any other desertlands. No, these were northerners, to be sure, and likely the ones Mahaad had seen in the distance only moments prior. What they wanted was anyone's guess, but if it was slaves they were after, they'd have to look elsewhere, of that he was certain.

The newcomers' demeanours suggested they were, for the time being, non-violent. If only the Nyr'Kiin could see this as well, and cease their yelping and constant tugs at the ropes around them. Mahaad wasted little time exiting his carriage, approaching first his slaves, his hands raised slightly as if to gesture them to calm down.

"Silence, my friends," he said to the insects, loudly enough for the northerners to hear as well. "Relax yourselves, take the opportunity to rest. I'm sure our lovely visitors mean us no harm."

His gaze shifted from the aboriginals to the northmen. His characteristically sharp smile had been glued to his face since stepping through the carriage door, and his whitened teeth almost glistened in the light of the sun as he approached the visitors and their birds.

"Blessings to you, good folk of the north," he said, respectfully bowing before them. As he rose, his gaze caught that of a silver-haired woman, and he was certain she played an important role in whatever these people were doing. It was her he needed to impress if this was going to go smoothly. "If it be wine you're in search of, then you've come to the right place. I've plenty of it, but little of anything else, unfortunately. My friends and I are making our way to the great city of Zar Vorgul with hopes of changing that."

Mahaad had a silver tongue, and he knew how to use it. It was the silence, or lack thereof, of the Nyr'Kiin behind him that truly had the potential of spoiling the ruse. If they knew what was best for them, they'd either play along, or refrain from speaking at all.

The woman in the lead listened to this pretty speech silently, her eyes wandering from the man to the Nyr'kiin behind him, taking in the ragtag group. Her brows furrowed, face hardening.

"You're a slaver." It wasn't a question. A couple of the men behind her loosened their weapons in their sheaths.

With the woman's words, Mahaad felt the tension rise. Even the Nyr'Kiin behind him shuffled uncomfortably, and he could hear their feet digging into the sand as if they were bracing for heavy impact.

"I have been called many things in this life," Mahaad said with a smile, not letting the raised weapons intimidate him. Or, at least, not letting his visitors know they intimidated him. Clearly, they were not fans of the slave trade, so they likely would not be fans of him if he admitted it so freely. "I have been called 'criminal' in some lands, while they call me 'hero' in others. Some men call me 'fool' while their wives call me 'lover.'"

As he spoke, Mahaad paced slightly, creating a small circular pattern in the sand as he stepped. As he finished his sentence, his charismatic smile turned to a sly smirk and he eyed the group's leader once more.

"Now, to the Dratha, I am known as 'merchant.' Some mage-lords even know me as 'friend'," he said before letting any of the brutes behind her take too much of an insult from the playful tone of his spiel. "To you, I might be 'slaver,' but I assure you, that is far from all that I am."

The woman let him say this without any interuptions, then flicked two fingers towards the Nyr'kiin behind the dark-skinned man. A stern looking soldier and another of the beast handlers moved past him easily, heading towards the slaves beyond. "I am no friend to the mage-lords or their chattel mongers, whatever names you wish to give yourself."

With almost careless ease, she closed her right fist around a sword that materialized from shadow, flickering with some ancient, runic script, and raised it to the level of his throat. "Your slaves are slaves no longer, do you understand?"

Even Mahaad, who by now was a master of maintaining a calm composure, struggled slightly to remain unfazed by the quick turn of events. One moment, he was dreaming of sleeping on sacks of gold, while the next he was being held at the sharpened end of a magical blade, with the Nyr'Kiin he worked so hard to capture being released from the constraints of their ropes.

Still, he did not feel hopeless.

"And what, may I ask, would you do with me at this point, hm?" he asked the silver-haired woman, as the stubble on his chin danced along the cool edge of the sword. His eyes followed some strands of shadow that emanated from it, before reverting back to the face of the woman who was currently threatening to end his life. "You will free these creatures from their fates, and slit my throat. The you will fly back to the mountains on your Roc, feeling accomplished for another day, and then what? Surely, life has more to offer a beautiful woman such as yourself, no?"

Mahaad paused briefly, letting his words sink in. Still, he knew his best option was to speak to this woman now, while her lackeys were busy, rather than later when the rest of the northerners were around to sway her opinion.

The silver-haired woman smiled slowly, a grin that did not reach her dark eyes. "You certainly talk a lot, slaver. You presume quite a bit as well. All these words, and so far, nothing of use."

"I come from Eyhwan, northwoman. There, they kill you if you stay quiet for too long. Sometimes, they also kill you for talking too much, but I've managed to survive this long," Mahaad replied, still somehow managing to maintain his rogueish smirk despite feeling as though death was just around the corner.

"If you see no use in a well-travelled, handsome man such as myself to a group of mountainfolk wandering through the desert, then by all means, cut my throat and leave me to the beasts of the sands," he went on, already seeing some of the Nyr'Kiin fleeing in several directions with his peripheral vision. "But you and I both know I'm much more useful to you alive than dead. Spare me, as you have with these aboriginal folk, and I will aid you in whatever goal you and your kin are seeking in this wasteland. I know it better than even some of the mage-lords, and certainly better than any of your companions."

"Useful indeed," the silver-haired woman muttered thoughtfully and let the sword in her hand disappear into the desert sun. The men had finished untying the Nyr'kiin, and while a couple had disappeared immediately, most seemed unsure of just what to do with their newfound freedom. These she turned to address, leaving Mahaad to be watched over by her followers.

"Nyr'kiin, you are slaves no longer. Go if you wish, but if you would like a place among us, you will never wear ropes again and you will likely have the opportunity to help free others."

Rather than waiting for a response the woman motioned to one of the beast handlers. "Go, take word to the tribes. The rest of us will stay to escort our new... friends."

"Cerys..." the stern faced man made to protest, but was silenced by a short shake of his leader's head. His lips thinned, but he merely took a watchful position to Mahaad's left.

"Come, man-from-Eyhwan. I wish to know more about the city my scouts have seen west of here."

“We fled as soon as word spread ‘bout the army.” The peasant began as he settled down next to his wife. She flashed him a smile that was not quite full of teeth as she handed him a bowl of soup. The peasant happily took the bowl and an offered spoon, letting out a contented groan as he shoveled a spoonful of the soup into his mouth. “Bes’ meat we’ve had ‘n days.”

“Only meat we’ve had ‘n days.” His wife corrected.

“Are you quite sure this army belongs to the Salishid?” Arlana asked as peasants had another spoonful of soup. She was beginning to regret going through the effort of catching a coyote in order to essentially bribe the pair into speaking to her. It would’ve been easier to simply threaten to have Carr eat them.

“Nope.” The peasant answered, an amused smile spread across his face. Arlana wasn’t quite sure what amused him so much. Was it her accent or mannerisms? “Bu’ they come from the Rainlands. Who else could they be?”

“You believe they are headed for Zar Vorgal?” Arlana pulled a map out of her bag. “Couldn’t they be headed to Zar Endal instead?”

“Mayhaps.” The peasant answered before bringing his bowl of soup up to his lips and tipping it back to drink.

“The guardsmen seemed certain they were headed our way.” His wife answered.

Arlana let out a soft sigh as she pondered the situation. If her understanding of the situation was correct, even if the tribe traveled with all due haste it would arrive at Zar Vorgal well after the battle had ended. Of course she wasn’t sure that fighting the Salishid at this point would be in her tribe’s best interests, so perhaps that was for the best. It did offer an interesting opportunity however. If they arrived shortly after the battle perhaps they could scrounge up some tools or weapons from the battlefield. How many more kukris or falcatas could they make with the metal left after a battle?

“Anything else we can do fer you miss?” The peasant asked as he rose to his feet, having finished his meal.

Arlana shook her head. “Thank you.” After a moment she added “You can have the pelt.”

“Fer real?” The peasant’s eyes light up. Arlana had barely nodded in confirmation before he had snatched up the pelt. He would need whatever goods he could scrounge up in order to start a new life with his wife. Wherever they decided to try and settle down.

Arlana watched as the peasant couple left, heading West. Once they were a good distance away she wrote a quick note and gave it to Gwri. “Take this to the chief.”

Gwri gave one happy bark before bounding off towards the West as well, although his destination took him on a more Southern route than the peasant couple. Arlana wouldn’t lead her tribe straight to Zar Vorgal. That would be too risky given how little she know. Zar Endal, however, could prove to be a good place to gather some more information.

From the east, the city was a black, twinkling darkness against the great wheel of stars.

A figure hunched down in the dust, waiting. His head and body were swathed in the robes of his house, his wiry arms braced with jagged lengths of chitin, and his eyes were invisible behind uneven glass lenses, clustered together like a horse spider’s. His garments fluttered in the empty night breeze, and he did not move, as he had not moved for more than an hour now.

His name was Eket-Ba, and he was a remover of men.

Time passed.

And passed.

The stars had moved another hand’s span before the tip of his blade snapped out, pinning the deathrattle scorpion through its back and dragging it from the sands. He lifted the weapon in a practiced, ritual gesture, dragging the twitching creature down the length of its blade, bisecting the stinger precisely and leaving a thick, drying trail along its edge.

He watched it slowly disappear, thinking.

---

Your fates, our fates, are now one.

The words turned themselves over and over in the Envenomer’s mind, and she was made restless with the repetition of it. She paced atop the stair of the amphitheater like a plague lynx in a gladiator’s cage, stepping distractedly over the unmoving body of one of Ordrosyn’s serving girls, turning a glass knife in her hands. Blood painted the stone steps and pooled down into the tiles, reflecting the moonlight with sickening clarity. The Lord’s remaining men watched her with surreptitious glances, holding their tongues.

“Trap,” she murmured to herself, pensively, “This is a trap.”

Tied to this city.

She was tied to nothing. Especially not this gilded tomb stuffed with the witless, the lost and the mad. But oh, the reaver had known just what to say, had he not? Known far, far too well.

“Who are you, truly... Finally.”

Malkut stopped pacing as the Ichor-Mage’s daughters hurried to the base of the stair, Eket-Ba’s hand firmly on her shoulder. She flinched backward with a muffled squeal as her foot spattered into the spreading puddle of gore. The girls’ bodies were bound in the stiff corsets which helped her stay upright, her inner hands clasped behind her backs, each supporting the other. One head turned to watch the Drathans over her shoulder, the other grimacing as she met the Envenomer’s gaze.

Malkut’s voice was unsettlingly kind.

“Children, I suggest you make the explanation you are about to give me especially creative.”

“I can explain everything,” lied Thriss. “...I think I’m going to be sick.” added Thressa, covering her mouth and scuffing blood from her boot.

“Where is he?” the lash-mother asked, still turning the glittering blade in her hands, “The Ichor-Mage. Where is he, instead of here?”

“-Father is…” one voice faltered, the other rallying “...Father is meditating.”

“Meditating,” repeated Malkut, her voice cracking, sharpening by degrees like breaking flint. She turned to the Drathan men, tossing up her hands. “Of course. Of course he’s meditating. This is the man who supposedly defeated the Goat-Kings by dropping mount Dagoth on top of them, but I’m afraid getting off his fat backside for something as trivial as your lives is too much for him. We do apologize. I suppose we should ask the Shashul to call off the war. What do you think?”

"Um."

“Did he not believe this was important, little one?” the Envenomer stepped forward, descending the stair toward her, “Did he not think that the presence of one of the most powerful sorcerers ever to walk the face of the desert MIGHT be of some use in preparing for the most vicious battle the Houses have ever seen?”

“I don’t know! Why do you think I know? He...” Thressa threw out her hands in protest, her sister-self comforting her as she protested. She shuffled back another step as the dark pool of blood continued to spread, speaking up, “Oh! He said there was something I should tell you...”

“Then tell me, you piping little slut, and you'd best hope I like what I hear, because I promise you, nobody’s going to notice another dead whore by tomorrow.”

They told her.

---

Malkut-Ba stood outside, at the foot of the Vaatru-El’s insectile caravan as the wind sighed like a hollow, wounded thing over the lantern-lit sands, a numb, distant look in her eyes. She had no idea how long she had been there before she became aware of the assassin's presence at her back. She didn't turn around.

“Get into position and do as I’ve said," she told him, voice dry. "We’re leaving the moment they breach the walls.”

Eket-Ba spread his hands and bowed, sidelong, stepping back and receding into the darkness. But he paused at the edge of the lanternlight, turning his head slightly.

“...What did the wizard say?” he croaked.

The matriarch drew in a slow breath through her nostrils. Her eyes turned to the night sky, and its glittering canopy of stars.

“He said: ‘All roads lead to Zar Vorgul’”

---

Eket-Ba lifted his head sharply as two of the greatflutes sang their melancholy dirge across the hissing, ethereal midnight sands, the third bringing a high, sharp note of intent, weaving a strange, alien harmony with the others. The insect-mounts of the Viitru-Ba reacted at once, hunching over and burrowing rapidly downward, kicking up sand over their bodies until they were buried completely.

The Vitruvian assassins checked their weapons one last time and followed suit, submerging themselves until there was nothing left of their presence, and the pitiless night wind blew over an empty ocean of dull, dark sand.

And the great wheel turned.

Olmo Da'at.

Vymar swatted the Rainlander's spear-tip away with the flat of his sword and took off the Salszi's head with his axe. Another came at him, screaming prayers to his gods as he lunged. The norseman sidestepped his attack and buried his blade in the soldier's heart, his sword biting hard through armored scales.

It was anarchy on the northern wall. A scene from Hell.

Towers wrought in the shape of feral Salizsi gods, their eyes flaming above gaping iron maws, disgorged an endless stream of Rainlanders into the melee all along the parapets.

Cannons thundered from Salished firing positions in the vast, dry plains beyond the walls. Zar Vorgul's thick stone ramparts cracked and buckled under the barrage, then- surreally- reassembled themselves, healed by enchantments weaved into them at their construction.

Drathan rockets screamed as they arced over the battlements, bursting over the Salished hordes in fiery stars raining shrapnel and flames and ichor-poisoned fumes.

The dawn air was thick with arrows and bullets and dust and smoke and insects driven mad by spellcraft; the sun glowed angry and dull red, half-hidden in the haze. The mingled reek of blood and sweat and gunpowder was nearly overpowering, with a strong, sour under-note of spent magic.

Vymar was fighting at the mouth of a siege-idol, where a mixture of Beast Kings and Cowards Men were meeting the Rainlander assaults with fury and steel. A Drathan master stood perfectly still among the defenders, eyes closed. Vymar had seen him kill at least two dozen enemies with his bare hands in the quarter of an hour since he'd arrived on the wall. Their bodies lay torn and broken at his feet. Even in the thick of battle, Vymar had a peculiar sense of foreboding...he wondered why the wizard was here, precisely- what was he waiting for?

The Arakkai struck before dawn, flooding silently into Zar Endal through the cracks, a seeping wound in the city walls. They marched quietly through dark alleys, spotting only the small folk, commoners that shuttered their windows rather than offering any challenge to the opposing force. These darker portions of the city where home to slaves and peasants, none of which thought to risk their necks for their overlords.

The touch-and-go guerrilla warfare honed in the mountain warriors by centuries of skirmishes with Drathans and Saliszi was put to use with great effectiveness as Cerys’s force neared the center. Guards were taken down without a whisper and the inner sanctums of the Drathan rulers breached without any alarm sounding, greatly thanks to their new ally Mahaad and his knowledge of quiet ways into the city.

Zar Endal’s leaders were caught sleeping, quite literally. Many were slaughtered in their beds, though four of the highest ranking were preserved and bound on Cerys’s orders. As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the last of these woke to smoky tendrils of shadow curling around their mouth and hands. The city had successfully been taken.

There was some trouble as the morning drew on and Drathans throughout the city attempted to organize their slave soldier battalions into a fighting force without the aid of their leaders, but these were subdued quickly thanks to the quick response from Roc mounted warriors and a powerful rumor spreading like wildfire through the ranks of Zar Endal’s remaining slave soldiers: the conquerer had come to free them all. Soon even these small knots of fighting died out, their instigators slain or imprisoned. All questions from the locals were put off. They would hear from their new ruler soon enough.



Later that morning, Cerys stood on a platform before the central tower of Zar Endal, her darksteel armor blood and dirt splattered, her silver hair down and tangling in the wind, vengeance incarnate. The city’s citizens were gathered before her and its fallen rulers bound and gagged behind her, each one strapped kneeling to the wooden planking. The Priestess had never before seen a crowd so still, so breathless, as if the scene was held in eery suspension, all parties waiting for someone to act. It was into this silence that she called out.

“Here there are no Lords!”

Stepping behind the first of the Drathan lordlings, Cerys summoned a dagger of shadow and slit his throat from ear to ear.

“These men and women once ruled over you. They bound your hands and feet in chains, they beat you, they starved you, they bred you.” She stepped over to the next official and carved him a new smile as well.

“To them, you were chattel! You were the labor that paid for their magic, their knowledge, their appetites.” She gripped the next Drathan by her long hair, baring her neck to the dagger’s cruel bite and plunged it in.

“You were the bodies that fell for their protection! You suffered, and for what? The pleasure of some sniveling lordling, some cowardly Drathan leader? Well, no longer!”

With a vicious yank, the priestess opened the jugular of the last Drathan, shoving him away from her and sending his blood pouring over the platform to mingle with that of his colleagues.

“Here there are no Slaves!”

Cerys stepped to the front edge of her perch, spreading her arms wide as if to envelop all those amassed before her, the dagger disappearing in the harsh light of the desert sun.

“Your chains have been struck and by all the gods in the Pantheon I swear to you today that they will not be bound again. You are free! Your life is yours to make of what you will, to build, to burn, to love, or to ravage. You are free! And you will serve the will of the Drathan Union no longer.”

The priestess dropped her arms and pointed to the ground at her feet, her pale face flushed with fervor.

“Here there is a place for you!

"Here there is a place and a purpose for all those who languish beneath the rule of the Drathan Empire, a life for the weary, the scarred, the downtrodden. Here you will be lifted up, given a place and the tools needed to secure the fall of our enemies and the unity of peoples and gods. Raise up your fists and your voices, friends, for we are not only the Unbroken but also the Breakers, the shapers of a not-so-distant Future!”

As the last ringing notes of her voice faded among the crowded bodies, Cerys pressed her right hand to her chest, exactly where she had pressed her blood and ichor offering a lifetime ago.

“My name is Cerys Shadowborne, Voice of the Wanderer, Defender of the Unbroken! Today I offer each and every one of you a place by my side, a place in Azoth’s hope for a better tomorrow. Who will stand with me?”

In the face of the silence before her, Cerys raised her right hand in a fist and called again, louder.

“Who will stand with me?”

The sound started as a low rumble, quickly gathering momentum as it spread throughout the ranks of the former slaves and commoners.

“Who will stand with me?”

All the air in Zar Endal was sound, a roar that shook the platform beneath Cerys’s feet and vibrated hearteningly in her chest. The Priestess dropped her hand and stared out at her people exultantly.

“Then stand, stand Unbroken, revel in your freedom! Drink! Dance! Tell tales of the glory of years to come, for tomorrow we prepare for war!”