At the village of Neme, in the east of the land, was a peculiar sight to behold. A structure of the ancient world; a tower of imposing height, fallen in ruinous disrepair, but never the less utilized by the horse lords of the plains as a watchtower. One such horse lord was there this day, and many riders with him.

Alvor sat atop his horse, peering through squinted eyes over the sunbathed grasslands that surrounded him. It was a great day; not a cloud as far as the eye could see, and a gentle breeze to cool the heat from the otherwise punishing sun. He could spot a few of the horses in the herd some distance away, almost obscured by a large hill. He turned to face the sun and closed his eyes, concentrating on the whispering sound and soft caress of the wind, and for a moment he was at peace. The moment didn't last, however.

He heard her approach before she spoke, but pretended not to. She came up right next to him and put a hand on his steed. It welcomed her touch.

"We're getting ready to move, my lord" she said, her voice as deep and rich as always. He had always admired her for that voice; had quite frankly been jealous of it. "The day is not getting any younger."

He smiled and slowly turned his face from the sun and towards her, opening his eyes and meeting hers. "And neither are we, Sparrow. Tell me, how long have we been doing this? And for how much longer must we go on?"

She returned his gaze, unwavering. "We have been doing it for as long as we've had to, and will continue doing it for as long as is required."

He chuckled, slowly nodding his head. "Ah, yes. Then tell me, why are we doing this? To what end?"

"We do it for our people, my lord. So that they are provided for, and so that others know not to step on them for fear of us." Her expression, he noticed, did not change throughout her answer. Neither did her tone. She meant what she said, believed every word.

"Very well," he sighed, turning his face towards the sun once more. "One final question. What are we doing?"

Sparrow cocked an eyebrow. "We are intercepting a caravan, my lord."

"And why is that?"

"They did not pay proper respects, nor toll, as they entered our lands, my lord. We're making sure they pay."

"And what will they pay, Sparrow?"

"Silver, if they can."

"And if they cannot?"

"Blood."

He smiled a sad smile. Of course. Blood.

He grasped the spear that he'd stuck in the earth next to him and held it high. "Tell them to mount up, Sparrow." he said, his eyes on the horizon. "We're going hunting."

She nodded in reply and quickly marched off towards the camp. It wasn't long before he heard the horns and the drums of war sounding behind him, and soon after, the thunder of hooves. As they moved out of the village, he looked once again to the blue skies above. For all of its innocence, he felt a red day was coming.

For the denizens of the Calemviri Mountains, it was just another ordinary day. It had begun just like every other. They had set about their daily routines as they had done so the day before and the day before that. And all across the mountain range everything was completely normal. Everything save for a single exception. Deep within Calemvir's Rest, the tallest mountain the Calemviri had to offer and home of the great beast the mountains were named for, the King Under the Mountain began to stir from his 3 seasons long slumber.

For as long as he could remember, Calemvir had loathed the summertime. The heat made him restless, and the restlessness made him hungry. For a while, Calemvir shut his eyes as tightly as he could in a desperate attempt to gain but 1 last moment of precious sleep. But alas, the heat was too much for Calemvir to bear. The dragon opened his eyes and let forth a terrible sound that was half-groan and half-yawn. "I hate summer" Calemvir grumbled as he lifted himself up off the giant pile of gold and jewels he had been sleeping on and began to survey his hoard to make sure nothing had been stolen. By the time he'd made certain everything was still there, the sound of a great many pairs of feet bearing their owners into the cavern met Calemvir's ears.

The dragon turned his head to regard his kobold servants. Most of the kobolds present carried crude fans with them, much to Calemvir's relief. Despite all their faults, kobolds were surprisingly good with those fans of theirs. "Ahhhhh" Calemvir said while relaxing on his great and glimmering pile of hoarded treasure as the kobolds commenced fanning him "Much better. All I need now is some fresh meat and some new additions to my hoard. With summer underway I assume that won't take long".
A kobold shaman stepped forward and bowed before speaking. "The raiding parties are preparing as we speak, my lord" the shaman said "They will take to their rafts with the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon".
"And with any luck, some of them will make it to the end of the river and reach the east side of the lake" Calemvir replied "Horses raised by mortals who have made them central to their lives always taste the best".

Come nightfall as the darkness became a hiding place for those who knew how to use it and a hindrance for those who didn't, the kobold raiders set out on their rafts in search of settlements near the river to raid for gold and meat for their draconic master. How far they would go down river would depend on how ambitious each raiding party was. The least ambitious would stick near the mountain and attack the weakest settlements while the most ambitious would try to make it to the lake and raid Lorea rather than Môrogoed. Summer had come to the Sunrise Lands, and kobolds were ready to meet it head on. For such was the will of their master.

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The last of the words left the mouth of the kneeling lord, and the hall was nearly silent, the sounds of celebration common in the rest of the city dull and unheard past the high stone halls of Sunhome castle. The grand hall graced King Tajic as well as his five lords, the last of whom stood after reaffirming the oath they made when they were made a lord. The party made their way from the quiet hall and ascended to a meeting room far away from what would be a busy hall on any other day. The war room, as it was oft called, was at the pinnacle of the fortress. Maps covered the walls and the center of the round room housed an equally round table where the lords moved to sit. King Tajic removed his gleaming golden crown and laid it on the table in front of him as he sat, while the lord of Ferlkeep removed the pelt he wore and hung it from his chair, and Lord Eydis set the maul she always carried against her seat as she slumped into her chair.

"We all know why we are here." Tajic began as he looked over his lords. They were a noble selection, among the finest examples of honor and justice, Tajic was proud and relieved to have them. His reign had not been long, only a few years since his father passed, and it had been quiet, but now a warm summer was arriving and it promised conflict. "We're here to decide who needs bashing this year." the lord of Ferlkeep said with an almost predatory tone. "Eloquent as ever Lord Ethan." Balson chuckled. The lords who reigned in the southern lands, Ethan Ferl was a fairly tall man, though his girth was more impressive. A skilled archer and decently skilled in the other forms of combat, his lands were, unlike the rest of the Boros domain, heavily forested and wild. Balson however stood out even more, his advanced age, large gut, and weak arms were not suited to a knight, so it was suiting that he was instead the head of the Church of Aurelia, his wit and charm well known. Tajic responded, "If the way of the Boros is to be protected, then those who would see us broken must be defeated, for a long time my father has kept us passive, his mercy unquestionable." At this the lords each nodded, either knowing the mercy of the last king first hand or through their fathers, "One must practice mercy and compassion, but know when they must end." Tajic quoted the holy texts, and once more a nod in agreement from most of the assembled lords.

"Those to the north practice Aurelia's Truth, but to the west and south we still face yearly raids from riders and centaurs alike." Lord Ignan state. He was the spitting image of nobility, with a long thin body, angular features, and golden hair. Some have suggested his bloodline has a hint of elf though no proof of this has come to be. Ignan lorded over the eastern lands, and has ruled in a notably fair and noble fashion, "However we cannot march south without running the risk of war with Chelodon..." "Murdering centaurs is nothing new to me, Ferlkeep will hold out another year and many more!" Ethan boasted, Ignan, clearly flustered, regains his footing, "Which leaves the west, and the raiders who have oft made trade impossible with the western kingdoms." "Bout time we deal with them, They've been a bother fer too long." Lord Malota stated with evident disdain. "You must deal with less than half of them." Lord Uther said. Tajic watched as Malota, the Lord of the north western farmlands, stared at the lord of the lands directly south of her. Malota was a tall proud woman, though slow to trust and quick to anger, and she looked at Uther with such intensity as if to slay him where he sat. "I merely speak the truth." He said after a moment. Uther was the tallest one in attendance, a mountain of a man. He was blunt in his words but kind even to the smallest and least, and was well regarded by those under him.
Everyone saying their peace Tajic continued, "We will assemble our forces, and when our armies are ready we shall march on Lorea."

The capital of Skræling was a buzz with activity, as the morning shone over the kingdom of the north beyond the mountains that bordered them to the south. The capital was almost as busy as a colony of bees as various peoples ranging from the typical Svellgotar both male and female mingled with one another as well with their Alfr brethren in the capital. Today was the current meeting of the various clan leaders and the Hargramr to discuss clan decisions that needed to be made from trade, boundary disputes, and other issues that troubled the kingdom. In the center of the city was a well fortified castle that sat high amongst the already tiered city. Inside of it was the hustle and bustle of the many dukes, counts, and clan heads inside.

Inside the grand hall of Castle Svertingsson the long table of the clans were currently full with all the heads of the clans and divisions of the kingdom were sat discussing. At the head of the table sat the Hargramr, King of all Kings, Clans, King of Skræling. The Hargramr was a large man in height and in size as well as he sat in the rather ornate chair that had been passed throughout the various former kings. The chair had remained in the city of Geirvor for the past one hundred years thanks to his forefather's actions in the past. The man at the front of the table was a red haired and bearded man by the name of Njal Svertingsson.

He looked out across the table watching the other clans continue their chats for the day, he was seen as the deciding factor in all discussions if a compromise could not be met by either sides. Down the line he watched as his fellow Svellgotar speak to one another. It was a common place for issues to be solved by a fight or brawl in the earlier days both during and before the empire had fallen. He simply kept his eyes on those who spoke, he had a few clans leaders who were less than cordial with him due to decisions he had to make. But, that came with the politics of clans.

However, the kingdom had been in almost a decade of peace with the current borders and raiding policies they had in place. But, Njal knew the peace would not last forever with the disparity of riches between clans. Especially with raids south of the mountains into the former elven empire. Njal would have to deal with this sooner or later, before the elves in the south could actually unite and fight back. Though, he knew they would not be ignorant enough to attack them or go on the offensive, it was a waiting game at this point.

A pair of kobold scouts crept quietly through the forest near the banks of the river. The rest of their raiding party were 2 beats of a dragon's wings behind them. They had been sent ahead to make sure the way was clear of any danger and if it wasn't, that the raiding party knew about it before they got themselves killed walking into a trap. So far the night had been uneventful. The forest was silent, the water was calm, and there wasn't a single hint of danger in sight. The kobold scouts were beginning to wonder if their job was necessary at all. Then a pair of familiar scents met their noses.

The 1st scout to catch the scent suddenly stopped his partner and began sniffing at the air. "Do you smell that" the 1st scout asked.
The 2nd scout took a moment to sniff the air before replying. "Elf flesh and...the master's breath? Here?" he said "But he hasn't left the mountains in millennia".
"I think I know why that is" the 1st replied before moving towards the source of the scent, the 2nd scout following close behind.

When the scouts arrived at the scents source, the 1st scout's suspicion had been confirmed. There they found several elves standing around a great pyre. They carried with them a flame that was nothing like the fires produced by the hands of mere mortals. The scouts looked at each other. They knew what this place was. They knew what had taken place here. They knew what that pyre was. And most importantly, they knew what lighting that pyre meant. "We must return to the rafts" the 1st scout said as the the pyre was set ablaze "We must let the others know. The elves wish to discuss tribute".

Evening. The sun was setting, the sky turned a reddish orange where once it had been clear and blue. The air was thick with smells of grass and horses, as well as the fires burning around the camp. The party of warriors had settled down for the night, a small spot of light in a sea of darkness. Sounds of quiet conversation mingled with the soft breathing and neighing of the horses, and a lone singer carried a tune throughout the gathered crowd, but apart from that all was silent.

Sparrow sat looked at the fire, poking at it with a stick. She could feel Alvors gaze upon her from across the flames, but didn't meet his gaze. She knew what was coming, and it frustrated her. Lord or not, he could be quite bothersome at times. Besides, she didn't feel like speaking. Then again, she reckoned she'd have to before the night was over. Finally he broke the building tension.

"You do not agree with my decision today." he said. For once it was not a question. She still did not meet his gaze.

"I do not." she replied.

"What did you not agree with?" There you go. He just couldn't help himself. Sparrow closed her eyes and took a deep breath before answering.

"I do not think we should have let them go without paying." She thrust hard at the burning logs, sending up a crackling little cloud of sparks.

"I do not understand. As I recall, they did pay us." he droned. She grimaced at that.

"In silver, yes."

"Then I do not understand what it is that upsets you." But she knew that he knew all too well. He would have her spell it out non the less.

She put the stick in the fire, put her hands on her knees and looked him right in the eyes. His face was calm, searching. She was aware that others were listening now, but did not care. Let them hear her question him. Let them hear her speak the truth they all knew too well. She was his second, and as such the only one who could do it. Damn it, it was her duty.

"It was not sufficient, Alvor. They got away too cheap."

"But they did not have more to spare. You were there, Sparrow. You heard their master." As if she hadn't.

"They should have paid in blood, then."

He frowned. "Even after giving us what silver they could spare?"

She was losing her temper now. "Yes! As I said, it was not enough! First they disrespect our land and people by not paying homage and toll, as is customary. Then, when caught red handed, they moan about not having enough, further solidifying their position. We were righteous in our claim, and would have been righteous still to demand more of them! They will not respect us in the future if they can get away with slights such as this!"

More people were watching and listening now. She knew that many of the warriors agreed with her. She had heard the disappointed murmurs when they'd left the caravan behind without even half the bounty they'd set out to get. Alvor was silent a long time before he replied, a frown still on his face.

"Righteous, yes. But would we have been gracious?"

"Gracious?" she spat, "Why would we want to be graci-" He held up his hand, and she quit speaking in an instant.

"Let me finish." he said, now speaking not only to her but to all the nearby listeners, "Lady Aurelia teaches justice and harshness against those that are wicked, yes. But does she not also teach mercy and forgiveness against those who fail us?"

"I do not see how that is of any concern to us now." Sparrow retorted with a snort.

"Then let me put it like this. The master of the caravan was new to his trade. He has not come this way before and has not met us before. He might have known of the toll and our customs, but may also not have known how to, or where to, find us. If we had taken our due in blood today, what would he have learned? What news would he have given his countrymen back east? Perhaps that we are ruthless barbarians who steal and kill. What might he instead have learned from our mercy today? Hopefully that we Loreans are hard but fair in our dealings with others, and that paying the toll is worth the price. Do you understand my meaning?"

She tried to hold his gaze, but couldn't. She was still frustrated, but not because she didn't agree with him. He was right; he was always right, damnit, and now he'd made her make a fool of herself in front of all the others. Then again, many of the gathered seemed to shared her thoughts as they too looked away in shame or quiet contemplation.

"Yes" she admitted, "I understand your meaning."

He nodded and smiled. "This pleases me. Now, as they've payed the toll and homage, we are obliged to guide and protect them for as long as they tread our soil. Sparrow, I want you to take a dozen riders and intercept the caravan once more. Offer your services to them and speak for them when they encounter the other tribes. Return to Neme once you've seen them on their way."

Not letting me off easy, are you? "Yes, my lord. Your will be done."

It was the early part of the night in the Southern Mountain Pass, just south of the Kingdom of Skræling. The land for centuries had been contested between the native Svellgotar and the "Alfr" peoples, or more so commonly known as the elf. The Svellgotar made it known they were prideful that the Elves had never been able to truly conquer their lands and make them submit. The Svellgotar even centuries ago raiding from the northern most coast of the region. Now though with the decline of their power they had begun expanding beyond their current protection of the mountains. Their raiding going to the seas, and beyond the mountains to return with treasures from the abandoned castles of old. And, that's just what had happened again today with a successful conquest of a remnant castle in the valley. The elven defenders easily slain and defeated by the Svellgotar forces.

In the midst of the night an orange and red glow could be seen as a beacon in the night, as the sounds of music, drinking, and celebration could be heard. A war band of roughly over a thousand men both Svellgotar and Alfr alike around the fires of the camps. They had conquered yet another castle left over by the remnants of the old elven empire from long ago. The main source of the party was created by the leader of the war band. A man more than likely in the prime of his raiding life in his mid twenties. His long blonde hair tied up into a pony tail to keep it out of his eyes in combat, light stubble on his face as he drank to his hearts content.

He was the heir to Fjallmark province, whose father was occupied with business in Skræling's capital. Styrmir Skardsson, was a tall man of average build. He knew his way around his horse and arrow, a unique skill amongst his men who were more suited for heavy and light infantry. But, his maneuverability on the battlefield allowed him to command well. He was busy downing a drink and enjoying the music of the Mikilalfr who had brought their instruments for the celebration, even testing out some instruments they had found in the castle. Each man was allowed to keep the share they had found. Though his attention was diverted when he saw a messenger approach him, a younger fresh faced male.

"My lord. We have reports of a caravan located a bit south of our current location." He said with youth in his voice as he laid out a map marking their location. From what Styrmir could tell they were close to the border of some sort of remnant kingdom to the south of them. Some sort of nation called Môrogoed. He could see by the scouts map that the caravan was just barely outside of the borders of Môrogoed in basically "no man's land."

"Does the caravan carry their colors at all?" The blonde heir asked his young scout, the scout shaking his head, informing him of they carried colors of no one they had on records. Stymir pondered for a moment, analyzing the situation, they were clearly outside of their borders, and any problems and or consequences fell onto them.



Stymir looked at his comrades, and sounded the horns, rousing them to grab their arms. However, he only took a small group of raiders to come with him. Only about 300 strong to go and take the caravan, Stymir leading the raiding band on his horse as the Svellgotar raider's moved south to the caravan. In the shade of night, and with the element of surprise they killed those in the caravan, but those who ran they allowed to flee. The raid was a success as they burnt the wood of the caravans, taking the supplies and goods they carried, and laying the bodies respectfully off the road for those to come back and collect.

By the time the sun rose, Stymir returned with his band richer than before with those goods he collected with his raiders. The caravan was left with ash and coals, and the dead laying there peacefully. Stymir leading his raiders back north to home.

“Oh do play it again!” Domen cried in elation from his place of pride upon the rooms tawdry throne. The lord of Brestvid had, for the fifth time this month, filled his great hall with entertainers of every conceivable profession. At the moment he was encouraging a notably awful harpist, much to the dismay of his court. Domen’s taste in all things was garish, but no appetite for luxury or prestige could account for the lords musical preferences, which could best be described as the screeching of harpies and snapping of strings. His long suffering heir Henrik, a man of twenty three, had adopted the placid expression of one so accustom to eccentricity that even the most egregious and unsettling displays failed to impress any longer.

As the harpist, a blond woman with a broad smile far more pleasing than her work, finished her ‘song’ it was Henrik who spoke, “A fine display, thank you. Father, now that the last act has acquitted themselves as well as any who preforms for you justly should I feel the time has come to address the concerns of the day. Do you not agree?”

Domen nodded, but made a laughably poor show of concealing his displeasure. With a very nearly pitiable forgery of a smile he replied, “Of course, of course. We shall reward the performers and send them on their way. I call upon the court, let us hear what maladies plague our little slice of the realm today. What urgent happenings demand my precious attention and so on.”

If the exhaustion of having to run his fathers demesne and still tolerate the man showed on Henrik’s face there was not a soul that would attest to it. The performers filed out of the hall in an orderly manner and as the various couriers and advisors of the land took their place Domen leaned back in his bejewelled abomination, looking to be wholly exhausted before the work of the day had even begun.

With an indolent gesture from his lord the first of the days couriers stepped up, “My lord Domen Furlan, I bring news from the east. Lord Lovro Kolar is dead, having passed away in his sleep. Without a son his eldest daughter Jelena Kolar has assumed his place as the great lord of Senja. She sends her regards and inquires if it is your desire to send a delegation to her fathers departure ceremony in two weeks time.”

Domen had perked up when he heard that Lovro Kolar was dead, but after that the plump man returned to his lazy repose. With a grunt from his father as his cue Henrik replied somberly, “We are deeply saddened by this news. Let the new mistress of Senja know that we will do as she suggests and assemble a delegation to attend the departure ceremony of her father and our friend.”

Henrik paused for a moment, the beginnings of a wicked smile breaking through his affected melancholy, “In fact, inform the mistress that I will personally attend. Senja has always been a friend to us.”

The courier bowed deeply and departed, but as the next courtier approached Domen eyed his son cautiously. That, the old man reflected, was not something he’d have expected. Domen and Henrik disagreed on most everything these days, but neither of them had possessed anything but the dimmest opinion of Lovro. If his son thought Domen an oaf, then Henrik's opinion of the deceased Lord Lovro Kolar, to whom he owed no familial affection, would have been far too crass to put into words.

His son was up to something, of that were was little doubt.

After several days of travel, Monychos’ journey was finally over. He had started out from his father’s holdings on the far eastern side of Chelodonian territory. While the centaurs who lived upon the northern plains in Chelodonia technically swear fealty to the Grand Duke, for generations now, they enjoyed great autonomy in their own internal affairs, with the House of Magnesios wielded the most influence amongst the horse nation.

As I have already mentioned, to the west of Chelodonia lies a nation of centaurs, Kyrennos. While the centaurs who dwell within the borders of Chelodonia have more in common with the ruffians of the Plains of Kyrennes to the North, centaur nobility still made the trek to the urban heartland of the empire in the hopes of maintaining a cordial relationship with their city-dwelling brethren.

Monychos’ journey had him cross eastward until his company had reached the Bay of Arioce, the western inlet that separated much of Chelodonia from Kyrennos. After spending the night, Monychos followed the shore of the bay until he had reached the land border. There, the Chelodonians had stationed border patrols as their first line of defense, if one would ever be needed. Once Monychos had been cleared, his band of travelers crossed over into Kyrennan soil.

Before they reached the city proper, Monychos stopped to change into attire more fitting for Kyrennos. Otherwise, these so-called ‘civilized’ centaurs would turned their noses at him for being a bestial savage who ran around the plains naked like a wild horse. Yet there was a reason why horses do not wear clothes: the layers of fabric in the usual attire for a citizen of Kyrennos would make performing even the simplest of tasks quite difficult. His herd back home did not have little goblins for menial labor.

After Monychos had finished changing into proper attire, he and his followers continued on the final stretch of their trek, until they reached their final destination: Kyrennopolis. There, Monychos had business to attend to. And so begins the next chapter of the crisis in this dark time.

With a monthly tribute from the elves of Môrogoed secured and safe passage along the river guaranteed, the entire kobold raiding fleet made its way to the lake that separated the elves from the half-elves. Upon arrival, the kobolds brought their rafts together to form a floating campsite on Môrogoed's side of the lake. With a base of operations established, the kobolds began making preparations. Under the cloak of darkness, the kobolds intended to send raiding parties across the lake and into Lorea. There they would then seize meat and treasure from where ever such things could be found, before crossing back over the river to Môrogoed by the 1st light of day to send their loot back to the mountains. Nightfall wouldn't be for some time yet, so the kobolds had time to think about where they would look for raiding targets. According to both the initial scouting reports and general kobold superstition, targets that were further to the east were harder yet more rewarding. The least experienced raiding parties weren't planning to put to much distance between themselves and the lake. The more experienced raiding parties planned on hitting Lorea's central regions. Only the most experienced raiding parties would attack the eastern plains. There was also talk among the veteran raiders of making an attempt on the trade caravan passing through the area and the large group of mounted soldiers who were probably led by someone worth a hefty ransom.