---

Mirza Jafaroglu, a warlord of the Üar-og Emirate rides over the virgin soil and grassy hills of western Upstream Gardonia, at his back a multitude of rows of monster and man. The Beys of the Tzücomen lands have crossed the treacherous slopes and trails that line the Pyrünüs mountains, each leading their own clans into cohorts. The Gnülonlar savages of the northern wastes spanning from Transtulania to Dathanar, and amid them many other absorbed and conquered peoples.

‘’This issuh Gardonois, mon Mirza.’’ Says Lanfranjean Benencase with a thick Gardonian accent. He is a defector from Wulfram’s border outposts, many guards of whom have opted to join the invading Transtulanian warlord over being utterly ravaged and despoiled by mindless gnolls. Lanfranjean is a hunchback with red disheveled hair and a lump of sagging skin covering his right eye.
‘’We-uhh shoulda expectois zhe armée du Wulvram any time soone.’’ The honourless hunchback henchman speaks to Jafaroglu, galloping his white pony in a swift trot by the warlord’s side. ‘’Wid all zhe villáges zhat had been pilláged, zhe local armée must hav been made awares.’’
Jafaroglu grunts affirmatively, pretending to understand what the Hunchback is saying. In truth he is very poorly versed in foreign speech, being able to speak but a single Transtulanian dialect. He therefore keeps a multilingual interpreter as part of his retinue, whispering into his left ear, even to the fields of war.
His army of some twenty thousand men, beasts and creatures move on as Lanfranjean continues to use his single useable eye to scan the horizon for sign of the local lord’s banner.

---

“Sauvages.” On the other side of the battlefield on a hill dominating the battlefield, Etinivien Christofalde looked in his spyglass, the large and expensive well ornamented golden piece of equipment mounted on a tripod. The man wore a magnificent and chique uniform along with the most fanciful of tricorn hat adorned with plumes of exotic birds.

In front of them, a horde of unwashed barbarians grossly the same color prepared to attack them. This irked the Daywalker who had a love of symmetry and aesthetics. But then again, these savages would be blown to pieces into a modern work of ‘Art-Chaotique’ by his artillery so it wasn’t that bad. No, the worst part was when he removed his eye from the spyglass to look at his own forces. Some wore a similar uniform to his, others another kind and others still were just a step above those he faced. The army of Wulfram seemed indeed to include very little of his sons and daughters!

Truth was, Christofalde and his ilk were part of a compromise solution by Favored Daughter Hildegund. For the invading army this was barely understandable, that nation on the continent with the most professional warrior per habitant would be so paralyzed to deal with an invading force, but for him it was part of the usual business. Strigoi feared nothing, nothing but an equally fearless and powerful opponent, so, nothing but each other. Which was why this whole ‘Miranid Invasion’ was only a sideline to them, a little annoyance to be bribed for it to go away while they schemed against each other.

Hildegund was a practical woman who prefered to use a minimum of resources to deal with a problem. While she would have prefered to bribe Miran directly like she did with Amrea so he’d begone, truth was this would send the wrong message to the other neighbors of the Realm. Paying Amrea, the most powerful nation on the continent, the eternal enemy, for peace was one thing, but if any upstart warlord found wealth in the Realm there would be no end to this.

Thus, the present situation. Twenty three thousand men, mostly mortals, tasked to end this little rampage and return business as usual. This was kind of insulting really, Christofalde had the largest mercenary army of the realm, some eleven thousand men, more than enough to defeat an army of savages exhausted after crossing the mountains, but Hildegund had been extremely clear that she wanted thus crushed, no surprise defeat or unexpected outcome. Well… he found solace in the fact he was still being paid his full tariff. She hadn’t even tried to negotiate.

‘’Mon capitan!’’ Shouts one of the watchmen of Christofalde’s host.
‘’Zhey are coming!’’
Indeed, the bark and clamour of gnoll and beast echoed over the fields as the interlopers advanced swiftly towards them, now clearly within sight and aim of Gardonian artillery. Split divisions of the savage horde had been manoeuvring from the north and the south to beset the Gardonian hill from three directions. Thousands and thousands of them streaming over the valleys!

‘’Scatter Üalfrum’s pathetic slave army! Those halfman vampire-thralls are undeserving being called men, for they willingly live like sheep, where we live like LIONS. We shall now show them the wild pride of FREE MEN!’’ Jafaroglu cries in his own dialect, so that only a fraction of the mostly foreign-army could understand, yet by the forceful way spoken, all men and beasts could easily guess what the Mirza wills of them. The warlord raises a pistol and fires a shot into the air. ‘’Charge!’’

The archaic Tzücomen cavalry, primarily armed with javelins, bows and arrows, charge the frontlines, firing their projectiles as they ride while the Gnülonlar swarm the neglected north and south flanks of the Gardonian host.
Before the shock infantry even reached the enemy, other Gnülonlar formed up down the hill, armed with all manner of ranged weaponry from crude matchlock muskets to slings. There they indiscriminately fire shots, bolts and fling rocks into the enemy as much as they do into their fellow gnolls.

“As expected.” Answered a smirking Etinivien. “Artillerie! Distance Maximum! Feux!” The larger cannons fired their ordinance at the incoming onslaught as they passed the distance markers already in place. “Rockets, Feux!” The enemy advanced rapidly but now was time to try something new in Christofalde’s arsenal. Amrean rocket artillery! It may sound dramatic, especially for an old worlders, but these were wooden frames with rocket propelled arrows with at their tips, small amounts of explosives. The 3 constructs began firing their payload but soon after, screaming was heard in the ranks.

“Feux! Feux feux feux!” Looking away from his spyglass in annoyance, Etinivien saw something what would be comedic if it happened to any men but his own. One of the rockets had been stuck in the device! Trying to unjam it, it had become loose and fell on the ground, creating a small explosion downing 3 men. But it wasn’t the end of it as soon after, the entire area was covered by a cloud of smoke as the reserve ammunitions were ignited, destroying the engine and its remaining non fired rockets!

The incompetence! Looking for the responsible, the artillery master covered his face with shame. Still, the remaining, more reliable artillery, did what it could to weaken the enemy. “Graaah! No matterz! Send in zhe skirmisherz to cover zhe flanks!” After a quick acknowledgement, a soldier sounded for the skirmishers to engage and on the south, there was a rumble of hooves… But nothing from the north. Christofalde had to turn his eyes to the skirmishers, part of another company than his own to see him point at the enemy with incomprehension. “You’ree skirmisheurz! Skirmish for Moon’z sake!” The commander screamed at the top of his lungs. The captain of the lesser mercenary company sent him a look filled with resentment, thinking the man nominally in charge was an imbecile trying to get him killed.

This battle which seemed to be nothing but a series of blunders and communications problem continued, getting all the more ridiculous and frustrating for the man in charge as it went. What a ‘gachis’ he thought, for all these problems, the mercenaries did a superb job whenever they actually did what they were meant to, having a superiority of equipment especially in the form of artillery and heavy armor, even with some mages to cause significant casualties to the enemy! Further more when the second wave of humanoids engaged, after the gnolls were butchered, a lot of them actually switched side! The fools had enrolled Gardonians in their armies, no doubt promising them freedom from Strigoi rule but after spending some times with these savages they had began to have second thoughts.

In the end, the mercenary ensembled was battered, much more than it should have been when facing a relatively inferior enemy as they had today, but they can sense victory. The gnolls and horsemen had been repulsed, and the enemy infantry had been coerced into a disorganized withdrawal, demoralized by rampant death and the soaring blasts of Gardonian artillery.

However, all men could then also sense a reverberating quake through the valley, and the faint braying of trumpets beyond the hills… The most damningly piercing of which coming from a great horn drafted onto the battlefield.

---

It was a carnage, or rather a devastating stampede followed by a decisive en masse surrender of the mercenary army. The Miranids rounded up prisoners while Lanfranjean was given Christofalde, for him to do with as he pleased. The hunchback was beating the mercenary leader’s face to a blue and blotched mess while tirading: ’’Zhis is what you get for getting all zhe wimmen, pretty boy! Where iz your 'andsome pretty face now?!’’

Meanwhile Mirza Jafaroglu and his gryphon flew over the red field to observe today’s dead. A scowl formed on his face: for every Gardonian felled, there were at least three Gnülonlar or Tzücomen. Worse yet, of those Gardonians dead none of them were Strigoi and but a few were daywalkers. It was a diversion, as much as his own army had been. Nevertheless, these vampire-slaves had pulled fate’s short straw this day.
Looking over his shoulder, a titanic beast is casting its vast shadow to encompass this valley of death, the selfsame to whom is owed his victory. The numbed Gardonian prisoners are overcome by feelings of fear and awe both; it is seldom they had seen such a godly monstrosity. Though is it the beast for whom the mercenaries of Wulfram cower, or more the menacing specter of regalty perched atop the beast’s head, clutching a radiant flaming sword...

The Meiyo Kaitukukai 16th assembly
Location: rumored to be Yakumo or Oketo

Passage taken from Hideki Tojo, party leader of the Nationalist Movement, as he radio broadcast his speech the after the title “Shogun Emperor” was reformed throughout Kitagawa.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the young and the old, the meek and bold, lend me your ears…. 60 years have passed since the unhappy day when the Yamato people, blinded by promises from foes at home and abroad, lost touch with honor and freedom, thereby losing all. Since that day of dishonorable victory, Hachiman has withheld his blessing from our people. Dissension and hatred descended upon us. Bushido broken and defiled. With profound distress millions of the best Yamato men and women from all walks of life have seen the unity of the nation vanishing in a blink of an eye, dissolving in a confusion of political and personal opinions, economic interests, ideological differences, and the slaving nature of the Yllendyr. Since that day, as so often in the past, the Kitagawa Shogunate has presented a picture of heartbreaking disunity. We had never received equality, fraternity, and justice ever since the day the Shogun Emperor was executed. We lost our liberty to boot when we grow tolerate of the sufferings of our fellow countrymen when they were put in chains of Naerzo the Defiler. For when our nation lost its political place in the world, it soon lost its unity of spirit and will…

We are firmly convinced that the Yamato people entered the fight in 1832 without the slightest hesitation on its part and filled only with the desire to defend the Home Island which had been attacked by foreign aggressors and to preserve the culture, nay, the very existence, of the Yamato people. This being so, we can only see in the disastrous fate which has overtaken us since those dying days days of 1841 the result of our collapse at home. But the rest of the world, too, has suffered no less since then from overwhelming injustice. The balance of power which had evolved in the course of history, and which formerly played no small part in bringing about the understanding of the necessity for an internal solidarity of the nations, with all its advantages for trade and commerce, has been set on one side. The insane argument of the Yllendyr being the wielders of civilization is hypocritical when they are practitioners of slavery, executioners of surrendered belligerents and ignorant of our people’s customs and religion.

Please! People of the Kitagawa, open your eyes! The misery of our people is horrible to behold! The chaos gripping the Shogunate, the millions of the industrial proletariat are unemployed and starving; the whole of the middle class and the small artisans have been impoverished, the fruits born from the burden of being a Yllendyr servant. When this collapse finally reaches the Yamato peasants, we will be faced with an immeasurable disaster. For then not only shall a nation collapse, but a two-thousand-year-old inheritance, some of the loftiest products of human culture and civilization. This cannot continue…

All about us the warning signs of this collapse are apparent. The anti-monarchist revolutionists of Avalia with its method of madness is inspiring a powerful and insidious attack upon our dismayed and shattered nation and divine Shogun Emperor. It seeks to poison and disrupt in order to hurl us into this epoch of chaos.... This negative, destroying spirit spared nothing of all that is highest and most valuable. Beginning with the family, it has undermined the very foundations of morality and faith and scoffs at culture and business, nation and belonging, justice and Bushido. 60 years of Yllendyr have ruined the integrity Kitagawa Shogunate; one year of revolution would destroy her. The richest and fairest territories of the world would be turned into a smoking heap of ruins. Even the sufferings of the current decade could not be compared to the misery of a Avalia in the heart of which the red flag of destruction had been hoisted. The execution of the entire royal family, both child and adult, should be a warning of the storm which would come. We must defend our Home Island and the Shogun Emperor from the insidious forces of revolutionary thought and the tyrannical regime of the Yllendyr.
In those hours when our hearts were troubled about the life and the future of the Yamato nation, it is to struggle for freedom once more, in unity and loyalty, for the salvation of the Kitagawa nation. This time the front lines are at home. The venerable Shogun Emperor Eikou has already burdened himself with this noble endeavor. And as the leader of the Meiyo Kaitukukai, I vow to the Shogun Emperor, to my conscience, and to my people that I will faithfully and resolutely fulfill the task conferred upon us. I will help restore stability and honor to our people and I call upon you to do the same.

Show no fear for you are a Yamato! The blood of Samurai and the countless martyrs that died flow through you. When the time has come, we, the Meiyo Kaitukukai, will march on Nankyo and liberate the oppressed, the beaten, and the enslaved. The Yllendyr have overstayed their presence; their puppets corrupt and incompetent. We will free the Yamato, the Home Island, and the Shogun Emperor from the clutches of wanton greed and exploitation!”

February 7th, 4901 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
Altairis, Yllendyr Crownlands

“Start from the beginning.” Had’zrad leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressed together in exactly the way one does when trying to seem interested in a religious ceremony when they’re really thinking about their new girlfriend.

“We…. were part of the exploration guild. It was our first expedition into the sewers under Altairis. We had no Idea what we were getting into, we swear.” Phalthuun was shaking, buried beneath a blanket roughly the consistency of the average mammoth hide, only it probably smelled a lot better. Phalthuun, however, cared not for how the blanket smelled, for the presence of the armed guards beside him who had arrested him for climbing nearly naked out of a manhole hours earlier brought him a degree of comfort unbeknownst to the average Imperium rabble. Phalthuun was lucky to be alive.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” decreed Had’zrad, who began to scribble some notes onto a piece of paper that only probably had anything to do with the ravings of the mentally scarred explorer, “I’ve heard the goblins down there are utterly savage monsters. It was probably foolhardy to expect anything could be gained from trying to comprehend them. No sane man seeks to understand madness.”

-Seven weeks earlier-

Oreila was utterly extatic. It had only been three days since her grant ran through and she was able to assemble her first expeditionary team. Despite the warnings and concern of her colleagues, the only thing Oreila could think at the very moment she displaced the manhole cover was what fantastical wonderland of sub-elven cretins she was about to elevate into civilization.

Her guard captain, Phalthuun Adszraadh, was the first to descend the long ladder into the sewers beneath the bustling market district of the city of Altairis. The echoing sound of his confirmation that the main access line seemed clear of hostile parties was the dinner bell for the six others in the crew besides Oreila to begin their descent into the labyrinth of waste tunnels wherein it was understood that a great many goblins dwelt. Of the party, only one, the cartographer, had any sense of where they would be going.

“Four crosslines down is where we found the first excavation.”

The cartographer’s directions were gibberish to Oreila, who was an anthropologist, not a civil engineer. Therefore, it only made sense to trust their guide, and true to his word, after a short walk down a fetid pipe with a flowing cesspit of putrid sewage slowly dribbling along mere inches from their feet on the walkway, they found a hole. The hole itself seemed crudely mined, with a great many jagged edges and with few support beams. The two guardsmen whose names weren’t Phalthuun, and whose ranks weren’t captain were ordered to assist in clearing the great many cave-ins that dotted the snaking tunnel. The path itself ran for what felt like at least a mile until it opened into a sizable cavern which, by conventional geology, probably shouldn’t be possible.
The cavern’s geography was the least notable feature of the area, however, as standing roughly in the middle of the clearing was a small, childlike simian figure.

The most perplexing thing about this creature was that no matter how many times they called to it, it would only momentarily notice them. Immediately afterwards, it woud get distracted by the dripping of water, the presence of some rat or insect, or simply its gaze would gradually drift upwards until it was entranced by the very presence of a ceiling above its head. Every time it would see the explorers again, it would be just as surprised as it was the very first time it saw them. Never in roughly a one-minute period did it approach them, until Oreila brought out the candy bar.

The producing of the small chocolate treat seemed to get the creature’s attention in a new and profound way. Its crooked and hilariously long nose oscillated rapidly as the thing wobbled its way over to Oreila in a childlike manner. It stopped once its nose was only a few inches from the candy bar, which respectively was pierced on the end of a short spear that only seconds before had been carried by one of the guards whose names were not Phalthuun and… you get it.

“Hey little monster! Do you want a sweetie?” Oreila’s voice was such that any elven child would’ve immediately seen through her half-assed attempt at masking her prejudice.

“Dazza fud?” Belched the creature.

“Oh my! You possess the affinity for language! Do you have a name?” Oreila’s suddenly honest curiosity was equaled by those others, who crammed their heads of various sizes and baldnesses beside each other in exactly the way canned sardines might take a selfie. This more facilitated everyone’s discomfort than an actually genuine improvement on their ability to see the creature. Out of raw fear of the unknown, nobody really cared that much.

“Dazza fud? Iz a eet?” Elaborated the creature, growing increasingly curious but still seemingly cautious enough of the elves so as not to do anything too brash.

“Yes, you can eat…” Oreila was cut off by the near instantaneous chomping of the creature onto the chocolate bar exactly a quarter of a picosecond after the word ‘yes’ was pronounced. The force of the creature’s bite significantly deformed the spearhead. The creature didn’t even chew it, simply swallowed it, licked its lips, and then immediately turned to walk away.

Oreila insisted that the party follow the creature as it began travelling along another snaking tunnel that led out of the cavern. All the while the rest of the party was trailing many meters (and maybe a few yards) behind the diminutive goblinoid, Oreila was enthusiastically interrogating it. Over the course of about 20 minutes, she was able to deduce that it was some form of small goblin called a “grem”, its name was “Igglesplunt”, and it thought the candy bar tasted worse than a hat, but better than “soup”, which she came to understand was their word for anything they found in the sewer water.

Around the time the epiphany about the meaning of soup graced Oreila’s mind, they entered another cavern that was aglow with activity. A virtual horde of grems were awork toiling, constructing some form of statue which resembled an elf, but insofar as someone who had only ever heard descriptions of elves could possibly construct an effigy of such a being. The visage of the statue, which was composed of a great many pieces of trash, sections of dirt, what looked to be actual mortar, farming equipment, and a few grems accidentally nailed into place both flattered and appalled the party. It was only shortly after discussing exactly how blasphemous this statue was when the second guard whose name wasn’t Phalthuun (here forward to be referred to as guard #2) noticed that Igglesplunt had disappeared into the mass of gremlins who were constructing the elf statue.

The ramifications of this were that the party began to attempt communicating with the sea of seemingly oblivious grems, whose attention was completely fixated on basically everything but the elven explorers. This annoyed Phalthuun, as never before in his life had anyone or anything dared not to notice how important he looked. Upon expressing this to the cartographer, however, he came to care a bit less because after realigning his concept of the grems to be more or less equivalent to insects, a certain acceptance of their ignorance was achieved.

Around the time the party began getting seriously frustrated with their inability to draw the attention of any of the grems, a new form of creature approached them. It looked like a grem, but was about five feet tall, seemingly skin-and-bones, covered in acne, and had a nose roughly the length and shape of a pistol. Even the least empathetic of all uncivilized beings could comprehend from a mere glance at this creature that its very existence was depressing and it was, in every way, miserable.

“Wow. You’re so pretty. Can I look at you? Is that okay? I’ll gouge my eyes out if it isn’t.” The creature’s voice was a whimper that would overshadow a kicked puppy.

“Oh, well I do suppose you could avert your gaze a bit, but moreover please inform me on what manner of creature you are? You are more articulate than those things I take are called ‘grems’! Are you a goblin? What is your name?”

Oreila’s machine-gun-esque questionnaire momentarily frazzled the creature who, after covering its eyes most completely (though occasionally peeking through its fingers to make sure it wasn’t actually talking to a wall), began to compose itself and provide adequate responses. From this exchange, which lasted around 10 minutes, the party managed to uncover a great many truths about the nature of goblin kind. Firstly, the small, illiterate creatures currently assembling the statue in the present cavern were in fact called ‘gremlins’, the creature they were speaking to was a ‘hobgoblin’ named ‘Seventy-seven-spoons-and-one-rusty-fork’, and there was one other sub race of goblinoids referred to as ‘bugbears’, which seemed to be the leaders. One such bugbear individual, whose name apparently was ‘She-who-mispronounces-the-word-chemistry’, acts as the queen of sorts of this particular goblin tribe. ‘Spoons’, as the shy hobgoblin came to be called, agreed to offer them an audience with the bugbear, who the elves demanded simply be referred to as ‘the one in charge’.

Spoons led them through yet many more tunnels, all comparable in a great many ways to that first crumbling passage which was their proverbial rabbit hole. It became readily apparent that goblin architecture had no real rules, consistency, and for all intents and purposes probably shouldn’t work. Over the course of the hours it took to get to the throne room, the party witnessed a great many instances of such architecture failing miraculously, and in most cases resulting in the deaths of a great many gremlins. What seemed to Oreila to be completely bizarre, however, was the fact that any gremlin who witnessed another’s death (or any form of violence or tragedy for that matter) would break out in utterly hideous and contagious laughter.

Other revelations were that the only reason the gremlins were working on the statue was that it happened to be Tuesday, and that on all other days the gremlins simply mulled about causing mayhem for their own entertainment. Spoons couldn’t explain exactly why the gremlins found violence to be so hilarious, and expressed grief over their senseless deaths in an almost paternal manner. Occasionally, gremlins would approach Spoons, referring to him as ‘Mizta Hob’ and asking him to assist them in a great many simple activities such as buttoning a shirt that clearly didn’t fit them, holding a hammer the right way, and most often of all: wanting to know if it was still Tuesday.

Anyhow, the aforementioned throne room was eventually reached. The exact appearance of the throne room is irrelevant because the presence of the absurdly huge goblin in the center of it atop a structure only vaguely resembling a chair of any kind, much less a throne, was more significant than any of the room’s other qualities. This enormous goblin, who was obviously the leader previously referred to as ‘She-who-did-something-Oreila-didn’t-really-care-about’ grew immediately angrier than she seemed initially, as evidenced by the rapidly increasing pace at which she was flailing hapless gremlins about in an effort to paint the ceiling with their brain matter.

Her voice was like a normal voice except really loud: “God-finder! How day ya find God and friens on a Tuesday! Thas da mose-most not really holy of day!”

“I am most sorry my mistress. Shall I feed my entrails to the gremlins in an effort to make up for my sins?”

“Uh… wuts a end rail? Do I gots wunna doze?”

“It shall be done, my lady.” Said Spoons, rapidly exiting the room in a backwards pace whilst simultaneously bowing and weeping violently.

“Okay, sure, God-finder… have fun witcha end rails.” Once Spoons had finished exiting the room in a most dramatic fashion, the bugbear spoke again, much to the continued bewilderment of Oreila and the others. “Ennyway, hi God. Thanks fer goin outta my dreems. Hope ya got all my letters I rotecha on da seelin so youz and ya frenz could see em.”

A moment of quiet puzzlement and contemplation passed, then Oreila spoke: “Er… I…. might not have gotten all the letters? Can… you show them to me so…. I can be sure?” Oreila was utterly confused and at this point, horrified at the seemingly mad, seven-foot-tall wall of muscle and drool which was immediately in her presence and referring to her as ‘God’. A quick survey of the others confirmed her suspicions that they were similarly terrified. Even Phalthuun, who carried a rifle of exquisite make, gave her a glance which could mean only have one possible interpretation: “I have absolutely no intention of using this stupid fucking pea-shooter. It’d only make her angry.”

“Oh, sure, no prollum, God! Come on, I’ll show ya the letter room!”

The party followed the bugbear in exactly the same way people who aren’t scared of enormous monsters with god complexes don’t. The journey took about two and a half seconds because evidently, the letter room was directly adjacent to the throne room. The room was more or less a room, save for the fact that the ceiling was adorned with a great many carved boards, bits of paper stained with shit, various clothes that might’ve been white at some point (as evidenced by the fact that they’re currently still actually white, if a bit muddy), and all of which were covered in writings and drawings of various degrees of legibility.

A common theme across the texts was the idea that the bugbear was eagerly waiting the arrival of a tiny godlike creature which will usher in a world in which it is Wednesday forever, or possibly Tuesday forever, either is really okay. It must be emphasized exactly how truthfully okay this was: the bugbear seemed to really only care that the decree of which day it will always be will end the incessant questioning by the gremlins of whether or not Tuesday is over yet. Perhaps most disturbing, however, were the various depictions of the goblins, as well as the godlike figure, eating the other figures depicted as similar to the godlike figure, though all were shown to be naked and with embarrassingly small genitalia.

“I was start to wory that you couldn’t see the letters up in Godland, even though I put em on the seelin for ya ta see em better. Cuz yaknow, Godland is up high and all.”

“Oh, yes, excellent. Uh… I need to… talk with my friends. About whether it should be Tuesday or not. Over there. With you not over there… so if you could just go sit in the other room and keep playing with the gremlins we’ll have a good answer in just a minute!”

“Oh, I knew you’d say that. You seddit in muh dreem! Look… uh… yeah rite dere! I drew it fur ya with a pensel that stick-guy found!” The bugbear then pointed at a mural which depicted the god figure saying a bunch of words that don’t make any sense, followed by the goblins tearing the other god-like figures into small pieces, in most instances using forks and occasionally a wheelbarrow. Before the party had any time to react, the bugbear grabbed Oreila with one hand and lifted her off of the ground, cheering, roaring, and demanding that the other goblins: “Come getchur God-friend dinner!”

In the ensuing chaos, the cartographer was summarily divided into at least fourteen pieces over the course of about three hours, as it was understandably difficult to cut an elf apart using only a wheelbarrow. Guard #2 was killed instantly. Everyone else who wasn’t named specifically died a similarly gruesome death. Phalthuun, however, successfully fled the moment the melee began.

With the help of his ‘stupid fucking pea shooter’, he was able to carve a bloody path through the seemingly endless waves of gremlin warriors who, despite their childlike demeanor, were about as effective in combat as actual children. The roars of the bugbear echoing behind him, eclipsed only slightly by the alternatingly horrified and outraged screams of Oreila, Phalthuun wandered a great many tunnels of an increasingly abandoned state, until such a point that he could no longer hear the aforementioned roars and screams. This brought the captain no comfort, however, as his favorite shirt was now ruined, the only other competent colleagues of his on this expedition were either captured to be worshipped as God figures or summarily killed for the purpose of devouring.

That said, he never really liked guard #2, and that very thought kept him sane for the seven weeks it took him to find the nearest man hole cover. During this period, he managed to survive by eating three of his own fingers, his left ear, five bullets, an unknown and possibly unknowable quantity of sewer rats, three gallons of raw sewage (but not particularly stinky sewage), and whatever water he could collect from licking condensation off of the ceiling.

-Present Day-

Following Phalthuun’s vague directions, the rescue squad were able to locate the goblin colony Phalthuun and Oreila had made contact with. Surprisingly, the goblins were nowhere near as hostile as the nearly insane captain had made them out to be. A few minutes of exploring led them to a rather anatomically accurate statue of a very beautiful elven woman around which a great many goblins of one shape and size (simian and small) were bowing and possibly praying. While they were in the process of confirming that last part, a gangly creature approached them, addressed itself as ‘You-won’t-believe-this-but-its-actually-a-whole-outhouse-I-found-in-the-water-just-over-there’ and told them that: “God said you’d come. Unfortunately, she doesn’t not grant audiences on Wednesdays, as Wednesdays are the holiest of days for us goblins.” The squad captain attempted to inform the creature that it was in fact Tuesday, to which it responded: “No it isn’t. It’s never Tuesday. Not anymore,” and walked away sobbing and muttering to itself about how it doesn’t have a birthday any more.

This failed to prevent the rescue squad from continuing to explore the goblin colony, all the while being vigilant of the veritable ocean of small goblin creatures who seemed to be doing absolutely nothing important at all. Eventually, they heard a voice that was far too eloquent and well mannered to belong to a goblin. Following the voice, they came to a chamber wherein an elven woman, presumably Oreila, was wearing only a tattered Yllendyr Imperium flag as a scarf. She was talking to a rather monstrously large creature about how exited she was that tomorrow was Wednesday, which apparently meant she would finally get a day off of work. The large creature seemed to agree completely, and quickly segued into a philosophical debate about whether or not shirts should be considered an endangered species. The elf argued that they should, but that continued conservation efforts might eventually allow them to continue breeding to a point at which their population will become self-sustaining.

Upon returning to the surface, the squad captain rather quickly thanked her men for their heroic efforts in preserving the safety of the Imperium, entered her office momentarily to write a report on the results of the rescue operation, and minutes later, entered her boss’s office with an envelope containing said report. The boss thanked her for the report, and sent her on her way. It took a while for the boss to get to the report which, to his surprise, was simply a single sheet of paper with the words “she’s gone”, written in plain print with black ink.

February 3rd, 477 AFK (After the First King)

A young male human stands in front of a stone obelisk bearing Elven runes with immense power. The moon is full and at its highest. The obelisk’s runes start to shine the same hue as the moon itself. Then, some start to change to a blood red color. A red mist starts to permeate from these runes and begin to take on the form of monsters. In an instant, the moon itself sends down a beam of magical power, destroying the red mist and cleansing the runes of their evil color. As if by reaction, the clear sky above turned black and rain starts to fall.

A high elf approaches, already equipped with a raincoat. She said, “I told you it was gonna rain” before offering him a poncho. He accepts the poncho and says, “I know.” They silently walk together toward the lights of the city that aren’t so far away. A security checkpoint briefly barred their access to the parking lot where a car was waiting for them. They hop in and are taken to the city. The silence was placid despite the heavy rain. After a while, the car stopped by a bar of sorts. The human softly says, “Thank you” and opens the door to leave, but is paused by a small hand grabbing his soaked arm. The elf looks at him with stern, yet pleading eyes. The man smiles and says, “I’ll be alright.” He leaves, tugging his arm away from her grasp.

Inside, the sound of jazz permeated through the halls. “It’s always nice to hear the blues” he comments. A fitting song it was, ‘Round Midnight.

'Round Midnight
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zre0u5XyNfY

He climbs upstairs, enters his room and changes out of his wet clothes. The room is nicer than what would be expected from a place like this, but the high elven people have a tendency to maintain their homes and have better living conditions in general. The floor is slightly damaged in one spot from the movement of furniture. The bar owner asked to repair it before, but the human asked that it be left that way because the music could get through the floorboards easier. Whether it was true or not, who knows, but he concentrates deeply on the tunes that come from downstairs while he lies in bed. It helped take his mind away from what he experienced two months afore. The elves were kind enough to let him into their society, but now he feels like a leech, one who is taking advantage of their kindness.

He decided this would be his last night in this bar, in this city, in this land. It was not his right to live here any longer, yet he can’t help but feel a yearning toward something greater. To accomplish it however, he also feels that his best chance is to start here with these elves.

He sits up from his bed, unable to sleep. The musicians downstairs were about to play their final number. He walks down and asks, “Could you play Blue in Green as your final number?” The elf frowns and says, “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t know that one.” The pianist raises her hand defiantly. “Okay, only one of us knows how to play it.” The human shakes his head and says, “Here, these are the chords.” He takes a napkin and writes out the chords with the bartender’s pen.

https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/509557974784671767/521786486790815776/Blue_in_Green_Chords.pdf

“I’ll take the lead and then you guys can fall in and do your own solos if you’re up for it.” The elf looks at him quizzically, “Do you know how to play sir?” “Indeed I do,” he replies. “It’s been about a year since I’ve last played Jazz, but it’ll be just like riding a bike.”
The human beckons the trumpeter to give up his trumpet. “Don’t worry, we can switch out. You have two mouth pieces, right?” The elf nods, pulling an extra one out from his case and attaching it to his silverine trumpet.





A 5B mouthpiece, the standard in most cases, though Jazz tends to want to switch it up. “Oh, and do you have a Harmon mute?” The elf once again nods and sifts through a nearby box of different mutes. He pulls a lonely Harmon mute. It seems unused and it’s missing the stem, but it would work.



Blue in Green
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEPFH-gz3wE

The piano introduced the tune with an eloquent introduction while the bass started up the chord train with drums supporting the beat. After several measures, the human began with a loud squeal, demanding the attention of the room. The people fell silent. The Harmon mute proved to be enchanting, creating a noise often unheard of from the trumpet. He took his time, feeling no need to play at times. Sometimes silence is better. He wanted everyone to recognize his sorrow and his pain. For the past two months, he’s been wallowing in a hole of guilt and self pity. He constantly remembers the trauma, and wants to forget, but can’t. Now, with composed determination and somber tones, he’s facing this with his own sad tune. The sad notes flowed into the souls of the audience, invoking a sadness like no other. Then, when he had his fill, the human gave an open hand to the pianist, gesturing her to take over.

The pianist only took the reigns for a short while, imposing her own beautiful melody. She bears no sadness, yet the response of her music says she understands. Then, the alto sax player beckoned to be let in on the fun. Though it may be a sad sound the group produces, the pleasure of producing such beauty is beyond measure. The saxophonist was on a completely different level from most that have played Jazz. Though the human hates to admit it, the saxophone is the instrument of the blues. Despite his ability, the solo was cut short when the elven trumpeter waved his hand lightly, wanting to hop in. The pianist gave a stern look, bading him not to enter. She looked to the saxophonist with signalling eyes. He returned a sad look, but knew his turn was up. After a few more measures he stopped and let the pianist take over to build up a transition. She gave one last look, signalling the trumpeter to enter after her chord. He started playing, trying to match the beauty produced by the human, and succeeded. It was as if his own sorrow had taken form, though it’s hard to say what is truly going on within the soul of a musician. This is what Jazz is. The production of music that speaks to one's emotions and purveys it upon the audience. An escape from the reality that is life. Sadly, we must return to reality at some point. The pianist finished the tune with a somber tone masking the exit when, in most cases, the whole band would play a certain chord for a short amount of time.

When the tune was done, the room was silent for a brief time time. The bartender started clapping, waking up the patrons from their trance. The whole room started clapping. Though a small crowd, applause from a bar is unusual. The band members looked to each other, pleased with their performance, only to notice the human already exiting the room.

He walks outside wearing his trench coat, expecting to be met with a downpour only to find that the clouds have disappeared. He pulls a single cigarette from his inner coat pocket and a flip lighter from his pants pocket. He lights up and sucks on the orange end of the carcinogous implement. He coughs out the smoke, having never smoked before. “So this is the shit you’ve always enjoyed, father? Well, I promised you that I would at least try one of these.” He lets out a sigh, “I guess it’s time I moved on.” He drops the almost full cigarette and stomps out the tiny flame and throws it away, returning to the warmth of the inside.

February 4th, 477 AFK

Inside Castle Ashintol, Lord Asgrave tends to some paperwork. It’s mostly complaints about heavy taxation, but if he didn’t do it, his secret rearmament wouldn’t have gotten as far as it has. Asgrave says, “It has been too long since war has struck Endaria. It is time to remind them of the rightful ruler of this land!”

Aideric Cassell, Asgrave’s royal attendant, interrupts him by saying, “If we rise up now, we would likely be crushed.”

Asgrave looks at him wildly, stands up and replies, “What makes you think that we will fail so easily?”

“It’s not that we’ll fail easily, but more like we will fail eventually.”

Asgrave sits down and asks, “Then when are we rising up exactly?”

Aideric shrugs, “It is likely that Olarth and Ecruir will ask the Viceroys for military support. If they send some auxilia to fight the war, that’s our best chance. Not to mention, we haven’t even asked the other factions if they’re willing to go under your rule.”

“THEY HAVE TO!” Asgrave barks. “It is my birthright to claim the throne that my grandfather left empty a century ago. I will NOT be denied it.”
“Then perhaps you should check the reality of the world around you.” Aideric tosses a stack of papers onto Asgrave’s desk. “These are the official opinions of the rulers of each faction, including even the mighty Clan Cadrin.”

Lord Asgrave sifts through them, his eyes growing angrier with each page flip. “NONE OF THEM WILL SWEAR FEALTY!?! DAMN THEM!” He throws all the papers from his desk onto the floor.

“I think you didn’t read them thoroughly enough.” Aideric says, unafraid of the angry old man.

Asgrave looks to Aideric once again, his eyes now more sinister. “Very well,” he says, “who exactly is willing to swear fealty.” As if expecting his raging tantrum, Aideric handed him a single piece of paper dictating certain parameters for loyalty.

From Azuria, they ask that if they send all of their forces to secure their northern border alongside a legion of Sentinels, they will swear fealty to Lord Asgrave in the months following.

From Clan Cadrin, they demand that the auxilia surrounding them be slaughtered and routed.Only after that will they join Lord Asgrave in his conquest for the Throne of Endaria.

“So this is it? A band of berserking dwarves and a city state with no military value. That’s all I’m getting, and they DARE to demand my aid?! What is this nonsense about the northern border? And can’t the dwarves just break through on their own?” The frustrated lord puts his hands through his hair, unable to handle the sheer “stupidity” of the situation.

“Well, if you’re looking to increase your odds of winning,” Aideric continues, “I would suggest working to reclaim your land from the local legions and then freeing Clan Cadrin from their hole. Their suicidal attitude could make them a useful asset in the battles to come.”

“But we should wait first…” Lord Asgrave pauses for a moment, his eyes glazed over with a flicker of purple. He stands up from his seat and walks over to a table with a sprawling map of Endaria. He bears a grim but calm face, a contrast from his earlier tantrum. He points at Azuria and says, “They may have no military value, but their economic value is beyond that of any other faction on this island. The Viceroy of Azuria has a great deal of influence over all of the other factional viceroys. He may not say it publicly, but he appears to act as though he’s the Viceroy of Endaria. Bearing that in mind, a potential alliance with the state will either be a huge boon to our cause, or a detrimental trap. I doubt the Imperium is blind to our existence either. If we don’t act now, then when, Aideric? Even if a legion or two leaves, the enemy is likely repositioning as we speak to quell our efforts. I am eager to enter combat, and I understand your perspective, but if we are to move forward, we need to take this opportunity of surprise and stand against the Imperium while we still can.”

Aideric stands in awe, having never seen Asgrave act or speak intelligently on any subject during his few months of service. He silently nods in agreement and asks, “What should we do then, sir?”

Asgrave grins and replies, “Deploy the WARNO’s (Warning Orders) and have the legions prepare for combat. I will distribute the OPORD’s (Operation Orders) to each legion with their objectives by the end of the week.” Aideric nods and leaves the room, ready to carry out his royal duty. Before he rounds the corner, Agrave says, “I will reclaim my throne, Aideric.” The royal soldier stops for a moment, and then continues, thinking it better to not say anything.

Alone in his office, Asgrave says to himself, “My tendency to fall into madness has always been a detriment.” He pulls out a small tablet bearing a Quentalian glyph from under the table. “I hope this purchase will suffice to bring me victory.”

Mid-February, 4901 YDC
Imperial Dominion of Kitagawa

---

16th February, 4901

We’ve almost arrived at Nilrandell. The mood onboard is light. Pietyr joked we’re being sent in because the auxilia are too incompetent to suppress a bunch of Yamato. On a more serious note, I find myself agreeing with him. Before we left, we received a report that the 27th Auxiliary Legion opened fire on a crowd of protesters - things turned to shit and they failed to even hold their ground in the stampede. Makes you wonder how the Imperium has managed to stick together this long, if true. The boys are confident we’ll put the Yamato in their place and we’ll be back home in the Spring. I hope they’re right.



17th of February, 4901

We’ve finally landed on Kitagawan soil. Nilrandell is a busy place. There are ships from all over the Imperium in port and all sorts of people. We set up our base of operations inside the city and moved our supplies in from the ships. The Yamato I’ve encountered seemed indifferent to our presence. Maybe they’re too far from the capital to care what’s going on? The children laughed at us and begged for treats, but Darrel told them off with the butt of his rifle. The unrest seems so far away.



19th of February, 4901

We saw our first action today. Our orders were to enforce martial law in a town called Junkyu. In other words, we stood around on the streets and did our best to look professional as the Yamato went about their daily business. Around noon, a horse cart attempted to run the checkpoint we’d set up. We yelled at the driver in what little Yamato we learned on the trip, but he wouldn’t stop. There was something in his eyes. Madness. Or fierce determination, one of the two. When he was almost upon us, I saw the windows had been thrown open and out poked gun barrels. I ran behind a newspaper stand and shouted a warning. The gunmen fired wildly and we returned the favor in kind. Darrel was grazed on the leg, but came out alright. We poured damn near all we had into that cart until the guns stopped. We caught the horses and calmed them down and inspected the bodies. As we laid them out, men and women ran at us, wailing and beating us with their fists. We dispersed them with a few shots into the air, but had to put down a couple that came at us with knives. Ottus suffered a nasty stab wound. The audacity of these Yamato! To think the men in the cart could have killed any passerby in the street in the crossfire, and they weren’t even grateful? This place is mad.



23rd February, 4901

We’ve finally been ordered to mobilize. Time to say goodbye to the hellhole of Junkyu. Ever since the cart attack, the people gave us dirty looks. They watched us through the shutters and stared as they passed by. We raided a few homes in the attempt to find illicit weapons. Just a few hunting rifles, mostly, but we carried back some spectacular swords. If the Yamato fumed when we entered their homes, they had meltdowns when we confiscated these. They wept and begged and grabbed at our sleeves, but we pushed them away and took the weapons with us. I don’t know what the fuss is over some old relics, but these people do love their swords. Our new orders are to link up with the 29th Auxiliary Legion. It seems fighting has broken out with some nationalist militia. This is what we’ve all been waiting for.



The last four diary entries of Private Kaus Aabeldun, found on his person when his body was recovered on 25th February, 4901 YDC. Posthumously awarded the Medal of Exemplary Courage for his actions the day prior.

The Imperial Palace was silent as a tomb ever since the Nankyo Massacre has occurred. For the first time, Shogun Emperor Eikou felt furious at every turn of events. This was not what he had planned nor could he have anticipated. The protests were growing too disdainful too quickly and it meant his plans for national revival would fall apart from the sheer speed of general dissent.

His thoughts of this whole situation was developing was interrupted when Genki Abe, head of the newly established Kempeitai, came into his office.

Upon seeing the Shogun Emperor in a brooding mood, Abe cut straight to the point:

“We established contact with the Meiyo Kaitukukai, Tōseiha, and Kōdōha factions and they have agreed to work with each other and with you. Already, the Kōdōha have alerted their secret militia camps to begin mobilizing while the Meiyo Kaitukukai began gathering public support from the villages and towns. The Tōseiha are in the process of establishing munitions and armaments factions in said villages and towns. Some are hidden; some aren’t.”

“And what of the Secretariat?” Eikou asked, his mood lightening a bit.

“The list provided by the Yllendyr proved to satisfactory. We have captured and begun extracting the information of agents from the handlers. So far, we got a dozen names that I can send my agents after at this very moment. This will certainly help protect the movements of our militia. Also, the new Shogun have recently arrived in the Treaty Port and will proceed to make his way to Nankyo.”

“Tell the Kōdōha to send 60 men armed with rifles to intercept the Shogun’s movement. If they cannot gather that much guns, contact the villagers and townspeople to “donate” some weapons from the local armories. Continue with the purging of the Yllendyr secret police. Keep them blind and toothless.” Shogun Emperor Eikou ordered, “And get me Gael!”

Abe left the Imperial Palace in secret with his newfound orders, leaving Eikou more brooding than before. This was a dangerous gamble that would cause the Imperium to send more troops. He was highly suspicious of Velendaal’s goals in sending over 9 thousand soldiers to the Shogunate. This seem to prove some rumors that the southern elves were secretly siding with Ecruir. Of course, that spurned on even more rumors, rumors that put the Yamato in constant wariness while the more radical bunch already saw the Shogunate already at conflict against the Velendaal and openly attacked the intervention force. Not exactly what he wanted, but having less soldiers to deal with is always good.

“I need an army.” Eikou mumbled under his breath. "I need one real fast."

February 10th, 1901, Talnaberg

Sirens blared as men and women of the Mountain Watch moved into their positions. If there was any place ready for Vaurgemyr’s attack, it was the Mountain Watch of the ancient city of Talnaberg. The great guns of mountain bastions rose like ancient serpents awaken from their slumber. The old redoubts and castle fortifications had been only somewhat modernized, and the city itself at their center still had its long, black, sharply sloped walls surrounding it.

Since the times before the Imperium, the Mountain Watch had guarded the border against monster and man alike. They were created during the age of the Sky’s King, who had unified and formed Avalia proper through might and magic. Some say the old walls of the city carried ancient wards of magic to repel any would be magical creatures who assaulted it. Of course, their purpose was obvious.

To hold back the dragons.

So, as generations had done before, the men and women, Valkyrians and Humans, sharpened their blades and prepared to defend their homeland from enslaving menace.

Catarina Ossler, the fifty five year old Valkyrian, watched the preparations unfold in front of her. She was the current captain of the Talnaberg Mountain Watch Garrison and the de facto leader of the Mountain Watch. She had already sent her telegrams to the Field Marshal alerting him to the dragon’s slave armies movements. Spreading her old, brown gray wings, she suddenly took the sky, hovering above the main wall. Around her, she saw the domed defenses of the city. In older days, they covered musketeers, archers, and even Royal Cabal mages from attacks from above, while allowing them to fire. Now they held something even more destructive. Modern artillery. The city’s defense themselves were formidable in their own right, but all around her, hill forts and castles readied as well. Some had been modernized, while others…Catarina smirked, others would have battles straight out the tales of old.

“MOUNTAIN WATCH OF TALNABERG!” she bellowed through a crude megaphone. The men and women halted for a moment and stared. ”Vaurgemyr knows that they will have to break us in this city or lose the war. If we can stand up to them, all of Avalia may be free and the life of the nation may move forward into broad, sunlit mountainside. But if we fail, then the whole country, including humans, including Valkyrians, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister by their perversion of power. For long we have suffered the bellows of pain from below. For long we’ve heard the scraping of their chains below. They will not cast those shackles upon us! We are the Mountain Watch! We are Avalians! WE ARE FREE!” The cries and shouts from the men and women below her would have drowned out any artillery barrage. Catarina turned and faced the north, not bothered by the cold wind mountain wind that blew from it.

They were ready.
---

February 10th, 1901

Adron stared at the map before him in his war tent. The room didn’t have much in the way of furniture aside from the wooden table in the center and a small desk in the corner. It was nonetheless cluttered with maps of all kinds, covering the walls, hanging from supports, and sitting on the table before him. He had been keeping close tabs on the movements of the Imperium’s legions for some time now, hoping to catch one or two before they could properly escape. He knew that they’d be back for his country, so one less legion to deal with when that day comes is more than enough of a victory for him.

They had moved surprisingly fast on the now infamous “election day” (the name becoming popular among the people). The 2nd Imperium Legion had utterly disbanded and devolved into a rabble, as expected, and the 4th Imperium Legion---stationed in the capital--had been destroyed during the coup. This had left three remaining legions in play in his country, and here he sat surrounding one…sort of. The 3rd Imperium Legion had retreated south towards the major port city of Lundburgh where it was expected to be evacuated by the Southern Fleet. Meanwhile, the 1st and 5th legions were fleeing north, having split up to take both of the cities that sat on the Helv River. Especially as the closing days of winter came upon them, those two cities were the only viable crossing areas for a force of that size. Adron had suspected as much and had preemptively stationed the 12th Infantry Division aided by the 6th Cavalry Brigade. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stall the legions.

The Southern Fleet had been observed sailing down the coast in a bid to rescue Imperium forces. Avalian scout aircraft had stalked them as the fleet traveled further south. What else could they do? They certainly didn’t have the navy to challenge the Southern Fleet and certainly didn’t have the coastal battery to ward them off just yet. Adron sighed as he stepped back from the table and stretched. It seemed the 3rd Legion might slip away after all. Photos taken by the scouts seemed to indicate they had every intention of leaving. Adron hadn’t made much of a move either, as he didn’t want to start shelling his own city if he didn’t have to.

A voice suddenly cut off his thoughts. It was one of the tent guards. “Sir, there is a colonel out here who wants to speak with you. He says that he might have found you a victory, Sir.” Adron raised an eyebrow. That was quite bold for a mere colonel to ask for him directly. However, seeing how he himself had yet to come up with anything better than storming the city and engaging in a protracted siege, he decided to humor this upstart.

“Very well, let him in.” Adron said.

A man in his mid thirties stepped in. He wore the same blue uniform with red trim as Adron did, but with far fewer service stripes. His hair was a dark brown and he had a burn scar that prevented a patch of it from growing. “Ah, Colonel Nilsson, I should have known it was you. Please, enlighten me, what could you possibly have?”

Colonel Nilsson gave the Field Marshal a crooked grin. “Well sir, we can’t very well kick them out of the town without shelling the poor place to pieces. I would highly object to such a bombardment, as Lundburgh has the best brothels in all the Imperium if you ask me!” The Colonel said with a laugh.

“Cut to it,” Adron said flatly. Nilsson quickly held up his hands.

“Apologies Sir, I know you don’t want to shell this place, but if we don’t do something, we are liable to let the whole damn legion get off scot-free. That will set a bad precedent for this war, so here’s a compromise.”

“A “compromise”, Colonel?” Adron asked.

“Yes Sir! You see, I’ve been talking with some of those navy fusiliers, ya know, the ones stationed on our coastal fleet? Well as it happens, Avalian destroyers are identical to Imperium ones, seeing how we weren’t allowed our own full navy, of course. So, we were talking, and she tells me that Imperium naval vessels of that size rarely have any sort of dedicated armed element on board, ya know? Sure they got a small armory for when things get hectic, but no marines or nothing. A ship that size is just too small!” As the colonel talked, Adron’s eyes widened.

“Colonel are you suggesting we board an Imperium Destroyer?” Adron asked, staring hard at the colonel in front of him. The Colonel smirked, his grin betraying the deadly seriousness of this plan.

“No sir, I’m not just suggesting that. I’m suggesting we kick the Southern Fleet in the balls to let em know what they might endure should they decide to come back. We’re going to take that destroyer and create chaos that would make the cultists in Anhreich jealous.”

February 19th, 1901

The plan was put into action. A platoon, known as “Nilsson’s Sea Raiders”, formed from the docked ships of the now defunct coastal defence force, took off from the shoreline just south of harbor city. Nature was seemingly on their side that night, as cloud cover permeated the sky with little star light or moonlight reaching the sea. Armed with shotguns, carbines, and plain old knives and pistols, the Fusiliers began to quietly search for a target. Soon, they found one. A torpedo destroyer was well on its way towards the port to aid in the evacuation. Silently the platoon flew down and landed upon the vessel.

Aboard the Empress Mobara, the captain of the proud dreadnought watched quietly as the ship sat anchored just outside the harbor of Lundburgh. For the most part, he was very pleased with how things were going. Avalian troops had yet to make any major offensive for fearing his mighty guns would stop them in their place. A part of him almost wished they would, just so he could smash them. But as it stood, no such thing had taken place yet and pulling these legions home for the war effort back in Yllendthyr proved to be a far more pressing task. As much as it pained him to see the legion’s in such a state of retreat, it was his duty to escort them home, and escort them he would.

Blinking, the captain found himself on the floor of his bridge, people yelling around him. Slowly, he attempted to get up before stumbling. The floor wasn’t quite the right angle and he felt as though he was a brand new ensign the day after shore leave. What had happened? Why were his ears ringing? It was so annoying…. The captain’s eyes widened. The ship was the wrong angle, a very, very wrong angle. The dreadnought listed heavily to the portside and one of the batteries was missing. One of the batteries was missing!? The captain quickly ran up to the window. Sure enough, a smoldering pit of hell fire was all that remained of the forward battery. A bridge member grabbed him “Sir! Sir do you hear me? We’ve been hit by a torpedo sir, the ship is going down sir!” He sounded distance, like he was yelling down a smokestack at him. What was going on? A torpedo? From what? From who? These were the questions that filled the captain’s head before fire engulfed them as the second ammunition store blew.

A cry of triumph erupted from Nilsson’s Sea Raiders as they soared into the night. Their torpedoes had struck home, and dealt a blow to the Southern Fleet.

Adron stood on the shoreline, watching the glimmering lights in the distance. The platoon had returned with few casualties and two possible dreadnought kills to their name along with a heavy cruiser as the cherry on top. He allowed a smile to form on his old face as he thought. While they’d certainly not stopped the Imperium or her navy, they certainly had smacked her in the face. Avalia was only getting started, and Adron was ready for whatever was next.

~~~

February 17th, 1901
Situated in one of the few passes of the Voiru Mountains is the old city of Adrean. It was smaller, more densely packed than some of the more modern cities to the south, and sits nearly two thousand feet above sea level, giving a fair more colder environment. Legend speaks of this city being a place where the monsters from the north had been rebuffed and where the Sky’s King fought a pivotal battle. What better place for a last stand?

At least, that’s what Agata Bennick thought as she looked upon the city from her estate. She was a noble, an old woman who had left the years of her youth well behind her. Here wrinkled face seemed to be permanently set in a frown, though she had plenty to frown about. The royalist had been stomped out across the nation with Adrean remaining the defiant exception. Her butler had warned her of the coup before official word had reached the northern city and she had acted quickly, rallying what few nobles had escaped Adron’s blade and throwing up heavy barricades. While local republican militia had proven a threat, they had failed in preventing the royalists from seizing the inner city, where the grain house stores and armory sat. Now all the republicans could do is sit in the outskirts and starve.

How long until it became the opposite though? Agata pondered this, and chuckled quietly to herself. Truly, it would be a work of fate and art for things to play out so. A direct parody to what has been happening for over a decade.

Shaking her head, she let the thought go. There was no room for irony right now. This was a fight for survival, for herself and for the tradition that the bastard Field Marshal seemed so intent on burning.

It was time for action.

~~~

-ALOLVI NEWS-

THE GLOVE IS TOSSED!
Royalist in the northernmost city of Adrean have successfully taken control of the city center, threatening to starve the city out unless they meet with Adron himself! Dutchess Agata Bennick is suspected to be leading the royalists in Adrean!

A SINKING EMPIRE WITH A SINKING EMPRESS, ADRON STRIKES!

In the major port city of Lundburgh, Imperium forces attempt to evacuate to the Southern Fleet off the coast! Field Marshal Adron wouldn’t let them get away so easily, launching a daring raid with a special group of Valkyrian soldiers known as “Nilsson’s Sea Raiders”! While details of the raid are limited, we can confirm that the Imperium dreadnought “Empress Mobara” was sunk, as well as the dreadnought “ Emperor Mylvyth” and heavy cruiser “Mophodo” being severely damaged! While the Imperium forces were able to slip away, the message was clear! STAY OUT!

Meanwhile, reports are coming in that remaining Imperium forces are making a bid to retreating across the Voiru Mountains at Adrean, but republican forces have already dug in around the two river cities of Smedeholm and Verme, waiting for relief from Adron’s southern forces!

THE MOUNTAIN WATCH STANDS LOYAL! THE REPUBLIC PREPARES!

For hundreds of years, the infamous Mountain Watch of Avalia has stood guard, holding monsters or foes alike at bay, so the legends goes! Now they stand ready once more, manning the old bulwarks that dot the Voiru Mountains. The Republic stands ready to do battle with the dragon minions of the corrupt Imperium and anything else that dares throw itself at her mighty walls! The captain of the Talnaburg Mountain Watch stated so, quoted, "The masters of this great cannon orchestra shall weave a song of hellfire and destruction the likes of which have never been seen!"

Gerudo Desert
The Gerudo Chiefdom was mostly isolated from the affairs and drama of the old world. The New World was free, and the desert was ruled by the Gerudo people. The race of tall, muscular females was under a technical absolute monarch who went by the title of ‘chief’, with the capital being Gerad’a. Most cities were cradled around the few water bodies they had, and travel between them often happened on camel or sand seal (literal seals that swim in the sand).

In recent times, oil and mineral industries had started booming, with massive amounts of silver, copper, and crude oil discovered in the desert.

In the blazing desert heat, a group of merchants on camelback were traveling from the city Sarq'a to Gerad'a

“Sav’aaq, we should get to Gerad'a before nighttime. Silver is valuable, I am carrying quite a lot of it.” One of the women said.

“We will make it, once we do get there, we should probably start selling immediately, sandstorms hitting tomorrow, so we’ll have to stay here for the next day.” another merchant said, wiping her brow.

Eventually, they saw the walls of Gerad'a, received to see the city. The gate of the city was guarded by two other vai, who were part of the Chief’s armed forces. The merchants, along with their camels strode through the city’s walls into the bazaar in the middle, where they planned to set up shop.

“Have you ever been down south? Silver is quite in demand there” one of the merchants asked.

“I’m planning to go there, the recent silver boom has helped the chiefdom’s industry quite a bit. I even know many who have started mining with their magic.” She replied, while looking at a young girl practicing her magic manipulating a sandstone brick.

While unknowing to them, the old world falling into chaos, here in the New World, business was good. Mining was fairly easy, as most Gerudo were skilled magic user, and could excavate ground with relative ease, and eventually, large mines started to take shape.

On the other end of Gerad’a was the Chief’s Mansion. Chief Riju was a new, young chief, who had become one after her mother’s death. She was 18 years old, and with Gerudo reaching adulthood at age 20, she was still a minor. Due to this, she often took advice from her guard Buliara, who had served under her Mother. Riju also commanded the Gerudo army, and authorized most of the mineral mining. As such, she was extremely popular with the public.

A woman walked into Riju’s mansion, where Riju sat on her throne, with Buliara by her side.
“Sav’saaba, Alfava'i” she greeted the chief, bowing in respect. She was a member of the Chief’s Guard, the armed forces of the Chiefdom. “Our trade is booming, but not without bandits. There have been reports of bandits attempting to attack traders in strecthes of sand between cities. They have been robbing and harassing traders”

Riju nodded, “Yes, definitely a problem, we need to take action to prevent them. Mobilize the Civil Guard at once, and find the bands that are causing the most trouble” Riju ordered.

“It shall be done, Alfava’i” the soldier said.

February 23rd, 4901 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
The Vermillion Citadel, Ylleria, The Crownlands

Emperor Ecruir was preparing his speech, leaning over his desk with an old-fashioned quill pen. Most had switched to fountain pens for ease of use, but Ecruir found the older style much more pleasant. When he was writing down the last words, there came a knock on the door.

"Come in!"

"Your Imperial Highness, sir." One of the palace servants entered the room. "I have for you news of a foreign dignitary who has arrived at the Citadel, requesting to meet you.

Ecruir looked puzzled. "A foreign dignitary? There are no foreign countries, only states of the Imperium."

"With all due respect, Your Imperial Highness, this envoy claims to be a representative from the Celestial Empire of Amrea, a nation far across the seas nearby to our colony."

"Oh yes, of course, I recall this in one of my father's interminable lectures about the strange distant barbarians we found there. And something about a second moon. Do send him in, I'll receive him here."

_________________

The walls of the Vermilion Citadel were but one of the many things in this strange eastern land that lent a great sense of discomfort to Xen Huo-ming as he stood in the foyer, as instructed by one of the
palace's many servants. The sights he saw at the head of the Empire's flagship as it rolled into the Yllendyr port, the rocking of the train carriage Imperial officials had loaded him and the others into. It all rubbed him the wrong way, but perhaps that was simply due to the alien nature of the Far East, compared to the familiar comforts of the Empire.

He shifted to the right as he caught a glimpse of one of the palace servants approaching him, waiting expectantly for his reply.

"Sir, his Imperial Highness shall receive you now."

"Very well, thank you for relaying my request for an audience to the Emperor." Xen smiled and offered a little nod to the servant, before turning around to signal to the two others accompanying him.

"Come, Min, Mae-da. The most excellent Emperor of the Yllendyr Imperium shall receive us now. Ensure that proper respect is paid, in the same way one would before the Gwangyeong Empress."

The three were admitted into the office room of the Emperor. The room was furnished in the sleek and refined style that was most common amongst elves, and a portrait of the 75th Emperor Naerzo still hung on the wall. A small red lamp illuminated the unusually ornate desk, which had flower patterns carved in wood. He moved around to the side of the desk, extending his hand in a gesture of welcome to these strange beings.

Xen was slightly puzzled by the size of the Emperor's "throne room", as he thought it was, before realizing that perhaps it was most likely the Emperor's quarters or office. It left him rather unsure of how to respond, given that conventionally, one was meant to pay their respects through the kowtow at the throne. In spite of that, the three of them kowtowed before Ecruir, prostrating themselves before him before rising.

Ecruir recognized the bow as a sign of respect, as the Kitagawans used similar gestures when greeting him or their own Emperor. The fox-like creatures resembled something of a cross between an elf and a Vaspen, which was very confusing in terms of racial hierarchy. For now, the Emperor supposed he would reserve judgement. Their deep bowing, at least, showed they had some level of civilization about them and understood how to give proper respect. When they had risen, Ecruir tipped his head slightly down in response. "Greetings and welcome to the Vermillion Citadel, and the Imperium as a whole. I would be pleased to know your names and your purpose."

"It is an honor to be in your presence, your Imperial Highness. I am Xen Huo-ming, envoy of the Celestial Empress to your court. Accompanying me are Min Ru'sa and Mae-da, members of the Gwangyeong Empress' diplomatic expedition to your great Imperium. I come bearing a letter from the Empress of Amrea herself, meant for your Highness' esteemed eyes only."

Ecruir nodded. He would try to remember the envoy's name, but the other two had names far too hard to bother to pronounce or remember for his taste. "I appreciate it, and will read it promptly." He took the letter from Xen's outstretched hand, and pulled a letter opener from his desk drawer to separate the wax seal from the paper.

As his eyes traveled the paper, they slightly widened in surprise. He briefly raised his eyes to the envoy and two escorts, looking them over, then continued reading. Ecruir certainly appreciated the sentiments contained within, but he was unsure whether or not his definition of enlightened races could include these strange beings as of yet. That being considered, though, Ecruir was highly interested in allies, especially ones with such evidently similar mindsets.

He looked up again at Xen. "Envoy Huo-ming, this letter directs me to refer to you for further inquiries. So I must ask: does the Gwangyeong Empress have a concrete proposal in mind, or is this simply an offer of friendship and solidarity?"

Xen simply smiled before addressing the Emperor once again. "Your Imperial Highness, the words written by the Empress are no mere gestures of solidarity. Her Imperial Majesty wishes to sign a full alliance with the Imperium. The proposal is as thus: The Empire of Amrea will support your Imperium in civilizing the savage tribes found throughout your territories and in exchange, we wish to request your aid in a similar manner in the West. As a further gesture, the Empress in consultation with the Hong of Cantha, wishes to also invite Yllendyr merchants to dock and trade freely within the borders of the Empire, thus ending the restriction placed on your traders to conduct all their business at the Port of Cantha."

He stops to take a breath before continuing.

"Second-to-last, the Empire will with your consent also dispatch a battalion of Imperial Mages to your colony south of Amrean territory to safeguard it against the threat of wild strigoi. Lastly, en-route to the Vermillion Citadel, brief mentions of a war by the commonfolk caught my ear. The Empress has given me full authority as the representative of the Celestial Empire to the Yllendyr Imperium to act as I see fit in terms of diplomacy and as a result, I would like to offer the services of the Imperial Mages I had brought with me to aid your Imperial Highness in his fight. They are led by the two you see before you."

The Emperor smiled gratefully. "Yes, indeed we have a case of a rebellious province or two. Such are the dangers of governing resentful and barbarous peoples, as your Empress would no doubt agree." He thought for a few seconds, then continued. "I am obliged to agree wholeheartedly with these sentiments, and I would be happy to forge an alliance. We are both surrounded by bloodthirsty enemies, quite literally in the case of the continent on which you dwell... much to my disgust... so it would be quite remiss of me to allow an opportunity such as this to pass the Yllendyr by. I will pass along the results of this agreement to the Crown Colony of Yllendyr, so that we might both prosper from the fruits of commerce. I also greatly appreciate the offer of assistance. Skilled mages are always valued in armies, and will hopefully allow the Yllendyr to come to know your people better.

Secondly, it is the custom of the Yllendyr to establish a permanent embassy between nations, so that there might be an easy way for governments to contact one another. I invite your people to establish one in the Embassy Quarter of Ylleria, where representatives of all of the Imperium's subject states reside. As a recognition of your empire's much higher status, I intend to offer you a significantly larger area and as much of a budget as you might require to complete it. I only request in exchange that the Imperium might also establish an embassy in your capital. I hope that such an arrangement can make intergovernmental discussions much easier, since there is no need for a long ocean voyage."

Huo-ming nods in agreement. "Indeed, we are grateful for your Imperial Highness' generosity. Rest assured that arrangements can easily be made for the Imperium's embassy to be established in the capital of C'hung-jin. At the same time, I shall consult with Yllendyr architects here to design an embassy building for myself to take up residence."

"Very good. Express also to the Gwangyeong Empress that I may see fit to visit your realm of Amrea when my duties do not require me here. From the sound of her letter, she sounds like an inspiring lady and a pleasure to meet. Thank you as well for your service in traveling such a long way."

"It will be done, your Imperial Highness. Thank you for receiving me and my delegation with such open arms." Xen smiles one final time before deeply bowing and departing the room, Ru'sa and Mae-da in tow.

---

Later that day, the Amrean envoy was invited to the official first public address of the 76th Emperor, Ecruir Vyalviur. He stood at the left side as Ecruir emerged onto the balcony of the Vermillion Citadel just over Lunaris Square, clad in a vermillion jacket and royal vestments to match. The winter sun glared brightly enough to bring some warmth in the cold to what had to be a hundred thousand onlookers, Yllendyr citizens and subjects alike, massed before the Citadel. He waved his hand and his scepter in greeting, smiling broadly, as his green eyes flashed with reflection from the sun. The assembled masses cheered, louder than any sound Ecruir thought a mass of beings was capable of creating, at the first sight of their Emperor. A microphone sat on the railing, transmitting the speech as a radio broadcast across the Fifteen Dominions. The time had come for Ecruir to face his destiny, for a billion lives hung in the balance.

February 22nd, 4901 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
Off the Coast of Lundbergh, Imperial Dominion of Avalia

“Admiral, the commander in charge of that battlegroup has been thrown into the brig as requested.” The officer looking out the front windows of the 75th Emperor Naerzo, a dreadnought commissioned as the first of its kind, nodded regretfully. Admiral Navoss had been in command of the Southern Fleet for twenty years, and never had she imagined such a disgrace. She had warned all officers to be on high alert, and the captain of a torpedo boat had not only failed to relay the order, he had fallen asleep in his office, only to be woken by the tumult of his ship being taken over and jumping overboard. That wouldn’t save him now, regardless of the fact that no one had anticipated an aerial raid was possible. He was going to have the man, regardless of his noble parents, court marshaled and executed as soon as possible to put the fear of Elune in the other officers.

“Good. This is just the excuse I needed to whip the incompetent officers into shape. I only wish it hadn’t cost the 48th Empress Nobara. She was a beauty. And the two more ships we had to send to repairs, I hope they make it.” The aide who brought her the news nodded uncomfortably, but remained in place.

“Is there something else?” Navoss turned to the aide. He trembled a little. “Come now, speak up, I won’t bite, unlike a Valkyrian.”

“Orders from Imperial High Command, ma’am. I’m told they come directly from Emperor Ecruir. I believe the exact words were…” The aide trailed off with words that were only decipherable by Navoss’s command of lip reading.

Navoss’s eyes widened briefly, but then her face tightened with resolve. “I understand.”

She turned to speak out into the radio, looking for one last time at the unblemished city of Lundbergh, just at the very edge of most guns’ range as they pulled away from its coasts with the two intact legions they had rescued.

“All officers, load the Yllendyr fire shells. Fire upon my mark.” All around her, the clanking of metal and the shouting of voices commenced, continuing unabated for the next few minutes until she finally began counting down. “3...2...1...mark.” The air filled with smoke and fire as ninety-six ships unleashed their payloads upon the city. If the performance of the Northern Fleet was marked as the Imperium’s defiance, this was the true measure of the Imperium’s fury.

The shells, descending down upon the city, would spray forth their payloads all around them as they fell, finally igniting them in a small explosion on impact. Yllendyr fire, the long-kept secret of the Imperium and key to many of their naval victories, was considered by many irrelevant to modern naval warfare after wooden ships and even ironclads had fallen out of favour. At least, until an engineer had discovered a new artillery shell design. These shells would have been virtually useless against well-armoured ships, but civilian targets or infantry forces had no such protection.

The relentless pounding of the guns was nearly deafening, as the city before Navoss seemed to turn brilliantly yellow-orange. It was a very beautiful spectacle… beautiful and terrible. She could not hear the sound of screaming, but in her heart she knew it was there. A fire which dousing with water would only exacerbate, from which even if citizens hid inside their homes they would still be suffocated by the fumes. This was a warning. A sign that the Imperium was prepared for total war. If they were going to lose, then this would continue. They would take the revolutionaries with them.

Such was expressed in the brief command that the Emperor Ecruir uttered in response to the news of the raid against his navy. Three simple words, which carried entire pages of meaning: “burn them all.”

February 23rd, 4901 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
The Vermillion Citadel, Ylleria, The Crownlands

Ecruir raised his scepter for silence, and after a few moments of residual cheering and applause, the crowd quieted down.

“Loyal subjects of the Imperium!” A cheer rose again in response. “I come to speak to you today in what may be our darkest hour in a thousand years. Just as our ancestors unified a millennium ago to face the invasions of barbarian humans who sought to drive us from our homeland, so we must unify to face the barbarians at the gates.”

“My traitorous and rebellious brother, whom would give up all that our father has achieved to rule over the shadow of what remains in the names of 'liberalism' and 'popular sovereignty,' is only half the problem. As you now know, Avalia is in outright rebellion against the Imperium... rather, I should say, the thieves, savages, and murderous opportunists who have seized control of the country are."

The crowd intensely booed in response, as Ecruir soaked up all of their enthusiasm before continuing.

“Time and time again, we have learned this is the way of the barbarian. Humans, Valkyrians, Vaspen, it makes no difference. For their own petty differences, for their misguided new “ideals,” they slaughter each other and us. We have done our best to bring civilization to the Dominions, and still, more than half a century later, they return swiftly to their savage ways at the slightest sign of weakness. In Avalia, the foul revolutionaries have imprisoned and executed their nobility without mercy. Saboteurs and terrorists in Vaspen and Kitagawa are sowing mayhem throughout the countryside. Sadly, even some of the fine legions stationed there filled with troops from these nations have murdered their officers and begun mass banditry and pillaging.”

“Let this be a lesson to the entire Imperium: barbarism is still alive and well, and must be beat out of the world lest we all face the same fate. For sixty years, the Yllendyr have served unfailingly as the guardians and protectors of civilization on this world. We have brought many fruits of industry and technology to these peoples, from radio to the internal combustion engine to electric lighting. The last sixty years have been an era of peace and prosperity for all the nations of the world, shattered and stomped on by the naivete of fanatical, ungrateful revolutionaries.”

“I warn all those who think of siding with the side of savagery: there is nothing for you there. Those who light the fires of revolution do so with the consequences of not only lighting themselves but the entire world into a whirlwind of death and destruction. Millions will die, at your hands and ours as we struggle to restore order over the world. There are only two destinations at the end of that road: you will either be resubjugated much the worse for wear, or you will be the free and independent monarchs, presidents and prime ministers of nothing but ashes and dust.”

“This I swear to you now. I will not falter from the task of preserving this world against the anarchic death and destruction that the spirit of revolution yearns for!” The crowd intensely cheered, even more emphatically than the first time.

Ecruir gestured for a human girl, off on the opposite side from the Amrean delegation, to come forth. The girl, who looked to be about twenty years of age, nervously strode forward in a simple but beautiful gown. “I introduce to you Princess Kirsten of Avalia, the cousin of the deceased King Holfgar, who was studying at the Magitechnical University of Ylleria when the rebellion broke out. The girl looked almost about to faint as she shook the Emperor’s hand, and then went up to the microphone.

Kirsten, at an encouraging nod from the 76th Emperor, finally spoke up. “His Imperial Highness asked me to come here today to tell you all my story. The truth is… everyone in my family is dead, or I have no idea where they are. My mother, my father, my kid sister…” Kirsten could hold her tears back no longer, and they raced down her face as the crowd looked on in shock. “… she was just four years old!” Kirsten yelled, and fell to her knees. Ecruir knelt next to her, and helped bring her back to her feet. When she had composed herself, she leaned forward to speak once more. “If any of you revolutionaries can hear this, I ask you: why have you done this? To murder, to betray the trust of everyone, to ruthlessly imprison and execute anyone associated with the nobility? Is there no one innocent in your eyes? My mother, she was a kind woman… my father was against the idea of me studying abroad, but my mother smiled and paid out of her own pocket for the journey and tuition. I got a letter saying he yelled at her for the entire next day...” She smiled tearfully at the memory. “It’s only thanks to her that I’m here now, that I can still speak out on her behalf. And so I wanted to do just that. And I thank Emperor Ecruir for providing me the opportunity. If anyone is moved by my words, I simply ask you to please help. This war will tear apart many more families than just mine if it is allowed to continue.” At the cheers, she waved and backed slightly away from the railing.

Ecruir gestured for the others who stood at sides to come forth. A motley assembly indeed: of a harried dark elf from Ot-Skodat, a goblin for some mysterious reason following closely behind, a haughty-looking high elf bearing the colours of Vaurgemyr, a well-dressed envoy from Velendaal, and of course the envoy of the Celestial Empire.

“I have gathered all those noble loyalists who have immediately declared for the true Imperium here to discuss the battle plans for the operation to crush this rebellion in its infancy, as well as an envoy from the glorious Celestial Empire of Amrea, a comrade-in-arms and ally from across the sea in our civilizing mission. Our objective is clear: the restoration of the Imperium not just as it was, but in a new and powerful way. With the support of all those in favour of civilization, in favour of preserving tradition, in favour of order and peace in the world, I know in my heart we will not fail. We have no need of popular sovereignty, for we are already sovereign!" Ecruir put his hand to his chest theatrically. “I appeal to the other loyal dominions: help us preserve the peaceful order of this world. The Emperor will remember his friends in this time of need.”

“With all of your support, the Imperium will not only survive as it did a thousand years ago, but we will build an empire which will prosper for a thousand more!” Ecruir cast his scepter forward towards the crowd.

“To victory for the Imperium!” the Emperor cried. A chorus of thousands responded in kind. The words, “Victory for the Imperium!” resounded across the city, from the mouths of dark elves, from the mouths of humans, from the mouths of Valkyrians and ogres, from the mouths of the myriad other species that inhabited the city. For this was no simple struggle for liberation; those who sought to rebel also had to contend against their own kind, those who had sworn loyalty to the Yllendyr cause, those who had come to benefit from their rule, and those who were content with the status quo.

“So it begins,” the 76th Emperor quietly remarked. The man who promised to cast the power of a firestorm upon those who defied him turned from the balcony and strode inside, the others following in his wake.

5th Year of the Gwangyeong Era, (23rd February, 4901 YDC)
The Jungles of the Aarehani Principality

---

A steady stream of grey, wispy smoke rose through the air as the Amrean Steam-Junk pushed through the waters of the Eaamhan River. Sweat continued to drip down Kong-Lan’s brow whilst he stood on the deck, peering out into the jungle that bordered the banks of the river. And not just his brow, his entire damned body was sweating. He could see why the Aarehan shaved themselves now. The heat was a secondary concern for him though. It wasn’t the worst thing about this Sun-damned jungle!

No.. the worst thing about this place is not the suffocating heat, nor the mosquitos, not even the local customs… No, none of that. The worst thing is the monkeys -- The Monkeys are everywhere! Hanging from every liana, and hounding the ship from the ceiling of branches that follow the river as though waiting to strike. One of them had the audacity to hang low enough to snatch away Kong-Lan’s hat, only to put it on his own head. This was an hour ago, and ever since the hat-wearing monkey had been trailing their ship, as if to taunt them…

The rest of the crew seemed to be faring much better than him as well. Most of them were merely annoyed at the heat, rather than suffering as he was. That perhaps was to be expected, given that he was not used to the tropical heat of Southern Amrea and the Aarehan Principalities. Being born and raised in the temperate capitol region tended to do that to you.

In the distance, banked to the shore of the Eaamhan, lay the foremost municipality of the Aarehani principality. There is the estate of Prince Zaanjikyong, appearing strikingly Amrean, though lacking in regal furnishing. The Aarehan are a very austere people and it shows in their buildings. It is the first sign of civilization since having left the domain of the revered Gwangyeong Empress, and into the great perilous unknown that awaits them in the wild southlands. The steamship began to push through the river currents with newfound strength and the paddle-wheels mounted on each side cut through the water faster than before, as the crew were eager to make landfall after nearly a week in the Sun-forsaken undergrowth.

The ship finally docked at a pier on the edge of the estate, the primitive steam engine sputtering out its last few gasps of smoke before turning off.
As the crew disembarked, they can hear the deep resounding of a gong, used to signal the denizens of the municipality of the arrival of visitors. Hastily, the serfs working on the spice plantations withdraw into the estate, and a delegate appears on the pier. It is a bald man, completely shaved, including the fox-like ears and tail, a custom for which the Aarehan are known. In addition to the robe-like garments he adorns, his absence of hair makes him very reminiscent of a monk. Perhaps he is a monk.

He makes a deep bow before the delegation, speaking monotone:
‘’My master, the Prince of the Set Sun bids the subjects of the Gwangyeong welcome. I am Zezhao of Laanba monastery, here to receive you.’’
He remains bowed down, not looking up before the delegation have articulated their motive in visiting. In response, Kong-Lan bows lightly, in recognition, before explaining his presence here. “I am Count Kong-Lan, of the 2nd Rank.” He says, making sure to emphasize the rank in particular. The northerners did pay special attention to the noble titles granted by the Imperial Court, after all. “I have been charged with delivering a message to the Warlord Miran, and have come to inquire with your master on his whereabouts.” Kong-Lan says this rather impatiently, as if he cannot stand the sight of the shaved man before him.

The delegate stands up straight. ‘’I will be showing you into the Prince’s estate, revered Count Kong-Lan. Be mindful, that as your coming is on short notice, I cannot say if my Prince will be able to receive you immediately.’’

“Even if he cannot, I can wait.” He says tersely before following Zezhao inside.

---

Sitting on an ornate chair in an austere stone hall, Prince Zaanjikyong looks sternly to the guests that have entered his domain. In contrast to his subjects, the Prince is bushy haired, with a bearded jawline and long, flowing red hair reminiscent of manes combed backwards. The base of his tail is shaven save for a great plume at its end. It is no mistake that this man is going for a lion aesthetic, a tradition among Aarehani leaders. Zaanjikyong certainly looks imposing enough to be called a lion, with his broad shoulders, athletic build and dark-gold-like skin complexion.

He addresses the Amrean delegation with a low, graveling voice.
‘’Late is the hour where the Empress has begun to show care for its southern neighbors. Much too late… State your intent, northerner.’’

Kong-Lan bowed deeply, in reverence to the Prince whose nobility outranked his. As shaved as his tail may be, Prince Zaanjikyong was still an Amrean, and nominally an Imperial subject. Thus, it was only proper to bow in respect.

“O Prince, our revered Empress has commanded me to deliver a missive to the Warlord, Miran Shaykh Gurkani. It is of great importance, thus I come south to ask you of his whereabouts.” He replies, head bowed until he finished.

The prince scowls. The Count’s mannerism and words did not satiate him in the slightest. ‘’She would ask of me this boon... Tell me, Count, where was your Empress’ aid when my people, her people, were subjected to the sword, pillage and fire?’’

He lets out a gruff sigh and reveals his left hand. The top phalanges off his fingers are missing. They had apparently been cut off, and then seared painfully by fire to seal the wounds. ...This gesture alone conveys more than any words could.

Whilst Kong-Lan’s head hangs low in shame, Zaanjikyong lowers his disfigured hand and continues;

‘’We Aarehan are a strong people, not simply cowed by force. Many thousands, tens of thousands, had perished defending these lands against the Miranids. The actual statistics on the death toll is accumulating even now... We fought, to stall them from entering your lands also, but Amrea stood passive, silent....
...And now, you ask for my boon.’’

Receiving no response from the ashamed dignitary, the Prince sighs again.
‘’Nevertheless, I shall humor the Empress -- and this should please you. Amir Miran has departed for the realm of Wulfram. Having taken along the better portion of my Aarehani army with him.
I suppose, now, their skills are put to test in the slaying of the ungodly Strigoi and their vampiric ilk. Well deserved I say.’’

Kong-Lan bows multiple times upon receiving the answer.

“Thank you for your beneficence, O Prince. For now, rest assured that the time will soon come for the barbarian to be put in his place. The Phoenix has risen yet again, and its fury shall be known. How many day’s ride to Miran’s warhost?”

‘’You mean to trail the footsteps of the Miranid horde?’’
Zaanjikyong strokes his reddish beard as he analyzes the men accompanying the Count, as if to determine their capability of undertaking such a rigorous journey. After a brief discomforting quiet, he raises his voice.
‘’I understand fully your devotion to carry out an imperial decree, but know that you might well be riding to your death. I say this in good faith. Not just for the prolonged arid climate and sandstorms, but more the marauding locals who will be drawn to assail one as prestigious as an Amrean Count… If crossing the width of Transtulania, and then the Pyrünüs mountains into Wulfram isn’t perilous enough, there is no saying what Miran’s men will do to you even if you reach them… It is as you say; they are barbarians.
I urge you consider carefully.’’

Kong-Lan begins to wonder, searching the recesses of his memory for a map of the Southlands he once saw. He couldn’t remember much, but he did remember that further south were larger, more ancient cities, home to races who rivalled the Kou’ji in prestige and blood. Perhaps he would find ears there?

“Tell me, where is the nearest city that swears fealty to the Warlord? It has been made clear that attempting to track him is foolhardy. What alternative do you suggest, O Prince?”
‘’The Eaamhan streams into the Jeravan river, which leads to proximity of Aranagh, the city of Fararuals, a more civilized race. I advise you go there. Sun God willing, you will find a listening ear.’’

The Count nods in acknowledgement. The Fararuals… At the very least, he’d be able to get home faster than if he’d crossed the length and breadth of the Southlands on a fruitless chase.
“I will take your advice.” He says, bowing deeply one final time.

The Prince places a fist to his chest in a dismissive salute. ''Sun God’s speed.’’ He then motions to his robed and bald servants, to show the Amrean delegation out towards the pier.

As she pumped her wings and flew high above the world, watching the land below pass by deceptively slowly, Mara felt her stomach roil with anxiety. It wasn’t fear that had her on edge, but anticipation. She’d first seen the Elves wall almost an hour ago and by now she was above it, watching the enormous edifice pass by with rapt attention. There was no way to say exactly when she’d left the Forest and entered Yllendyr, such things were difficult to deduce from such an altitude, but eventually Mara knew it in her heart. She’d left the forest.

That was terrifying, exhilarating, and a little sad. She knew she hadn’t been sent on this task as a reward, knew that her father had only wanted her somewhere, anywhere, else. So many of the things she knew hurt, but she also knew those things were behind her, fading away into the distance. She’d have to face them again, but not now. For now she was soaring above a land she’d dreamed of visiting, unburdened by any responsibilities but those she’d accepted.

Time passed and she, in the manner of her people, absently memorized the route she took through the sky. Eventually she spotted what she’d been looking for. Far below there was a little clearing in the trees, unremarkable if it were not for the short tower that protruded from it. Perched atop the simple construction was a boulder uniformly painted a bright yellow. It was a sight as confusing to an outsider as it was unmistakable to a Harpy. Her people were down there.

Or, people like her? The idea of Harpies who weren’t her people, who she might not be able to understand, let alone relate to, was a difficult one to parse. Nevertheless, she began a circling descent. It wasn’t the fastest way to get to the little village, but it was the least threatening and the way she’d always been told to enter other tribes communities. Hopefully the Harpies of Yllendyr hadn’t forgotten good manners.

As it happened, and much to Mara’s pleasure, they had not. Her approach had been duly noted and a small group of Harpies had gathered by the time Mara eased herself into a landing near to the village marker. Just a glance told her that this was not the sort of village she was used to. There were a number of wooden houses made from, disturbingly, dead logs. They all faced onto a street paved with stones that seemed to vanish into the distance, cutting through the forest and leading to some distant place under the canopy that had disguised it from the air.

As for those who’d come out to meet her, they were just as peculiar as the village. At their front was an older man dressed in a black overcoat, its sleeves cut so his folded wings hung out of the arms, with an impractical tall hat. Behind him the other men were dressed in simple white shirts, also modified for their wings, and black pants. The women wore a variety of long dresses, some were even rather colourful, but none of the villagers male or female were dressed nearly as well as the man who stood before them to greet Mara. Before she could introduce herself he spoke, voice cautious but filled with curiosity, “Welcome to Teuan, friend. It is not often we have visitors from the other towns, nor ones who arrive with so little warning. May I ask where you hail from, and what your business here is?”

The rest of the villagers all regarded her inquiringly, and for a moment Mara didn’t know why. It only struck her that she was dressed in simple flying clothes when she looked down and saw the unflattering light brown fabric concealing her chest. Suddenly rather self conscious she spoke more softly than she’d intended, “Ah, I’m Mara. I don’t uh, come from around here.”

The older Harpy cocked a brow, “Yes, I figured. Do you mind telling us where you hail from Mara? It’d be helpful to know why you’re here, as well.”

“Oh,” Mara smiled nervously, “I’m from the Old Forest! The consensus sent me to meet the new Emperor, I just thought to… I was told you might have advice for me? The Harpies north of the wall know all about the Emperor right?”

The village chief, or that was what Mara guessed he was, quieted the murmurs that came from the townspeople upon Mara’s admission. He took off his hat and scratched the feathers that composed his ‘hair’ before shaking his head in disbelief, “That’s a rather unbelievable tale, miss. Of course, given your appearance, there's not many with all white feathers left up here, and the fact there’s two Emperors these days… Well, stranger things. I’m Heme, the Village head here.”

Heme paused and returned his hat to his head, “If the forest has truly sent you to meet the Emperor, or at least the one in these parts, I can at least say you cannot turn up to the Imperial residence looking like that. Expected or not the guards would toss you out dressed like a savag-… I mean to say, dressed so simply.”

Mara was naive, but she was not unaware that naivety was among her faults. She heard the near insult and took it for what it was. She was used to those, at least. Her smile weakened, but she managed to reply, “The Dryads gave me money for clothing, Village head Heme. Would you know where I could acquire some? As for guards, I am expected, but some directions to the Emperor's residence in Altairis would be appreciated.”

“Ah,” Heme paused, glanced at the small pouch at Mara’s side and then back at the other villagers before turning his attention to Mara, “The others tend to get their clothing at the common stores and modify it themselves, but I buy mine at a more reputable store in the city; one with its own tailor. If you’re willing to pay for it I could provide you a map of the city. I can point out my preferred clothing store, given they have experience fitting me they should be amenable to any requests you have, and the Emperor's southern residence.”

Mara eyed the Village head suspiciously, but the fact a number of other villagers were rolling their eyes while the rest muttered behind Heme’s back told Mara that this probably wasn’t the first time a traveller hadn’t had the most hospitable reception. Mara deflated a bit, she’d looked forward to meeting the Harpies beyond the wall, but they weren’t so different.

When she replied it was in a mirthless, if polite, tone, “How much?”

Heme had the audacity to smile, “Ah, well given this village is rather remote I imagine a five dacha note would be fair? Don’t you think so?”

In truth, Mara did not think so. Not just because she’d enjoyed speaking to the Yllendyr traders and business folk that came through, but because she just genuinely disliked Heme. From the looks he was getting from a few of his own people, it wasn’t an uncommon sentiment. Still, what choice did she have? Mara, very deliberately, reached into her pouch and produced a rather sizable roll of bills, from which she carefully extracted one before diligently returning the rest to her pouch.

The look on Heme’s face when she handed it to him was enough to restore some of the excitement she’d felt when she’d entered Yllendyr.



Mara didn’t doubt Heme had ripped her off, but she couldn’t begrudge the mans taste in clothing. She had fawned over nearly every textile and clothing store she’d encountered since entering the city, but the one Heme had directed her to was a cut above the rest. Of course, she’d later discovered it’s price was also a cut above the rest. Still, the azure and purple dress she’d come away with had been worth the four hundred and eight dacha she’d paid, probably. She certainly wouldn’t be flying in it, and it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but she’d gladly claw out the eyes of anyone who called it ugly to spare the world from their awful taste in fashion.

At least she’d had enough dacha left for a nice meal afterwards, the Elves had some truly incredible food. Or maybe it was just good, the fact she was starving from the exertion of flying for the last few days had doubtless made the meal irresistible. In any case by the time she had begun her walk to the Imperial residence she was full and satisfied by the clothing she was wearing, which might have been why she started to notice the looks she was getting from all the Yllendyr. They had to have seen Harpies before? Heme came here for his clothing, and who knew what else.

She shook her head, that was a question for another time. The Imperial residence was at the end of the next street according to the map, and when she turned the corner she knew Heme had been good for his word if not his price. The Imperial residence was an ornate palace with minarets piercing sharply into the sky, dating from the era when rival kingdoms had vied over the Yllendyr crownlands. The palace had not seen a king or emperor in more than three hundred years, until now, when it had become the headquarters of the Emperor Olarth’s court in replacement for the Vermillion Citadel.

To Mara it was, like everything else the Elves had built in this city, alien. Alien, and wonderful in a way that only something totally divorced from any architecture she’d seen before could be. Taking care not to spend too long staring Mara resolved herself and strode towards the gates of the palace with as much poise as she could summon.

The guards challenged her ong before she reached the gates, but as it happened she was expected. There was some confusion over her lack of identifying documents that led to an argument which nearly sapped all the confidence she’d so painstakingly built up from her, but apparently Harpies showing up and proclaiming themselves ambassadors from the Old Forest were uncommon enough for protocol to be relaxed.

Eventually she was allowed in, and a maidservant led her through the palace to Olarth’s war room, where he was presently occupied. A huge map laid on the table in the center. The maid opened the door to allow Mara in, and as she did so she could hear a pitched debate. Olarth was arguing with an old woman, apparently about the way he had handled a battle at some place called Imqua. Upon Mara’s entrance, however, both noted her presence and fell silent. The woman backed away, and after nodding at the new arrival, made her exit through a door on the other side of the room.

“I of course apologize it’s not the Vermillion Citadel, but it’s the best I could do in such a wartime environment. Welcome to my humble court. I’m told your name is Mara?” Olarth smiled warmly at the Harpy which had entered.

Mara did her best impression of a bow, having heard that was customary, before fumbling her first words to one of the most powerful men on the Continent, “It is, my name I mean. Mara.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mara. As you likely already know, my name is Olarth, Emperor of the Yllendyr. Or well, one of them.” He laughed sheepishly.

She blushed with embarrassment and internally cursed herself before speaking again, “Of course, Emperor. I was uh, selected by my tribe to represent the consensus of the Old Forest in your court. It’s an honour to meet you!”

“Likewise, I must say. I haven’t had the opportunity to… well, properly meet a Harpy before, so I’m glad I had the chance. Your people are fairly rare anywhere north of Sundersevain.”

“Oh,” Mara smiled brightly, silently pleased to have been the first Harpy the Emperor had met, “I had heard that there weren’t many of us in the Crownlands, though I did meet some of my people in Sundersevain on my journey. They were… Different from back home, but not terribly so.”

“How are you enjoying Altairis so far? I hope you didn’t have any troubles along the way.”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Mara answered honestly, “I was born in one of my peoples cities, but our homes are grown from the wood of the forest. We don’t have anything made of stone, or so tall! There are so many shops too! The Weavers, Fellyr, and some of my own people have only a small number of stores merchants from outside the Forest stop at, and certainly none with such variety. Your city is incredible, Emperor.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Olarth responded magnanimously. “But perhaps it may not stay my city for long. I suppose that this brings us to the articles of business we must discuss.” His face turned darker.

“The Imperium is at war. My savage brother has likely killed one of my brothers, has definitely killed the other, and is no doubt planning to march on this city and kill me before he starts a massive manhunt for our youngest brother. And once he has done that, he will no doubt bring fire, death and destruction upon the rest of the Imperium that refuses to acknowledge his control. You likely heard his speech, so you should know what kind of a man he is. The only chance we have to stop this is now, while he is still weak and the Crownlands are divided. I hope that the Dominion of the Old Forest can assist in some way.”

Mara’s smile faltered as the discussion turned serious. She’d tried to prepare for the inevitable request, but being there when it was made was something else. She was used to politics, but nobody died at home. Or at least, not to the point of the butchery she’d heard was going on as she explored the city. She had no authority to say yes, she knew that, she’d only been authorized to forward such requests to the consensus once the radio equipment the Weavers were bringing arrived. That didn’t stop her from wanting to. She couldn’t imagine a brother or sister being slaughtered in front of her, or a nation turning on itself. There had never been a civil war in the forest, and in truth she’d had to ask a Dryad to explain the concept to her when she’d questioned why there were two Emperors in the first place.

She made no effort to hide her pained expression, “I can inform the consensus of your hope, Emperor, but I can’t promise you more. I haven’t spoken to any member of the consensus since I departed for Altairis, but having read your brothers speech in the ‘newspaper’ I bought in the city, I don’t know what they will do.”

“I suppose that’s the best I can ask for for now, then. I might ask you to relay a story that may prove persuasive.

I don’t hope to sour you on the Imperium or its people, but my brother is an especially foul specimen, much like our father… it’s hard to believe we are even twins. To preface this, I don’t know if you know, but I had four brothers. Not a single sister. Doesn’t that seem a little improbable to you?”

Mara had a sinking feeling in her stomach, “I… I suppose so.”

“The truth of the matter is, I had nine sisters. None of them survived infancy. My father claimed that daughters were weak, unfit to rule or live in his household, that there was no need for them in the Vyalviur dynasty except to marry off to foreign princes, and there were no longer any foreign princes to marry them off to. So he gave them to my brother to… dispose of. The last seven, that is, after he was older. He had some pet Harpies in a dungeon somewhere he loved to torture and play games with. Harpies he had starved nearly to the point of death, so they would take basically anything you threw to them.

And they did. All seven of them.” Olarth looked incredibly disgusted.

It had been said by many throughout history that Harpies were a feral people, a primitive race whose instincts often controlled their actions and who exercised their higher functions only after doing whatever their natures compelled them to do. Mara had long since dismissed the notion as a racist misconception held by the occasional merchant. Now though, she wondered. The talons that formed her feet clenched and dug little grooves into the Emperors floor, and the amount of effort it took to restrain herself from an outburst both shocked and shamed her.

Sympathy, horror, sorrow, rage, all these emotions swirled in her mind upon hearing Olarths story. The old Emperor, the one who she’d idolized, whose empire she credited with doing so much good, was a monster beyond even the worst of the Dragon Tyrants. Mara could not think straight, and at the least took comfort in understanding that. She had to go before Olarth told her anything else.

“I… See.” Mara paused, a look of furious indignation breaking through the calm she tried to project, “I will inform the consensus, Emperor. At once.”

“Great men often have their dark secrets, Mara. The Vyalviur Dynasty has some of the worst. This is why I hope to put an end to that terrible history, so we can rediscover ourselves and lead the world in a better way. I can see I’ve given you a lot to think about, so we can talk again another time. Elenne will show you to the quarters we’ve prepared for you.” The maidservant who brought her here appeared at the door again, bowing.

Mara bowed to the Emperor as best she could under the circumstances, which essentially amounted to a tense nod, and all but stomped out of the room. The grooves she left in the floor behind her testament to the maelstrom of emotion that raged within her.

February 27th, 1901, Lundburgh

A portly man in a fine suit walked among the charcoal ruins of the port city. It had been five days since the Imperium’s navy had burned the city… two since the fires had been stopped. The sudden and horrific shelling had killed a great many in the city, destroying nearly 70% of the dockyards and related districts. Possibly worst of all, not only did Avalian citizens parish in the blaze, but Imperium refugees, Legion soldiers, and whoever else the fleet had merely left behind to meet their fate. The fine suited man frowned and kicked a piece of burnt wood from his path. This massacre had proven one thing to many, both within and outside of Avalia. Ecruir Vyalviur was a madman. A voice suddenly pulled the man from his thoughts.

“Gunner? I’m somewhat surprised to find you here.” Gunner glanced up, seeing his fellow council member, and rival, approach him. Niklos Eskil was a thin man with a sharp, sunken face that gave him a hard appearance. He was Gunner’s biggest political rival, now that all of the nobility had found themselves under the blade of Adron’s vengeance. Gunner scoffed.

Not all of them, apparently.

“Yes, well, the Tears of the Sky had a fairly large following here, so I thought I’d pay a visit and give my local branch here my condolences. We’re currently trying to clean up the harbor, get it at least serviceable, but a lot of ships burned in that fire too it seems.” Gunner said, gesturing the sorry harbor before them. Niklos gave a small nod. He gazed out over the harbor, his face somehow even harder than its normal appearance.

“We knew the consequences of our actions, certainly, but this… this is madness. I knew the Imperium cared little for its subjects, we all did, but this truly demonstrates how little. It shows that they don’t care to retake Avalia, bring her into the fold, or any of that sort. They just want to burn it to the ground.” Niklos said in a solemn tone. He turned back to face Gunner. “It at least burnt a hole in our upcoming election plans, didn’t it?”

Gunner snorted “Of course you’d be thinking of such things at a place like this. The plight of the common man surrounds you in its most dramatic form and you don’t seem to take much notice.” Gunner finished, chin held high. Niklos was suddenly in his face, merely inches away.

“Tell me Councilman Hampus, were you really out here to offer your sympathies, or merely sizing up how much union revenue the Tears lost here? Or should I ask how much that ridiculous costume of yours costs?” Niklos said a low whisper. Slowly, Gunner stepped back, taken back by the sudden move. Fury slowly replaced Gunner’s shocked expression, quickly stabbing his finger at Niklos.

“Dare say that again, and I will call you out! I care about the people under me, and when I get a letter from a Union head telling me that half my workers perished in the flames while the other half lost their homes and jobs, I act, Councilman Eskil, and I do it personally!” Gunner said angrily. He was about to continue when Niklos held up a hand.

“Good! Then you are a worthy rival. From what I had gathered on you, I thought your personality and motives were just as bad as your drinking habit and sense of taste. As it stands… I believe you. I’m here admittedly for a far more selfish reason.” Gunner’s fury suddenly abated and was replaced with confusion.

“And what is that?” Gunner asked slowly. Niklos gave a small, sad smile, and gestured to a spot not far down the street. It was a burnt pile of timber, not unlike everything else on this street.

“That, right there, was were I was born. I grew up in the fish market district of this city… It was here I saw the barbarism first hand when my Valkyrian friend was beaten to death by nobleman, right here in this street.” Niklos eyes seemed distant. “He’d ran out in front of a carriage by accident, spooking the horses and breaking a wheel spoke in the process. The duke had gotten out and beaten the poor boy. One swing after another as people merely kept their heads down and went about their business. It was here where my journey to free my friends and people from the shackles of serfdom and monarchy began.” He turned back to Gunner.

“We don’t agree with each other on a great many things. We both know that this upcoming election is going to shape Avalian politics for the rest of our history. But we are not monsters. Not like them.” Niklos held out a hand. Gunner stared for a moment, before hesitantly taking the offer. A mischievous grin spread across the large man’s round face.

“Don’t think that won’t stop me from whipping you in the elections, ya fish faced bastard.” Gunner said. Niklos gave an equally mean grin.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, fatman”

Northern Mountain Range:
Over the past 61 years Vaspenians with the dream of restoring their nation to its former glory have fled to these mountains as a place of refuge, at first it was only a few here and there hiding out in the many caves and crevasses. But as their numbers grew a particular individual stood out among them, never giving out his name, only asking to be called “Herr General”. Single handedly he organized all of these small resistance groups into a large organization that would stand the test of time. Initially the group was only focused on entrenching themselves within the mountains, excavating large complexes within the mountains, these complexes would become known as the Bächer Citadels. Most of these citadels consisted of living quarters, a small armaments factory, and multiple bunkers camouflaged into the sides. While the larger ones also included command centers, and troop training facilities. These citadels were built all over the mountain range in relative secret.

1850:
During the excavation of one of these many citadels, the miners unexpectedly found an underground cave network that expanded out almost endlessly. Seeing this as a great opportunity Herr General ordered the tunnels be mapped to the finest detail. As these tunnels would be a massive help to transport supplies to other citadels without exposing the transport columns to the possible scrutiny of Yllendyr.
After a detailed mapping some of the teams reported back that they had seen many other paths that went deeper into the earth, when approaching these passages hieroglyphs would be noticeable on the walls with what looked like warning signs. Retracing their steps they would occasionally see more of this writing on the walls of the passages and other caves. The mapping teams also had the feeling of being watched while exploring the caverns, occasionally hearing the scurrying of feet, or clanging of metal on stone. Taking this information Herr General decided to have the hieroglyphs analyzed while cautiously proceeding with the plan to expand the underground tunnel network. In this way all of the citadels were interconnected with each other, soldiers were posted at the entrances to the tunnels 24/7 to keep a constant eye out for possible trouble from what were now called the Cavern People.

1860:
After a decade of convoys entering and departing the caverns a ritual had been conceived by the crews. Everytime they would leave a citadel for the next one, typically a 1-2 week trek by horse and carriage, at the first of these “Deep Passages” they would set out some trinkets such as dolls, toys, the occasional candy bar and such. Kneel down and pray for a safe passage through the caverns without rockslides, cave-ins or simply getting lost deep within the maze. After which the crews would leave the site and press on with their journey. If they came to a crossroads in which they were not sure which way to go a barely audible clanking noise could be heard from one of the tunnels heading towards them, progressively getting louder until it stopped just out of their vision. Then two red lights would turn on in the darkness, flash, turn back off, turn around and go back from whence it came. This would tell the crews which way not to go, as those that tried to follow the machine would reach a dead end. Those that did not offer up a tribute to the Cavern Guides would experience this phenomenon and may encounter trouble in the passages.
After a decade of watching this go on Herr General has ordered some peaceful expeditions into the Deep Passages to determine the entities behind this. At first as the expedition explored deeper into the caverns they would move slowly, constantly finding evidence of Living beings.



February 12th 1901, 1300hrs:
The steam engine 515, a 2-8-0 locomotive, was trundling through the Lierian countryside. When viewed from the ocean it was almost a picturesque sight to behold. The ocean on one side of the train while on the other side it was flanked by farms, and rolling hills. The beautiful snow capped mountains appeared in the distance, marking the border of Vaspen.
According to the manifest the engine was hauling 14 cars of guns and ammunition from the factories of Lieria to Vaspen for use by the auxilia. The train was due to arrive at the rail yard at Dorfun in five hours, and Waren the next day. The engineer Thomas Stuhr, and the fireman Hans Berger were going about their usual routine, while enjoying the view from the cab of the locomotive.

“Beautiful day innit Thomas?” Hans said after shoveling more coal onto the fire.

“It is Hans, but i got a bad feeling about later today.”

“Why’s that?”

Thomas Gestures towards the ocean and points at the grey clouds in the distance.

“Looks like it’s gonna be a little wet here in a bit when we get close to Dorfun.”

1600hrs:
As engine 515 crossed the border it had to come to a stop at a border station for a cursory inspection. After a quick look, seeing nothing out of order the guards ushered the train onwards toward Dorfun. Thomas was hoping to get into Dorfun before the rain started coming down heavily, so he sped up, eventually reaching a speed of 50mph.

1645hrs:
Despite Thomas’s attempts to outrun the storm they were quickly enveloped by a sheet of rain, severely hampering their visibility. Being the rational man he was Thomas quickly decided to lower his speed down to a tolerable 35mph. Knowing that they wouldn’t make their scheduled time into Dorfun, it was probably best to take their time.

1700hrs:
Engine 515 slowly came to a stop next to the red signal box. After tooting the whistle Thomas saw an older gentleman exit the building and brave the rain. The man slowly approached the engine, and climbed up into the cab.
The old feller looked at Thomas and Hans and said:

“ The line ahead is blocked. Appearantly the 4:30 branch line train from the mining camps discovered a bridge out from the rain ahead. I’ve telegraphed the station in Dorfun and they are sending out a team in the morning to repair it.”

Hans, slightly annoyed: “Brilliant. Well i guess we are going to have to stay in the brake van tonight.” He turns to Thomas and continues: “That old conductor always gets on my nerves with his snoring!”

“Well i suppose there isn’t much we can do about it” replies Thomas as he looks sympathetically at Hans. He turns to the old signalman: “Is there a place we can park our train off the mainline? We’ve got some things that won’t take an impact verywell.”

“Ja, there's a siding up ahead, park up there and get comfy. I’ll be by in the morning with some hot coffee for ya’s.” replies the signalman as he turns, hops down from the locomotive, and rushes back into the tower to escape the rain.

A few minutes later Thomas guides the train into the siding, and eases to a stop.

“Hopefully there will still be some embers in the morning, that’ll make it easier to start up.” Hans comments as he steeps the fire.

“Yeah and i hope this rain will lighten up, i don’t want to do our Morning inspection in the rain.” Thomas replies as he lets off the remaining steam. He continues: “C'mon now Hans let’s get back to that brake van. I’m sure old Ansgar has that little stove goin full blast back there.”

“Don’t remind me! You know i can’t sleep when it’s that hot!” replies Hans angrily as they both climb down from the engine, and trudge to the end of the train. All the while trying to maintain the smallest profile for the rain to hit.

As they reach the midpoint in the train, both men hesitate for a moment as they hear a shrill whistle, barely audible over the pounding of the rain. Hans turns to Thomas: “Did you hear that?”

“I certainly did. Came from up the mountain…” Thomas pauses for a second and says “c’mon it's probably nothin, let’s get in that brake van.”

Just as they get to the brake van they hear it again, a long shrill whistle, but it the sound gets cut off as they close the door.


2100hrs:
After joining Ansgar in the brake van, Thomas and Hans chatted for a bit over coffee. But finally they had a bite to eat and settled in for the night…

2300hrs:
Thomas was jolted awake by the shaking of the carriage, and a bright light. He stood up and opened the curtain on the rear of the train. What he saw scared him, what was behind the train seemed to be some kind of large metal behemoth, it’s single bright yellow eye piercing through the brake van’s curtains. He glanced out the other windows in the van, he saw a number of humanoid figures milling about, one of them started walking towards the brake van. Thinking quickly Thomas hid under one of the sofas in the small room, positioning himself so that he could still see the window. The figure boarded the carriage and as the old boards under it's feet creaked it approached the door, and stopped outside. The curtain was partly open from when thomas moved it, so the figure moved it's face closer to the glass to look inside the dark car. Meanwhile, Thomas had a good look at the “Face” of this monster, it’s skin looked like cloth, with two large black circles where the eyes should be. The monster also had two large cylindrical things attached to its neck area. By now the monster seemed to not find what it was looking for and quickly walked away from the window and jumped down from the car.
A few moments after the figure left the window Thomas felt a shudder from the train, and a chuffing noise from the behemoth that was now attached to his train. ‘They were moving!’ thought Thomas, he moved to get out from under the couch and look out a window. ‘They were indeed moving backwards. But where was this Behemoth taking him?.....’

February 13th 1901, 6:00hrs:
The old signalman exited his tower, and made his way down the tracks, a hot cup of coffee, and some food in hand. Upon reaching the siding he was confounded to see that it was completely empty.

“Hmmpf, ungrateful young’uns these days. Can’t even stay a few minutes and talk to us older fellas….. Been a while since i had a nice chat.” the old man says under his breath as he starts walking back to the house.

Venris, February 13th 4901 (Imperial Calendar):
Inside the Dominion Military headquarters Commander Gorrod, his Legion commanders, and logistics officers stand in front of a map of the dominion. One of the logistics officers is giving a report on the status of the auxilia:
“...With the recent death of the emperor, and the current rebellions occuring in Kitagawa, and Avalia, there has been a sharp rise in defections. Thus far the auxilia have had a total of approximately 28,000 personnel that have gone missing, or have defected. Of these 80% have been troops hailing from the rebelling dominions.”

At this moment Garrod interjects: “Well have we captured any of them? Or are we just letting them walk out of the damn camp?”

“Well sir we have managed to apprehend about 10% of defecting troops. The rest seem to have vanished of the face of the planet sir. We believe that this may be partially be due to a large percentage of locals sympathising, and sheltering them. And partially because 20% of those escaping have wings, sir.” Replies the lieutenant with a straight face and sharp salute.

Garrod looks sternly at the young man and then shakes his head, he then gestures for the next officer to report.

“Sir, currently after the defections we have a total of six combat-ready units. The 140th Legion in Julich, the 127th Legion in Kleve, the 94th Legion in Lucka, the 174th Legion in Emden, the 73rd Legion in Dorfun, and the 22nd Legion In Venris. Each of these Legions is currently fully supplied, and ready. As for future supplies, we are obligated by contract to purchase all further weapons, and ammunition from the lierians to the north, until our own production output is sufficient. The first of the shipments from the north departed four days ago, but was held up north of Dorfun. But it should be arriving in Waren within the day, for dissemination to the legions.” The officer concludes his report and steps back into the crowd.

“Well, it sounds like despite the problems we are having our mobilization is almost completed.” Garrod turns to the legion commanders, and then turns to the map where he starts moving units around. “The rebels in the north are unlikely to have a large military force, so to prevent them from raiding and pillaging. The 22nd Legion will move north from Venris, and conduct anti-partisan operations around the villages between Dorfun, and Venris, and monitor railroad traffic.” he pauses for a moment glancing at the 22nd legion commander. The latter gives a quick nod as he studies the area.
“The 127th Legion will move to the eastern side of lake Müritz, and will also conduct anti-partisan operations… While the 73rd Legion will remain around Dorfun, and step up security of the rail lines. God knows if they find out about the ammunition train they will hit it.”

THIS IS A QUETZALCOATL POST



A day had passed since her conversation with the Emperor, and Mara had yet to leave the room she’d been given. She’d accepted the breakfast a servant had brought without enthusiasm, but otherwise hadn’t moved from the bed she was now splayed out on. It hadn’t even occurred to her to turn on the lights. On some level she understood that the Weavers would be arriving soon, and that she’d have to submit a report on what Olarth had told her, but that was a distant concern; it had no bearing on the thoughts that raced through her mind, nor did it rouse her from her lethargy. The future was not what consumed her attentions.

Yesterdays revelations had cast her adrift, and through she’d raged upon learning Naerzo, the man who’d built the empire she idolized, was a monster, all she could do now was reflect. Reflect and regret. She regretted her outburst in front of Olarth, and moreover she regretted that briefest of moments where she’d been tempted to call the Emperor a liar to his face. It had been fleeting, a single impulse among many, but where she scarcely remembered the myriad of other things she’d thought while speaking to Olarth, the memory of that compulsion lingered. How foolish was she, to love a man she’d never met, to the point where she’d nearly defended him to his own son?

It was a thought that shamed her. Her cheeks reddened and, as if looking for a distraction from that line of thinking, she glanced at the clothes she’d hung on the opposite wall. She’d shed her dress at some point, but it had never left her sight, hanging on the wall as it was. Even in the thick of her rage, her confusion after hearing Olarth’s words, she’d taken care to keep that dress pristine. Oh she’d considered tearing it apart, in fact even now she longed to, but she didn’t. It was a product of the Empire in a way that nothing else she owned was, it could not have existed without the Imperium. Without Naerzo. If she truly regretted all she’d believed, why hadn’t she destroyed it? Somewhere, below the chaos of her current state of mind, she knew that for all her beliefs had been faulty she wasn’t yet prepared to abandon them. She wasn’t ready to crawl back to her father.

Her father. Years of arguments came back to her, accusations and demands. How could she undermine him so, how was she so blind as to ignore the shackles the Emperor had put on her people? All the things he’d said, she was forced to reconsider. She regretted fighting with him, siding with his rivals, being cast out of her home. She missed him, she missed her family, and yet... Even now, as she was realizing, she didn’t agree with her fathers beliefs; she didn’t support a return to brutality of her grandfathers time. Did that make everything he’d said wrong though? She’d unflinchingly argued the enlightened principles of the Yllendyr, of the Emperor that led them, and now she realized she’d done nothing but drive a wedge between her and her family for the sake of delusional, cruel, old tyrant. She might never agree with her father, but she understood him now. She saw how asinine her obstinate refusal to see any evil in the Elves had been. Still, that didn’t justify her own peoples evil. The dead Emperor had done wicked things in the name of prejudice, her father would do them in the name of tradition.

She still loved her father, but she was not the only one that had tarnished that relationship. Had she the chance to go back in time maybe she’d not have fought him as viciously as she did, and maybe he would have been kinder in return, but Mara still believed that the old ways of her people were wrong, and that the Imperium had done something good in forcing the Harpies to change. Naerzo was dead, his empire lived, and if even the cruel old corpse had done a good thing, then what could Olarth accomplish? Mara had doubts about him, suspicions fuelled by a new found and frightening skepticism of the Yllendyr, but he had told her the truth.

The Weavers would be coming with their radio soon, and Mara knew what she would say in her report.



Ena had been in a foul mood for days now, ever since Mara had been sent away. She hadn’t so much as spoken a word regarding her daughters ‘assignment’ to him, and she’d been as cordial as could be expected in public, but while they were alone Temar’s wife had taken ever opportunity she could to demonstrate her fury without making an argument out of it. He’d hoped she’d calm down before they discussed the issue, but as Temar entered his home and saw Ena looming in the hallway he knew his wife had finally worked herself up to the confrontation they’d both known was inevitable.

It began, predictably, with an indignant shout, “I can’t accept this Temar! How could you! Our own daughter!”

Temar always tried to project an air of calm, but while he didn’t shout the tension that immediately entered his voice was indicative enough of his feeling regarding the question, “How could I? I am the Chief, how could I not? How many times have I told that girl to restrain herself, how many times has she defied me? Much more and I’ll be a laughing stock, in my own city!”

“So that’s it?” Ena fumed, “You sent your daughter into a war for the sake of your reputation? Where did my husband go, Temar, or is all that’s left of him a coward?”

It was an assertion designed to nettle, and nettle it did. Temar made no effort to restrain the volume of his reply, “A coward!? Is that what you think of me Ena? I’m a coward to do what had to be done to hold onto this house, to keep you, and yes, her safe? Do you really think those bastards Mara calls ‘friends’ would be kind to us if they had their way, be kind to her? If Umar took my title do you think he’d hesitate to exile us!?”

Ena all but exploded, “Safe! With the Elves! They are at war you old vulture, war. What happened to those stories your father liked to tell us? Have you forgotten what war means to the Elves, have you forgotten why you took the stance you did? Why you and Mara fought to begin with!”

They were inches from each other now, and Temar could see the genuine fear behind his wife’s fury. The sight was too much for him to shout in her face, to truly defend his actions, he only irritably muttered, “Altairis is as far from the front line as any city in the Yllendyr’s lands. She’ll be fine, safe, with the Emperor the silly girl says she loves.”

Ena lowered her voice, but her tone was sharp, “Oh if she’s with the Emperor then. I guess she’ll be the last to die, when the southern Emperor falls.”

Temar balked, but managed to voice a meek retort, “She’ll fly away long before then, she’ll see the Elves for what they are Ena, she’ll finally understand what those carrion eaters she associated with are trying to accomplish. She won’t stay, not when she knows.”

“When she knows,” Ena shook her head, “When she knows what Temar? That you were right? You two have argued too long for her to ever accept that, and we both know she’ll not abandon her duty, she got that from you. Your stubbornness. You have to nominate another at the next consensus Temar, bring our girl home before its too late.”

Temar couldn’t find a reply to that. He couldn’t think of one in all the time he spent looking after Ena had turned her back and strode into the depths of the house.



Some Days Later.

Temar stepped into the Great Hall of Heartwood with an outward confidence that belied the anxiety that had gripped him ever since his argument with Ena. He hated to admit it, but the woman was right. Mara wouldn’t run even when she saw the true nature of the Elves. She had a duty as an ambassador of the forest, and she wouldn’t betray that; not like he’d betrayed his duty as a father by sending his only child into a situation he knew all too well the reality of.

Oh he was sure the so called ‘reformists’ would use his recommendation Mara be replaced by a more qualified ambassador to further subvert him. Maybe Mara would even help them when she got back. It hurt that she’d turned on him, that she’d sided with the very people who’d steal Temar’s city and slander his name, but if he lost her... Just the thought made him sick. For all their differences she was his daughter, his only child, and the thought of her dying was as nauseating as it was incomprehensible. Damn it all, he had no choice.

The rest of the assembled took their places in the vast room, and as always the oldest of the Dryads, Shaetarae, spoke before the rest of the consensus, “In the name of the Forest I convene this meeting of the consensus of Greater Beings. As you all know we have gathered so that you may share the results of your efforts to safeguard the Forest, and to hear the first report of our new ambassador to the southern Emperor of the Elves.”

Temar straightened at that, he had not known Mara had moved so quickly to Altairis as to have a report ready for the consensus already. He wanted nothing more than to hear it, but he hadn’t the authority to demand it come before the perfunctory reports of the other Greater Beings; his people had suffered greatly for bringing the Yllendyr to the forest. They had not been expelled from the consensus, but these days even the Weavers words carried greater weight.

It was no small blessing that the reports on the status of the Forests defensive preparations were delivered concisely by the assembled with something to say. In truth it was a miracle not a single argument broke out. It seemed everyone agreed on the necessity of what was being done, and moreover the impression Temar got was that nearly every one of the assembled would rather get back to their tasks than waste time here.

He could sympathize, of course. Between myriad of status updates on the border fortifications and reports on factory and tooling conversions Temar was exhausted and frustrated by the time Mara’s report was read by Shaetarae. Of course, the moment the Dryad spoke he perked up and listened intently, “Very well, it seems none of you have been idle. This is good. Now, our Ambassador has delivered a... Disturbing report.”

Temar’s stomach dropped, but the Dryad didn’t seem to notice, or care about, the expression of horror that momentarily crossed his face and continued impassively, “Mara of Paprean has informed us of a most distressing tale conveyed to her by the Emperor Olarth regarding his brother Ecurir and the former Emperor Narzo.”

What followed was a story that drove nearly every Harpy in the room into a frenzy. Temar’s chest burned with rage, and vindication. The divisions between the Harpies present were unlikely to be mended by this alone, but the details of the story, and the fact Mara had conveyed it, was enough to unify the fractious people for now.

As soon as Shaetarae finished relaying Mara’s recommendation to support Olarth’s bid for Emperor, Temar cried out, “This is intolerable! My daughter is right, we must have vengeance. This Olarth may help us get it, but even so I demand we recall my daughter, I won’t have her in the court of someone who shares the same blood as that monster in the north. Regardless of their intentions.”

The room froze. Temar had the backing of nearly every Harpy in the room, but that counted for little. Shaetarae’s gaze narrowed, “That is not your decision, child. Know your place.”

Her voice quieted the Harpies as it seemed to reverberate in the very roots and trunks that made made up the floor and walls. Temar shivered, but forged ahead, “She is my daughter, it is nobody's decision but mine. As for vengeance, my people must have it. Even if you deny us, we will take things into our own hands, Dryad.”

He had no assurance of that, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. The Harpies behind him certainly didn’t object to his words, regardless of their feelings about Temar as a chief. Shaetarae strode towards him slowly, but with a fierce look in her eyes, “You sent your daughter away, and in the doing you surrendered your right to control her fate, little Harpy. She is an agent of the Forest now, and it will be the Forest that decides when she may leave her post.”

There were a foot apart when Temar opened his mouth, only to find a root had separated from the floor and begun to choke him in an instant. His support dissolved as the other Harpies exchanged panicked glances and nervously backed away as every Dryad in the room began to glare at them, barely restrained violence in the wooden women's eyes. The very walls of the Great Hall seemed to vibrate as the magic of the Dryads awakened something in the living wood of the building.

Shaetarae didn’t appear to care as Temar struggled to breath with the root wrapped around his neck all but lifting him off the ground. The ancient Dryads speech continued unabated, “And vengeance? With your own hands? You and your people seem to have forgotten the oaths they made. You will follow the laws of the Forest, or you will not live to see yourself leave it.”

The root snapped back into the floor and Temar collapsed, grasping at his throat. Shaetarae only frowned at him, “Leave, Temar of Paprean. Perhaps when you next visit Heartwood you and your people will remember you participate in the consensus at the leisure of we who have permitted you to do so.”

There was nothing else to say, not that Temar was in a position to say it. His throat had already begun to bruise when a number of other Harpies carried him out of the great hall. His people followed him, each one departing with sour, indignant expressions. Of course, even in shock as he was, Temar saw the fear behind the masks the Harpies struggled to keep in place. The Dryads had never threatened a resident of the forest, nor raised a hand against them. Not once in living memory.

He was terrified, and he was not alone.



Ena had spent the previous day tending to her injured husband, and fending off the flurry of questions that had been directed at her and him in the aftermath of the disastrous meeting of the consensus. The forest was in an uproar, and from what she knew it wasn’t just her people that were scrambling to understand just what had happened in Heartwood and why; even the Weavers had made inquired as to whether Temar was well enough to speak with their Matriarch. Ena didn’t know what to make of that.

Of course, at the end of it all, all she cared about was her Husband, and her daughter. The Dryads had refused to even consider recalling Mara, and with what Ena had heard about the story her daughter had delivered to the consensus, she was terrified for her little girl.

Which was why she was here now, in a place known only to Harpy chiefs, and occasionally their wives. There was nothing to mark the spot in the forest she landed, it was simply a tiny clearing in a seemingly endless expanse of trees, but as soon as she did Ena found herself surrounded by other Harpies. The others were odd, each one dressed in black flying clothes and covered in jewelry of every kind.

They might have looked peculiar to an outsider, even savage given the macabre nature of some of their ornaments, but any Hapry would know exactly who they were. The Sky Witches. Rarely were they seen outside of religious ceremonies, and in the last decades there had been few enough of those that they had acquired an almost mystical status.

They made no effort to greet her, she was not a chief, but nevertheless Ena spoke, “I come to make a request, children of the spirits, recipients of the pact.”

A wrinkled woman, for they were all women, stepped forward from the circle of Witches that had surrounded Ena, she rasped, “You have no right to request something of us, you are not your Husband. You are not a chief. We owe you nothing.”

Ena did her best to look unaffected by the statement, but worry crept its way onto her face regardless, “I know, I know, but please. Temar is injured, he cannot come, but I speak on his behalf. I beseech you, please send some of your number to Altaris. My daughter is in danger. She needs you, your protection.”

Ena was about to continue, to tell the Witches of all that had transpired, but the old woman held up her hand and Ena faltered. The elder eyed Ena appraisingly before speaking, “Yes, we know where your daughter is, Ena of Paprean. We know what task she has been entrusted, and we know how your husband came to suffer the wrath of the Dryads. We will do as you ask, we will uphold the pact.”

With that the mysterious women retreated into the forest without another word, and Ena was left alone in the woods. She nearly shouted her thanks at the trees.

February 23rd, 1901

Major General Kraft Styke crouched behind the rocky hills that overlooked Smedeholm, quietly observing the Imperium's legion as they began to form up for the assault. A order straight from Adron had ordered him to hold the city and prevent the two legions trapped within the nation from breaking through the Adrean. An audacious task, even for a member of Adron’s military cabinet. Regardless, the 12th Infantry Division and 6th Cavalry Brigade was to hold the line, and hold the line Styke would do.

The morning fog had finally began to lift and Styke hoped his special “preparations” hadn’t been noticed. Flanking to his left and right sat two companies of infantry, lightly dug in along the ridge with some hastily dug earthworks and barbed wire. It was a hasty job to be sure, but one that would have to do. Styke pulled himself up from his little observation point, and began to make his way down the line when a Valkyrian messenger swooped in. “Sir!” she said, snapping a quick salute before handing him a letter. “Report from Colonel Olaf of the 6th Cavalry. He’s in position and ready to strike upon your signal!”

Syke nodded to the messenger. “Thank you corporal, take your position accordingly and good luck.” The messenger gave another salute and then took off down the line.

By noon, the attack began. Imperial legion infantry began to charge towards the hills…

Major General Bacseri Nartheh peered through his binoculars at the attack. It was finally noon, the sun clearing away the last of the morning fog, giving Nartheh a more clear picture. As he could tell, his scout’s report hadn’t changed. The enemy forces were dug in on the ridge line outside the city. He watched as the third wave finally began to reach the earthworks and machine guns to overwhelm the enemy. As expected, this battle would be over before the day was out. General Nartheh lamented wasting such good soldiers both of his and the Avalians. They had proven themselves well overseas in the New World and Kitigawa, but now it seemed they aimed their bayonets at the Imperium itself. Shaking his head, he gestured to his entourage. “Prepare to form up for the final assault, I intend to lead this one personally. Let's end this and unite with the loyalists to the north.”

Soon Nartheh was among his men, trudging up the hill, watching the enemy Avalians begin to fall back from their line. “Forward men! To me, to me! We mustn't let the traitors of the Imperium escape!” He called, pistol high, and began to follow after his men over the line. Nimbly, he hopped over the earthwork, seeing the fleeing Avalian infantry before him. He glanced down his left and right and suddenly noticed something odd. Few Avalian casualties lay on the defensive line… and the machine guns were…

Nartheh’s blood suddenly went cold. He turned again to face the Avalian infantry fleeing down the hill as his troops followed them into the open. Suddenly, those fleeing troops dropped down, disappearing briefly, only to reveal what he realized to late. A sad smile crossed his face. “Well done…” he whispered...

“MEN READY! OPEN FIRE!” Syke yelled, firing a flare into the air and blowing his whistle. At his command, his second, hidden line popped up from behind the berm and opened fire at the Imperium infantry suddenly caught in the open. Machine guns rattled and bolt action rifles barked over the screams of the dying men before them. Some Imperium soldiers threw down their weapons and begin to run back while others still charged courageously in vain. Upon the second whistle blow, Avalian soldiers suddenly climbed up from their concealed positions and charged forward, bayonets lowered. Soon they were standing back at their original position, seeing the enemy retreating back down the hill. Syke waited, his breath held. Suddenly, the Avalian 6th Cavalry rushed in from the rear, their movements concealed by the earlier days fog. Several brutal volleys came from them as they neared the Imperium Legion’s rear, before stowing their lever action carbines and drawing their swords. The Imperium Legion attempted a desperate defense as their reserve forces quickly began to reform in the direction of the cavalry.

Too late.

Between the cavalry at their rear and the company of infantry flooding down at their front, they were soon crushed in the middle…

An hour later, the battle of Helna Heights was over. Walking through the smoke covered fields, Styke eyed the bodies of Avalians and Imperium alike. While his ruse had worked and his counter charge a success, he could tell before he read the report in front of him this had not been a easy victory. However, he did allow himself a sigh of relief at his good fortune paying off in this gamble. Had his calvary been discovered or his enemy’s scouts had gotten close, this battle would have been far from over.

---
February, 1901
The northern city of Adrean.

Lucas pulled his wide brimmed hat down as he passed a group of royalist troops. The streets of central Adrean bustled with activity reinforcements and supplies to to the not so distant barricades that surrounded the central city. The forces had made great progress with the help of the local King’s Guard, but the partisans and republican police force was putting up a bitter last stand in lower industrial quadrant near the river. From what he could gather, they were evacuating the citizens who wanted to swear allegiance to this upstart republic, and Lady Bennick had every intention of returning Adron the favor and dropping these upstart’s heads in baskets. Sighing, Lucas ducked into an alleyway, following it to a back door. Pausing for a moment, he entered.

The room was musty and dimly lit by the light seeping in from the boarded up windows. A man facing away from Lucas sat at the abandoned bar near the far end of the room while two other men quietly smoked at a table.
“You’re late, Crown.” The voice came from the man at the bar, still facing away from Lucas.

“Sorry, Hammer, the fighting picked up right as I crossed back over the line. Nobody told me the attack schedule had changed.” Lucas replied casually, though his tone betrayed his annoyance.

Hammer snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “You know as well as I do how zealous the King’s Guard can be when dealing with traitors. Speaking of, your assignment. Do we have that bastard yet? Lady Bennick is growing impatient.”

Lucas starred hard at his feet, his hands clenched tightly into fists. “No, the Ghost of the Sky alluded our trap again. We lost Shovel and Hoe during the raid. The Gho-”

“Don’t speak that bastard’s fancy title again here. Oscar Howler is a murderer and a traitor, no more no less.” Hammer interrupted as he finally turned to face Lucas. Hammer’s hard, menacing gaze rested on Lucas, causing him to shift uncomfortably before he could stop himself. “We have our names to protect ourselves. Hammer, Crown, Shovel, Hoe, Axe, we call ourselves these things to confuse our enemies and tell our friends all they need to know about us. Oscar murders three officers, ten loyal officials, and nearly takes our lady’s head off without even being seen half the fucking time, and thus, gets a fancy, romantic name from the locals like he’s some vengeful fucking angel of death!” Hammer now got up out of his seat, addressing the rest of the men and women in the room. “No. He is a Valkyrian, pure and fucking simple who can pull of good shots. This does not make him a ghost, a god, or anything else! It only makes him a traitor, and like the rest of these traitors, it’s our job to make sure his head is in a basket before this war ends.” Hammer’s gaze returned to Lucas. “Take Wrench and Pickaxe and start shadowing the bastard again.”

Lucas nodded, “Yes sir. I will see to it.” Suddenly, Hammer crossed the room in two great strides and was suddenly face to face with Lucas.

Leaning in, Hammer said quietly. “Don’t fuck this up, boy, or all of our heads will be in baskets.”

A storm has swept over the land. A flood of death, pillage and fire, for wherever the hordes of Miran appeared, a new horde of the displaced refugees was driven before them. They fled eastwards, now clamouring and begging for shelter in the city of Donvoile, the greatest hub of northern Wulfram.

It wasn’t long after that the Miranid army arrived, with the conqueror Amir Miran himself leading the core, consisting of some of the world’s most powerful creatures, forged into a single unit. After days of burning and ransacking, his multiplus hordes have assembled before the city of Donvoile to bring Wulfram one fell and devastating blow.
Donvoile is one of the grander piece of Strigoi urban architecture, its spires and gothic arcs of all sorts piercing the skies in fashion that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Mostly because they did. The Master of Donvoile, like that of any other city, had found the perfect way to deal with being so outnumbered by the mortal populace within his walls: use his magical abilities to hold it all together for an enchantment exists only for as long as its enchanter does. ‘Defy me and see the ground crumble before you’.
This day, however, the Master had a new and greater threat than his own citizenry to contend with. Because today it is the subjects of Miran that are bent on crumbling the city, for the destruction of the powerful city of Donvoile will be a blow so total… so decisive, that Wulfram himself will be brought to his knees. The warriors of Miran number in the hundreds of thousands, so numerous that the earth and fields behind them have been stripped and plucked bare of life. Not even the grass there remains, only bleak patches of barren desolation is what the once lush fields of Gardonia have become.

The same warlord as before, Jafaroglu, and his advisor Valjeanus, are positioned on the left flank with their cohorts of Tzücomen, Gnolls and Gardonian defectors. They are still licking their wounds after the damage their army sustained in last week’s battle.

The Firesage Antaxaxes commands the right flank. A great Fararual marshall leading a cohort of flame; Üarim with arquebuses, Golems and many beasts of war, Griffon riders and scores of cannons. With his golden skin, arcane scepter and flaming hair, Antaxaxes is a rare and imposing sight. Particularly for the denizens of Wulfram, who certainly have never seen one of such mystical beings in the flesh, their existence having, at best, only passed into legend.

And at the last there is Amir Miran himself among his most elite in the centre. Originally but an Üarim warlord from the Fararu Luminescence, the warlord Miran has in the last decade risen to legendary standing. The lands of Transtulania have not seen his likeness in perhaps a thousand years. Through scores of successful military campaigns he achieved a rare supremacy over most of the Üarim lands, though Amir Miran’s victories are owed largely to the skillful employment of the great Üarim super weapon; the Oliphaunts, amid which he now stands. Colossal monsters, that carry similarly monstrous sized heavy and ruinous bombards on their backs. Casted in the mystical foundries of Aranagh, the bombards are so devastating that its power is supposedly owed to the fiery blessing of Axbak-Kamen.

Miran raises his sacred Flaming Sword, Zara-Thuster, and points it towards the mountain-like city before him. With a sonorous voice he proclaims: ‘’Consume the Vampires in flame! Raze low the mountain!’’

A fell, ear shattering barrage blasted from the monstrous bombards on the Oliphaunts and right into the walls and buildings of Donvoile. Stone crumbles, walls shatter and the rubble created pelts down on the helpless citizenry as they wailed, and fled, and died.
The lower districts of Donvoile had to sustain the brunt of the devastation. Their hope now lies with their Strigoi oppressors/protectors, whose armies have arrived to engage the invaders.

In front of the Miranid camp, the Strigoi host had established its own, complete with field fortifications, the work, it seemed like they had expected the horde to come tumbling down against them the very moment whatever the warlord that headed them was named heard about their presence. After she had sacrificed whatever surprise effect she might have had, this would have served Hildegund, Favored Daughter of Wulfram, a lot of trouble.

In short, she had to empty every village, every city from Vaudevent to here, bribing, menacing and sweet talking her way to here to amass something resembling an army. Thousands of local strigoi landlords with whatever served as their cohorts ranging from the more organized Day Guards to rabbles of cannon fodder and masses of fanatics craving for blood and the promise of immortal children.

That had been the easy part.

It had been 14 hours since they established camp as the morning light rose, daring the enemy to attack them during the day light (something everyone had hoped for as to cast a nice eclipse spell and violently counter attack and be done with it) and during most of this time, the Favored had been in a tent with a hundred of her kin, all screaming at her for how to act.

She knew how to act, she knew she should listen to the little voice of reason against her ear, a Daywalker under the name of Vincent who whispered sweet words of wisdom. Vincent was not a local land lord or powerful kin, he rather simply was an educated student of the Realm’s War Academy. Little knew the Realm even had such a thing, but it was she, Hildegund, who had commissioned its creation to study and counter Amrea’s military. To make sure that despite the terrible state of the Realm’s internal affairs that it might stand a chance if worse came to worse. But despite the effort she had made to have this opinion that she knew held more wisdom than this entire assembly of centuries or more old Strigoi could offer, his voice had been drowned, like all others, with another, her own.

‘If they are so eager to all die foolishly, why stop them?’

She HATED them all, none of them liked her in return, none of them even appreciated how she was the only one trying to stop this Miran! Instead of trying to stop a needless slaughter, why not just… let it happen and instead plan for the fallout? It wouldn’t even be so bad actually, a new page in the history of the Realm! So much free land, she could award it to loyal servants who knew how to obey, who’d be indebted to her. Yes, let them all die!

And so it was decided. At dusk, they attacked. The vile creatures, those who had never in their long lives encountered anything that could match their savagery, cheered. Attack and be done, the weaks may die, but of course, the weaks were everyone but them, right?